Half Time at the football game

It wasn't a big town, but its outdoor sports arena held 5,000 comfortably. The place was
overflowing with people on this bright sunny warm Saturday afternoon. The whole place
buzzed. The game was a good one, close and hard fought. When the teams trooped off at
half time, the crowd was noisy and excited.

The marching band came onto the field, and the crowd applauded politely. The band
wasn't all that great, but the crowd didn't care. A few minutes later the spectators roared
as a tow truck drove onto the athletics track that ran around the outside of the field. The
truck did one quick circuit. The driver waved to the crowd. So did the two big young
guys in blue coveralls who sat on the back. The crowd waved back and cheered as it
passed.

After its lap of honor, the truck drove another half circuit and bumped off the athletics
track and onto the grassy field, just behind the goal posts at the northern end. When it
stopped, the crowd cheered again.

The two big guys stood up and unloaded the two items lashed of the bed of the truck ñ
two thick beams of wood, one about twelve feet long, and the other around half that
length. The beams made a hollow thud when they hit the ground.

The driver got out too, an older man in jeans and a faded plaid shirt. The three of them
looked like father and two big healthy sons, because they were ñ the local haulage firm of
Svenson and Sons.

One of the sons started prodding the ground with his boots, found what he was looking
for and bent down, opening a metal hatch. He reached down into the hollow underneath
and whatever was there met with his approval because he nodded to his brother and
father and stood up.

The brothers walked over to the two beams lying on the ground and effortlessly picked
up the longer of the two, which must have weighed 150 pounds. They carried it the few
yards to where the hatch lay open. The Svenson brother in front lowered his end of the
beam carefully into the space where the hatch had been, then let it go and moved back to
the other end, near his brother. They pushed the beam upwards, getting closer and closer
to vertical. The end resting on the ground suddenly slid downwards, about four feet of it
disappearing under the grassy surface. When it hit the bottom of the hole, there was a
very loud, hollow thud that made the crowd cheer again.

The beam swayed and shook, but even before it had stopped moving, the same Svenson
brother was crouching down at its base, reaching into the space below and tightening
something under there with this right hand. The beam stopped swaying and after couple
of minutes it stood upright and still.
The brothers went over and got the other beam, while their father leaned into the cabin of
the truck and took out two small blocks of wood, each four by four by two. The older
man put the wooden blocks on the ground four feet or so in front of the upright beam, and
four feet apart. The two brothers lay the shorter beam on the blocks and stood up,
brushing their hands clean.

All that was left was to drive the truck around to the back of the vertical beam, and back
it up until the arm of the winch hung over the upright like some long-necked bird of prey.
Svenson senior did just that, got out of the truck, reached back in to pull out a canvas bag,
and walked back to where his sons waited.

All three waved in the direction of the gate they had driven in. The crowd cheered, while
the Svensons opened the canvas bag and began to empty its contents on to a sheet of
thick plastic they had spread at their feet.

The band played on, marching up and down the grassy field, until at some signal they
marched to the northern end, twenty yards or so from the Svensons, stopped, and downed
instruments.

The loudspeakers crackled to life."Ladeez and gentlemen". There was a roar of

approval."My friends, we are ready for the mid-game entertainment but first let's hear it
for out great crew from Svenson and Sons!" There was a sustained wave of applause and
shouts of approval. As the ruckus died down, another vehicle, a small dark green van
with grilles over the windows in back, drove onto the running track. The crowd noise
swelled once more.

The van had "County Correctional Center" painted on both sides in large white letters. It
made its way slowly around the track towards the Svensons, the two prison officers in the
front responding to the crowd's cheering by waving. It took them a minute or so to get to
the northern end of the arena. The van stopped on the track and the two officers got out,
still waving to the crowd, went to the back of the van and opened the doors..

"My friends", boomed the loudspeakers. "My friends. Today as always we will see true
justice done, justice as it should be done, justice for the community and by the
community. Real justice." There was a loud cheer of approval. This was the cue for the
prison officers, who reached into the back of the van and dragged out a young man who
was blindfolded, his wrists handcuffed in front of him and his ankles shackled. They tore
the blindfold off, leaving him blinking and squinting in the strong afternoon light. The
crowd cheered, hooted and whistled.

