|Part One: Prisoners Of War|
|Royce was one of the unlucky ones. He was only mildly
shaken up by the crash, and he didn't get broiled like a couple of dozen
leathernecks did when a fuel tank blew before they got clear of the wing,
but when he finally got out of the transport that had been loaded with
three hundred fifty plus Marines and Army Rangers, he was met by more
AK-47s than you could wag your dick at. They had crashed in some piss-ant
desert sheikdom, where the dictator was known to hate Americans.
The Arabs had seen the plane as it dipped toward the sands of their mother country, and though they had likely wished they could blow it out of the sky, they hadn't had to fire a shot. It was like a gift from Allah, who had delivered their enemies to them. They weren't going to squander the opportunity. Before it was over they'd all wish they'd been lucky enough to die in the crash.
Royce and his buddies were disarmed at once. The few who hesitated to throw their sidearms down were shot through the head. The rest were ordered down on their knees, their hands clasped behind their necks -- much better way of controlling a man than having him put his hands overhead.
The Arabs seemed to know what they were doing, and had the three hundred twenty or so surviving soldiers secured in a matter of minutes. With their hands tied tight -- painfully tight -- behind their backs, they were hoisted, kicked, and shoved into a three-man-wide marching line, then prodded forward along a hot desert road that ran by the crash site.
As Royce left the doomed transport behind him, he noticed some of the Arabs picking through the smoking remains of the Marines who had burned alive. They appeared to be looking for the men's dog-tags. Then a bulldozer appeared, as if from nowhere, and began shoving sand onto the smoldering burn area, covering over the charred bodies and wreckage.
At least one of the Marines was still moving when the ton or so of sand covered him.
Royce risked the disfavor of his captors and craned his neck, looking back at the crash site, curious about what the bastards were up to. It might tell him what was going to happen to them all.
The Arabs were moving fast, spreading camouflage netting over the top of the wrecked plane so that it would be hard to spot from the air. The dead pilot, his head a bloody mess, and the few good men who hadn't surrendered quickly enough and had taken a bullet in the nod were picked up off the sand and thrown into the back of a truck like sacks of garbage.
When the truck pulled away, a group of soldiers scurried behind it sweeping away the tire tracks. -- Nobody was to know they had crashed on land. The Red Sea was only fifty klicks away -- that's where they'd search.
Royce felt a convulsion in his stomach and for the first time understood that he was being marched off to his execution. With all men presumed dead, the Arabs had no reason not to kill them.
I'm only twenty-four, he kept telling himself. Then he spotted Cowley and Richter, both only nineteen, if that, and he realized he was definitely old enough to bite it. He looked over at his sarge, Smith -- a career man who was trudging along nearby -- and wondered if he'd be any more ready to die if he were thirty-seven. Probably not.
Periodically a truck would speed up to the band of prisoners and some of them would be loaded on board and taken ahead to their destination. Apparently the Arabs didn't have enough trucks to load them all up at once, so some of the men -- the lucky ones -- would have to trudge, their hands tied numbingly-painfully behind them, and wait their turn for a ride -- their senses numbing under the hot sun.
They singled out officers for the first truck. Allah had been especially good to them that day -- there was a Marine lieutenant colonel among them.
Royce winced at the thought of the torture that awaited the brass. It was his first feeling of good fortune to realize with a relief that he knew nothing of value to his captors. He was a dumb-fuck grunt who nobody cared about, and that would likely mean he would die quick and easy.
The lieutenant colonel, a tall, ruggedly handsome man named Jeffers, as well as an Army Ranger captain and two lieutenants, one Marine, one Army, were hoisted up and tossed into the back of the truck. The co-pilot of the plane, whom everybody jokingly called Pretty-boy because he was so damned good-looking, had suffered a broken ankle in the crash and was hobbling pretty bad. They pulled him out of the line too, and he yelped from the pain as they threw him into the truck.
Royce was among the next group to be transported. They filled the vehicle to more than capacity, then took off over the brutally bumpy road.
Royce sat near one of the two guards who stood over the prisoners, their AK-47s at the ready. The man lowered the muzzle of his weapon into Royce's crotch, then pressed down hard and grinned at the hapless American. Royce glared back at him, not reacting to the pain being inflicted on his young gonads, praying the guy wouldn't squeeze the trigger. Royce wanted to die with his manhood intact.
He knew why the bastard had singled out him -- and his nuts -- for special attention. He was one of those well-hung guys with a bulging crotch that people couldn't help noticing it.
The guys called him Clanker, an appellation acquired by the end of boot camp -- given to him by buddies he showered with. He hadn't sought the nickname, but he recognized all the same that it was a tribute to his big, low-hanging balls which, together with a thick, long cock pretty much filled to overflowing any jock strap he had ever worn.
Royce wasn't bad looking, either, though he didn't have male model looks like Pretty-boy, and his hunky muscularity combined with his sizeable basket had gotten him plenty of offers for places to put his pecker. That was all over now, though.
The Arab was going to spare Royce's prodigious manhood, at least for the time being. He withdrew the rifle muzzle. Still grinning, he moved his forefinger laterally across his neck in the gesture of the executioner.
After half an hour they were shoved out of the truck into a fortified prison courtyard and forced to squat in the blazing sun while pairs of prisoners were escorted inside the prison to be stripped.
So he was to go out just like he came in, Royce thought -- buck naked. They could hear a loud commotion on the other side of the building, which apparently faced the town. When it was Royce's turn to go in -- he and a tow-headed guy named Jameson, a fellow Marine, were paired off together -- he got to see what the ruckus was about.
The clothing of the two guys who had gone before them was being tossed out of the windows on the other end of the room, where it was snatched up by a cheering throng. Maybe they were souvenirs of their great victory over the American plane or maybe they just wanted the stuff to wear. The boots were tied together by their laces and tossed first. They seemed to be especially desirable, and even sparked fights among the peasants as they lunged and grabbed for them.
One of the soldiers had a razor blade, with which he cut off the name patches on the uniform shirt before also flinging it into the crowd. They were obliterating all signs that the Americans had been there. Royce and his buddies would die without a trace.
The hands of the two prisoners were untied and they were ordered to strip. Jameson resisted and got kicked hard in the nuts, then pistol-whipped across the face. They ripped his shirt off him, knocked him down, and were going after his boots before he began to comply and finished undressing on his own.
Royce started with his boots, then did a quick strip, dropping an O.D. bundle in front of him. He stood at attention, his arms at his sides, and made no effort to conceal his nakedness.
The guards eyed his big dick and clanker-balls with some interest. Through broken teeth and bloodied lips, Jameson said jokingly,
"Looks like you probably out-size any two of these guys put together, Clank -- that's why they're so jealous."
They let them keep their dog-tags, at least for the time being. Stark naked, Royce and Jameson were shoved at gunpoint down a long corridor and into a tiny cell. One of the guards took special delight in sticking the end of his rifle in between Royce's ass cheeks as he nudged him forward.
Their prison was too small to accommodate all the new arrivals in cells, but Royce, being among the first to arrive, got shoved into one of the tiny rooms together with Jameson. The cell was so small that only one naked man at a time could stretch his legs out if they both sat on the dirt floor.
There was a small opening at the top of one wall, and if Royce stood up on Jameson's back while he crouched on all fours, he could look out at a small, square, two-story cinder-block structure about a hundred feet away. It housed the gallows where they would be executed.
When the cells were filled with men gradually trucked in from the prisoner detail out on the desert, an overflow of fifty or so was confined in a large underground chamber originally designed as an ammo dump. It was adjacent to the prison and the gallows, and Royce watched from his perch atop Jameson's naked back as the muscular, bare-assed soldiers, many of them buddies of his, were forced down into the hole. A huge trap door was clamped shut over them, like closing a tomb.
Even that didn't accommodate all of Allah's gift, though, and the remaining prisoners from the doomed transport were brought to the prison, stripped, and taken directly to the gallows to be gotten rid of.
Jameson and Royce took turns standing on each other's backs as they watched men herded into the death house. They could hear two trap doors -- it was a double gallows -- alternately flop downward with a sickening crash, followed by what can only be described as a choked rabbit screech as the rope twanged taut and the man's neck was snapped and his last breath choked shut.
There was anywhere from a minute to fifteen minutes or so between drops -- depending, probably, on the timing of the two hangmen -- whether they were dropping nearly together or not.
There were big square empty windows on each side of the upper level of the structure. It was dark inside the gallows building, but the big openings in the upper story allowed Royce to dimly see the men from about the chest up as they were apparently positioned over the trap doors.
There appeared to be two executioners working -- one on the left side
of the death house, and one on the right side. Royce could see the hangmen
raise their arms over the prisoners' heads as they put the nooses in
place, but it was too dark to actually see the rope. There were no
blindfolds or sacks over the heads of the condemned -- the prisoner would
get to see everything, right up to the last second.
Royce shivered suddenly, though it was stifling hot in the cell, and his nerves nearly caused him to shit a load onto Jameson's back as he watched the apocalypse before him.
During the course of the afternoon Royce and Jameson both noticed that the hangman working the gallows on the right side of the death house processed far fewer victims than did his colleague on the left side. Sometimes they'd see a guy put in place, ready to drop, only to have him stand there while the other hangman finished off two, maybe four men. A couple of guys even got reprieves, of a sort -- after it had been tightened, the noose was taken off and they were led back into the darkness of the death house, to be replaced by another condemned stud.
Royce never saw the men leave, though, and he knew it was likely that their reprieves were anything but good luck.
Throughout the afternoon the slow but steady hanging went on till at least twenty-four of their guys had been hanged. Space had been found for the last of the men being trucked in so the captors were pulling men from the cells now, force-marching them across the open space behind the prison building and over to the gallows.
Jameson watched as he saw his own sergeant go, followed by Cowley and Richter, the two youngest men in Royce's squadron. Royce mentally braced himself, telling himself he wouldn't crack -- no crying or blubbering -- Die like a man, God-damn it! Go out like a Marine should.
The sun was low in the sky, now. It would soon be time for their hosts to say evening prayers. The two teenagers, the last two jar-heads taken into the death house, were brought back out again and thrown into their cells, their lives extended by one more night.
It seems there were too many Americans to execute in one short day -- at least at the leisurely pace the two hangmen were going. The death count would resume at dawn.
Jameson reported during his watch, standing on Royce's shoulders, that a large flatbed truck had come out of the other side of the death house -- stacked with the muscular, naked corpses of the executed prisoners.
The news of what the two returned Marines had seen in the gallows building spread like wildfire as men communicated with each other down the line of cells, calling out through their cell doors and out their windows. The Arabs didn't try to stop the talk, and probably knew that the news would serve only further intimidate the prisoners.
Royce and Jameson had been right -- there were two hangmen, one of whom was a sadistic bastard, while the other just dropped his victims nice and clean. The guards who waited with the two young Marines while their sergeant was led up the stairs to his death explained that one of them might have to go to Assad -- that was the sadist's name, but that they should pray it was the other one, Hamed, who executed them.
Hamed was hanging their sarge, while Assad was still working on a guy who had gone up twenty-five minutes earlier. Assad, they were told, was called the Ball Crusher, because he liked to crush a man's nuts before killing him.
While Cowely and Richter waited their turn, fighting to keep their cool, they heard screams from Assad's side of the gallows.
"In the hands of the Ball Crusher, a man dies very slowly," the Arab guard had explained.
The crash of the trap door from the other half of the gallows, the one where Hamed was in charge, signalled the end of the sergeant, and Cowley and Richter knew they were next.
It was then that evening prayers were called, and even Assad's tortured victim was allowed to drop to his death, spared further pain only by the lateness of the hour.
Assad had then descended the steps, shirtless, muscular, darkly handsome, his massive chest covered with hair, his face adorned with a thick and heavy moustache. He was sweaty from the day's work. His eyes met those of the scared young Marines, and he smiled briefly, saying something in Arabic to the guards, then to young Cowley and Richter:
"No more today. Tomorrow. Go prepare yourselves."
He had eyed the crotches of both young men as they were led away.
Royce and Jameson slept little in the cramped cell. They shit and pissed in a hole they dug by using their dog-tags and their bare hands. Even though they buried their crap as best they could, the little room smelled like a latrine. They occasionally dozed but awoke fitfully, glancing anxiously at the tiny opening near the ceiling, looking to see if there were any signs of dawn and the death it would bring.
At one point during the night, Jameson's foot found its way between Royce's legs and pressed against his cock. Royce felt his manhood swell under the soft warmth of his buddy's flesh. He tentatively extended his own foot onto Jameson's sex-meat, rubbing it slightly. Any inhibitions they might normally have felt about sharing their manhood with one another were scattered to the wind as they fixated on their impending executions.
The two Marines agreed to jack themselves and enjoy one last sexual pleasure before their necks were stretched. Referring to Royce's reputation as a fuck-stud, Jameson said, good-naturedly,
"You'll probably splatter the whole God-damn wall, Clank!"
"Nah, I bet you shoot first, Quickdraw," joshed his buddy in return.
There was some truth to his guess that Jameson would get his rocks off more quickly. He was a few years younger than Royce. Royce remembered the barracks cockfights he had been in when he was twenty-one and had just joined up. The last guy to come had to lick up the jism the other guys had shot. Royce had never once had to lick. Fortunately now such juvenile antics were beneath him -- he doubted he'd be able to sustain his earlier string of victories.
In fact, Jameson did come first, partly because Royce was gently inserting his toes into his buddy's ass crack while he jacked. Jameson grunted loudly and shot off a charge of hot spunk so big that Royce could feel it splattering across onto his own chest and belly.
In the darkness, Royce continued jacking himself with his right hand, very close to coming now, but with his left hand he secretly rubbed Jameson's spent cum into the mat of hair that covered his firm pecs. Royce held his sticky fingers under his nostrils and breathed Jameson in deeply, then he shot his own wad, groaning from the sheer manly pleasure of the Fuck, wishing he'd experienced it hundreds, thousands times more before his young life had to end.
"Damn!" Royce heard Jameson curse in surprise.
He knew that his seed had likewise speckled the other man's chest. His cell-mate was smooth-chested, and Royce imagined Jameson's tanned, chiseled pecs with splotches of yellow-white goo on them, fresh from the Clanker, himself.
Then, unexpectedly, Jameson's foot once again found its way between Royce's firm ass cheeks, poking his sensitive fuck-hole, and Royce came again, shooting as big a load as he had the first time. Once Royce had spent himself and let his body go slack, Jameson asked with mock impatience,
"You finally through?"
"Damn, I needed that!" was Royce's reply.
He was secretly thinking about the next day and praying that the luck of the draw would send him to Hamed and not to the Ball Crusher.
"Hell of a way to go out, man," Jameson remarked, looking up at the little window.
The first dim light of dawn had just become visible.
"I didn't think it'd be like this."
They heard a truck engine outside and jumped to their positions, Royce standing on Jameson's back and taking the first watch at the window. It was the flatbed again, ready for another load of dead American meat. There was bowing toward Mecca and morning prayers in the courtyard outside, then the killing resumed. Up and down the row of cells the men began calling out words of encouragement to Cowley and Richter, whose hangings had been interrupted the evening before and who would now be the first to dangle.
"Give 'em hell, man!" called out Pretty-boy, who was in a cell next to theirs.
"Semper fi," said several Marines solemnly.
As the two were led past his cell, an Army Ranger sergeant said,
"Don't let 'em fuck with you, son!"
The two strapping youths' hands were re-tied behind their backs, then they were shoved out into the morning light, where they were forced bare-assed across the open space toward Assad's and Hamed's workshop.
Royce could see the two boys stepping a little gingerly as they trekked barefoot across the sand, which was either already hot from the new sun or still warm from the previous day. There was a rifle muzzle stuck into the back of the neck of each of the two young Marines as he was forced forward.
Their heads were bent down, as if shamefaced. They walked away from the prison and the regretful, angry eyes of their watching comrades, glad that their buddies couldn't see that their faces were streaked with tears.
The men in the cells couldn't determine whether Cowley or Richter drew the Ball Crusher as executioner. Just as had happened the day before, however, the big gaping window on the right side of the gallows held the frozen pose of its victim far longer than the one on the left, a half hour or more, where as Hamed unceremoniously dropped his young victim to a swift, bone-cracking death only a minute or after he roped him, then let him hang while the next young man was walked up the steps and prepared.
The kid on the right was tortured, squirming and twisting in his noose. Royce could only guess what was being done to the boy's young balls. Then the cries of agony trailed off, and the head and shoulders suddenly disappeared from view, followed by the now familiar crash of the trap-door falling open and that rabbit-squeal as the rope snapped taut.
Pretty-boy, the handsome young co-pilot, and his cell-mate, the navigator of the wrecked aircraft, were the next two Royce knew to be hauled out of their cell, tied, and shoved over to the gallows.
Pretty-boy kept falling down because of his broken ankle which was swollen and dark by now. The Arab guard escorting him tired of the slow progress and began kicking the fallen man and stomping on his broken leg with the heel of his boot.
