Young, muscular Kevin Brady is alone in the dungeon, completely naked, hanging from a steel bar, his ankles spread – a human X. He looks up at the small camera blinking a few feet in front of him, assuming some government official is watching. “I’m sorry. Please, I’m sorry,” he says to the camera, a look of deep fear in his eyes. But there will be no mercy. Instead, as if on cue, the compact, muscular guard dressed in black leather – heavy boots, padded shirt and cap – enters the torture chamber and selects his next instrument of pain: a red, single-tail bullwhip. Kevin is shocked by the terrible pain of the first blow delivered to the center of his V-shaped back. The whipping continues nonstop, the slice of the whip coming every few seconds. It stop briefly only so the guard can spray – liquid fire – onto the boy’s fresh wounds. “Please!” Kevin begs, in between gasps of pain, his young muscles convulsing seductively. Then the whipping continues, mercilessly and mechanically, as if the guard where a machine. And, yes, the electrodes on his balls are there for a reason.
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