the Brig Rat
I was excited and eager to see Fort Collins, one of the great old traditional Army posts and

my first assignment after Basic Training. There were a dozen or so of us in the Army bus bringing us from the station, all proudly wearing the new khaki short-sleeved shirt uniform which had recently come into use. A few miles out of town we saw along the highway the scattering of bars, uniform shops, laundries and sellers of shoddy merchandise which surround any military base.

All that was left behind, though, as we turned into the main gate where an incredibly stiff and starched MP waved us through. Tall trees lined the winding entry road until we topped a gentle rise and saw the long parade ground ahead.

It was easily the size of a football field, but no cleats ever sullied that perfect grass, flat and smooth and green as a pool table.

At the far end stood the General's house, well back from the perimeter road on its own circular drive, imposing and grand in the manner of the old South with tall columns, a wide porch and a balcony on which the General's wife and her guests could sit in the shade sipping cooling drinks while watching the troops sweat in the hot sun below.

To the left, under huge, shady trees, were red brick officers houses, carefully graded by rank from the big ones for Colonels near the General's house down to medium sized ones for the Majors at the other end of the row, with still smaller houses and duplexes for Captains and Lieutenants on side streets behind.

As I soon found, we enlisted men were never allowed in that area unless on some work detail such as mowing the officers' lawns for them.

The bus followed the perimeter road along the right side of the parade ground and pulled to a stop in front of a row of large brick barracks buildings, each two stories high with wide porches along the front at both levels to give access to the various rooms inside.

We quickly tumbled off the bus and formed up into a line at rigid attention as several sergeants barked at us. They started calling names and one of them called mine, then I picked up my duffle bag and followed him to one of the barracks, up the stairs to the second floor and into the large squad bay which was to be my home.

Lockers alternated with the iron-framed bunks lining the walls, each with a tightly-stretched blanket except one on which the mattress had been rolled, and of course that was mine.

The sergeant quickly barked out orders for me to pick up bedding and report for this and that at various times which quickly got muddled in my head, but I didn't dare ask him to repeat any of it and stood at attention until he left.

I dropped my duffle on my bunk, looked around and found the latrine next door, then figured I might as well unpack and hang up my uniforms and other gear.

I was just about through when a young soldier about my age wearing starched green fatigues came in, grinned at me and introduced himself.

"Hi, I'm Rob. Welcome to Company B."

"Thanks. I'm Don. Your's is the first smiling face I've seen."

Glancing at my gear, he asked,
"Getting settled OK?"

"So far, but that sergeant told me to do a lot of things and of course I don't know where to go."

"No problem. I'll guide you through it. You'll pick it up OK in a few days."

"Thanks. That's real nice of you."

He took me to the supply room to draw bedding and helped me to make my bed, then showed me around as much as he could in the short time we had until chow.

We ate together, then went back to the barracks where I met the rest of my new squad.

As the sun drifted down the sky a whistle blew twice and those men who had stripped to their skivvies or were wearing fatigues put on their khakis and began moving out to the front porch.

The whistle blew again and we lined up in formation on the porch in the At Ease position, watching the sun drop ever closer to the horizon.

A cannon fired and we snapped to attention, staring right ahead, in my case into the back of the man in front of me, but even so, I could see around him the flaming sunset over the officers' houses across the parade ground.

As the haunting strains of Taps sounded from a bugle near the flagpole in front of the General's house, we all saluted briskly and the flag slowly came down.

Taps echoed a second time from somewhere down at the far end of the parade ground and tears misted my eyes as I savored the moment, loving the ceremony and the place and my part in it.

The next day started early with wake-up call before dawn and we turned out wearing short khaki shorts and olive green T-shirts to form up on the perimeter road while it was barely light enough to see the man next to me.

We headed out at double time, running in step and keeping position as well as we could.

After a few minutes, someone started the verse of a cadence song and we all joined in on the chorus, yelling out the words as our feet hit the ground.

I had done some of this in Basic, but this was the real thing -- enthusiastic men who liked what they were doing and having fun with it.

I was thrilled once again with the spirit and teamwork and sense of belonging which meant so much to me.

We ran for about half an hour, and I admit my ass was dragging as we came back for one last loop around the perimeter road, yelling out our songs as a wake-up call to the slug-a-bed officers but keeping quiet as we passed the General's house.

We tumbled into our squad bays to hit the showers where we jockeyed for position under the nozzles, wet skin rubbing on skin and here and there a boner poking up to be laughed at or kidded by those who noticed.

All of this was repeated every week day, but the rest of my first day was busy as I dashed around, going through the in-processing procedures, learning my way around, finding out what I was supposed to do, but I gradually settled into the routine, enjoying the comradeship of the other troopers in my squad and particularly my growing friendship with Rob.

Saturday came around and we all worked very hard, scrubbing and cleaning and arranging and tidying, then putting on our best khakis and I knew I looked good with my starched shirt dressed up with a Division patch on one shoulder and regimental pins on my epaulets and even a unit citation foragier around one arm.

I wondered if I would someday have a pair of PFC stripes on my sleeves as well.