The navigator, a stocky, thick-chested man whom the guys called Red because of his flaming flattop, reacted instinctively to the sight of a man being kicked when he's down. He lunged at the errant guard, butting him away from his fallen buddy by bucking him with his stout, muscular chest.
The other guard put a stop to Red's little rebellion by chunking him on the back of his neck with his rifle butt. Pretty-boy screamed and pleaded for them to stop when he saw what they were going to do to the navigator.
They ignored Pretty-boy completely and rolled Red over onto his back, repeatedly slapping his face hard and bringing him to full consciousness just in time to see the glint of a bayonet blade held menacingly in front of his face. Then one guard held Red down by the shoulders while the other reached between Red's thighs and grabbed a handful of man-meat.
|To everyone's horror he unsheathed his knife and flashed it before
Red's eyes, laughing, then stretched his nuts and slashed the blade
through the stretched neck, cutting the hunky navigator's nuts clean off
his body quicker than a flash.
Red yelled hoarsely, his voice filled with disbelief and terror as he stared wide-eyed at his own sex, dangling before his face, blood dripping from the severed meat onto his belly.
Then the guard stood and turned toward the prison, waving the severed testicles over head for the other prisoners to see from their rat-hole windows. He yelled something threateningly in Arabic, making his warning against further shenanigans clear, despite the fact that none of the prisoners understood his language.
The guards hauled Red and Pretty-boy to their feet and shoved them, Red still yelling in a panic-stricken falsetto, the rest of the way to the death house, the insides of his legs smeared with a shiny glaze of bright red blood.
Apparently even Assad took pity on the wounded and suffering men, because the gallows trap-doors both crashed open shortly after the men were fitted with their nooses.
Royce and Jameson were once again preparing for their own last walk across the sand when one of the Arab officers began yelling orders to his men and pointing in the direction of the bunker entrance, where fifty or so prisoners had been warehoused the day before.
The Arab soldiers promptly opened up the tomb-like doors to the underground chamber, guards training their AK-47s on the entryway the whole time -- as if they expected the men inside to rush them and make a break.
The guys in the hole were in pretty bad shape. They practically had to be dragged out of the cavern, and some of them collapsed on the ground once they emerged, too weakened by heat exhaustion to even stand.
The Arabs let the men sit and lie on the ground near the entrance to the hole while they were taken singly or sometimes by pairs to the gallows. Apparently they had decided to finish off the guys down there before they all suffocated.
Even though it seemed to Royce and Jameson that one way of being killed was just as effective as another, the Arabs' decision to process the bunker victims first once again gave the encelled men a few more hours of life.
Two naked corpses were carried up from the subterranean chamber -- men who either couldn't survive the close quarters and the heat or who had suffered internal injuries in the plane crash -- maybe both.
The comrades of the dead men solemnly laid their bodies out on the prison parade ground. They crossed the dead mens' hands over their exposed dicks in an attempt to give them at least a shred of dignity in this hellhole.
The prison guards were not nearly so interested in a dignified removal of the bodies, however. At a command barked by the officer in charge, a couple of the Arabs jerked the dog-tags off each corpse's chest, then reached down and grabbed the man's dick and balls. Using the genitalia as a handle-hold, they dragged the corpses across the sand and behind the gallows structure, where the flatbed truck continued to be loaded with bodies.
The spectacle was too much for one of the prisoners, a young Marine. He lost control completely and began running across the parade ground in a futile and desperate attempt to reach the prison gate.
The guards laughed at the naked man's pathetic flight and took their time aiming their weapons at his easy-target back. They squeezed off one or two rounds each, dropping the jar-head in his tracks.
Royce could see blood and mangled dog-tags flying from the young man's studly chest as he fell forward -- some of the bullets had passed clear through his body. He lay face-down in the sand, his arms and legs sprawled wide apart in the stillness of death.
One of the riflemen who had scored a hit sauntered over to the fallen Marine and inserted the muzzle of his rifle into the crack of the dead man's upturned and firmly-rounded bubble butt. He squeezed off another round, making the naked body to jump grotesquely. The soldiers laughed.
It took all the rest of the morning and into the afternoon to hang all fifty guys from the hole. The last two to go, a couple of Army Rangers, hugged each other tightly in a farewell embrace as they squatted in the sand of the parade ground. Royce could see their lats and the powerful muscles of their arms bulge and flex as they squeezed one another. Then they stood up and walked valiantly, resignedly toward their deaths.
Now that the hole now emptied, the captors turned their attention once again to the occupants of the prison cells. Even before the first of the two trap-doors had banged open, signalling the end of at least one of the last pair of bunker victims, guards burst open the door to Royce's and Jameson's tiny, stinking cell.
They grabbed the two naked men, flinging Royce against the corridor wall and Jameson against the floor, where, with a knee planted painfully in the back of each prisoner, their wrists were tied one final time.
The sun burned hot on Royce's bare shoulders as he was marched at gunpoint toward the gallows, from which he could not remove his frozen gaze. He was oblivious of Jameson, being shoved along beside him. Neither man spoke. Both seemed unaware of the hot sand burning the soles of their feet and of their thick cocks swinging freely between their legs as they marched toward their deaths.
Someone, he didn't recognize the voice, shouted from the nearly empty prison,
"Do it right, Clanker! Show 'em how a Marine can die!"
He heard a scream from the upper level of the death house. The last of the bunker inmates had just gotten his nuts cracked by the Ball Crusher.
Royce felt sick at his stomach as he contemplated the varying fortunes that depended on his and Jameson's luck of the draw. The guards shoved the two Marine studs inside the gallows structure, then turned to go fetch two more men to hang.
The prisoners' eyes were still adjusting to the relative darkness of the interior while the death house guards chattered nonchalantly in Arabic, eyeing the Americans' crotches and commenting on the endowments of the latest victims. One of them fondled Royce's big balls and even stroked his cock as if trying to jack him. The other guard laughed.
Once they could see inside the death house, Royce and Jameson fixed their attention on the stairs leading up to the gallows. There were two sets, one going up to where the Ball Crusher ruled, the other ascending to Hamed's more merciful domain. There was a wall directly before them, which concealed the drop area into which the hanged men fell, their necks snapped, if they were lucky -- or, if not, where they kicked and dangled until they strangled.
There were two doors in this wall, one on the left and one on the right, which apparently led to the places directly beneath the trap-doors.
One of the guards, the one who had fondled Royce's privates, spoke English. It was the same man who had scared the shit out of young Cowley and Richter by warning them of the ball-crushing Assad.
Pinching Royce's right tit between his thumb and forefinger, he said,
"You ready to die, American? We already killed lots of your friends. None of them had such big ones as you, though.
Once again he grabbed the big set of clankers that gave Royce his nickname. The fucker grinned in Royce's face and squeezed the prisoner's balls in his fist.
In the finest tradition of Marine profanity, Royce snarled,
The Arab squeezed the handsome man's balls painfully hard, then twisted them nearly a full circle, until Royce grunted and winced from the pain, his knees nearly buckling beneath him.
"Wrong, American," said the Arab with a smile. "We fuck you."
Both Royce and Jameson nearly jumped out of their skin at the sudden sound of a gallows trap-door falling open, the rushing air of the man falling, the dull twang of the rope, that final rabbit squeal as the rope crushed a man's throat.
And as their nerves were starting to calm down just a bit, there was a distinctly audible POP from behind one of the two doors. ??? It sounded like a pistol being fired.
Jameson started to say 'Must be finishing 'em off with a pistol' but knew Royce was thinking the same thing. That must be how they could hang so many men so quickly with just two gallows and one of them on slow time -- not wait for the guy to be dead, make sure of it and get on to the next one.
Assad the Ball Crusher finally tired of torturing his victim's genitals and now put the last of the men from the bunker out of his misery with the bang of the trap, the whoosh of air, the twang of the rope, the snap of the neck, and that God-damn rabbit squawk.
The guards, having heard the sounds of death constantly for the past two days, laughed derisively at the nervous reaction of the two Americans.
The English-speaking guard opened the door through which the sound had come, revealing a muscular, naked Ranger, his hands bound behind his ass, his neck broken and grotesquely stretched, his head tilted to the side. The dead man's blue eyes were open and glassy in death, and his thick, sensuous lips were parted just enough to reveal a slightly extended, dark purple tongue.
His nude, beefy body twisted another full circle in its noose, and when it rotated to face the men next in line, Royce and Jameson could see that the soldier's groin area had been denuded of all its hair. The man's balls as well as his once proud cock were purple and black, suggesting a particularly hideous genital torture.
Both Marines felt their knees go weak, and they struggled to keep from retching, shivering in fright, feeling more afraid than they had ever been since being little kids.
An Arab soldier inside the death chamber had the unenviable task of tidying up after each execution. He stood ready with his shovel like a soldier resting on his rifle. It was his contribution to the war effort. He used it to scoop up the shit that the dead man had dropped when his neck snapped.
With the same shovel, the soldier scattered quick-lime over the floor in the center of the death chamber, piling it up -- a pile of which could be seen on one side of the room.
Then he put the shovel aside and turned his attention to a crude wooden table a few feet from the place where the hanging victims dropped through the ceiling.
Royce and Jameson likewise noticed for the first time that there was another naked prisoner on the table. He was lashed down and was no doubt being tortured.
Their eyes adjusting to the dim light, the two Marines peered farther into the death chamber and noticed still more naked prisoners standing upright against the far wall of the room. They were bound to X-shaped crosses. It was where the officers were being tortured.
Royce realized with a shudder that these men had been forced to witness the hanging of their entire company of men -- not all at once, but one by one by one -- having to contemplate each man's death over night.
The ass-hole guard grinned sadistically as he saw that Royce had recognized the horror of the scene that was taking place in the room beneath the gallows. He again approached his victim, grabbing the clankers in his hand and resuming the painful squeeze.
Glancing pointedly at the naked corpse hanging in its noose, he said softly into Royce's,
"Before he was hanged, that man begged Assad to kill him. How you say, American? Fuck you?"
Royce hardly took notice of the ass-hole guard. He was too busy fighting off a panic attack. His breath was coming in quick, short gasps as the time came for the luck of the draw. Neither Assad nor Hamed had a client at the moment, so he had a fifty-fifty chance of avoiding a ball-crushing. He tried not to think about the fact that wishing for Hamed meant wishing that his buddy would face the Crusher.
Then it happened. There was a sharp, angry order from one of the gallows platforms above. An impatient Hamed, with no American to hang, was ordering the men below to stop fucking around and bring up another stud.
The ass-hole jumped to obey, obviously concerned that he had kept the executioner waiting. Still clutching Royce's balls, he pulled on the prisoner's genitals, yanking him toward the steps that led up to Hamed's hanging station. Royce treaded the stairs, more relieved at his luck than concerned about the painful tugging at his nuts -- or the fact that he would be dead within minutes now. Soon after becoming a Marine he had learned to live with the possibility that he would some day have to take a bullet in his chest or his gut or in his nod ... or a bayonet in his belly, or maybe get blown to pieces by a grenade or a land mine. Getting his neck stretched was the last way he expected to buy it. If it was just a simple execution, he could go through with it, no protests. He would die proud and tall, like a man should -- like a Marine should. But he wanted none of this God-damn ball-crushing shit.
Jameson, meanwhile, his big tanned muscles coated with a sheen of nervous sweat, was being forcibly escorted up the other set of steps -- toward the dreaded Assad.
The upper level was divided into two parts by an interior wall. There was, however, the same kind of large, windowless hole in it found in all the exterior walls. So large, In fact, that a man could merely step over the bottom edge of the opening to pass from one gallows to the other. In cases of dual hangings, this opening allowed the executioners as well as the prisoners to see each other.
In each execution chamber an armed guard/executioner's assistant stood by. Assad and Hamed appeared to have everything under control, however, and the two guards looked bored.
Royce supposed that Hamed seemed a pleasant enough man, as hangmen go. He had the stern yet somehow kindly face of a professional going about his business. His hair was thinning on top and he wore wire-rimmed spectacles. He wore uniform trousers and a sweat-soaked sleeveless undershirt.
Royce deliberately avoided looking over to the other side of the gallows, though with sickening discomfort he could just see in his peripheral vision the large form a shirtless man ... and leaner, naked form -- his buddy Jameson, who was about to catch hell.
Royce fixed his vision instead on the floor in front of him. The trap-door had not been lifted back into place after the last hanging, and he was brought to a halt just at the edge of the opening.
The much-used noose hung directly before him; the slack rope was bundled neatly with a little piece of loose twine, not tied, just wrapped over and under itself just enough to hold the rope up so it would give way the instant any tug was put on it -- like by his neck when the trap was sprung.
With an involuntary shiver, he looked away from the noose and down through the square hole to see a soldier in the lower room, standing next to a lime-sprinkled patch of floor -- just like the one he had observed on the other side of the torture room below -- where the Army Ranger's body was dangling.
The soldier was looking up at Royce, grinning and insolently beckoning to him by repeatedly curling his fingers toward him, gesturing for Royce to come on down. The fucker.
Royce's long dick arched out over the edge of the hanging-hole, giving him a brilliant idea. He hadn't pissed yet that morning and he felt just the right burning in his bladder to enable him to give his executioners a little farewell present. It was the only way he could think of to express his defiance against the inevitability of his death.
|He smiled slyly as he let a gush of piss shoot down through the hole
to Hell. Perfect aim -- it caught the insolent soldier right in the eye,
splattering his face and neck with foul-smelling morning piss. The soldier
jumped back and yelped, squeezing piss from his face and moustache.
Royce threw back his head and laughed -- a hard laugh full of relief and painful acceptance of his impending death. What the fuck -- if he was going to die, he might as well have a good belly laugh before they offed him. He finished emptying his bladder down through the open trap-door, anticipating Hamed to noose his thick young neck at any second.
His antics had won him a different scenario, however.
"You like to play games with your cock, American?" Hamed sneered.
There was not the slightest trace of kindliness left in his demeanor.
"I let my colleague Assad play with you. He also likes games."
He called out something in Arabic to Assad, who had placed a noose around Jameson's neck and was now holding the blond Marine's nuts in the palm of one hand and a pair of broad-nosed pliers -- ball crushers -- in the other hand.
Assad smiled at the proposed prisoner exchange and willingly loosened Jameson's noose, shoving him off the trap-door, his nuts still intact. They pushed him through the opening between the two execution chambers, and Royce was shoved over to Assad's side.
A sick queasy feeling settling in his stomach -- he had fucked up royally and was about to experience his worst nightmare. As he was shoved past his cell-mate, he noticed that they had removed Jameson's dog-tags in preparation for the hanging.
Royce also noticed for the first time flaky white splotches still clinging to Jameson's sturdy young chest. It was Royce's dried cum -- Jameson had never wiped it off. Royce felt his dick thicken and twitch suddenly as he thought of his and Jameson's jack-off session the night before.
On Hamed's side of the death house, the trap-door had been reset and Jameson was quickly maneuvered onto it. The noose was drawn over his handsome, masculine but still boyish face and adjusted to a loose snugness around his neck, just beneath his jutting Adam's apple.
He looked over at Royce one last time, his eyes full of tears, his mouth crinkled, his mouth drawn in that fear-filled quiver that looks like a faked smile, making no attempt now to conceal the absolute terror that had consumed him.
Royce faked a smile back at him, bidding his buddy good-bye. At least he would get to keep his balls. Sweat covered his entire body.
Royce noticed Jameson's cock was stiffening to a semi hard-on as the moment of his death neared. The tip of his dick glistened -- not with sweat, but with the involuntary issue of man-seed -- nature's futile attempt at one final act of procreation -- of survival.
Despite his earlier dread of the Ball Crusher and what he might do to him, Royce was oblivious to Assad's ministrations to his body and watched his buddy Jameson instead.
The executioner yanked the dog-tags off Royce's chest, easily breaking the thin chain around his neck. He threw them into an open wooden box, which now held hundreds of sets of dog-tags -- the only remaining traces of so many men. And this so temporary -- when the executions were complete, the dog-tags would be melted down.
Assad placed the noose over Royce's head and began fondling his victim's sizeable genitals, inspecting his prisoner like so much meat at the marketplace. Royce's attention, however, was still fixed on Jameson. Their eyes locked onto each other as Hamed stood back from the trap-door and grasped a large lever that protruded from the floor.
His voice full of watery tears, Jameson said to his buddy,
"See you in Hell, man."
Then he dropped through the suddenly open floor. His thick young cock jerked to full attention as he fell. Jameson's body weight quickly tightened the rope to its full length.
The rope twanged slightly, but there was no crack, as he had heard from behind the door where the Army man had died.
The rope jiggled slightly, and the murmurs of the Arab below and from Hamed, who peered down through the trap-door, shaking his head slightly, confirmed Royce's guess that the drop had not broken Jameson's neck.
He was strangling slowly, his feet running, kicking involuntarily in a vain attempt to find ground beneath his feet, giving the crucified men in the torture chamber below a grisly show before finally succumbing to his noose.