He had an untidy mop of thick hair that was either very light brown or dark blond over an
open, quite good-looking face. He looked like, and probably was, a country boy from up
north with his solid build, worn blue jeans, work boots and an unbuttoned plaid shirt over
a white T. Even with two days of stubble on his face, he did not look older than 19,
maybe even 18.
Right now the only emotion written on his face was fear, abject fear. As his large hazel
eyes adjusted to the light, he turned his head every which way, making little frightened
noises as the crowd booed and catcalled. The prison officers grabbed his arms to push
him forward towards the Svensons, towards the wooden frame. The officers knew, as did
the Svensons and many others, that offenders like him were taken straight from the
courtroom and held away from other prisoners. He would have known his sentence was
due when the guards appeared at the door of his cell, dragged him out, and threw him in
the van.

Now he finally understood what it meant to face punishment in public; that it was going
to happen in front of 5,000 strangers. This was usually the stage when prisoners' bowels
went weak, though the prison authorities had not fed him solid food for days to avoid
`accidents'. So far he hadn't pissed in his pants but he looked like he might any minute.

"My friends" came the loud voice once more. "My good friends, what we are dealing
with today is a conviction for robbery and assault. A cowardly and violent attack on an
elderly lady, all for the sake of $25."The crowd booed and hollered. The young man was
shaking his head. No, he was not guilty of that or anything else. The prison officers took
a tighter grip and shoved him forward. "We will know this convicted criminal only as
Joshua, and he is about to face the full force of the law". More cheers, more whistles and
catcalls. Definitely a north country boy with a Biblical name like that. Poverty often
drove them off the farms and into trouble.

The kid, stunned, kept shuffling forward in his shackles, assaulted on all sides by the
noise of the hostile crowd. He began to sob and the prison guards were half carrying him
now. They were only twenty yards for the big wooden pole, and he noticed it for the first
time, digging his heels in and trying to stop. "I don't deserve this", he wailed, turning first
to one, then the other prison guard. "I ain't done nothin' that deserves this".

They dragged him, unresisting for the moment, for the last fifteen yards. Tears were
streaming down his face as he looked up at the pole. They turned him around, facing
away from the upright, let him fall to his knees, and let the Svensons take over. The
father shook hands with both guards, who moved a little way off to watch the next act.

The older man walked over, crouched next to the kid, held the young face still with his
big right hand. "Son, there's no call for all this wailing and weeping. No call. Your Ma
told you to take what comes like a man, I'm certain of that." The tears continued to fall
from the large eyes, but the kid nodded. "Well now, you just do what you're told and this
will be over sooner than you think. Do you have courage boy?" A pause, then another
nod."You be brave, and you act like a man and these folks will respect you for that. You
hear me?". Another nod. "Up on your feet, then son. Like a man. Remember that".

Svenson helped the kid to get up. "Now you just do what you're asked. Just do it, else
you'll get yourself more trouble. We'll take off those cuffs and then my boys here will
strip off your shirt and T-shirt. And then the rest. You stand still and take it straight like,
you hear? " The youngster nodded once more. "Buck naked. Oh Jesus wept, buck naked"
he whispered to himself. He turned his open face to Svenson senior again. "Will it hurt
bad?" he asked in a tiny voice. The tall grey-haired man swallowed hard. "It will hurt,
son. But - like a man, remember?"

As the crowd kept up its barrage of noise, the prison guards unlocked the metal cuffs,
then the shackles. This was the point where some prisoners tried to run. The kid showed
no sign of that. There was nowhere to run anyway; nowhere to hide.

The kid rubbed his wrists, then let his arms fall to his sides. The big Svenson sons had
been waiting behind the group, and now came forward. One stood behind the kid, one in
front. Every now and then the kid looked across at their father, who just nodded.