We stood at rigid attention by our bunks for inspection, later falling out to form up by unit on the perimeter road in front of the barracks.

We marched briskly onto the parade ground to the sound of the band, the guidons fluttered in the gentle breeze, the sun beat down from a clear blue sky and I felt the thrill of belonging and being part of a fine and well-polished organization.

We went through the drill as I had so many times at Basic, but here there seemed a little something extra, a snap and precision and self-confidence that only appears in a highly motivated and experienced unit.

After standing in line for reports and inspection and so on, it was a pleasure to hear the command to "Pass in Review" and know it was almost over.

I felt proud and happy when I executed "Eyes Right" as our officers and the guidon saluted the General on his reviewing stand, then snapped front again.

After that ultimate moment, I could relax just a little and amuse myself by watching the spreading stain of sweat on the khaki shirt in front of me.

Back in the barracks, everyone was happy and boisterous, looking forward to a weekend of freedom and fun.

"Want to go into town later?" Rob asked me.

"OK, but it didn't look like much as I drove in here."

"No, that's for sure, but it's better than sitting in the barracks ... and it's the only chance you'll get for another week."

"OK. I'm with you. I never had much to drink, though. Don't want to get too bad on my first weekend pass."

During the afternoon we wandered around the base, Rob showing me some of the areas I had not seen before.

I was stunned for a moment when we walked past a screen of trees and saw the base stockade.

Like the rest of the base, it had been built back in Victorian times, but here the architects had let their imagination run -- it looked like a stone castle.

Solid grey stone walls rose three stories sheer from the ground, pierced only by tiny, narrow windows like the slits for arrows in the old times, and I shuddered as I realized that those tiny slits probably provided the only light for the cells inside.

A round turret at each corner rose higher than the walls and I could see an MP standing watchfully behind a mounted machine gun in each, surveying his clear and level field of fire. Any escaping prisoner would never have a chance.

"Brrr. That looks like a good place to stay out of."

"You got that right. I've never been inside but I've heard some pretty bad stories about what goes on in there. Hope I never find out if they are true."

That evening we joined a trickle of other soldiers, some in khakis like us, some in civvies, walking down to the main gate, showing our passes to the brisk MP's, then exploring the bars that lined the highway outside.

This was Army country, just about as much as the base itself. MP's prowled the strip watching for any sign of disturbance but civilian cops never came here except on Monday morning when they came to pick up their cut of the take.

We went into one bar, listened to the loud music, breathed the smoky air and drank a couple of beers. Then we tried another, then another.

All were much the same with GI's getting progressively drunker as the evening wore on.

I saw an argument deteriorate into a brawl and suddenly the place seemed full of MP's who quickly grabbed and handcuffed the struggling soldiers, then dragged them out to a waiting truck and I was glad not to be part of it as I saw how roughly the prisoners were being treated.

Most of the MP's were young and big, reminiscent of a High School football team, but then my eye was caught by a sergeant standing to one side watching his men at work.

He was bigger than all of them, obviously strong and muscular but not like a body-builder freak -- this was working muscle, straining the snug khaki of the old-style long sleeve shirt he wore over his broad chest and bulging bicepses.

On one arm he wore a black MP arm-band a little different, a bit smaller and older than the others.

I was puzzled for a moment but then forgot about it as I watched one tough GI fight hard against the two MP's who held his arms and tried to twist them behind his back to cuff him.

The big sergeant walked over, stood in front of the struggling soldier and hit him very hard in the breast bone with a heavy fist.

The soldier doubled over, then hung almost limp in the arms of the two MP's holding him as they quickly put on the cuffs and dragged him out the door.

After the MP's had left, I whispered to Rob,

"Wow, I wouldn't like to have him mad at me."

"Yeah, I've seen him around before. He likes to run the Saturday night detail but he also runs the stockade. He is one bad guy to tangle with."

The beer and smoke was getting to me and we staggered out, arms over each other's shoulders, into the night.

Suddenly I saw the big sergeant glaring at us and I stopped, shaken, then dropped my arms to my sides and stood at attention, weaving just a little, as Rob did the same.

We stood still under his gaze for a minute or more, then he moved along and we both let out sighs of relief and relaxed.

"Whew. I thought we were done for. Thank God he didn't take us in."

"Yeah. Hey, maybe we should just stay outside for a bit, cool off," Rob suggested.

"OK. Where do you want to go. We better get away from the road and those MP's."

"That's for sure. Come on."

We walked back away from the highway between a couple of bars, then beyond into a field of tall grass.

As we went farther, the din of the bars receded and I looked up to the black, star-littered sky, smelling the fresh odor of the countryside. I felt outrageously happy with the open air, the beer, and the friendship of a good buddy.

We stumbled a little, the beer going to our legs, then just sprawled in the long grass, invisible to anyone else. We lay there on our backs, looking up at the sky.

I stared at the stars, drunk enough not to care about anything. Rob turned and lay on his side, facing me.

Slowly his hand stroked my arm, then my chest, feeling soft and warm through my shirt. I turned my head toward him and smiled as we looked deep into each other's eyes.

I had never done anything like this before, but I suddenly realized that I wanted to touch him, too, and rolled toward him so our bodies touched and we could stroke each other.