The rope twisted and twanged for what seemed like hours, slowly twisting taut for a while like it was slowly unwinding, then jerking again as Jameson's body jerked again, trying to loosen the rope, trying to get more blood to the brain, trying to get more air to the lungs as the rope tightened its strangle-hold on both artery and wind-pipe.
Royce couldn't keep from weeping as he realized what his buddy was going through, and his handsome face was streaked with tears. The executioners used the same length of rope on every man they hanged. This meant some guys had to dangle and strangle, while others could die quickly with a snapped neck. There were likely a few who were decapitated by the noose -- or at least had their necks stretched a foot or more. Jameson hadn't been so lucky after all.
After the rope jerked for the umpteenth time, Hamed looked down and made eye contact with someone and threw his head back in a quick jerk. There was a loud pop and the rope stopped jerking and just twisted slowly for a few seconds till it suddenly became less taut, then was pulled back up through the trap, sans Jameson.
Royce noticed speckles of blood on it the noose as it was stretched open and gathered and loosely tied by twine again.
Suddenly Royce's sorrow, fear, and dread were replaced by a wave of sheer anger. It was the same reaction he had witnessed in the navigator, Red, when he had seen the injured co-pilot get stomped. He no longer feared the Ball Crusher -- he hated him. His hate was all he had to protest Jameson's cruel death.
For the first time Royce looked Assad in the eye. He was just as he had pictured him from the descriptions -- tall, broad-shouldered, heavily muscled, with a thick, hairy chest, its mat of hair soaked with the sweat of desert heat and the labor of dealing out death. He could easily have been an executioner from another time -- a medieval headsmen, an eighteenth-century guillotine operator, a servant of the Spanish Inquisition, a rancher in the American West taking care of the cattle rustlers he'd caught
Royce tried to spit on his executioner, but he only made a fool of himself when he could accumulate no saliva on his tongue. He realized that he hadn't drunk water since the plane crash and that he was thirsty and probably dehydrated.
At that moment the guard from underneath Hamed's hanging station, the one Royce had pissed on, bounded up the steps and appeared at Assad's side, his right hand extended palm up. Assad laughed softly when he saw what the soldier had brought.
"You need something to drink, American?" asked Assad. "You drink this."
The soldier grinned as he pressed the palm of his hand against Royce's mouth, pinching his nose shut with his other hand as he did so. Just before his nostrils closed, Royce detected the unmistakable odor of a man's cum -- more specifically his buddy Jameson's cum. He recalled the scent from their last night together.
The bastard had collected Jameson's last juices as he jerked and dangled in his noose -- collecting Jameson's cock-cream to feed to Royce.
While the soldier and the executioner had a good laugh, Royce opened his mouth and sucked in the still-warm man-juice, swallowing the sperm which had outlived Jameson by a few moments and which now died in Royce's belly.
The soldier took his hand away, leaving Jameson smeared all over Royce's mouth and face. His nostrils filled with the familiar odor of his buddy's wad. Royce moaned from the unexpected humiliation but at the same time also felt his dick tingle and stiffen further.
Assad had picked up an electric shearing device from which extended a long, black, cloth-wrapped cord. It was like the old electric barber shop clippers Royce had known when he was a boy.
The machine whirred imperfectly, clicking slightly as Assad began shaving off Royce's crotch hair, just as he had that of the Army Ranger and probably that of all the men he had hanged. Occasionally the old shears would grab a clump of Royce's pubes and jerk them out painfully.
Once the hair was gone from around his dick, Royce felt Assad lift his heavy ball-sack and begin shaving it. It was just one more humiliation fueling his anger even further. But at the same time it titillated him unexpectedly by focusing all his senses on his manhood. He even forgot temporarily the feel of the rope around his neck. His dick swelled into an erection.
Royce noticed that in the adjacent hanging room the noose had been gathered and tied with the twine, ready for the next man to take his last jump.
Jameson was nothing but a memory, and soon the memory would be gone with the witnesses.
A new prisoner was suddenly standing at the trap. Royce recognized him as Stevens, a Marine in his late twenties. Their eyes met briefly. Stevens looking quizzically at Assad and the job he was performing on Royce's privates. Then his attention was diverted to his own fate as he was positioned on the re-closed trap-door.
Hamed's assistant jerked the dog-tags from their resting place between Stevens' big, hard pecs. The noose was placed over his head and snugged, the knot positioned adjacent to the prisoner's right ear -- the wrong side for the quickest, cleanest death, but better than at the back of the head -- or under the jaw, for that matter -- both of those were much less likely to break the neck.
Stevens breathed deeply, swelling his hunky chest out in great heaves as he struggled to maintain the proper Marine composure in the face of adversity. He was the type of guy who spent every spare moment in the weight room -- very much into his body, and every part of his naked physique showed it -- from his finely-muscled legs to his washboard stomach, to his broad, powerful back and shoulders.
The guys had called him Steve the Stud. His nickname seemed especially appropriate when his cock began to stiffen, just like Jameson's had. His muscles and his manhood weren't doing Stevens any good now, though.
That was all he said as Hamed stepped back from the trap-door and grasped the lever. The Stud dropped clean and quick. The rope twanged simultaneous to a muffled snap. The body bounced a couple times, jerking the rope side to side, but soon came to rest, just twisting slowly -- no jerking like a fish on the line as with Jameson. The bang of the finishing-off pistol made sure and the rope went limp as the body was lifted and the rope loosened over his head.
Hamed called out for his next victim as he pulled the rope up and bound the loops with twine.
Assad had finished shaving off Royce's thatch and was now holding the Marine's heavy tube steak in his upturned palm, examining the cock curiously, as if it were a rare specimen.
"Why are so many of you Americans circumcised?" he asked, referring to Royce's cut tool. "... like Jews."
Royce supposed his Arab host intended the analogy as an insult, not knowing Arabs also circumcise -- but not at eight days old, like Jews, when they can't remember it. Arabs circumcise at thirteen years old -- when it is something they remember very much -- their contract with God to be His chosen people.
"We have to trim a little off -- otherwise it's too big ..." Royce responded.
His anger welled up once more,
"So we can fuck skinny-assed Arab boys -- bet you got plenty of American cock up your ass when you were a boy-whore!"
Assad grinned, welcoming the defiance of his victim. Assad grasped one of Royce's nipples between his thumb and forefinger, squeezing the tit hard and tugging on it painfully.
"I will show you what fuck means, boy-ass," he promised.
The noose was taken from his neck, just as Royce had seen happen to several of Assad's previous victims when he was watching from his prison window. It had only been used to keep the prisoner in place while he was being shaved.
Now Royce was led over to a large, crudely-built wooden chair which stood to one side of the trap-door. It was equipped with leather straps that secured his bicepses to the chair-back and his wrists to the arms of the chair. A belt was tightened around his belly, and his knees were spread wide apart and strapped to the uprights of the chair arms. Finally, his ankles were fastened firmly to the legs of the chair.
He knew what the device was for -- his nuts lay helplessly exposed on the broad wooden surface of the chair seat.
Assad took Royce's still stiff cock and bent it painfully down so that the glans was pushed down on the smooth wooden surface of the torture seat. His assistant positioned a small nail over the very tip of Royce's penis, and while the Marine watched in heart-stopping terror, Assad hammered the nail into the wood, pinning Royce's pecker onto the chair seat.
"Fuck!" he screamed.
But far worse was about to come. Assad produced a meat cleaver and lovingly stroked it across Royce's chest, shaving off patches of his thick fur, denuding his chest for the first time since he was a boy.
"Sharp," Assad sniggered.
He grabbed Royce's head and slowly shaved his face with the cleaver.
"Really sharp!' he laughed.
Then, without looking, without so much as a preparatory move, Assad chopped down, slicing through the last half-inch or so of Royce's extended cock with a resounding WHACK!
The rest of Royce's cock suddenly popped free from the nailed glans. Royce's manhood rapidly lost its erection as his life-blood spurted onto the chair seat.
Royce gasped heavily, fighting panic, crying over and over again,
"Shit, shit, shit!"
"I just trim a little off," sneered Assad. "Now maybe it fits small American pussy."
Next he grasped one of Royce's prodigious balls -- the right one -- and stretched half his hairless nut-sack out onto the bloody wooden surface. Assad's assistant produced a steel ring, about an inch in diameter and with sides about half an inch high. This was positioned over Royce's exposed right nut and pressed into place.
Royce could see the stretched, shaved skin of his scrotum protruding bubble-like from the metal ring that trapped his nut. The soldier, acting as if he were assisting a doctor in surgery, provided Assad with a blunt, cylindrical piece of wood, which Assad placed on top of Royce's doomed clanker.
Assad picked up the hammer once again. Royce's breath was coming quick and short. He grimaced in anticipation of supreme pain -- the fucker was about to pop his nut!
|"Do you want me to kill you now, American?" Assad asked ominously. "Or
shall I destroy half your manhood first?"
He gritted his teeth in anticipation of the penalty his defiance would exact. The hammer fell, striking the wooden poker dead on.
Royce screamed bloody murder, understanding now the reason for the agonized cries he had heard coming from the death house the day before. Tears streaked his face and he struggled for breath, looking down at what was left of his one squished nut. His scrotum was badly bruised, half its contents smashed and useless.
They were unstrapping him from the chair. Would he now get the noose? He hoped. No such luck.
"We will crush the other one later, my friend," Assad promised. "Unless you wish me to end your life. For now, we shall stop your bleeding."
Royce focused his blurry vision once again on his surroundings and noticed that the other side of the gallows once again had a new soon-to-dangle prize. It was Smith, his own sergeant, who was looking over at him with an expression of horror and disgust as Hamed's assistant removed his Marine dog-tags and fitted him with his noose.
Noticing the blood trickling off the seat of Royce's torture chair, the sergeant asked incredulously,
"God-damn it, Clanker -- did they cut 'em off?"
Royce recognized the voice that had called out to him from the prison when he and Jameson were being led away. It was Smith who had encouraged him to show the Arabs how a Marine can die. -- Easy for him to say -- he was about to drop to a quick and easy death, unlike Royce.
But before Royce could answer Smith's question, the soldier assisting Hamed struck the sergeant in the face, screaming at him in Arabic to shut up.
Royce had seen the sarge shirtless many times and was familiar with his stocky build -- enormous upper arms, hairy chest, and hard belly, but he had never seen the man completely nude. He was surprised that Smith's cock was diminutive in comparison to the massiveness of his physique.
Even Hamed, who seemed normally not to take much note of the endowment of his victims, commented on Smith's smallish pecker. Unlike the cocks on the men who had stood on that space before him, the sergeant's was limp. Hamed lifted it in his hand and asked jeeringly,
"Is this all you bring, American?"
The soldier assisting him laughed derisively. As Hamed grasped the death lever, Sgt. Smith snarled,
"Let's just fuckin' do it, Hay-rab!"
And they did.
They dragged Royce back down the stairs, where he was shoved into the torture chamber beneath the trap-doors. The room contained not one but two of the crude operating tables he had seen earlier.
Jeffers, the Marine lieutenant colonel, was the man he had seen strapped butt-down on one of the tables, his legs spread apart, bent at the knee, and bound to the table legs. An Arab torturer was fastening metal wires to the big man's testicles and penis. Jeffers' massive chest was badly singed with the brutal burn marks where an electric cattle prod had apparently been liberally applied.
There was another large, wooden torture chair in the room, identical to the one Royce had just occupied upstairs. He was thrown into it and strapped down once again, his abused dick still bleeding profligately.
Looking around, Royce saw that the Army Rangers captain and the two louies had been spread-eagled and strapped to St. Andrew's crosses mounted along the walls of the basement chamber. All of the prisoners were naked, of course. And, like Royce, each man had been given a crotch-shave.
One of the louies had been crucified upside down, his cock and balls hanging down -- his large balls drooping over his cock, making the cock and balls look rather like a frog held up by it's feet, the man's cock-head the frog's head, the balls the frog's body.
All three men were all in bad shape -- their chests and bellies completely covered with the cattle prod marks. The captain appeared not to have any nipples left -- only dark, bloody holes in his pecs where his tits had been burned off.
Even worse, the two upright men had sizeable weights hanging from their genitals. The pyramid-shaped chunks of cast iron must have weighed twenty-five pounds, maybe more, and dangled tortuously between their legs.
The guy who was upside down, a Marine lieutenant named Hawke, about thirty years old, was just now being fitted with his cock and ball weight, which now pulled his manly parts down over his belly. The weight itself rested against his sternum. He gasped and grunted, apparently about to pass out from this latest abuse.
Assad gave orders to the attendants in the torture chamber and went back upstairs, presumably to help finish off the remaining prisoners on his gallows, after which the guy who was wiring the lieutenant colonel's dick turned his attention to Royce instead.
He examined Royce's smashed and mutilated manhood, smiling slightly and clucking his tongue,
Then he took a surgical knife, stretched the damaged cock out across the broad seat of the chair, and proceeded to cut it longitudinally. Royce yelled even louder than when his ball had been smashed -- not so much from the pain which, surprisingly, was not very great, but rather from the shock and horror of seeing his fuck-tool sliced.
The torturer was careful not to cut all the way through, rather the depth of his incision was about half the diameter of Royce's dick. He sliced the big shaft open from the cock-base to the bleeding stump at the outer end. Then, with Royce still shrieking, he spread the two parts of the sliced cock open, exposing its interior. Another attendant poured several ounces of salt into the exposed shaft, which immediately burned like hell.
Royce screamed and cursed more. He called them mother-fuckers, but even as he instinctively blurted out words like "fuck" and "fucker," these epithets ultimately only made him more aware that he himself would never fuck again. The bastards were turning his proud young Marine body into a God-damn freak show.
Jeffers, half-conscious on his torture rack, craned his neck now to see the source of the commotion and muttered in a croaking voice,
"Hang in there, son!"
Jeffers' poor choice of words made Royce wonder if the colonel was even aware that they were situated directly beneath the gallows where over two hundred of their men had been hanged already.
The torturer now took up the electric prod, which turned out to be something more along the lines of a soldering iron. A long electrical cord ran from its handle; its metal tip was smoking slightly, still burning off the residue of male flesh it had last eaten into.
Royce braced himself for an application of the hot iron to his studly chest, anticipating the same treatment the other men had received, but the Arab placed it instead against the bleeding tip of his manhood, cauterizing the severed end of his dick. The assistant then proceeded to sew up the incision along the length of Royce's man-meat, sealing the burning salt inside.
There was no antiseptic, and of course, no anesthetic. Each needle prick and the ensuing tug of coarse surgical thread through his tender dick-meat made him grit his teeth as he tried, sometimes unsuccessfully to stifle the screams of pain. Never had he imagined such abuse to a man, least of all to himself, a dumb-fuck grunt that nobody cared about.
After only four stitches, he began weeping unashamedly, no longer caring what the officers in the room thought of him. He knew none of them would live long enough for it to matter.
The man finished closing up the dick wound by applying the hot iron in cauterizing touches between each of his stitches. By this time Royce could only whimper and was begging,
"Please! No more!"
The man who had burned his cock-head shut asked,
He held up an earthen jar. The idea of water did sound damn good to Royce, who was so parched that his swollen tongue was making it difficult for him to scream. Still, he knew what they were up to and he shook his head No.
They forced him to drink, pinching his nostrils shut and pouring at least a quart of water down his gullet, then another. Soon he would have to piss, and he feared the pain in his salt-packed dick would be unbearable.
Apparently having fulfilled Assad's instructions, the two tormentors returned to Jeffers, completing the wiring of the big man's sex-meat. Three separate wires ran to a box, which in turn was connected by cables to the same electrical outlet that heated the burn rod.
By activating one of three different switches, they could send a current through the lieutenant colonel's left nut, his right nut, or through his thick cock, which was wrapped with a spiral of copper wire -- a full house-voltage current.
Before they could begin administering the shock treatment, Hamed's trap-door banged noisily open, causing Royce to cry out from horror and surprise.
The other prisoners had apparently become used to the continuous death scene, however, and only looked dully over at the latest victim to drop into their midst -- a noose mercifully breaking the strong, manly neck of a twenty-five-year-old Marine.
The young man rotated slowly in his noose, giving everyone in the room a comprehensive view of his studly but now lifeless physique. His broad shoulders were strong and manly, but the scattering of freckles across the top of his back betrayed his youthfulness. His pecker was hard and stood upright at a tight angle, nearly flush with his belly -- the cock of a man who died before he'd had his fair share of fucks.
The torturers ignored the hanging victim and concentrated on frying Jeffers' cock and balls. They tried the switches on their electrical box one at a time at first, each switch eliciting a new shout of agony from Jeffers, whose entire pelvic area jumped uncontrollably from the surface of the table with each jolt. He moaned and cursed in utter agony between each shock.
Whether it was from the water or from the fear evoked by Jeffers' plight, Royce felt the dreaded swell of man-piss inside him. He struggled to hold it in his bladder, biting his lower lip and grunting from the strain. Inevitably however, he lost the battle and released the constricting muscle, which was already weakened by his ordeal, as was every fiber of his being.