The kid felt his shirt being lifted off his shoulders from behind, slipped over his arms.
One section of the crowd began to chant "Strip him! Strip him!" He felt the eyes of the
crowd on him, felt the anticipation buzzing around the arena as strangers' hands began to
take his clothes off. The tears welled up in his eyes again. He lifted his hands to his face
and smeared the tears away. The man behind him reached around and eased the T-shirt
out of the waistband of his jeans, then slipped it up over his chest and shoulders. The kid
lifted his arms automatically, to make it easier. Stripped to the waist, he stood blushing in
front of the hollering crowd. His body was taut and hard, sculpted by daily hard work,
thickly muscled shoulders and arms, a deep chest, prominent pecs, and a flat stomach.
There was a light dusting of fair hair on his upper chest, and a fine treasure trail that
trickled down under the jeans.

The crowd continued to chant, some of them using different words that Joshua could not
quite pick up. The Svenson brother in front reached across and unclipped the front of the
kid's jeans, eased the zip down. The jeans were a size too big, probably a hand-me-down
from an older brother, and slipped down over the kids' strong hips and butt. They were
peeled them down the rest of the way and the kid obediently lifted his right foot, then his
left, so the faded denim garment could be slipped off. He wore threadbare white boxers,
this time a size to small, bulging impressively at the front, stretched tight over the strong
butt at the back. His legs were as like the rest of him, muscled and powerful from hours
of constant labour, covered with a frizz of hair.

The kid was crying again, out of shame. He shivered despite the warm breeze blowing
across the field. He gulped and let out a loud strangled sob as the same pair of hands slid
his boxers down over his hips and knees in one quick motion.

The kid's torso was tanned but not his legs. The sharp tan line ran across from hip to hip,
and under that line he was pale-skinned to his toes. The shock of dark pubic hair that
flared out from the end of his treasure trail stood out starkly against the white skin. Like
most country boys, he was uncut, his foreskin folded down over the head of his thick
cock. Even flaccid, its head hung well below his bulging hairy ball sac.

The crowd roared its approval as the half-time entertainment now stood, helpless and
naked, in front of them all. Joshua felt a rope halter dropped over his head from behind.
He was suddenly afraid they were going to hang him and fell to his knees again, begging
for mercy. One of the Svensons had to slap him hard across the back of the head to stop
him whining. The kid fell sideways but they picked him up and held him up while
Svenson senior father lifted his victim's right arm, then his left, and tied the boy's wrists
to the halter behind his head so he couldn't use his hands to cover himself. "Hold your
elbows out boy. OUT!. OK, let's move it". The elder Svenson took the end of the halter
and yanked on it to jerk the kid into motion.

The brothers walked on either side of Joshua and the little group moved towards the
nearest part of the track, towards the crowd. "How long we got?" the father asked. One of
the brothers looked at his watch. "Twenty minutes all up, Pa" was the reply,
acknowledged with a grunt.

They set off at normal walking pace, the kid being led like a pack animal across to the
middle of the track. The cheeks of his strong meaty butt tensed and clenched as he
walked, his cock and big balls bouncing against his thighs. They set off on a lap of honor,
or dishonor. The kid was distraught, stumbling and swaying as he was led around the
arena for the whole crowd to see close up. As they moved around the track, the wave of
yelling and catcalling went with them. People in the crowd stood up and waved their fists
at him, called him every name the kid had ever heard, and then some. Every 50 yards the
Svensons made him stop, turned him towards the crowd and made him stand there while
hundreds of pairs of eyes gawked at his nakedness.

For ten minutes they led him around. Every time he half-crouched to try to cover his
dangling dick and balls, the Svensons slapped him until he stood up straight. Every time
he tried to walk faster so it would be over quicker, they slowed him down. As they drew
near the point they had started from, they led him right up to the side of the track, not
three feet from the first row of spectators, and held him there while men, women and
children hurled abuse at him and leaned forward to try to grab him. His chest was sweaty
now, gleaming in the sunlight. When they turned him round to show his ass to the crowd,
those nearest could see that the wisps of hair along his butt-crack were curled and damp.