His head moved forward and our lips met in a kiss.

As our passion grew, our hands moved down and soon we were stroking rapidly stiffening cocks.

He fumbled with my belt and zipper, then my cock sprang free and he moved around to suck it, taking a little at first, then more and more until I could feel the tight constriction of his throat as my sensitive head moved deeper into him.

I was panting and murmuring with the overwhelming sensations he was giving me. Then, all too soon, I felt my balls tingle and surge. a stream of hot come spurted into his mouth and he swallowed quickly, trying not to let any escape to spill onto my uniform.

We lay still for a few minutes, recovering.

"Oh wow, that was great. I've never felt anything so great. I've never done anything like this before, but I'd sure like to again. How about you, though, you want to do it the other way around?"
He did, of course, and gave me my first lesson in sucking cock.

I wasn't very good, and was overwhelmed by the gush of hot liquid into my mouth, but I managed to swallow most of it even though I choked a little.

We lay close together, happy and content in our tiny lair in the grass, then reluctantly got up and staggered back toward the highway.

We came out between two bars and suddenly there he was -- the big MP sergeant. He watched us, seeming to stare deep into our souls, searching out our secrets.

I was terrified, knowing that what we had just done was a serious crime in the Army, but there was nothing to be done but stand at a trembling attention until he passed on.

The encounter had sobered us up considerably and we headed back to the Fort and our bunks.

Next day we studiously avoided any mention of the night before while I told myself it was just the beer and I wouldn't have done any such thing without being drunk, even though I knew I wanted to do it again.

A couple of weeks, payday, and we went out again. After the same cycle of bars and beer to build up our courage we again walked back into the field, quickly opening pants and pulling out cocks as we kissed, then twice sucked each other to satisfying conclusions.

We went back to a bar to top it off but soon some nearby soldiers started a fight.

I was backing away, trying to avoid it, when the big sergeant came in with his MP's and again the hand-cuffs clicked and some of the men were dragged outside.

I saw the big sergeant looking at me and I seemed mesmerized by his eyes, then he gave a slight gesture and two of the MP's came for me. I tried to protest that I hadn't been part of the fight, but it was useless as they wrenched my arms behind my back, clamped the cuffs tight on my wrists and dragged me roughly away.

I looked back in despair at Rob, but he was almost as horrified as I and clearly there was nothing he could do.

I was thrown into the waiting truck, sprawling across some of the other handcuffed soldiers, then we started.

Apparently they had enough to make a trip and we left the highway and passed through the main gate.

I caught glimpses here and there which told me where we were heading but it was still a terrifying moment to see the grey stone castle standing before me when we jumped or were dragged out of the truck.

The big front door opened and we were herded inside, then shoved bruskly into cells, four men to each.

I stood sadly, looking through the bars at the front of my cell.

The others lay on the stone floor, drifting into drunken stupor and sleep, but I couldn't think of sleep.

I didn't deserve to be here, I hadn't been part of the fight. Why had I been singled out to be dragged in here like a criminal, chained and caged?

I looked around the huge dimly-lit room. I gradually guessed that the cells which lined both sides of the ground floor were used for transient prisoners, guys like me just picked up and brought here for the night.

The two upper tiers of cells with their steel catwalks at least seemed to have bunks and were probably for longer term prisoners who might have to suffer out their sentences in this drab, gloomy place.

The back wall of the room was solid stone and I found later led to latrines, a mess hall and various offices.

All I could hear was the sighing moan of men breathing, sometimes the squeak of a bunk as someone rolled over and occasionally a cry as someone dreamed.

A door opened and footsteps approached. I was suddenly terrified to see the big sergeant and froze as he stopped, looking back at me.

Quietly he took out his keys, opened the door of my cell and gestured me out onto the main floor, then relocked the door.

His fingers felt like a vice, cutting off the circulation in my arm as he grasped it tight, dragging me with him to a front corner of the room.

A very heavy, solid wood door led to a round room which was obviously the base of the tower on that corner of the stockade. Inside was a sparse, spare office -- just a desk, a few chairs, some filing cabinets and a table -- all GI olive-drab metal.

The thick, heavy walls and door would block any sound, no one else would hear anything which might go on in here.

My knees were trembling but I managed to stand still, feet together, hands still cuffed behind my back, as he began to talk.

"You fucking little piece of shit. I've had my eye on you and I know what you are, you goddamn pansy -- you shit-head ass-hole, you freaking fucking fag.

"I've been in this Army a long time, and I sure as shit hate to see it fucked up by a goddamn little fuck-face like you."

He went on in this vein for some time as I quailed, wondering how he might have guessed.

Gradually I realized he was drunk -- not to the point where he would lose control but certainly beyond the point where he would lose any inhibitions.

Slowly, through my terror, I began to figure out that he couldn't really know anything -- he was guessing and bluffing, perhaps on the basis of my slender figure, handsome face and blond hair.

To my amazement, he began to get maudlin.

"My Dad ran this stockade back in the good old days -- back before the big one came along and screwed up the Army, brought in a lot of fucked up civilians.