He felt the sensation of hot piss descending into his pecker, where its flow was blocked. It felt like his dick was going to explode, and the piss and salt together made the burning sensation ten times worse.
He bucked his hips forward as best he could against his restraints, almost as if he were trying to fuck, vainly trying to find some release for his piss, some relief from the agony.
The Arabs ignored him, busy now lifting the dead Marine from Hamed's noose, loosening the noose so Hamed could pull it back up for the next man, and cleaning up the shit the American had dropped. The two men carried the stout young body to an outer door, where two other soldiers grabbed hold of it.
Royce could see the waiting death truck through the open door and wondered how much longer it would be before his own carcass was thrown on top of it.
The burning in his abdomen and groin reached a new height, and Royce screamed in panic, bucking his pelvis obscenely, trying to eject the piss from his cock-shaft.
Jeffers' screams were louder, however. His tormentors were activating two of the electrical contacts simultaneously now, sizzling both the man's nuts or one nut and his prick at the same time. After a while, they unstrapped his right arm, stuck a pen between his writing fingers and held up a clipboard on which was spread a printed text.
"You sign now!" the Arab urged.
Jeffers, coughing and gasping for breath, scrawled something on the paper, which however turned out to be merely the ubiquitous,
FUCK YOU VERY MUCH.
The torturers shook their heads and sighed. It was not the first confession of espionage Jeffers had defaced.
"You die now," the torture master told him.
He produced two more wires, these fitted with alligator clamps, like small battery cables. His assistant began massaging the prisoner's pecs, rubbing them to a rosy pink as the blood flow increased.
The condemned officer lifted his head and watched them clamp his thick pec-meat, the alligator jaws gobbling up his hairy nipples.
Royce realized the current would stop Jeffers' heart. So did Jeffers. He laid his head back and closed his eyes.
"Fuck," was all he said.
They turned on every switch at once, causing the colonel's large, muscular frame to bolt upward against his restraints. He grunted sharply, and smoke trailed upward from his chest and his crotch.
The Arab stopped the current by flipping off the switches, and his assistant placed his hand over Jeffers' heart. He shook his head in the negative, apparently still detecting a heartbeat. Another full jolt blasted the Marine, stiffening his body and causing him to twitch uncontrollably for about thirty seconds.
When Jeffers went limp after the electricity was switched off, the assistant felt his prisoner's big chest once again and nodded a sign of success to the torturer/ executioner. Scratch one lieutenant colonel.
Just then, Hamed, still busy topside, pulled his lever yet again and sent a handsome young Army Ranger, a kid of only twenty, maybe nineteen, maybe twenty-one, plummeting down into the room below. The rope twanged and his body jerked, his neck cracking ... and that squelched rabbit squawk as the rope crushed his Adam's apple. The young soldier's cock sprang to attention, pointing up to his hangman above, spurting a last salute as he twitched a few times, apparently not dead right away.
He soon became still, his neck stretched thin where his vertebrę had separated and the ligaments, muscles, veins, arteries, skin, and everything else stretched half a foot or more. His head lolled to one side, like he was resting it on a pillow, his tongue blorting out, drool dripping from his mouth.
Royce stared in horrified fascination at the young soldier's raging hard-on. Not only had he died with his fuck-pole at full attention, the stud had also managed to shoot off a considerable wad of cum while he was dying. It had shot out of the tip of his erect penis in quick-flying spurts, landing on the defiled floor beneath him in gooey puddles, and finally dribbling down the shaft of his fuck-meat as the rest of his studly young body went limp.
After two or three or five minutes, the assistant placed a pistol at the back of the dead young soldiers head, pulled the trigger, and blew off half his tortured face, leaving nothing but a jaw and eyes dangling -- with the eye sockets fully obliterated along with the nose and the rest of the middle of his face -- making sure he was dead before holding the body up and loosening the noose for another soldier to be hanged with.
From his upside down position against the far wall, Lieutenant Hawke suddenly began sobbing. The unending display of carnage and his own colonel's death by electrocution was apparently too great an ordeal for him.
The captain and the other louie urged Hawke to shut up -- his outburst was a verbal infraction which prompted the torturer to administer a swift boot-tipped kick to each of the two men's nut-sacks. Then he hung yet another weight onto their already stretched balls.
The two Rangers yelled sharply and groaned, knowing that with Jeffers gone and Hawke a broken man, their balls would be the next on the bill of fare. They both secretly doubted that the Army would hold up any better under such abuse than had the Marines.
Assad reappeared at that moment, however, and ordered Royce unstrapped. He smiled at the young American's sewn-up cock and at the pained expression that permanently contorted Royce's face.
He murmured something to the torturer, apparently complimenting him on his handiwork. Assad was about to escort Royce back upstairs to the hanging room, when Hawke's blubbering caught his attention. He ordered the lieutenant released as well.
Helping to steady him as Hawke adjusted to standing upright for the first time in hours, Assad asked the tall, lean American,
"You will cooperate with us fully?"
Assad placed his big arm around the naked man's shoulders, as if comforting him. Hawke's face was still beet red from being upside down, and it was coursed with tears. His thick dark hair was tousled in an almost boyish way. His vulnerability lent a special attractiveness to his handsome features.
Bending forward and spreading his feet further apart in a vain effort to somehow lessen the painful weight that was now pulling his soft cock-meat and his big, tender balls far down between his thighs, he cried,
He was aware that as a Marine he was not allowed to show weakness, but his desire to be free of the pain was stronger than his sense of shame.
Seeing his prisoner's pain, Assad asked,
"You want your cock freed, American?"
"Yes," cried the lieutenant.
"You want to fuck, don't you? It is important that a man can fuck," continued Assad.
Squeezing his eyes shut from shame and from agony, Lt. Hawke grunted out,
Assad untied the cord that bound the Marine's nut-sack and cock, causing him to fall to his knees as blood suddenly returned to the abused fuck-meat. Hawke threw his head back and breathed deeply, heaving his chiseled pecs.
Finally getting to the point of all this, Assad said,
"Now you fuck this man."
He had now placed his arm around Royce's shoulder and was patting the Marine on his hairy pecs with his other hand.
"He is pretty, no? You fuck him now."
Hawke opened his eyes, the tears returning to them as the impending degradation of his situation became clear to him. They kept thinking of new ways to degrade him. That didn't sicken him so much as the knowledge that he would comply.
"Stand up!" yelled Assad in his most ominous voice.
Hawke struggled back to his feet. At the same time, Assad pushed Royce's shoulders downward, forcing the tortured Marine to his knees. The executioner grabbed Hawke's tenderized cock and pulled him forward so that he stood with his crotch just in front of Royce's face.
"Make this man hard!" he ordered Royce.
Royce looked up at the lieutenant, whose normally tall stature was exaggerated further by his own lowly position. Hawke's athletically-developed pectoral muscles jutted out over his lean, swimmer's belly, like the smooth stone pecs on a nude statue. Hawke stared back at Royce, his eyes dulled by pain and humiliation.
"Let's do it, Marine," he said softly.
"God damn, Hawke!" the Army captain protested from his crucifix.
There was an expression of surprise and disgust on his face. Marines are not supposed to suck cock -- especially not when the enemy orders them to.
"SILENCE!" barked Assad
His voice was so loud and commanding it startled them all.
The prisoners needed to be reminded again that they were not allowed to speak. Once more, the captain and his lieutenant both got their balls knocked in by a hard-hitting Arab boot. They dropped their chins to their chests and tried to stifle their screams.
The torturer further disciplined them by lifting the dangling ball weights to waist height, then letting them drop. The suddenly tightened rope sent even more excruciating pain through the men's bodies, nearly ripping their scrotes and cocks off.
Assad barked further instructions to his two underlings. The assistant promptly began freeing the dead fuck-meat on Jeffers body from the tangle of wires that were wrapped around the dead officer's cock and balls.
The torture master deftly retrieved the surgical knife with which he had made the incision in Royce's dick and began to castrate Jeffers, amputating his singed cock separately from the now useless balls.
The Americans watched in renewed horror as the body of their commanding officer was mutilated and his severed sex parts delivered to the two crucified men. Somehow they knew, even though they didn't want to believe, what was going to happen.
"I will silence you!" said Assad confidently.
Jeffers' sex was used to gag the prisoners. The lieutenant got the cock-meat stuffed down his gullet, while the captain got Jeffers' dead balls. Surgical tape was wrapped around their faces to keep them from spitting the gags out.
The louie began gagging on the cock-meat, which was caught in the back of his throat. He frantically threw his head back as he choked. After a moment he overcame the panic and allowed the intruding object to rest in his gullet while he breathed through his nose.
|The captain, a fellow soldier's nuts filling his mouth, was motionless
and silent, his eyes glaring at Assad with an anger more intense than any
he had ever felt.
Assad smiled with satisfaction. Anger was good. It meant he was doing his job well. He turned his attention once more to Royce, still kneeling before Hawke, six inches of Marine dick pointing in his face.
Assad pushed the back of Royce's head toward the lieutenant's waiting man-rod.
"Now watch carefully," he said to the now quiet Army men.
Royce took the circumcised dick into his mouth, tonguing it softly, slowly increasing the depth of penetration until his nose was pressing into Hawke's clean-shaven abdomen each time he went in for another stroke. His sliced, salt-packed dick hurt him fiercely, but the water he had been forced to consume had re-moistened his mouth, making it a warm pussy for his lieutenant to fuck.
The dick tasted both sour and salty at first, but Royce tongued it clean as it grew glassy hard in his puss. The lieutenant began nudging his cock-head against the back of Royce's throat, and the kneeling Marine breathed hard through his nose, fighting the inclination to gag. He could taste drops of pre-cum now.
Hawke closed his eyes and stuck his chin straight up in the air as he responded to the wet warmth of the young Marine's ministrations to his fuck-stick. He moaned as his tool hardened in Royce's mouth.
After a few moments it stood stiffly at a forty-five degree angle, glistening with Royce's spit. He was ready to fuck Royce's ass.
But not quite. As Assad quickly determined, the young Marine's hole was shitty as hell. He hadn't been able to wipe it when he had relieved himself in his cell. The executioner forced Royce belly down over the end of one of the torture tables and spread his legs, opening up the foul-smelling fuck-hole, then ordered Hawke to lick it clean.
The lieutenant first took a step backward, obviously never having considered performing such an act. All it took, though, was for Assad to pick up Hawke's cock and ball weight from the floor and dangle it menacingly in front of the reluctant prisoner.
The handsome lieutenant needed no further encouragement. He dropped to his knees, grabbed Royce's meaty thighs, and began plowing his fine, aquiline nose in between the young Marine's firm ass cheeks.
In response to the chuckles of the other two Arabs who were enjoying the show, Assad ordered,
The Army men glared in helpless disgust at the humiliation of once-proud Marines. The salty taste of Jeffers' blood was receding in their mouths now, and they were tasting the sex-meat itself. Both men wanted to retch but couldn't.
Royce moaned as Hawke complied with Assad's instructions, forcing his nose well into the ass crack, then extending his tongue as far into the rectum as he could, curling it back into his mouth, cleaning out the hole he would be required to fuck.
Royce's belly pressed hard on his doomed cock, causing him more pain, but it was mitigated somewhat by the tongue job Hawke was giving him from behind. He had never expected to get eaten out by a louie. He grabbed the sides of the table and held on tight, grunting and moaning.
Royce loosened his ass-hole to allow Hawke to probe even further. Assad noticed that Hawke was losing his hard-on and ordered him to stroke himself.
"Keep your cock stiff and hard, American!" the Ball Crusher warned. "Otherwise, we do to you what we did to your colonel."
Hawke compliantly reached under his belly with his right hand and began gently jerking his ramrod, restoring its fullness.
"Tell me when he is clean, Shit-eater!" Assad ordered his charge.
He spoke to the others in Arabic, and they laughed heartily.
The rimming continued for another quarter hour.
"He is clean, Shit-eater?" asked Assad.
Hawke withdrew his face from Royce's ass.
"Yes," he replied.
Assad inspected Royce's fuck-hole, which was slick and wet. Hawke had done his job.
"Thank this man for your supper, Shit-eater!"
"Thank you," Hawke said to Royce in a muted voice, his head bowed.
"Now fuck him."
Royce clutched the sides of the table even harder, bracing himself for the intrusion. Getting ass-fucked by your own lieutenant! And with the Army watching! Royce recognized Assad as a perverse genius.
Hawke stood up, his stiff member glistening with slobber and pre-cum. He positioned it at the entrance to Royce's ass-hole, then held it with his right hand, guiding it into the hot, wet hole. Then he grabbed the young Marine's hips as he forced the dick forward, wincing just as much as Royce did.
Hawke hadn't fucked a guy's ass since high school -- that didn't count as far as the military was concerned. This wouldn't count either -- no one would know -- at least no one who would live to tell about it.
Hawke's long, hard cock slowly found its way up Royce's shit chute, after that Hawke began a slow, tentative withdrawal.
"Fuck him hard!" yelled Assad impatiently.
But the hole was too tight, and Hawke's dick was not lubed enough for the process to go any faster. He grimaced from the intensity of the fuck, lowering his forehead onto the small of Royce's back, ceasing his slow withdrawal from the grip of the young Marine's ass.
Assad seemed to understand the problem and sent his two comrades hopping for another ingenious solution. They untied the cock and ball weights from both the Army Rangers, who groaned their pain and relief through their fuck-meat gags.
Then the two Arabs each took an Army cock and began jacking it. The men's dicks, suddenly freed of their bonds, began to receive a normal blood flow once more, which was greatly increased by the masturbation effort of their tormentors. Both men's dicks rose immediately to raging hard-ons which, however, were quite painful to them after their cock-torture.
The captain shook his head frantically back and forth and made unintelligible noises as he tried to speak. His eyes were filled with frightened tears, and it was very obvious he did not want to be milked.
He shot his wad, though, his screams from the pain of the forced ejaculation muted by the hideous obstruction in his mouth. The Arab collected every drop of the captain's semen in a small vessel resembling a finger bowl.
The Army lieutenant was not far behind and soon grunted out a big load of man-juice into a similar vessel that the torturer held in one hand while with his other hand he milked every drop of jism he could get from the soldier's big cock.
The little bowls full of strong-smelling spunk were placed on the fuck table beside Royce. Assad forcibly pulled Hawke backward, which yanked his stiff cock from Royce's ass.
indicating the purpose of the collected semen, he said,
"Your friends' seed will make your work easier!"
Hawke's manly shoulders shivered slightly, but he scooped up the warm jism from each of the bowls, applying the contents of one to Royce's too-tight ass-hole. He smeared the other batch of fresh cum onto his own dick, which made it slick and slimy. He re-entered Royce with no problem, commencing a fucking rhythm which soon had the raped Marine groaning loudly as he was fucked deep and hard.
The cum of the two Army men was soon joined by Hawke's fresh hot jism, which he shot into Royce's gut with the loud, unmistakable belly-grunt of a man rutting.
Hawke nearly collapsed after his climax, but when he pulled his receding dick from Royce's hole and fell weakly to his knees, Assad seized the opportunity and forced Hawke once again to lick Royce's ravaged ass-hole, this time eating his own cum as well as the semen of his Army compatriots.
When he was through, Hawke had jizz smeared all over his mouth and nose. He once again bowed his head in shame as the Arabs laughed at the sight. Then Assad grew serious.
Once again placing his large hand on the Marine lieutenant's bare shoulder, he asked Hawke,
"Is this not enough, American?"
Hawke's shoulders convulsed momentarily, and he did not look up. Then, calming himself, he nodded quietly. Assad recognized complete victory. It was sweet. He produced the clipboard which bore yet another copy of the confession.
Offering Hawke a pen, he said,
"You will sign this."
The lieutenant scrawled his signature, then bowed his head again.
"You have eaten the shit of your comrade. You have fucked him and swallowed your own seed. Now you have betrayed your country -- all in one day!" remarked Assad solemnly. "What does such a man as you deserve?"
After a pause, Hawke responded in a hoarse whisper,
"Yes, that is right," agreed Assad. "And I will soon take you to my gallows and place your neck in the rope I have prepared for you."
He paused, once more placing his hand on Hawke's shoulder in a maddeningly patronizing gesture of superiority.
"But I do not kill men, my American friend. I take their manhood from them first -- only then are they worthy of death."
Reaching down and grasping Hawke's shaven ball-sack in his fist, he said,
"These must be destroyed. Then you may die."
Hawke nodded almost imperceptibly.
Pointing toward the torture seat where Royce's dick had been sliced, Assad instructed the broken man,
"Take your seat upon that chair."
Hawke rose to his feet and strode to the infernal chair without further prompting. He lowered himself onto its smooth wooden surface and, behaving almost mechanically, placed his arms on the chair-arms, then spread his knees apart in order to expose his manhood.