And then finally it was over. They took him back across the track and down onto the field
again, making him stop a few feet in front of the upright beam, facing it, his toes touching
the shorter beam lying on the ground. They left him tied for the moment. The Svensons
had done this a score of times or more, but this part always made them nervous. Faced
with the reality of what was to happen to them, looking up at the beam put there to make
them suffer, their victims could do anything. And this was a strong, fit kid with a
powerful man's body.

Svenson senior stood in front of Joshua and grabbed a handful of the kid's thick hair,
pulling his head back. "Now listen real good, son. Real good. Here's what you're gonna
do. When I tell you, you're gonna lie down on the ground here, facing the big blue sky,
with your shoulders on top of this hunk of wood. Then you're gonna stretch your arms
along it and lie still while we go about our business. You squirm or you struggle or you
make trouble of any kind and you'll get a long whuppin' along with your sentence. You
got that? "The kid did not respond. Svenson pulled harder on the kid's hair. "YOU GOT
THAT?!!"The kid's eyes came back into focus. He sort of nodded, looked into the older
man's eyes. His face crumpled. "Please don't do this, sir", he whined. "Please don't do it.
I'm sorry for what I did. I'm so sorry".

They untied his wrists from the halter but left the halter on - as a reminder of his lap of
shame. The section of the crowd behind them began to chant: "Crux him!! Crux him!!"
and the whole crowd took it up. The kid began to whimper, shoulders hunched, head bent
forward, hardly believing this was happening. The Svenson father tapped him on the
shoulder. It was time.

He looked at the older man for mercy, but there was none. The kid turned around to face
away from the beam, then sat on the grass in front of it, lowering his back until his
shoulders touched the beam. "Down a coupla inches boy", one of the brothers barked at
him. He shifted his butt and shoulders, then stretched out his bare legs onto the grass,
lying naked and vulnerable, face up and at the mercy of these three big men. He began to
sob again, his big chest heaving, but meekly stretched his arms along the beam as he had
been told to do. The wood was warm from lying in the sun, but he shuddered at its touch.

The crowd's chanting rose and fell as the Svenson's got down to business. In less than two
minutes they had fastened his wrists securely to the beam, stretching his arms across it as
hard as they could. The kid hyperventilated at one point, his chest rising and falling in
panic as he realized he was now helpless and could do nothing to stop them having their
way.

The elder Svenson tested the ropes, decided they were snug enough, nodded to his sons.
The crowd began to quieten in anticipation. Not many had much of a view of what was
happening, but they knew what was coming.

The Svensons always kept the hammer and nails out of sight - ever since the second of
their victims, a pale thin man around 40, had fainted and then had a minor heart attack
when he saw them lying next to the beam. Now that the kid was securely roped down, it
was safe to bring them out of the canvas bag. They knew the nailing was just a token. The
kid would not hang from them, but from the ropes. The nails were just little things
anyway - maybe five inches long and less than a 1/4 inch across. They were specially
made for this purpose, with a broad flaring head and a very sharp tip.

But however large or small the nails were, victims had a dread of having the metal spikes
driven into them. It filled them with terror and made the punishment that much more of
an ordeal. Joshua didn't hear the jingling noise as one of the brothers fetched the hammer
and four bright shiny nails out of the canvas bag (two spares, just in case). But he knew
something was up when the other brother crouched at his feet and held his ankles hard
against the ground. The kid howled in terror. He had tried to pretend this part wouldn't
happen, but now it was happening. He cried out again, and the crowd cheered, then went
quiet again.
This was Svenson senior's job. He went down on one knee next to the kid's right hand.
The kid had clenched his fist. Svenson prised the big calloused hand open and called his
other son over to hold the fingers open and keep the back of the hand flat against the
wood. Joshua's hands were covered with scars from minor accidents on the farm.
Svenson did what he had been taught years ago ñ pressed his thumb into the fleshy part
of the palm, away from the wrist bones and major blood vessels. He located the long
bones that came down from the fingers and found a space between the bones of the
middle and ring fingers. His son handed him a nail, and he pressed it into the spot, held it
there. It went through the skin and a little blood welled up around it. Joshua screeched.
His son handed him the hammer, an ordinary household hammer.

