The Hunk Hunt
Nash's arms were starting to ache, but the unforgiving metal held him in place with no hope of budging.
His back was up against a thick metal post, from which protruded two metal shackles that seemed to be sealed around his biceps, pulling his arms back and keeping his chest spread uncomfortably, preventing movement. He felt similar bands encircling his thighs. Further shackles on his wrists seemed to be anchored behind him. The only clothing he wore was his cowboy hat and his prized pair of boots. Other than that, he was completely exposed, apart from the infernal muzzle and hood completely blocking out his vision and filling his mouth to keep him from talking.
Even if he could talk to his fellow prisoners (and he didn't know if there were any, but he just sensed it in his bones), there was no being heard over the wind, for as best Nash could tell, they were all chained up in a truck bed. But where were they? And where were they going?
As a bump in the road sent a jolt all the way up his immobile spine, Nash tried to think of what was happening. He remembered being locked in some white room, strapped down while some doctor-looking people in lab coats poked and prodded at him in the manner of dairy farmers examining a new Holstein.
And before then... he had been on a ride from the ranch he worked at down to the nearby town for some supplies. Some city man had asked him for directions, and then attacked him, got him hogtied faster than a rodeo rider, and knocked him out with a needle of something.
So, kidnapped... examined... maybe even sold? What did these nefarious captors of his even want? Nash's current state of heavy restraint, nudity, and selective accessorizing did not bode well.
Nash's assessment was, of course, entirely correct. The imprisonment he currently languished in was in the bed of a truck, with three other prisoners equally helpless. And this truck was one of a caravan of five, each with a similar cargo, trundling through European countryside.
Not one of these prisoners had yet realized he had been kidnapped by the Company, but even if they had, they would not know that they were a score of very special prisoners indeed. Assessed to be of strong will and body, twenty men were chosen from those kidnapped by the branches round the world to stock the arena... for the Hunk Hunt.
Established long ago, the Hunk Hunt was a Conpany tradition, establishing the legendary Procurers globally, and allowing for generous inter-branch betting and cheering. It was also an excuse to hold an exclusive viewing party for the Board, longtime and prospective clients, and the cream of the crop of the Company.
Every four years, an elaborate arena would be constructed, with twenty glorious specimens released into it - it would thus be the duty of five chosen Procurers to not only capture the most, but defend their haul from the other Procurers. Concealed cameras would be at the ready to record the whole thing, as a streaming reward for clients of the Company's Entertainment division.
But all Nash knew was a cold chill as the truck passed out of the sultry Mediterranean air and into the subterranean hypogeum beneath the arena, a holding area for those that would be stocking it, as well as any other equipment, and eventually where the Procurers would enter.
He expected something he could fight, a moment where he'd be allowed to struggle against his captors, strike a decisive blow, and flee. But instead of being freed, the post he was on was dragged forward onto what felt like a specially-designed pallet for transport. He felt someone moving him along.
The industrial noises of metal and movement chorused around Nash, but without sight he could make no sense of it all. When the pallet stopped, he sensed the key moment approaching. But again his captors were ahead of him. He heard the clink of something touching the metal post -
-and suddenly every nerve was lighting up as he felt an electrical impulse tap through him. It was not painful, but it was distressing to the utmost as his body went completely numb, his nerves overloaded with information preventing his brain from sending the proper signals to move.
Nash knew he was being moved and manipulated, but the numbness of his body meant he didn't know what or who was doing it, only that someone was using a drill to free him from the stockade and shackles, and then forcing his limp body towards some new device - by now he had gained enough sense to be able to stand, but he could not make his limbs move how he wanted, only exist in the agonizing pins-and-needles state of low circulation.
Nash felt now an iron band around his neck, and another around his balls. A third encased his midsection, and his wrists were rigidly shackled together behind him. The iron bands all seemed connected by another metal post, but the threat of tugging his balls from his body further was enough to quell Nash's struggles as his body returned to normal, and someone removed his muzzle and hood.
Nash balked in surprise as his captor was revealed and... not revealed. They were a lean figure wrapped totally in a shiny skintight black material, maybe rubber or latex? The figure seemed to be able to see, despite no discernable eyeholes in the suit. There was padding down near their crotch, but from its size, Nash assumed the figure was male.
He shuddered as The Gimp ran its shiny hands down his chest and stomach, as if it could feel the sparse hairs across the expanse of Nash's torso.
"Don't fucking touch me!" Nash roared. It froze, almost in annoyance, and The Gimp removed its hands and left his field of vision.
"Creepy fuckin' fa-rrrgrguglh!" Nash gurgled as a hard white ball descended into sight and clicked against his teeth as it was roughly pulled into his mouth by the straps attached. Already Nash's jaw felt as though it was creaking with strain as the unforgiving ball was secured in place. The Gimp returned to his view and gently placed a finger to where its lips would be on its blank face, and then used that finger to lightly tap Nash on the nose.
With a triumphant tweak of Nash's left nipple, The Gimp sauntered off, leaving Nash screaming into the gag, trying not to pull his balls off, and trying to discern any reason for why he was here...