The torturer and his assistant deftly secured Hawke in place with the leather straps while the young lieutenant merely stared dully before him. He didn't even jump when Hamed's trap-door once again sprang open suddenly, allowing yet another naked leatherneck to fall to his bone-cracking demise and twist gently in the midst of the chamber, his dick stiff and useless.
Once again they smelled the strong odor of shit as the latest victim dropped his bowels onto the torture chamber floor. The assistant hurriedly scooped up the pile with his shovel, tossing it out the door, then killed the smell once more with a dose of quicklime.
Hawke's nut-sack was stretched, a metal ring like the one used on Royce was put in place over the lieutenant's left testicle, then the wooden peg was positioned on top of it. While the torturers occupied themselves with freeing Hamed's noose from its latest victim, Assad did the honors on Hawke's scrote, eliciting an animal-like scream from the prisoner as the ball was obliterated. The right nut quickly met with the same fate, which caused Hawke to jerk involuntarily several times against his bonds. He was crying again.
To the defeated and now ball-less man, Assad said,
"Now go up the stairs."
Royce was watching the lieutenant's demise with disbelief. Assad said to him,
"You come also."
They unstrapped Hawke. Without being forced, he rose to his feet and strode toward the stairs, ascended them calmly, then stepped over to the waiting noose.
Royce was ordered to sit in the chair where his nut had been smashed -- he assumed in order to have the second one popped. They never strapped him in, however, so he just sat quietly and watched.
Hawke spotted the trap-door immediately upon entering the death chamber and walked over to it, positioning himself on the deathtrap, his face only a foot or so from the noose that was loosely tied, ready for its next victim. Hawke even placed his own hands behind his back, crossing his wrists for easy tying and thrusting his pelvis out, so that his dick poked forward.
Assad bound the man's arms. Hawke bowed his head slightly forward to facilitate the placement of the noose, which was then tightened, the knot placed next to his right ear. His face was still smeared with flaky, drying cum. Hawke's crushed testicles were sending waves of searing pain through his body. Even so, his dick was stiffening again, regaining much of its earlier hardness as it anticipated death.
It was a hell of a way for a Marine lieutenant to die. There was one more humiliation, though. Assad took the "confession" Hawke had been broken into signing, held it in front of the condemned man's face, and slowly ripped it to shreds.
It was just as Royce suspected -- they had no interest in anything that would be evidence of the Americans' presence there -- the phony confession was all part of the mind-fuck. Lt. Hawke wept.
Royce was ordered to release the trap-door. When he hesitated, Hawke intervened. Regaining his composure and eagerly awaiting his well-earned death, he repeated,
"Let's do it, Marine,"
Royce drew a deep breath and jerked the lever, dropping the man who had fucked him only moments earlier, sending him back down to have his neck snapped in front of the fellow prisoners he had just left. Royce heard the thwack that signalled a swift, clean break and a merciful death and hoped that his own would be just as quick.
Royce did not wait to be ordered back to the torture chair. He resumed his position of his own accord. His dick and bladder were ready to explode. He had never needed to piss so bad. Royce began to hope for a swift end to the misery. Assad smiled, but gestured him to stand up once again.
"One day I will finish taking your manhood. One day I will hang you. But now we have other uses for you," he informed the young prisoner.
©1995, 1999 Katharsis™
|Your cock or your throat, American!" the Arab torturer demanded.
It was not the first time Marine private Royce had felt the tip of a bayonet and wondered if this would finally be it. So far they had just played with him, promising to finish him off, then making him linger in his agony. He had watched all his Marine buddies die on the gallows, and he now wished he could join them.
By some strange luck of the draw, Royce had been the only enlisted man spared execution. Two officers, both Army Rangers who had been on the same downed transport, had also survived and were being tortured.
"Your cock or your throat?" the Arab demanded once more.
He poked Royce in the Adam's apple then in the crotch with the tip of the blade.
"My cock," the naked young stud heard himself say.
He was in a kind of agony that could only be relieved by slicing off his already ruined dick or by putting him out of his misery altogether. He didn't quite know why he opted for the amputation -- he would just as soon die like a man as live without his manhood. Yet there was something inside him that kept him from opting out just yet, even though his degradation was more than he believed possible.
Besides, the simple thought of finally being able to relieve his exploding bladder was a powerful temptation.
The more hideous of the two prison executioners, a man named Assad, whom the prisoners came to know as the Ball-Crusher, had supervised Royce's genital torture. After shaving his crotch, smashing one of his big balls into a useless pulp, and hacking off the tip of his thick long cock, Assad had orchestrated yet another horror show.
Royce had watched them slice his dick open and fill the shaft with salt, which had been burning him like hell for hours. They sewed him up and cauterized his cock wounds, burning the piss-hole shut. He had lost count of how many liter flasks of water they had forced down his gullet so he would have to piss real bad.
His dick was hopelessly packed with piss-soaked salt that made him feel like his schlong was on fire, and his man-piss was backed up into his bladder, making him feel like his belly would bust from the pressure.
The Arab with the bayonet broke out in a shit-eating grin and poked the sharp blade into the soft flesh under Royce's handsome square jaw.
"You sure, American?" he asked tauntingly. "You want to be like a woman?"
Shooting pains streaked from Royce's lower abdomen up into his chest and down into his legs. His abused dick was swollen and leaking trickles of piss and blood where they had crudely stitched and burned the surgical wound shut.
Royce's face contorted into an almost childish expression of pain as he fought back tears.
"Cut it off," he said pleadingly.
They kicked his ass out onto a clear patch of sand near the gallows where his comrades had bought it, then kicked the backs of his thighs and knees, forcing him to genuflect.
His knees were spread wide, his tormented manhood, full to bursting with his piss, protruded obscenely as if he had a partial hard-on. They tied his hands behind his butt.
One of the Arabs drew a long, thin sword from a ceremonial sheath and held it to Royce's mouth. As if involuntarily, he extended his tongue to feel the sharpness of the blade, kissing the instrument that would take away his manhood for good.
He wondered if they would go through with the amputation, or if they really planned to lop off his head after all. You could never know with these fuckers. He decided it made little difference what they chopped off, and he inhaled deeply to prepare for the fall of the sword. A coating of sweat glistened across his powerful young chest.
The whine of a jeep motor interrupted them. The swordsman looked in the direction of the approaching vehicle and smiled broadly, then lowered his sword to greet the arrival of five dusty soldiers, just returned from a tour across the most remote areas of the frontier.
The men apparently had been gone for a long period of time, for their comrades were delighted to see them back safely. The embraced and talked excitedly, no doubt about the capture of the unfortunate Americans whose transport had crash-landed practically in their backyard.
They pointed to Royce and sneered, then made sure the new arrivals were aware of the genital torture the young American had suffered.
The five soldiers examined Royce's shaved crotch and sewn-up, mutliated dick with great interest.
A wooden chest was produced from inside the gallows building. It contained the dog tags stripped off the infidel prisoners before their executions and attested to the number of the enemy that they had vanquished, with the help of the cruel Ball Crusher, Assad, and his more business-like colleague, the bespectacled hangman Hamed.
The men called up to the upper level of the gallows, and Assad and Hamed both appeared in the window openings of their work stations to accept the congratulations of the returned soldiers.
Assad was still shirtless, even though his labors had been completed, and his massive, hairy torso appeared even more ominous and powerful when viewed from below. He paused for a moment to acknowledge the greetings of his comrades, then returned to his work. In one hand he held a dustpan, which he appearead to have filled with the crotch hair he had shorn from his hapless victims before destroying their manhood and dropping them to their deaths. Assad was sweeping up the considerable accumulation of man fur that had fallen onto the gallows platform.
Royce found the eccentricities of this torturer/hangman as perplexing as they were fascinating -- Assad appeared unwilling to kill a 'man', but neutering the prisoner prior to execution got him around this strange proscription. Some arcane interpretation of a verse from the Koran perhaps?
Another explanation, Royce realized, is that the fucker was just plain mean as shit and liked seeing handsome young studs get nutted.
Assad carefully placed the collected ball fuzz into a cloth sack and
drew the string tight. The sack was the size of a good-sized bag of flour,
and it had been virtually filled with prisoners' crotch hair.
Meanwhile, the newly-arrived soldiers slapped their uniforms, freeing them of some of the dust they had brought back from the desert ride. They unzipped their trousers and freed their cocks.
Standing in a circle, they relieved their bladders onto the kneeling young Marine, shooting strong, hot streams of piss right into Royce's face, onto his pecs and belly, and against the back of his head, his shoulders, and his back.
When they were through Royce knelt in a sticky, smelly pool of man-piss, even as he desperately wished to be able to relieve himself of his own piss load.
Royce noticed that once the men had finished pissing, their cocks grew long and hard. A couple of the men stroked their stiff members and eyed the handsome young prisoner lasciviously. From his own experience with long patrols, Royce knew that a man comes back from his tour hornier than hell and ready to fuck anything that moves. In this instance, Royce's inviting young ass would do just fine.
The cock-cutting ceremony was postponed for the time being, and the men set about driving a few staves into the sand, onto which they placed an overturned oil drum, so that its smooth, round surface was just waist high. It would do just fine for an outdoor gang rape.
They cut Royce's hands loose and pushed him belly down over the oil drum. Spreading his legs and arms, they tied each limb to a stake driven into the sand, immobilizing the naked Marine and ensuring convenient access to his fuck-hole.
A couple of the men stripped completely, donning only their boots once again in order to protect their feet from the hot sand. The others unbuttoned the shirts of their uniforms and dropped their trousers to their ankles in preparation for the rape.
Then they fucked him. They fucked him long and hard, ramming dick after rock-hard dick into the boy's grade-A US Marine ass. They were merciless, using only their own spit and eventually their buddies' cum as lubricant. Sometimes a guy would pull out before he had come, letting a comrade take over the butt-ramming until he too either shot his load or pulled out in order to extend the pleasure.
The pressure on Royce's abdomen as he lay belly down on the drum and took his punishment grew so excruciating that Royce eventually passed out. When this happened, his tormentors rubbed sand into his face until he came to again. They made sure he felt every bit of the pain and humiliation they had in store for him.
Finally Royce thought he felt the fifth ejaculation up his shit-chute and began to hope that all the men had spent themselves and that the agony would cease. But he was disappointed to find that one of the soldiers, a particularly horny fucker, was hard again and was determined to shoot off yet another charge of jism into the young American.
Royce groaned in agony as the guy lay down on top of his ass and back, forcing his big cock up into the ass-hole. New jabs of pain from the pressure on his distended belly brought his agony to a new height.
Royce vomited, then fainted again and immediately his face was rubbed raw with sand until he woke up. Finally the guy on top of him came a second time, grunting another hot load deep inside Royce's gut.
The man with the long, thin sword reappeared and used it to cut Royce's arms and legs loose from the fucking position. They shoved him roughly back to the place where he had knelt before and forced him once again to his knees.
Royce's ass was wet and slimy from the jizz of his rapists, which he could feel oozing out of his ass-hole and running down the inside of his meaty thighs. Once again, his hands were secured behind him.
The men gathered around, curious to see how the American would react to having his pecker whacked off.
Assad the Ball Crusher emerged just then from the gallows structure and strode toward the assembled group. With his thick right arm he held something against his muscular chest.
The others looked on with interest as Assad showed the severed head of one of his hanging victims to the group of soldiers. It had lain in the corner of the lower chamber where it had been kicked aside after its owner had been decapitated by a rope too long for his body weight.
The uniform rope length, without regard to the stature and weight of the prisoners, meant that some of the dead Marines and Army Rangers had taken several minutes to strangle to death in their nooses, while a few, such as the unlucky Marine whose nod Assad now placed in the sand in front of Royce, had been beheaded by the drop.
Royce felt like vomiting again as he looked at the crew-cut head of a once proud Marine. Mercifully, its eyes were closed.
They positioned the head a few feet in front of the kneeling prisoner, then backed away as the swordsman once again grapsed his instrument in both hands and lifted it above his head.
One of the soldiers crouched behind Royce and reached between the Marine's thick thighs to grab his nuts. He squeezed the damaged scrotum brutally, eliciting a cry of surprise and agony from Royce as the man jerked the Marine's nut-sac back between his legs and pulled it firmly up against his ass-crack and safely out of the way of the falling blade.
They were saving his balls for more abuse -- only his dick would go.
The blade whistled as it sliced through the air. Royce could feel it shave his distended belly and abdomen, then cut through the engorged cock-meat, severing the organ neatly, flush with the lower belly.
The pain in his groin was already so great that Royce felt no sensation from the slice. As the dick dropped to the ground a gush of fluid was released from Royce's bladder and guts. A mass of piss, blood and cum flew out in a sudden, disgusting rush, coating the sand in front of him and defiling the head of the fallen Marine, which was immediately splattered with a shower of goo.
The sudden release of pressure from Royce's lower torso at first felt good, as did the release of pressure on his brutalized ball-sac once the bastard behind him had released his grip.
The relief was rapidly replaced by a new, searing pain emanating from the point of amputation. Strangely, it felt as if he still had his cock, and that by flexing the muscles of his lower abdomen he could make it twitch.
He looked repeatedly from the severed member lying grotesquely in the sand to his bleeding crotch, as if unable to believe that he was really dickless.
Assad picked up the chunk of human sausage and held it up for the others, especially the deft swordsman, to admire. Then, to the amusement of his onlookers, the burly executioner inserted the dead cock into the mouth of the severed, gore-covered head.
Royce's still overly large cock protruded in a grisly fashion, as if the dead Marine were smoking an obscene cigar.
Royce's captors hauled him to his feet and pulled him forward. The dickless Marine groaned in surprise and disgust as he stumbled over the bloody, piss-covered head, knocking his own severed cock from its lifeless lips. His man-meat was left to rot in the sun.
They led him into the room beneath the gallows, where he had earlier seen the captured officers crucified and tortured and where he had seen numerous brave Marines and Rangers drop through Assad's and Hamed's trap-doors overhead.
Lt. Colonel Jeffers, the hardy Marine officer who had been tortured with electricity, then finally put out of his misery with a lethal voltage to his chest, still lay naked on the crude wooden table, the wires still attached to his genitals, and the cruel alligator clamps still biting his tough, hairy pec-meat. Jeffers' body was stiff, and he stared upward in death. His cock and balls were blackened from the electrical burns.
The two surviving Army Ranger officers, a young captain and his lieutenant, were still tied naked to X-shaped crosses against one wall of the torture chamber. Having seen all manner of horrors carried out in front of them, the Rangers now watched dully as Royce was hauled into the chamber, his once-envied Marine cock no longer swinging between his manly thighs.
|The Arabs quickly unfastened the electrical wires and clamps from
Jeffers' body and unceremoniously pushed the naked carcass off the table,
allowing it to fall with a thud onto the floor. It would be disposed of
later, when Jeffers would join his men in a mass grave full of naked
Marine and Army studs, their necks twisted and broken, their dicks
hardened in manly response to their ordeal.
Royce was lifted onto the table, butt down, and was held in place by four strong Arab soldiers.
In his weakened condition there was little need to strap the Marine down, as had been done with Jeffers. Two of the men, standing on either side of the prisoner, held Royce's shoulders down, while each of the other two grabbed hold of one of Royce's muscular, hairy thighs and spread them so wide apart that the Marine thought they were going to split him in half.
They had left his hands tied behind him, which were now pinned beneath his butt. As he reclined, Royce's wounded crotch area was fully exposed and ready for more abuse.
The man whom Royce had earlier seen take charge of Jeffers' electrocution now took up a scalpel-like blade in one hand and with the other hand grasped Royce's destroyed testicle. He stretched the nut-sac painfully forward, then proceeded to cut half of it off, removing the squished ball.
Royce struggled against the hold of the four men holding him down. He threw his head back and screamed, but his attention was morbidly drawn again and again to the site of his mutilation. He was now missing his dick and one of his balls.
The soldering iron was still hot and was now applied to Royce's crotch, occasioning more struggles and hoarse man-screams from the agonized Marine. The smell of his own burning flesh sickened him.
They inserted a piece of wood, like a short pencil, into his urethra and cauterized around it. The flesh would heal around it, allowing him to remove the stick from his crotch while he healed and take a squat-piss.
The surgeon/torturer also took the needle and thread that had earlier been used to seal his sliced and salted cock and used it to close the wound on his now considerably smaller scrote.
Royce's balls had once been so prominent they had earned him the nickname 'Clanker' in the shower room. Now he was now little more than a eunuch, and a freakish one at that. Life, as he had known it as a man, was now irretrievably over.
Back outside the five men who had arrived in the jeep and who had plowed Royce's ass were now involved in a spirited negotiation with the Ball Crusher. One of the men was waving a wad of paper money, to which he kept adding a bill or two as he bargained with Assad.
The two Rangers, rubbing their numb and stiffened limbs, were shoved out into the sunlight after being untied from their crosses, and were forced to stand in a line beside Royce, where the hands of the two naked men were likewise tied behind them.
Royce realized their asses were being sold to the men in the jeep. Assad was very insistent about one part of the deal, however, and it seemed to involve Royce. He spoke firmly to his purchaser while resting his massive, calloused hand on Royce's chest.