"He ran it right -- with an iron fist -- and no one dared to stick his head up or it would get knocked the fuck off his fucking shoulders.

"Well, I'm running it now, and I'm running it the same fucking way in spite of all the goddamn rules and regulations and shit. And I sure as shit won't take any crap from any goddamn little piece of shit like you."

I had not dared to say a word, but he was working himself up into a rage.

He touched the old, wornMP arm-band on his sleeve.

"My Dad wore this arm-band -- wore it with pride. He gave it to me when I first became an MP. Only fucking thing I ever wanted to do ... wanted to be.

"Now I wear it with pride and no one is gonna tell me to take it off. You hear me, you fucking little fag!"

He roared the last words, then lurched forward and even being somewhat drunk, his fist was just a blur as it slammed into my guts, knocking my breath away and doubling me over to crumple on the floor.

He kicked me twice with his heavy, shiny black combat boots, then grabbed one arm and dragged me to my feet, then slammed me back against a wall.

He used one massive hand to hold me up while the other pummeled me, striking at my guts and sides and chest until I passed out.

I don't know how long I was out, but I came to lying crumpled against the wall and saw him sitting at his desk with a bottle close at hand, sipping from a coffee mug.

I hurt all over, bruised and battered and wondering what he would do next. The cuffs had been clamped tighter than ever when he slammed me against the wall and felt as though they were about to cut my hands off.

I didn't dare make any noise to attract his attention and just lay quiet, trying to catch my breath, as I watched him drink down his mug of booze, then refill it, draining the bottle then flinging it against the wall to shatter and tinkle to the floor.
Eventually he seemed to pull himself together enough to remember I was here and he came over and stood looking down at me while I wondered if he was going to beat me some more or even kill me.

Finally he reached down and grabbed an arm with one of his big hands and dragged me limply out of the room and back to my cell.

Sunday dragged endlessly as we tried to clean ourselves up as much as possible and arrange our excuses for the next day.

On Monday morning I was marched out of the stockade in my crumpled and stained uniform, once again handcuffed to add to my humiliation, to the B Company office.

The First Sergeant signed a receipt for me and the MP's took their hand-cuffs and left while he chewed me out royally as I stood at attention, telling me in exquisitely profane language that I was making a bad start here and had better shape up.

Later, the Company Commander told me much the same thing with more brevity and less profanity, then told me I was restricted to base for two weeks and to get back to work.

I breathed a huge sigh of relief and hurried back to my squad bay to clean up and join my squad.

When we could be alone, I told Rob all about my experience and he commiserated, especially when I stripped before hitting the rack and he saw the black and purple bruises.

I took some kidding from the other men, then gradually it seemed to be forgotten by everyone else, but I would never forget.

Life went on and summer slipped into the cool of fall. We had been out on a night exercise but somehow I felt restless, so decided to take a walk, still wearing my olive-green fatigues and black combat boots.

The base seemed deserted with only an occasional light here and there, and I wasn't paying much attention to where I was going but suddenly saw the grey bulk of the stockade looking like a cover illustration on a cheap Gothic novel in the moonlight.

I heard a step, my heart skipped a beat as I turned and somehow I knew even before I saw him. The big sergeant who had beaten me towered over me as I quailed in terror.

"Well, well. Little fuck-face is back for some more. Didn't get enough the first time, shit-head? Like it in there? Well, you came at just the right time."
I was frozen with fear and stood there stupidly as he pulled a pair of hand-cuffs from his belt, jerked me around with his other hand and cuffed me tightly behind my back.

I tried to protest but his backhanded slap across the face shut me up very effectively. Once again his huge hand crushed my arm as he dragged me to the front door, then inside the stockade.

No one seemed awake as I got a quick glance at the rows and tiers of cells, then was dragged into his office.

I stood still, once again, wondering if he would beat me some more. He said nothing, just sat down and poured himself a mug of whisky, then gulped it down like he was trying to build up his courage and determination to do whatever he was going to do to me.

Satisfied, he got up and dragged me across the front of the building to the opposite corner. We went into another round room -- a duplicate of his office, except there were stairs following the curve of the wall going up to the wooden floor above my head.

He opened a small door and I saw similar stairs going down into the dark of the level below.

He touched a switch and a dim light glowed -- just enough for us to see our way as we descended. We came out into a long, gloomy corridor, musty smelling and damp with heavy wood doors along each side.

His words were slurred a little by the booze, but they were clear enough to strike terror into my heart.

"Fucking rules and regulations, fucking no-good, candy-assed civilians, fucking goddamn wimps. Don't fucking let us use these any more. Good for some fucked up goddamn wimp or fucking tough guy who thinks he's tough.

"Well he ain't so fucking tough after a few days down here in solitary. My Dad used these a lot, back before all the fucking candy-assed civilians ruined the Army, made all the fucking rules.

"I have to treat the fucking ass-holes who come here like fucking Kings instead of knocking the shit out of them like they deserve."

He rambled on as my dread increased and I knew these solitary confinement cells had been built many years ago, then unused and forgotten by all but this big sergeant.

I didn't belong here, I hadn't done anything, but there was nothing I could do about it and nobody knew I was here.