Svenson raised his arm brought it down. The "clunk" echoed around the arena. The naked
kid let out a high pitched gurgling shriek and his whole body arched violently as if he had
been hit with 10,000 volts. The brother holding his legs down had to struggle to hold on.
The crowd roared, and again at the second blow of the hammer, and again at the third.
The kid was screaming, his face purple, eyes wide open in sheer terror, teams streaming
from his face and snot from his nose. It took four hefty blows to get the nail in so that the
broad head was almost touching the kid's hand. Blood flowed around the shaft and spread
over the kid's palm

Svenson senior stood up and his son followed his cue. They went over to the other end of
the beam. The kid was begging for mercy, the tendons in his neck taut as ropes as he
shouted at them that he would do anything, anything, to make up for his terrible crime if
they would only spare him this. Joshua squealed again as he felt the tip of the nail pressed
into the palm of his left hand. He convulsed when the nail was driven through and into
the wood, and at each of the next four blows it took to get the nail right in. His terrible
animal shrieks bounced around the stadium, and the crowd loved it, cheering and jeering.

The Svensons stood up, stowed the hammer and spare nails back in the canvas bag. One
of the brothers moved back to the truck, took down the chains that hung from the winch
arm that hovered over the upright. The other brother clipped the ends of the chains onto
two metal rings embedded in the upper surface of the beam near each end. He fetched a
ladder from the flat bed of the truck, leaned it against the back of the upright and
clambered up it. The motor started up. The winch took up the slack and began to drag the
beam backwards and upwards.

The kid felt the beam being dragged backwards, tried to look behind him, his eyes wild
with fright. He began to push with his heels to avoid being dragged along by his bound
wrists and bleeding hands. The beam cleared the ground before it hit the upright, then
lurched backwards. The kid's head fell back, hitting hard against the thick wood of the
vertical beam. He cursed, shook his head, scrabbled at the ground with his feet. When the
beam had risen five feet or so, he managed to draw his legs in underneath his body and
straighten up as the beam continued to rise. In a few seconds he was upright, his feet flat
on the grass. He rose to tiptoes as the winch raised the beam further. And suddenly his
feet were off the ground and then he really was hanging from his bound wrists, his arms
elbows and shoulders taking his weight and stretching his torso.
He bellowed as the weight of his body dragged on his shoulder joints, his eyes wide and
disbelieving at how much it hurt. His torso stretched, the thick muscular pecs flattened
against the front of his rib cage his back muscles flared outwards to take the weight. He
bellowed again and thrashed around with his legs, trying to get some purchase on the
upright with his bare feet. Up and up his body was lifted as he squirmed and squealed,
until the crossbeam was just clear of the top of the upright. From behind, the Svenson
brother maneuvered the cross beam until the rectangular hole cut into it hovered over the
top of the beam, its top six inches cut down to the same dimensions as the hole. He
signalled to his brother and the winch reversed direction, lowering the beam. It slotted in
with a jolt, forcing another bellow of pain from the kid.

They let him hang there for a couple of minutes, his feet still trying to clamp themselves
to the rough wood of the upright. When they had unhitched the chains, stowed then in the
back of the truck, taken the ladder down, and tidied up some more, they returned to tie
the kid's ankles firmly to the upright. Joshua gasped with relief and straight away pushed
himself upwards, the muscles of his big legs straining and bulging. He held himself there
for a good minute before slumping again, moaning as the weight dragged on his
shoulders again.

There was only one rite of passage left. People in the crowd wolf-whistled in anticipation.
Svenson senior stood in front of the crucified kid, half-grinning at his sons as he took the
tube out of his left pocket, unscrewed the cap, squirted some of the clear liquid onto the
rough palm of his big right hand.