He lifted Royce's one remaining ball and held it in his hand, pointing with his other index finger to himself. He grabbed Royce's throat with the same hand, squeezing his gullet and pointing with the other hand up at the gallows, then again to himself. He shoved the two Army officers back and gestured indifference toward them with the outstretched palm of his hand.
The young marine realized that Assad was saying he didn't care what happened to the other two men, but he was claiming rights to Royce's one remaining ball as well as the right to hang him. Royce remembered Assad's promise to him in the torture chamber: 'Some day I will crush your other ball and hang you.'
The men apparently understood the conditions of the sale, or in Royce's case perhaps 'lease' was a better word. The wad of money changed hands, and the deal was sealed with an embrace. The Ball Crusher then turned to Royce and tugged gently on the Marine's lonely nut, leaning forward to look closely into his eyes and say quietly, confidently,
"I will see you again, American. Your body is theirs for now, but your manhood and your life are mine.
"This is mine to destroy."
He tugged on the fleshy testicle once again.
"You will work hard where you are going, and when you can work no more you will return to me, and I will give you rest. The last thing you feel will be my rope."
To Royce's surprise, the executioner kissed the Marine's full young lips, then turned away and walked toward his gallows, counting the proceeds of his sale.
A truck was requisitioned for transporting the three naked prisoners to the site of their enslavement, which, they all realized, would also be where the two Army Rangers would die.
Once inside the back of the tarpaulin-covered flatbed, the Rangers' dicks were tied together with a foot-long piece of nylon cord in order to discourage them from leaping off the back of the truck in order to escape.
Their guards fashioned a noose of the same cord and placed it around Royce's neck, attaching it to the metal framework overhead and drawing it tight enough to force the dickless Marine to remain in a standing position.
As the truck got underway, lurching along a bumpy desert road to an unknown destination, Royce had great difficulty maintaining his balance, which was necessary in order to prevent himself from hanging. Occasionally he would lose his footing and have to scramble to regain it before he choked.
The three guards riding with the prisoners found Royce's situation so amusing that they rigged up similar nooses for the two young Army officers whose cocks had been cinched together. The men were forced to stand face to face, their thick, meaty cocks painfully tied with the cord, their necks snugly fitted into their nooses. When one of them lost his balance, he pulled painfully on his partner's cock.
The guards found the situation highly amusing and made the journey even more difficult for the Americans by frequently administering swift kicks to their buttocks.
Having recovered from their earlier fuck session with Royce tied down to the oil drum, the soldiers had once again gotten horny, and before the journey was over, each of the three prisoners, standing noosed and naked, had taken a stiff dick and a hot wad of cream up his ass.
For the Army lieutenant the rape meant the loss of his cherry, though the young captain's response to the invasion in his rear seemed to indicate that he had already had some experience in that area. The lieutenant yelled with surprise and cursed at the pain in his rear end, while his captain, standing directly in front of him and likewise taking it up the ass, merely growled and grunted his displeasure at this latest humiliation.
Once they had fucked their prisoners, the Arabs were less rowdy and settled down for the long ride. Two of them even lay down on the floor of the truck and slept while the third nodded off and dozed fitfully while crouched in a corner, his rifle lying across his knees.
"They God-damn fucked up your cock and balls, man," the Ranger captain said to Royce. "You OK, Marine? What's your name?"
"I'm Private Royce, Sir."
"I'm Captain Ryan. This is Lieutenant Armstrong."
"We're not getting out of this, Sir," said Royce matter-of-factly.
Still wincing from the after effects of the big dick that had penetrated his virgin ass, Armstrong said,
"Never say never, son."
'Ass-hole', Royce thought to himself.
After countless grueling hours standing in the back of the truck, they reached their destination. The ropes were untied from around the American's necks and cocks, and they were roughly shoved off the truck.
They discovered they were in a desert oasis, replete with palm trees and in the distance a strangely green field. Enormous Arabian horses roamed over the grass. There were a number of buildings around them, some of them apparently horse stables.
Again they saw a large bundle of money changing hands as the middlemen made a profit on their lives and asses by selling them to the operator of what appeared to be a horse farm. Once again Royce was singled out, the Arabs grabbing their crotches and pointing to the Marine's lone ball, then mentioning the name Assad.
The man making the purchase, a tall, handsome Arab wearing a fine tunic, looked with interest in Royce's direction and nodded his understanding. They were to see plenty of this Arab before their stint at the horse farm was over.
As if in a dream, the men were force- marched into an elaborate compound of buildings. Their captors jabbed bayonet tips into their asses to keep them moving until they finally reached a small, white structure with barred windows which stood in the center of the complex. It was a one-room brig, and it was to be their home.
The three new arrivals were forced to line up at attention while the jail door was thrown open and Arab soldiers stormed in, yelling raucously. To the surprise of the three Americans, they saw three other Westerners emerge from the brig, driven out at bayonet point.
The prisoners were naked, like the new arrivals, and appeared haggard and deeply tanned, though they were clean-shaven. The newcomers noticed that the three prisoners had what appeared to be animal manure caked on their feet, ankles, and thighs. Obviously they had been subjected to long, hard slave labor.
The three prisoners looked at the newcomers not with joy, nor even with curiosity, rather with a kind of knowing dread. They glanced at one another, then bowed their heads, as if comprehending some particular significance to this most recent turn of events which Royce, Ryan, and Armstrong did not understand.
The Arabs gave the six infidel prisoners ten minutes to converse, while a ring of armed soldiers stood around them and watched warily and with sadistic amusement.
"You're our replacements," one of the men explained.
He was a Canadian sergeant, about 32 years old, a ruggedly handsome, burly-chested soldier who had been taken prisoner when his UN peacekeeping patrol strayed over the border from the neighboring emirate.
"We've been shoveling horseshit at this God-damn place for about a month now. When we got here, they executed the three guys who were here before us.
"They made them dig a pit, then stand in it with their cocks tied to a live grenade.
"The sun finally got to one of them. He keeled over. Blew them all to hell.
"We had to throw their body parts into the pit and bury what was left of them. Now it's our turn."
"Yeah, we knew this would happen some day," added another of the men.
He was a tall, rangy American in his late 20s, with sandy hair. He had the tight, muscular, but lanky build of a basketball player with a long, slender cock to match. It hung half way down to his knees.
The young prisoner, working for an American oil company, had been nabbed from a drilling site near the border. His compatriots thought he had wandered drunk into the nearby minefield and had long since given up looking for him.
"Wish we could say we were glad to see you guys," he said ruefully.
The Canadian sergeant resumed his narrative.
"They'll make you guys shoot your cum every morning -- they get a big kick out of 'milking' the livestock, so to speak."
Then he saw Royce's mutilated crotch and grimaced.
"Looks like you've already been through hell," he murmurred to Royce.
Royce looked with newfound envy at the thick, powerful chunk of Canadian sausage dangling between the sergeant's stocky thighs, and at the exquisite, oversized nuts hanging low in a big, hairy ball-sac.
"He's right, though," the rig worker affirmed. "Shoot a wad for them whenever they ask.
"As long as you're able to come, they'll probably keep you alive. Once you run out of juice, they'll assume you're worn out. You won't live much longer.
"Billy here just had a dry-cum the other morning. That's how we knew we were on borrowed time."
He referred to the third member of their prison troupe, the youngest of the three, an attractive, dark-haired lad barely out of his teens.
Billy had an athletic build and broad shoulders. His young dick, though flaccid, appeared slightly swollen and was discolored. He had been abusing himself, trying to coax another load of cream out of his body to prolong his life a few more days. But he had shot too many wads in too short a time, and he was temporarily played out. He wouldn't be given a chance to restore his sperm supply.
The young man merely glowered silently down at the ground. He had been visiting his father, an American diplomat in the adjacent emirate, together with some fraternity brothers who joined him for his spring break excursion abroad.
The youths had foolishly taken a jeep out into the desert one evening and had gotten lost. When they neared the frontier, the vehicle crossed a land mine. The kid's buddies were torn up pretty badly in the explosion, though he himself had been thrown clear by the blast.
Only when a jeep-load of Arab soldiers approached them -- the wrong kind of Arabs -- did the kid realize he was in the wrong country.
He had watched in horror as the Arab patrol finished off his writhing, wounded college athlete buddies by gutting them with bayonets and slitting their throats.
Then they stripped the kid naked, cuffed him, and hauled his ass back to the horse farm as a slave.
Like his fellow prisoners, he was presumed dead back home. There was no search for him. Now, no longer able to function as a man, his captors would make him pay for his failure to come by snuffing out his young life.
"There's something else you guys ought to know," said the American oil rigger. "Something even more fucked up."
"They don't need to know that," interjected the handsome Canadian.
He clasped his exposed nut-sac in one hand and cupped it tenderly as he looked to one side, an expression of dread crossing his face.
"No, tell them," spoke the American frat boy for the first time. "Or let me."
After a short silence, the lad informed them of the procedure that would precede their executions.
"They've got some kind of thing about killing a guy whole," he explained. "They'll crush your nuts before they off you.
"We saw them do it to the three guys before us, just before they tied their dicks off with the grenade."
"We've been there," said Royce. "Sounds just like old Ball Crusher back at the prison we just came from."
"Just try like hell to get the fuck out of here," was the tall American's last advice.
"And while you're here, keep up your supply of ball juice. They like to see you produce," admonished the Canadian sergeant.
Their conversation was terminated at that point. They had just enough time to shake hands and bid one another a strained farewell as soldiers approached to hand the three resident inmates digging boots and spades. They were ordered to don the laceless boots, which flopped ridiculously around their ankles, then were barked to attention with their spades over their shoulders.
The three naked hunks were marched off at bayonet point to the spot outside the compound where their predecessors had been blown to bits in their own grave. In an adjacent patch of sand they were ordered at gunpoint to dig their own hole.
Meanwhile, the newcomers were shoved into the hot, squalid brig, the door slammed and locked behind them.
Once the three of them were alone, Armstrong asked Ryan,
"What do we do, Captain?"
The stench of horseshit and human excrement was almost overpowering.
Captain Ryan strode over to a barred window, now letting his handsome cock swing without self-consciousness between his muscular thighs. He grabbed the window bars and shook them, testing their solidity.
"The windows are secure," he announced. "We'll have to find another way out."
The young Marine merely sank to the ground and leaned against the wall, looking incredulously at this joke of a commanding officer. 'The fucking Army -- it's becoming clear, is going to be of no help at all,' he thought.
They were rousted out of their shit-hole quarters after only an hour or so. The three previous occupants of the prison had been allowed to dig a pit about eight feet deep and had now completed their work. It would be a crude grave, but large enough to accommodate three crumpled bodies.
The sweaty men, their muscles bulging from the strain of their labors, were now being forced back into the center of the compound where they were kicked to their knees.
One of their captors, who appeared to be a ranking officer, removed the bayonet from his rifle and threw it into the sand, where it stuck in the ground within reach of the three condemned men. They seemed to understand the significance of this gesture.
The rig worker made a lunge for the weapon, but the Canadian quickly grasped his forearm and held him back.
"Let the boy have it," he said quietly.
They both looked at the naked college kid, who merely glared back at them before taking a deep breath and reaching out for the razor-sharp bayonet.
The Arabs intended to let one of the men have the knife in order to castrate himself. Whoever could cut off his own balls would be killed quickly and spared the agony of a ball-crushing prior to execution. But they would have to fight for the bayonet.
The prisoners disappointed their captors by relinquishing the blade without internecine combat. The American oil rigger agreed that the kid, who already felt guilty for being the one who failed to shoot a wad of boy-cream, should be the one given the quickest death.
While Royce, Ryan, and Armstrong looked on in disbelief, the kid took the bayonet in one hand and his own nuts in the other. He stretched his young ball-sac out and positioned the sharp blade against the underside of the scrotum, flush with his abdomen.
He bit his lip, closed his eyes, puffed out his well-defined chest with a deep breath, then jerked his hand, slicing his fucking gonads off.
He growled from the pain, bit deeply into his lower lip, and stifled his sobs. Looking down at the ground, he held up his bloody balls by swiftly, firmly raising his arm, yielding the severed meat to his captors with a 'fuck you' gesture of brave defiance.
The Arab soldiers who had gathered around to watch the de-balling spectacle seemed to hold the youth in some kind of strange respect. Two of them helped the lad to his feet and stroked and patted his shoulders.
He held both hands over his bleeding crotch and hobbled over to a horizontal oil drum that waited in a two-foot high cradle nearby.
They pushed him gently on the back of his shoulders, and he compliantly knelt, stretching his lithe young body belly down over the metal drum. The kid let his athletically-muscled arms hang over the ends of the barrel.
Blood from his crotch wound coated the side of the barrel as it ran in sheets over the metal and down onto the sand.
The lad waited with apparent calmness for his death fuck. That was what was coming -- a final use of the handsome young man's fuck-hole before they offed him.
He apparently expected no less and spread his legs slightly apart and raised his melon-shaped butt cheeks so his rapists would have a better go at him.
The new prisoners being forced to watch the horror show realized that the three men about to die had likely been forced to observe the same ritual performed on their own predecessors, and so they knew exactly what was coming.
The two soldiers who had escorted the de-balled young man to the oil drum now whipped out terrific boners and proceeded to butt-ram their prisoner. They took turns penetrating him, gradually working themselves up in a frenzy until one of the men finally came up the kid's ass.
The sight of his comrade's orgasm pushed the other one over the edge, and he jacked himself off, pumping several huge globs of cock-snot onto the young American's back.
The prisoner's last purpose on earth fulfilled, the Arabs stuffed their receding cocks into their uniforms. One of them took up a long, very slender sword.
"Now you die quick, like we promise," he said softly as he bent over the kid's ear.
The good-looking frat-boy lifted his head slightly so that his neck would meet the descending sword and facilitate a clean decapitation. He was ready to die -- twenty years old with no balls between his legs, what reason was there to live?
The young man's eyes widened with short-lived surprise, however, and he grunted in unexpected pain as he felt the sword touch not the back of his neck, rather his tender rectum.
The swordsman was impaling him with the foil, driving it with one fierce thrust into the boy's ass and through his torso. It rammed its way through the prisoner's guts and chest cavity, finally exiting from his gaping mouth, skewering his tongue.
The young man's body tensed in involuntary contraction for a moment, then suddenly went limp as he passed into oblivion. He lay across the barrel like a shish-kebab.
The soldiers standing around the spectacle broke out into spontaneous applause for the executioner's stylish work.
Armstrong threw up. Ryan wrapped his arm around the lieutenant's bare shoulders and steadied him.
The deaths of the American oil worker and the Canadian sergeant were slower and were preceded by an agonizing destruction of the men's testicles.
First however, they also each had their turn lying belly down over the fuck-barrel. The sergeant went first, grunting as he slid his thick, furry chest over the hot metal and had his thighs pulled apart for easier entry by two horny guards.
They took turns coming to climax inside the handsome prisoner's ample butt, then roughly hauled him to the ground, cutting his bonds.
They staked the sergeant out onto the sand, spread-eagling him on his back. The two men who had raped him knelt beside him and with the prisoner craning his neck to watch, one man held the soldier's big, hairy nuts in position while the other slowly forced a long metal spike through the testicles.
The sergeant threw his head back in the sand, jutting his strong chin and firm Adam's apple up toward the sky as he writhed in agony and let go a high-pitched shriek of desperate pain.
The tormentors left the spike in place while they brought one of the huge Arabian horses out of a nearby stable. The beast was agitated and eager to prance after its long confinement. It was only with difficulty that the men kept it from bolting.
The horse became even more agitated, however, and white-eyed with terror, when the Arabs tethered it to a stake that had been driven into the ground between the sergeant's outstretched legs, then produced a small wooden box with a trap-door on its side.
|They opened the door of the container and shook it, which caused a
four-foot long snake to fall onto the sand and begin slithering toward the
tethered horse and staked-out stud.
The horse immediately reared onto its hind legs, bringing its hooves down in hard pounding strikes as it tried vainly to free itself from its tether and flee the snake.
The men laughed as the Canadian anxiously watched the horse's powerful front legs as they slammed into the ground, often barely missing his own immobilized limbs.
After only a moment or so, the horse did manage to trample the prisoner, first breaking his right leg, then obliterating his left kneecap.
The sergeant screamed from the pain, but sounds did not emanate for long from his hairy, well-muscled chest, for it too was soon pummeled by the wild pounding of the frantic animal.
His ribcage was splintered, the wind had been knocked from him, and bloody gashes were ripped in his pecs and shoulders. Both his arms were broken in several places.
Eventually a falling hoof landed directly on the handsome man's forehead, splitting his skull wide open, splattering red-tinged bits of white bone and gray mush that had been his brains, ending his misery.
They let the horse stomp him until the once proud chunk of man was little more than a broken and bloody pulp, hardly recognizable.