He opened the door to one of the cells, kicked my ass hard, knocking me sprawling on the stone floor, then followed me into the tiny room.

Once again he dragged me to my feet, punched me several times, then let me slump to the floor, choking and gasping for breath.

He bent over and took off the cuffs, but my relief was only momentary as he ordered me to strip.

I hesitated, but his cocked fist was enough to make me do it, taking off my fatigue shirt, boots, socks, pants, T-shirt and finally my shorts, as he took each item in turn and tossed it out the door into the corridor beyond.

I stood there naked and shivering. He told me to turn about face and I looked at the wall, then he shoved me against it.

I heard a rattle of chains, then one at a time my arms were jerked up and wide steel bands were clamped tightly around my wrists.

I stood, arms now spread eagled above my head, my heaving chest pressed against the cold wall.

He turned and left the cell, closing the door behind him, and I was left alone in the dark cold, terrified and naked, chained to the wall.

The cold ached my muscles and I shivered hard, scraping my chest and belly against the sandpaper-rough stone wall. Eventually the cold found its way into my bones and my ribs especially ached, making breathing hard.

The bitter old sergeant came back all too soon -- not because I wanted to be left here a second longer, but he brought with him a heavy leather belt which he used to whip my back and ass and shoulders, carefully aiming each blow, letting the pain build.

I didn't dare say anything, fearing I would only anger him and make him hit me harder and longer, but finally I couldn't help it, letting out an agonized scream, then another and another.

He finally stopped and I hung from my chains, completely exhausted by the beating and helpless to do anything.

His hand stroked my shoulder and I was startled by the sudden gentle touch after the fierce beating I had received.

Slowly his hand drifted down my back. It felt soothing and somehow alleviated much of the pain.

Then he touched my ass and I felt his wide palm cupping my aching glutes ... then both hands. He very gently kneaded the tortured flesh of my rounded buns.

In the silence I could hear his heavy breathing become deeper and more erratic with jerky little gasps and stifled moans accenting what sounded to me like passion.

I didn't know what to think -- there was little time to think as he massaged slowly, steadily, almost erotically.

Then he pulled his hands back and in the near silence I heard the zipper of his pants, then a rustling of cloth.

I felt a pressure between my ass cheeks -- just a gentle touch at first, but then harder -- demanding, forcing, ramming into me.

My cold, achy body suddenly was afire with pain -- the burning hot pain of a fist in the gut, but it wasn't in my stomach -- it was in my ass-hole -- like a hot tail-pipe shoved inside me.

I shrieked in agony as my guts were being ripped apart inside me -- going up the wrong end.

I knew what was happening. I had even dreamed of Rob doing it. But this wasn't an act of love, not tender, not gentle. It was rape -- hard, brutal, almost calculated to give as much pain as possible.

That bastard raped me rough and hard, slamming his huge cock into my tender, virgin hole, totally careless of my incredible pain. Again and again his huge cock rammed far up inside my guts, tearing and searing my ass as he fucked me until finally he reached a climax, slamming into me one final time.

Then leaned against me, pressing my chest and belly hard against the rocky wall, both of us breathing hard and fast as his hot seed spurted inside me -- him gasping in passion, me gasping in pain.

Then it hurt again in a different way as he pulled his cock out, putting one of his ham-hands on my shoulder and pressing all his weight against it, grinding my shoulder against the rock, maybe cutting it -- I couldn't be sure.

Then he turned and left me there once again, hanging by my chains against the cold stone -- alone in the silent dark -- my arms nearly ripping out of my shoulders, gasping in pain -- shivering from the cold at the same time my guts were on fire inside me.

I tried to not think of anything but I was hurting too much -- all over -- both physically from the beating and rape, and mentally from humiliation and fear. Still there was nothing I could do but hang there, waiting for him to come back.

I had no way to tell, of course, but it must have been sometime the next day when he came in and unfastened my chains to let me crumple to the cold, hard stone floor. I was grateful for that small favor and quickly curled up into a ball, clamping my near frozen hands under my arm-pits, hoping to save them from frostbite.

He left some food and water, so I knew that at least he was not planning to let me starve to death down here -- not yet. Then left me alone.

I could only guess at his plans, but he had done so much to me by now I couldn't see how he could possibly let me live -- even if I promised not to say a word about what he had done to me.

I guess it was the following night when he came back again. This time he didn't seem quite as drunk and he was almost pleasant by comparison, just knocking me around a little and then fucking me as I lay on my face on the floor.

When he was through, he pulled me out of the cell and pointed out one of several huge slabs of stone which made up the floor.

There was a ring-bolt recessed in one end and he hooked a rope from a block and tackle to it, then pulled on the far end. It was a strain even for his magnificent muscles, but the end of the block lifted.

A waft of stale, moldy air came out. I could see little in the dim light -- just stone walls dropping to a hard dirt floor below.

"That's the end, boy. That's where you go when you fuck up real bad, when even the solitary cell is too good for you. Nobody will ever find you down there."
Again I shuddered, and not only from the cold. I was terror-struck once again by the obvious threat and could imagine only too vividly -- being entombed down there in a forgotten sub-dungeon in this old prison.