"Sam-ple!! Sam-ple!!" the crowd hollered. The public address system crackled."Yes
ladeez and gentlemen, the county has decreed that each convicted prisoner must have a
DNA sample taken. Johann Svenson will now do the honors". There was a great cheer.
Svenson senior made a little bow to the crowd. He turned to his victim and reached up to
grasp the kid's cock, still shriveled with shock, and began to slide his lubricated fingers
along it from the base to the head. "NOOOOOOOooooooo" Johsua cried out.
"NOOOOoooo please not that. Not that!!!" Svenson had two sons in their 20s and he
knew that a 19-year old didn't take long to respond to any friction on his dick - even if he
was tied and nailed to a length of wood at the time. And so it was with young Joshua,
whose thick cock began to swell and grow within seconds. He threw back his head and
cried out "No! No! No! No!" over and over.

It was no use. His powertool grew long and fat and his cock was rock hard, pulsing and
thobbing in Svenson's grip within a minute. The older man stroked it hard, the lube
making a slurping sound at each stroke. His sons stood on each side of him, watching
with interest. One of them held a clear plastic beaker in readiness. The crown hooted and
cheered as Svenson kept up a steady beat. He waited until he heard the kid's breathing
grow shallower, felt him tense up, saw his thighs start to twitch. He pulled the foreskin
right back and pointed the thing downwards, holding it tight as the kid began to buck. His
son held the beaker close under the engorged head of the cock and waited. He didn't have
to wait long. The kid moaned, then grunted deep in his throat, then opened his mouth and
eyes wide as if surprised as his hips twitched and he gushed rope after rope thick creamy
cum into the beaker, his body shaking and shuddering at the force of it.

The crowd erupted into an even louder cheer that went on and on, even as the kid
slumped back against the cross, spent, shamed, weeping.

The beaker of warm semen was carefully sealed and packed to be handed over to the
police later. Then the Svensons began to pack up, picking up their tools and spare rope,
packing the canvas bag again. Now that they had done their job, they didn't even glance
at the naked young man twisting and squirming on the cross, whining and pleading.

"Take me down. Oh please God take me down. Oh please. I can't feel my feet. The ropes,
too tight. Take me down oh for the love of God, take me down. The nails are tearing me.
Tearing. Bleeding. I'm bleeding oh God have pity. Oh God please. My shoulders are
gonna burst, and I'll die. Don't let me die."

The Svensons were finished packing. The father strolled across to the foot of the cross,
whistling, his hands in his pockets. He looked up at his handiwork as the crucified young
man continued to beg and plead. They nearly all did that once they were up there, once
the reality of their long ordeal suddenly hit them. He was used to the whining and
pleading. The wrist ropes were solid and holding. The ankle ropes too. The kid's knees
were bent at just the right angle. The nails would tear at his hands a little, but the trickles
of blood down his hands had almost stopped already. If he didn't thrash around too much,
there would be no more bleeding.

The older man took a good look at his victim. The kid was was young and strong and
would make it. His whole buck naked body was shining with sweat now, the muscles of
his chest and legs flashing in the sun as he squirmed. His chest hair was plastered to his
skin. The bush of dark pubic hair was damp. The kid's cock was still half-erect. You
could see it jump with each pulse. He'd probably come again in a couple of minutes if
they jerked him off once more. Svenson looked up into the kid's face."You won't die son.
You'll twist and dance on that cross for hours, but you won't die. The doc will be along
soon to check you. He'll come every 30 minutes or so to make sure your shoulders don't
bust. You won't die. But you'll be in god-awful pain the whole time and the point, son,
the point is that you'll pay for what you did. Just you remember that."

He reached up and around and slapped the side of the kid's butt hard. "You take care,
now." He smiled and walked away. They would go and have a few beers, do a few more
chores, and come back in four hours time to take the kid down and hand him back to the
prison guards.

The Svensons got back into their truck and drove back onto the track and around towards
the exit, getting another round of applause. The band struck up again, marching off field
as the players ran out of the tunnel and onto the grass. The crown roared. The game got
under way.
And down the end of the field, the naked young man struggled and twisted on his cross of
pain, the weight tearing at his shoulders, his hands throbbing from the nails, his cries for
mercy drowned by the noise of the game.

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