Even before the Canadian had expired, two other guards had secured the tall, lanky American oil rig worker to the fuck-barrel and were having their horny way with him. He was so tall, that as he was rammed from behind, he gradually got shoved headlong over the barrel, so that by the time the first guard came up his ass, the prisoner's face was being rubbed painfully into the sand with each thrust from behind.
The second guard quickly replaced his comrade's failing member with his own big, hard cock and likewise pumped a load of cum up into the hapless American's guts.
They hauled the raped man up off the barrel and dragged him through the blood and gore that littered the sand around the dead Canadian soldier, making him step in the goo that had been his fellow prisoner's guts.
Blood and cum were oozing from the ass-crack of the raped American and running down the inside of his lean, muscular legs.
The Arabs had yet another kind of death in mind for the oil wrangler. It involved seating him atop a four-foot high rounded post that fucked him painfully up the ass. His back rested against a garroting post, behind which his wrists were also tied, and he could only wait in horror as they looped a leather garrote over his head and snuggled it just beneath his Adam's apple.
It was not to be anything as simple as a normal garroting, however. The leather thong around his throat wound around a pulley mounted on the backside of the post and extended from there down to another pulley at ankle level. The end of the strand was tightly tied around first one ankle, then the other, and his ankles were drawn up on either side of the fuck-post, only inches from his ass- cheeks. The ingenious apparatus was set up in such a way that if the victim ever tried to straighten his legs or lower his feet toward the ground, it would cause his own strangulation.
After only a moment, the strain of holding his legs up underneath his ass began to register in the man's face, but each time he lowered his feet a bit the thong pulled tighter so, as he felt himself begin to choke, he summoned the strength necessary to pull his heels back up toward his ass and lessen the tension around his neck.
But of course these fuckers weren't about to let a man die before they had given him a little foretaste of hell -- the sheer agony of ball torture. They accomplished this with the help of some desert wildlife -- the giant scorpions common to the region.
Several of them had been caught and placed in a wooden container -- shaped like a shoebox with a sort of funnel extension at one end. The guard who was conducting the torture opened the lid of the box and showed the hideous things to the frightened prisoner who was waiting in his garrote, sweat streaming from his body.
The creatures were all at least six inches long, evil-looking mother-fuckers, with stinger tails curled back over their bodies. The stingers seemed to glow red and promised to burn hellishly when they injected their fiery poison into a man's flesh. The scorpions were agitated at their confinement and made clicking, scratching noises as they scurried around inside the box.
Despite the desert heat, all the naked men got goose flesh as they realized the horror about to befall their fellow prisoner. Doubtless, if given long enough, the prisoner would die from the scorpion stings. It was clear, though, that before that happened, the stud would likely garrote himself by involuntarily flailing his legs.
The Arab clapped the box shut again and placed it on a stool, positioning it directly in front of the doomed American's crotch. His man-meat was hanging invitingly down between his bent legs, and he watched anxiously, straining his neck against the leather bond around his throat, as his tormentors took his prodigious, low-hanging nuts and carefully dropped them inside the funnel end of the scorpion box.
His long dick rested on top of the box. It took only seconds before the first of the creatures encountered the hairy flesh and attacked it, digging its poisoned barb well into the man's testicle, sending streaks of pain searing through his body.
He screamed as the second sting hit home, then began flailing his head futilely from side to side, trying somehow to free his nuts from the reach of the horrible vermin that were destroying his manhood.
His leg muscles were bulging from the strain of keeping his heels turned up toward his ass so he wouldn't strangle, but it was obviously a lost cause. He took five or six more stings from the scorpions, each of which caused him to jump painfully on the post that was intruding into his ass-crack.
He could feel big, rough splinters of wood from the garroting post being driven into his tanned and finely muscled back as he ground it against the wood. Finally he sobbed mightily and yelped an animal-like cry of anguish and defeat.
He flailed his legs, driving his feet powerfully downward toward the ground, and squeezed his thighs together in a vain attempt to somehow dislodge his nuts from the infernal scorpion trap.
The pulley system and garrote did their work. The thin leather strap tightened immediately around his windpipe, making the arteries in his neck stick out. His face turned red, then purple. His tongue involuntarily protruded from his yap, and his eyes widened in the terrified expression of a man confronting his own death.
As he choked he could still feel the scorpions driving their hateful stingers into his manly flesh, which was already swollen inside the trap. It was an insidious way to go. He knew his own movements were bringing about his death, yet he could do nothing else.
It took only another couple of minutes for him to stop twitching, after which the scorpions were digging their tails into dead meat.
There was another round of appreciative applause from the assembled Arabs as the soldier who had masterminded the torture-death was recognized for his genius.
The first task of the newly arrived American soldiers was to bury the carcasses of their predecessors in the grave the dead men had dug. Ryan took the handsome kid, whose impaled body had been cast aside after his skewering, and dragged the limp, muscular form by clasping him firmly under the arms and around his chest.
Armstrong, still recovering from his earlier bout of queasiness, was unfortunate enough to be assigned to the remains of the trampled sergeant. Fighting back another urge to vomit, he untied the battered corpse, then grabbbed the man's stout ankles and dragged his butt along the sand toward the grave, leaving a trail of blood.
Royce had to extricate the just-deceased American from the garroting post. He hesitated, then gingerly tried to pull the box of scorpions off the dead man's balls, but the nut-sac seemed lodged tightly inside the trap -- his nuts had swollen so tremendously during the scorpion torture, that they could no longer be extracted from the hole.
One of the guards handed Royce his bayonet then, to discourage him from trying anything, he trained a cocked rifle directly to his head as he gestured down to the dead man's crotch.
Royce understood what he was to do. He took a deep breath, then put the sharp edge of the blade against the stretched scrotum. Trying to balance the box of scorpions in one hand, he tried to slice back and forth with the other hand, but the skin was too rubbery to cut through easily, even with a sharp blade. Royce had to let the box hang while he held onto the neck of the garotted man's scrotum with one hand, pulling it tight as he pulled as hard as he could with the bayonet with the other, finally slicing at a slight angle so the blade could cut through.
The box with the oil wrangler's swollen nuts inside fell to the ground. The scorpions hissed and scratched as Royce gingerly picked up the box and handed it to one of the Arabs who laughingly put it down again on the sand, several feet out of the way.
Royce cleaned the bayonet blade by wiping the blood off on the dead man's chest. He handed the weapon back to his captor and proceeded to untie the victim, then haul the tortured corpse, minus its balls, to its final resting place.
The Arabs took turns pissing down onto the naked corpses as the new prisoners began shoveling sand into the hole. When their job was finished they were thrown back into the stinking one-room jailhouse, where they were left alone until dawn the next day.
None of them spoke all that time.
They were roused from fitful sleep at the crack of daylight by boisterous Arabs who were to initiate them to the routine of their daily lives.
First order of the day, as would be the case every day for the remainder of their time there, would be a horse whipping. They were driven from their quarters and order to lean forward against a fence, feet spread apart, grasping the upper rail with both hands. They were not tied in place, rather were required to stand buck naked in that position as each man was administered ten lashes on his back and ass with a horse whip.
This was their 'wake-up exercise'. If any man took his hand from the fence during the punishment, he was swiftly turned around to face the whipman, and his hands were secured behind his back. The offending prisoner was then given five lashes across his chest.
This happened to Armstrong once, and only once, but his big, muscular chest was already so fucked up from the soldering iron torture he'd gotten back at Assad's prison, that it was hard to even notice the new scars.
The next order of business was 'breakfast'. Royce, who quickly came to understand that as a dickless freak, he was there to serve as a cunt slave, was ordered to his knees in front of the two Army Rangers, who stood before him with hands clasped behind their asses, their feet slightly apart. He took each man's cock into his mouth in turn and gently sucked and licked each tool to stiffness. Ryan's was bigger and thicker, though Armstrong's wasn't exactly tiny.
Once he'd brought the men to erection, Royce was instructed to position himself over the now familiar fuck-barrel and spread his ass-cheeks. The two Army Rangers plowed his fuck-hole for him, not something they would normally agree to do, but compared to the other things they were subjected to, not really that unpleasant.
This procedure was repeated day in and day out, so that the men began to conduct the obscene performance almost routinely. They had to be careful, though, not to shoot their loads up into the young Marine's butt, rather to pull out prior to climax and dump their wads onto his butt and back.
The guards monitored this procedure carefully in order to be certain the men were still producing. They understood that once they failed to come, they would be considered near the end of their usefulness and ready for extermination.
Ryan, exercising privilege of rank, usually fucked the Marine first. When he had shot off his spunk onto the small of Royce's back, Armstrong was ordered to lap up his captain's sperm as his morning repast. Then the lieutenant used Royce's fuck-hole in the same manner, providing a shot of man-cream for his captain to consume. They learned to tolerate this sustenance, if not like it, and Ryan even grumbled after a week's time that he wasn't getting as much jizz as his lieutenant, since his balls invariably produced bigger discharges than did Armstrong's.
Both of them fared better than Royce, however, who could neither produce semen nor was allowed to eat it. However, the problems of Royce's slow starvation and the squalor of their prison were solved simultaneously when the two Army men began using the Marine as their toilet.
Royce, in turn, was forbidden by the Ranger officers to shit or take his squat-piss in the prison confines and had to hold it in until such time as he was outside, performing the day's labor.
Their slave labor consisted of lifting huge shovel-loads of horse shit out of some fifty stalls and throwing heavy bales of hay into place for each animal. Occasionally they were ordered to prepare one of the horses for riding by the owner or prospective clients.
The procedure consisted first of throwing a crudely woven saddle pad over the horse's back, then hefting the saddle into place on top of it. The Arabs never trusted the Americans to fasten the saddle correctly and were dismissed at that point so that the stablemaster could finish the job properly and lead the horse outside.
The saddle pads hanging over the side of each stable partition were bristly with countless irregular strands, yet the material had a strangely familiar softness to its feel. It was generally dark in color, but interspersed throughout the weave were light-colored fibers that glinted in the light.
The Arabs found something amusing about the pads, and would often take a piece of this fabric and rub it mockingly against the exposed crotches of the naked slaves. One soldier playfully took his bayonet and made a scraping gesture around Ryan's crotch, then pointed to the saddle pad.
It was then that the men realized the fabric was made of human hair, and not just any hair. Royce remembered the flour sack full of prisoners' crotch hair he had seen Assad collecting back at the gallows. He couldn't help but wonder, how many hundreds of captives, their crotches shorn in humiliating subjugation, had it taken to produce the fur necessary to make these blankets?
|Often they would be taken out to the fields, always past the two
burial pits where their mutilated predecessors lay rotting in the sand.
They were forced to gather hay bales and drag them back to the stables.
Arabian horses produce large quantities of shit and consume huge amounts
The men worked naked and without interruption until sundown. They were constantly overseen by a whip-toting foreman who lashed them severely if they showed any signs of slowing the pace of their work. They were not allowed to speak to one another.
Every second evening they were escorted to the oasis spring where they were allowed to immerse themselves in a small, lukewarm lake and wash the manure from their bodies. A barber was always waiting for them when they emerged from the water.
Each man was seated on a stool and was given a rough, hasty shave, the barber merely scraping the whiskers off the men's faces with a dull blade and no shaving cream. If necessary, their hair was clipped.
Royce always received the additional treatment of a crotch shave, so that he had no thatch and his single remaining clanker always remained denuded. He hated the way the barber manhandled his nut, and he always came away from these shaving sessions with a nicked and bleeding ball-sac.
After several days they made the acquaintance of the operator of the breeding facility, the wealthy, tunic-clad Arab named Khaled.
Royce became familiar with him first, because Khaled frequently entertained prospective buyers with a tour of his stables, and on several occasions Royce was summoned front and center to be shown off to Khaled's guests as his most interesting slave.
The horse breeder trained the handsome Marine to stand bolt upright with his feet slightly apart and his hands clasped behind his neck so that Khaled and his visitors could get a good look at the amputation area.
They often murmurred their amazement or admiration and fondled Royce's one remaining ball with their sword tips. Though Royce understood no Arabic, he could discern from these conversations that Khaled was crediting Assad with the genital mutilation. The name of Royce's ultimate owner/executioner fell numerous times from Khaled's lips, and seemed to be well-known to most of his visitors.
Occasionally Royce was offered to an overnight guest as fuck-meat. After such sessions, when he returned to the little jail in the midst of the compound, his comrades would not disguise their disgust. They began to call him 'Marine Corps Whore'.
This disdain, probably encouraged by Royce's degradation as a shit-eating, piss-drinking, dickless fuck-hole, was only one of several signs of rancor among the threesome. Every other evening, sometimes every third, a pail of beans and rice would be tossed into their holding area for the nourishment of the slaves.
The first time this food was provided, Royce made an attempt to retrieve a share, but he felt Ryan's broad foot planted firmly against his chest. The captain shoved him across the cell and made the situation clear: 'The Army eats this stuff today. The Marine can eat it tomorrow.'
He and the lieutenant promptly consumed all the food, and as promised, they fed it to Royce the next day -- directly out of their ass-holes.
The already existing rivalry among the branches of service provided a helpful tool for their Arab captors, who cleverly pitted Armstrong and Ryan against the bullied young Marine, whom the Rangers even began to call 'Pussy' and 'No-Dick'. Prior to his regular morning rape of the man, Armstrong, whom Royce pegged early on as a 'Grade A Prick', would often make remarks such as,
"OK, Pussy, spread 'em wide. Let's make it a good fuck this morning!"
Armstrong's superior attitude didn't last very long, however. As Royce had immediately suspected upon getting to know the two men, they were both West Pointers, although of different graduating classes. They had never experienced being an ordinary trench grunt like Royce had, and their pampered training led them to believe that they would survive because of who they were, not because of what they could endure.
Khaled, knowledgable of American culture, understood this distinction among the imprisoned soldiers. He took an interest in his elite Ranger slaves, and after the novelty of their presence wore off, he decided to toy with them.
Noting the men's athletic builds, he learned that both Ryan and Armstrong had boxed while at the military academy. Khaled had his men set up a makeshift boxing ring and brought the two Rangers out for a match. They would fight the traditional number of rounds, it was explained to them, and the winner would receive a day's respite from the stables.
There were no boxing gloves, of course, so the bout became a bare-knuckled, bloody brawl. The Arabs and Royce gathered around as spectators. One of the guards, sporting a boner that wouldn't quit, stood behind Royce and clutched the naked man's shoulders. He kept his stiff dick inside Royce's ass during the entire match.
Ryan and Armstrong, enticed by the prospect of a day not spent ankle-deep in horse shit, decided to go through with their captor's wishes and give them a show. Ryan took the first swing. Armstrong was surprisingly adept at the sport, and his lighter, wiry frame made him a difficult target for the taller, heavier captain. The captain's punches, however, once they met their target, were more debilitating than those he took from Armstrong.
Before it was over both men had blackened eyes and bleeding lips. Their fingers hurt tremendously from smashing into the opponent's skull. Ryan suspected he had broken a finger or two on his right hand. Still they fought on, until finally a decisive blow from the powerful captain caught Armstrong right on the jaw and sent him flying backward.
The wind knocked from his lungs, the lieutenant struggled to get back up, but passed out before he got to his knees. Captain Ryan had won. He helped his fallen comrade up, draping a limp arm over his shoulder and half dragging him back to their brig.
When Armstrong woke up, he managed to congratulate Ryan on his victory. Ryan ordered Royce to suck the defeated man's dick, while he reclined his handsome head in Ryan's naked lap.
Royce obeyed, silently cursing the bastard's superiority, but also glad to taste cum for a change instead of less pleasant bodily secretions. He went down on the handsome young lieutenant, imagining wistfully that it wasn't Armstrong's cock he was sucking, rather the luscious boner on his basic training buddy Jameson, the young Marine who had been his cellmate back at Assad's prison -- the handsome young soldier he had seen hanged and jacked off while still in the noose. Assad had made him eat Jameson's man-cum while his buddy strangled.... Just then Armstrong moaned as his hardened cock released a load of cock-snot into Royce's throat.
The Marine obligingly drank it down.
There was of course no reward for the winner. The next morning, when the men protested Khaled's breaking his promise, he ordered them lashed twenty times instead of the usual ten.
They went through their 'fuck and eat cum' ritual and then were all three packed off to a full day of hard labor as usual.
Ryan's victory had actually made him a marked man in Khaled's ever-cautious mind. An officer who would brutally beat his own comrade in a staged contest showed a kind of selfish determination that made him dangerous. He decided to terminate the captain before he became rebellious.
Armstrong, he decided, was weaker and would more easily submit himself to whatever degradations lay ahead. And he had to keep Royce alive in order to return him as promised for Assad's eventual entertainment.
The next morning, when the Americans were rousted out of their brig for their daily whippings, Ryan was surprised to be exempted from the usual punishment. Khaled was present, and while the other two men were being lashed, he remarked in his deliberate but erudite English that he had reconsidered his decision not to reward Ryan for his victory in the ring.
"Today you will feel as much pleasure as your comrades feel pain," he announced with a smile.