I broke down and begged shamefully, pleading with him to let me go, to let me live.

"I'm only eighteen, sir. I'm too young to die."
I knew a soldier's never too young to die, but maybe, I hoped, my desperate pleas would strike some sort of human cord deep inside his inhuman chest.

My begging did seem to please him. It was like I was admitting the obvious -- his obvious power over my life or death.

And I was greatly relieved when he lowered the stone and shoved me back into my cell.

He locked me in, then came back a few minutes later with some food and water and even a blanket. I thanked him like some kind of movie character -- Dracula's Renford or someone like that.

He seemed to like that and patted me on the head, tousling my hair. Then he left me to my thoughts.

As I thought about it, I realized he didn't hate me. He hated himself. His apparent feelings about boys and young men must be really fucking up his mental self-image as a tough, rough soldier -- a rugged MP whose every word was law to those unlucky enough to come under his control.

I couldn't work out the psychology of it all, of course, but guessed it had to be something like that. And the way he talked about his dad and all, he must have felt he wasn't living up to what his dad would have wanted. He must have felt like a desperate failure -- a disgrace -- both in his eyes and his dad's.

As a cute, young, blond kid, I must have appealed to him irresistibly, and now that he had me here, he couldn't let me go. So even if I felt sorry for him, I couldn't feel that sorry for him -- I had to feel sorry for myself -- caught up in this crazy nightmare of his imaginings.

Later I wondered what Rob and my other buddies back at B Company were thinking about me, not to mention the First Sergeant and the CO. Surely no one could guess where I really was, so they were probably all thinking I was AWOL. I'd eventually be labeled a deserter if they didn't find me -- dishonor on top of it all.

He came down twice more to beat and fuck me and to bring me food. He now seemed cold sober each time as though he had beaten the need to drown his conscience and doubts -- at least for the moment.

Then one more time. He fucked me, lying on the floor, ramming into me and hurting once again. But I was at least somewhat used to it by now and could take it without screaming.

This time, though, when it was over he didn't just lock me in my cell but instead put hand-cuffs on behind my back and led me along the corridor to the staircase.

I wondered what he was going to do with me, naked as I was. Even so, I was so relieved to be out of that little solitary cell that I didn't really care.

His huge hand was again crushing my arm as he led me along then up the curving stairs to the main floor. I didn't remember the room being so bright before -- it nearly blinded me and I staggered some.

We paused and I expected he'd take me back to his office. But rather than going out through the door, he led me up the second flight to a similar room -- empty except for a wooden cupboard against the wall and a stepladder.

This room was even brighter and I had to blink to adjust my eyes. I knew enough about vitamins to know you can't adjust to bright from dark or dark from bright very quick if you don't have enough of one of them -- I don't know which -- I think it's the one in carrots -- the Bugs Bunny vitamin.

Still holding me firmly by the arm, the Sarge led me to the cupboard and opened the door. Again the light was dim and at first I only saw some heavy rope looped over pegs inside.

Then as I looked more closely and my eyes adjusted to the dark again, I saw that there were several ends of rope which had been tied into nooses -- hangman's nooses.

I tried to step back with a strangled gasp of horror, but he held me firmly and pointed out that what I now saw were several separate ropes, each with a noose in the end and each with a tag tied loosely to it.

He pointed to one of the tags and I read a list of names and dates. They didn't mean anything to me and some of the dates stretched back to the last century, some in the early years of this.

The next tag had some later dates, including a cluster around the time of World War I. The next had dates leading up to and into World War II. He almost smiled as he told me,

"My Dad used this rope -- lots of times. He hanged all these men -- count 'em, sixteen -- hanged them men for whatever -- doesn't matter."
Then he came to the last rope. There were only a few names, a few dates, and I knew that the Army had discontinued executing soldiers shortly after the War.

He untied the tag and placed it on a little shelf, then produced a pen and very neatly printed something on the tag. Then he showed it to me -- it was my name he'd written on the tag -- followed by what I assumed must be today's date.

I almost screamed in terror as the obvious implication sank in. I knew it wouldn't do any good -- no one would hear it beyond this soundproof stone chamber. Even so, I couldn't help screaming.

My mind reached out, trying to reach any one of the so many prisoners sleeping the other side of the wall ... to any of the many MP's doing their rounds. I tried to reach out and touch their minds, tried to get their attention somehow.

In my heart and guts I knew none of them would hear me, none of them could save me. But my mind was desperately trying to find some way, some savior.

He laughed at my desperation and jerked me over against the wall where a short length of chain hung from a heavy bolt. He padlocked the chain to my hand-cuffs so I couldn't move more than a foot or so.

He was crazy, but it was a careful craziness, not at all rash or haphazard. I saw no hope of escape as he removed the rope from its peg.

He picked up the stepladder and set it in the middle of the floor, and only then did I notice the lines of a trap door.

He climbed the ladder and passed one end of the rope through a thick steel ring-bolt in the center of the ceiling, then descended and put the ladder away.

I begged and pleaded as he came to release my cuffs from the wall, but then fell silent as he again crushed my arm and jerked me over to center of the room.

He put his hand through the noose and grabbed my hair and jerked my head through -- I was trying to jerk it away, but couldn't get my hair free of his iron grip. The thick, heavy rope was rough against my neck as he pulled it around so the knot was next to my ear and adjusted it.

He pulled it snug and finished placing it where he wanted -- the long, thirteen-turned knot just behind my left ear. My eyes were full of tears, sniffling my breath as I stifled back tears.

There was nothing left to do -- nowhere to go -- like in The Last Starfighter when the ship was hurtling toward that moon and an assistant asked, "What do we do now?" and the commander said, "We die."

He pulled on the far end of the rope, lifting the knot from my shoulder and making me tip my head a little as it pressed against my ear. I don't know why -- there was no reason to prolong the inevitable, and this was doing just that -- there would be no cavalry coming to my rescue, no super hero busting the wall down, no swat team.

Once the noose was taut, he tied the end securely to a cleat, then turned and looked at me -- with an evil gloating grin that was simultaneously executioner somber,

"When the trap falls, you won't fall far. That would break your neck and you wouldn't feel a thing.

"That's not what I want. I want you to suffer. I want you to dangle and strangle, to just hang there and kick and gasp and wheeze as you slowly strangle. I want to enjoy every minute of it."

He laughed a deep guffaw punctuated with maniacal, hiccuping hyena squeals. I was shaking all over -- not shivering, quaking.

My mind was racing. Here I was, completely helpless and vulnerable, naked, handcuffed, noosed, ready for the short drop which would slowly kill me. I tried, hope against hope, to channel a scream of help to one of the MP's, one of the prisoners -- anyone. I prayed to God, to Jesus to Buddha. I didn't care -- anyone.

He walked over and with a gentleness amazing in such a big man he caressed my shoulders. He kissed the back of my neck and slid his hands down my sides and across my narrow hips and buns.

He reached up with one hand and twisted my face to his and kissed my lips, ran his cheeks across my several day old beard, then grabbed my hair and held my head fast as he planted his lips on mine again, jerking my head back till I opened my jaw and he forced his tongue inside my mouth and licked my teeth, forcing it between teeth and cheeks.

All the while his other hand was playing with my cock and balls, cupping my balls and rubbing them back and forth in his palm, then sliding up to my cock and stroking it with a lover's tenderness -- even more tenderly and lovingly than Rob.

Despite myself, I felt my heart start beating in my cock -- felt it thicken and harden, twisting in his loose grip as it fattened and lengthened -- felt his hand start to slide back and forth along my cock shaft, his thumb playfully pulling back my foreskin and tickling under my cock-head -- the really sensitive place that holds the foreskin in place when it's pulled over the head.

I was breathing hard, trying to think of the passion, my sexual arousal -- not about anything to come.

Once again I heard his fly open. His hand on my cock darted to by ass, prying one cheek to the side as he twisted his hips side to side to line his cock up with my hole.

He jerked my hair hard and his tongue back into his mouth as he thrust his hips forward and rammed his cock inside -- hard enough to rip something loose, it felt like -- burning, tearing my guts all the way up to my heart.

He thrust his hips forward hard as he reached round and grabbed my cock and milked it hard.

As I gasped harder and harder, the pain in my guts went away and a deep feeling of worth and satisfaction and security washed over me. Somehow I knew I was about to die but it didn't matter any more. Somehow I knew I would be going someplace better. Someplace where there'd be no bullies and no pain and no armies and no death and....

Then my mind was jerked back to reality and I felt the noose round my neck and the trap door under my bare feet and his monster cock ramming inside me.

But now the rape didn't hurt. My ass was getting used to it by now and I sort of was surprised I could take his huge cock with even some degree of pleasure as my cock throbbed in his grip.

It didn't take long before he was through now. He quickly dropped my cock and grabbed my ass-cheek again to help him pull his cock out. It popped out with a sloppy sounding plorp.

He jerked my hair again and shoved my lips hard against his then jerked his face away and stepped to one side.

I could only guess what would happen after I was hanged. After I 'dangled and strangled', to use his words, for hours on end, gasping, choking slowly, my life ebbing out as he jacked himself off over and over and over till his cum turned clear and even more till his cum was speckled with dots of blood, I could see my dead body being carried down to the deserted, forgotten basement and dumped into that musty tomb.

Maybe some day this old prison would be torn down and my skeleton would be discovered. But by then would anybody care? Would there even be an inquiry? And certainly no one would be able to tell how long it had been there, whose it was.

I thought again about Rob and my buddies who would think I was a deserter when I didn't return -- not to mention my parents who would be pestered by the FBI looking for me.

Well, they wouldn't find me. Mine would be one file left open for a long, long time.

I watched his hand on a lever and knew what it meant. My life was in his hands and he enjoyed that feeling. He enjoyed taunting me with the hope that he might relent -- he might have a heart attack and die right here and now and I could stand here waiting for someone to eventually come looking for him and find me. Fat chance.

He said nothing, just looked at me with a sad expression on his face, like he was regretting what he knew he had to do to me.

Well, I regretted it too, of course, and a hell of a lot more than he did, but there was nothing I could do about it. I thought for a moment of pleading and begging for my life, but after all he had done and all his preparations there was no point. He was going to do it.

Some little semblance of pride made me want to die like a man -- proud and strong, a soldier to the end -- taking what I couldn't avoid without complaint.

As I watched, he pulled the lever and the trap dropped away beneath my feet.(footnote 1) The noose snapped tight around my neck and I squirmed and struggled, kicking frantically and trying to get a foothold on one of the edges of floor surrounding the trap.

I did manage to touch the floor a few times, but my curling toes could never get any purchase or manage to lift myself up.

The noose was pulling partly against my jaw and partly on the back of my neck, so not all the pressure was against the carotid arteries or my windpipe, and I was able to gasp just a little air into my lungs. I kicked and flailed, my arms flexing and jerking -- the hand-cuffs biting into my wrists as the chain jingled and I fought for life.

His hand lingered on the lever as he watched me, slowly stroking it like some giant cock he was hoping to bring to climax.

I was wheezing for breath, dying, my lips turning cold, my tongue thickening like it was a cock in my mouth as I tried to pray to Jesus to take my soul and save me from some hell even worse than what I was going through now.

My vision was getting blurry and indistinct. Light was getting darker, dark was getting lighter, color was fading out of everything -- everything was going gray.

I concentrated to stop running in air to buy another minute of life, to keep the rope from tightening even more.

I could barely see but I could see enough to see the sergeant slip to the floor and sit on his ass with his cock in hand, jerking off, milking his cock for all it was worth -- as if my ass hadn't been enough.

I couldn't see whether there his come was still white or clear or even blood spottled. I could just see him wipe it on his hand and sniff it then lick it then suck what was left off his hand.

I could see his father's arm-band he was so proud of now nearly indistinctly gray. For a fleeting second or so, I wondered if his Dad would have been proud of him now -- killing an innocent young soldier just to conceal his own perverted lust. But the thought drifted away as my struggles gradually weakened.

I felt light-headed, the noose doing its job, strangling me into unconsciousness and eventual death. To my amazement, I felt my cock getting hard, swelling and rising as I had never felt it before.

I couldn't help but think of Rob and the fun we had shared out in that field of long grass, but this was even more urgent. The noose had forced my head to one side and a little forward so the last thing I would ever see in my narrowing, dwindling, fading sight was the floor below the trap ... but also my flat stomach and my cock sticking out and up just beyond, fatter and fuller and longer than ever before, throbbing with red-hot lust, then shooting squirt after squirt after squirt of white creamy come.

My sight gradually faded away, I heard a buzzing, roaring noise, then that too faded, then there was nothing.

I felt released from my body. I felt warm and wanted. I felt like I was someone important. I felt in the hands of Jesus.

There was a bright light and I moved toward it. I wanted to go toward it. I knew it was the way to heaven -- to Jesus, to the after life.

I breathed deeply, smelling the cool, dry air of heaven.

But it wasn't heaven. It was a hospital. And I wasn't dead. A couple MP's had come looking for the sergeant -- something had come up. And when they couldn't find him they noticed dried mud shoe prints going under the door and looked for him there. They went up the stairs and saw me dangling there and rushed up to unhang me and arrest the sergeant. He's now in his own brig, waiting to be court-martialed for murder and attempted murder and sodomy and all sorts of other things. It couldn't have happened to a more deserving guy.

Author's ending:

I don't want to read the alternat ending just yet ... take me back to where I was
alternate ending:
As I watched, he pulled the lever and the trap dropped away beneath my feet. The noose snapped tight around my neck and I squirmed and struggled, kicking frantically and trying to get a foothold on one of the edges of floor surrounding the trap. I did manage to touch the floor a few times, but could never get any purchase or manage to lift myself up. The noose was pulling partly against my jaw and partly on the back of my neck, so not all the pressure was against the vital arteries and windpipe, and I was able to gasp just a little air into my lungs. I kicked and flailed, my arms flexing and jerking, causing the hand-cuffs to bite into my wrists and the chain to jingle as I fought for life.

His hand lingered on the lever as he watched me die and as I slowly twisted on the end of the rope I saw it in my slowly shrinking field of vision, then as I turned, my view drifted up his arm to that MP arm-band of which he was so proud. I wondered fleetingly if his Dad would have been proud of him now, killing an innocent young soldier just to conceal his own perverted lust, but the thought drifted away as my struggles gradually weakened.

I felt light-headed, the noose doing its job, strangling me into unconsciousness and eventual death. To my amazement, I felt my cock getting hard, swelling and rising as I had never felt it before. I couldn't help but think of Rob and the fun we had shared out in that field of long grass, but this was even more urgent. The noose had forced my head to one side and a little forward so the last thing I would ever see in my narrowing, dwindling, fading sight was the floor below the trap, but also my flat stomach and my cock sticking out and up just beyond, fatter and fuller and longer than ever before, throbbing with red-hot lust, then shooting squirt after squirt after squirt of white creamy come. My sight gradually faded away, I heard a buzzing, roaring noise, then that too faded, then there was nothing. .go back to where you were reading