Ryan was dragged over to two upright posts that were planted in the ground some seven or eight feet apart. The hunky American officer was spread-eagled between them and shackled in chains.
"Between them your friends today claim twenty lashes of the horse whip," Khaled explained. "You, however, my brave friend, will experience a manly exultation even as many times."
The Arab lasciviously cupped Ryan's fat balls in the palm of his hand.
"Are you capable of so much pleasure, my friend?" he wanted to know. "Because I warn you -- failing to bring forth seed when you are called upon to do so will be taken as a grave offense against our hospitality. A very grave offense."
Ryan understood he was being set up. They were toying with him, humiliating him by milking him like a God-damn cow, then they'd finish him off when he went dry. He had wondered when it would happen. But, he wondered, how would they do it?
Then he saw the good-looking little pussy-assed, no-dick Marine, his back once again bloodied by the morning ritual, being dragged over toward where Ryan was chained.
The captain's dick sprang suddenly to life as he thought of what he would normally be doing at this time of the morning -- planting his thick meat firmly between the bubble butt cheeks of the Marine Corps Whore. It occurred to him, as he felt his prodigious member swell and rise to the occasion, that he might just have twenty cums in him after all.
Khaled was delighted that Ryan appeared to be accepting his challenge. He ordered a reclining chair brought out so that he could lounge and watch the morning's entertainment.
Royce started the marathon by getting on his hands and knees in front of the spread-eagled captain and sucking Ryan's dick as commanded by Khaled's henchman. After a few moments Ryan grunted, threw his head back, and puffed out his big, marred chest.
"Yes!? He has produced?" asked Khaled excitedly. "Do not swallow his seed!" he ordered Royce. "Let it fall to the sand and die in the sun!"
Royce reluctantly pulled off of Ryan's engorged cock just in time for several gobs of white man-juice to fly out of the prisoner's flinching member and dot the sand in front of him. Some of the jizz landed in Royce's hair and on his face.
Royce wiped the bitter cream off with his fingers, which he then inserted in his mouth.
Khaled had an abacus next to his chair, and he now slid one bead over as he began to keep count of Ryan's ejaculations.
Armstrong's role in the ordeal was to provide hand-jobs. The henchman orchestrating Khaled's plan made the naked lieutenant kneel in front of the powerful man who had only yesterday beaten him unconscious in the boxing ring.
They held his right hand in place yelling in his ear until Armstrong finally succumbed and grabbed hold of the still stiff prick. It was an action that would have gotten him thrown out of the Army.
He began to slide the loose cock-skin back and forth along Ryan's elongated member, occasionally running his thumb over the glans.
Ryan inhaled deeply and prepared once again for a climax. It came only moments later, a shot of wad that was just as voluminous as the first one.
Ryan's body went temporarily limp and hung from the chains, but he regained his composure when Armstrong was told to jack the man once again.
They set up a pattern of four jack-offs by Armstrong, followed by one intermittent blow-job by the gentle-mouthed Royce. Only seconds were allowed between ejaculation and the commencement of the next arousal.
By the time Royce crawled up for his third suck, he knew Ryan's dick must hurt him like hell, but it was still rock hard and still popping cum. He gained a new respect for the man. Even in his days as the Clanker, Royce doubted he could match Ryan's manly stamina.
He did notice, though, as he pulled off of Ryan's slick dick to allow his jism to once again spurt into a growing puddle in the sand, that the amount of ejaculate was growing smaller with each climax. As the marathon cum session continued, Khaled, who was reclining in leisure, rubbing his own hard cock through the material of his tunic, began to grow concerned.
By the time Royce was up at bat for his fourth approach, Ryan had shot his load an incredible fifteen times. He was groaning heavily now with each attack on his man-meat, and between gropes he would curse in agony.
Armstrong was cheering him on with encouragement like,
"OK, man! One more shot! Yeah, that's it! Nice blow!"
Despite the lengthy abuse, when they put it to him, Ryan somehow always managed to deliver his juice. Obviously, the ordeal would have to be made a little more challenging in order to assure the desired outcome.
Khaled approached Armstrong as he was about to grasp Ryan's horn yet another time. He wrenched the hand away and turned the palm up so that he could spit in it several times. Then he thrust the downturned palm of Armstrong's hand into the sand. He stepped on the hand and ground it into the sand beneath his shoe.
"Now pleasure him!" Khaled screamed at Armstrong. "Use your hand to pleasure him!"
Armstrong looked up at his Army buddy and sadly obeyed the orders of his sadistic master. He grabbed Ryan's increasingly raw dick with a hand that was now coated with sand and began once again to jack him.
The sand rubbed Ryan's cock raw even as he also once again felt a spurt of man-juice welling up inside and making its way up through his dick-tube. It was his smallest wad yet.
Armstrong's hand was once again coated with sand, and he was ordered to again grasp Ryan's protruding horn and stroke it to climax. This time Ryan cried out in dreadful agony as he felt the flesh on his thick tube-meat rubbed off. A few drops of nearly clear fluid appeared at his piss slit as he grunted from the exertion of sexual climax.
Khaled nodded and clicked another bead across the abacus -- it had been just enough semen to count. It would be the last, however. Armstrong's painful hand was unable to coax even another drop of juice out of the hapless man's cock. He rubbed it vigorously, causing Ryan to curse and scream. Armstrong begged his captain to produce even just a drop more.
"Come on, man -- Fuck, fuck!!" he yelled up at his agonized buddy.
But it was to no avail. He had reached ejaculation Number seventeen, which was to be his last. Only three short of survival.
Khaled grinned and approached the weakened, nearly unconscious prisoner once Armstrong had finally given up and removed his tired hand from Ryan's ravaged dick.
"Tisk, tisk," he muttered with mock disapproval.
He lifted Ryan's handsome chin from where it rested against his broad chest and spoke directly into his face,
"Has your cock betrayed you, American? I do not look kindly on this effrontery. You shall suffer severe consequences."
They left Ryan hanging in his chains all day and all night. He was never to return to the brig that Royce and Armstrong now occupied by themselves.
The following day, when a visiting horse trader got into a dispute with Khaled over which man's steed was more powerful, Khaled realized a useful end for the ball-dead soldier. Ryan, barely conscious, his tongue swollen with thirst, was removed from his chains and dragged to the grassy oasis pasture where the horses were exhibited to potential buyers.
|They dropped him on his backside and proceeded to tie each of his
limbs with heavy ropes. They wrapped not only his wrists and ankles
securely, but ran the ropes midway up each limb and tied them tightly
there as well. Ryan craned his neck and saw two enormous Arabian horses
being backed toward him from either side.
The ropes from his right leg and arm were being tied to the saddle horn
on one horse. The bonds on his left side were extended to the other steed.
In all his military training, much of which prepares one mentally for the
reality that brave young men will have to sacrifice their studly bodies on
the battlefield, Ryan had never come close to contemplating death by
A shadow crossed the captain's face, and he opened his eyes to focus on the monster Khaled, who was kneeling between his prisoner's outstretched legs.
Khaled smiled, looking Ryan intently in the eye, and slowly unfastened his tunic, letting it fall behind him. He knelt naked and erect before the man he was about to kill. He was lean and powerfully muscled, and his darkly colored penis already dripped with the first pearls of his fuck-juice.
"Your friends pleasured you, now you must pleasure me before you die," was all the Arab said.
Two assistants tugged in opposite directions on the ropes that bound Ryan's legs, lifting them up and apart so that his sizeable ass and exposed, pink fuck-hole leered invitingly at the rapist.
Khaled used no oil or salve. He did not need it to increase his pleasure, rather he plowed his stiff poker confidently into the big American's vulnerable ass, pumping in and out and moaning with delight while Ryan winced and sought somehow to endure this latest degradation. Khaled grabbed his victim's bloody, raw sexmeat and yanked it, twisted it until Ryan screamed and sobbed, begging for an end to the agony.
Ryan's broken spirit was what tipped Khaled over the edge and he finished the death fuck by shooting eight, then nine bursts of hot cum up the American officer's big, firm ass.
After he withdrew, Khaled patted Ryan appreciatively on his massive, heavily scarred chest. He was breathing heavily, almost panting from the exertion of his sexual conquest. Finally he smiled again, a twinkle in his eye, and turned to his two assistants.
"Crush his balls!" he ordered them in English for Ryan's benefit.
Then he repeated the command in Arabic.
Two smooth rocks were used. They positioned one underneath Ryan's doomed testicle, then brought the other down swiftly and heavily on top of the nut, squishing it flat.
Ryan howled, his entire body tensing and arching upward. They repeated the procedure with his other nut.
Khaled seemed satisfied as he looked down on the writhing, blubbering remains of a once proud Army officer. With the other horse trader looking on, he ordered the two steeds spurred forward.
They quickly took up all the slack in the ropes that were tied to the naked prisoner, whereupon each horse was lashed on its buttocks to drive it forward.
Ryan's body was lifted off the ground as the intense pressure built and the two horses vied for the honor of being the first to rip the man's arm and leg off.
Ryan gritted his teeth and looked with unspeakable terror from one horse to the other as the pain mounted. Soon he was no longer able to resist the pull and was forced to relax his arm and leg muscles. He knew the end was very close. He could hear the Arabs yelling and lashing the horses.
A cracking noise signaled that his left leg had been snapped out from the pelvis. He screamed, forgetting the excruciating pain in his testicles, then felt his muscles go slack as if involuntarily.
He let himself go -- let the horses take him where they would. His right arm popped out of its socket, then he felt it disengage completely, the muscles and tendons ripping away from his shoulder. His right leg snapped at the pelvis and began to tear away, but not before his left leg separated completely.
All the horse's might was now concentrated on the left shoulder socket, which offered little resistance. The horse on the left -- Khaled's steed -- had won. The horse on the right pulled Ryan's dismembered body by its one remaining leg nearly a hundred feet, leaving a wide smear of blood over the grass.
One of the executioners' assistants brought the animal to a halt, and Khaled's guest, the owner of the horse that had narrowly lost the contest, ran after the dismembered soldier in order to watch him die. He withdrew a small, crescent-shaped castration knife from his belt and held it up for Khaled to see from a distance.
While Ryan bled to death, his naked trunk twitching in the throes of death, the Arab requested permission of his host to remove the victim's genitals. Khaled was puzzled by the request, since the smashed balls and sanded cock-meat were hardly desirable trophies. Perhaps the man intended to dry the sexmeat and grind it into a powder. He had heard that some considered such a substance to be an aphrodisiac. Or perhaps he just wanted the pleasure of condemning the man to die de-sexed.
Having bested his guest, in the horse-pull, Khaled found that this insignificant request was the least he could accede to, and he called out his willing consent.
The man quickly knelt beside the hunky, bleeding soldier who was in shock and rapidly fading. Ryan was strangely aware that he had only one badly damaged leg left, and that his other leg and both his arms were missing. Soon his cock and balls were gone too.
The assistant placed a stone beneath the dying man's head, propping it up so that the last thing the captain saw before dying was his own dick and nuts being severed from his once splendid body.
After the horse trader had placed Ryan's heavy man-meat in his leather carrying pouch, he drew his sword and instructed the assistant to re-position the stone that was under Ryan's head. The Arab placed it beneath the dead man's neck, so that it thrust his Adam's apple up into the air. His head hung back toward the ground.
The swordsman beheaded the American for good measure, his sword slicing through Ryan's thick neck, just at the Adam's apple, and clanking against the stone below. His handsome head rolled free, leaving a torso virtually free of appendages.
Royce and Armstrong were ordered to gather the scattered, bloody body parts from the field and drag what was left of Ryan to a hastily dug grave. They were issued the same ill-fitting digging boots and spades which they had seen their predecessors use to dig their own grave.
Khaled approached Armstrong as he sweated profusely in the sun while desperately trying to dig a sand pit deep enough to hold his buddy's remains. He was eager to cover over the horror of Ryan's demise.
"Make it big enough for two men," Khaled ominously instructed his slave.
They continued digging until the Arabs decided the pit was big enough, then they threw Ryan into it. The Arabs spread some lime over the hunky captain's remains but did not allow the men to fill the grave. They were told the work would be finished tomorrow and were sent to the brig.
During the night Armstrong refrained from abusing his Marine cellmate the way he and Ryan had been doing for the past weeks. When a pail of rice and beans appeared in their quarters, Armstrong gave half to Royce. Ryan's death had robbed him of direction and motivation. He was a follower, not a leader, and without the knee-jerk, masculine authority of his handsome captain to inspire him, he didn't know what to do. He cowered in the corner of the cell muttering
while he fought back the urge to cry.
Royce couldn't help dishing out a little shit. After all, he had certainly eaten plenty of Armstrong's. 'You better get it up tomorrow morning, Armstrong',Royce taunted,
"Remember, there's an open grave waiting for you."
The next morning, as if in fulfillment of prophecy, their morning ritual went awry. Immediately after their back wounds had been re-opened by ten lashes of the whip, Royce knelt and began sucking the lieutenant's dick. It did not respond. Only after considerable effort and a great deal of lingual agility on the part of the resourceful Marine did Armstrong's pecker finally get semi-stiff.
When Royce draped himself over the fuck-barrel in his usual morning posture, Armstrong's dick kept going soft on him and wouldn't let him penetrate the Marine's willing ass. He bore-stroked it frantically, cursing his peter for giving out on him, but he just couldn't get it hard enough to fuck Royce, let alone shoot a wad of cream.
|Khaled was on hand to observe the dysfunction, which of course sealed
Armstrong's fate. As he shoved Royce off of the fuck-barrel and pushed
Armstrong belly down onto it in his place, he told Armstrong,
"I will show you how it is done."
He beckoned to two of his horniest guards, who promptly dropped their pants and nursed their semi-stiff cocks to full attention in order to rape the hapless lieutenant.
He grunted, squealed, and sobbed as he once again felt the intrusion of enemy cock up his tight, sensitive West Point ass. Then it sank in -- this was his death fuck.
Hysterically, crazily, he began calling Ryan's name. The doomed young lieutenant alternately begged for mercy and threatened unspecified retribution. Occasionally he would scream something utterly ridiculous, such as
"I'm an American!"
It was clear to Royce that the only other surviving Westerner in the whole frigging compound had gone completely off his nut.
Once the soldiers were through coming up his ass, they led one of the horses out of the stable. It was a stallion they were using as a stud. The animal was excited and aroused, having been stabled next to a female in heat.
The horse's eyes flashed white, and he tossed his head excitedly as he trotted. Its enormous, mean-looking horse cock was engorged and very prominent as it jutted from underneath his belly.
The Arabs laughed as the horse was led to Armstrong, whose ass was still sticking up in the air, waiting to be fucked. The horse was led into a position straddling the prisoner. The huge horse dong found its target in Armstrong's ass, and the stallion began to plow it.
The lieutenant screamed bloody murder as he felt his rectum plundered by the frantic thrusts of the sex-starved beast. The horse-cock was so enormous and its thrusts so violent that Armstrong's pelvis was disjointed by the animal rape.
He felt his lower abdomen split open and his guts begin to spill from his ass-hole. The horse-cock penetrated so deeply that Armstrong though he could feel it plunging up against his stomach.
Somehow he remained conscious throughout the ordeal, but his entire frame was twitching involuntarily when they pulled the horse off him.
Lieutenant Armstrong was ready to die. The Arabs escorted him to the open grave he and Royce had dug the day before. Huge horseflies were buzzing in and out of it, attracted to the rotting flesh of the dead Army captain who lay in pieces at the bottom of the pit.
The lieutenant was weak-kneed and whimpering. Blood ran profusely from his ass-hole down the insides of his legs, and his guts hung grotesquely out of his ass-crack.
They tied the prisoner's hands behind him, and while he stood near the edge of the pit, one of the soldiers, after a nod from Khaled, brought the dreaded scorpion trap and shoved it into Armstrong's exposed crotch.
He screamed for them not to, incapable of believing that still more torture was in store for him, but of course they ignored him and stuffed his furry man-balls into the open end of the box. They jostled the box in order to rile up its occupants.
Armstrong forgot the searing pain in his ass and guts; he almost immediately doubled over by new pain in his balls as the wicked creatures jabbed him with their poison.
After a couple of moments of this torture, they removed the scorpions from his nuts and began cinching his swelling nut-sac with quarter-inch nylon rope. They wrapped it tight around one abused ball, then around the other, and finally encircled his whole scrotum several times at the base before tying it off with a firm knot.
There was a long lead of rope extending out from his crotch, like a leash. They tugged on the lead, which sent waves of excruciating pain through the swelling red testicles. Armstrong's shrieks went up an octave in pitch. Why couldn't they just fucking kill him and get it over with?
Khaled approached the bound prisoner and placed his hand flat against Armstrong's muscular chest.
"I despise your weakness," he said simply and quietly.
Then he shoved the American backward so that he dropped into the grave.
He took six feet of the rope with him, but there was still plenty of lead to give his tormentors a good hold, and they tugged again on his tortured balls, enjoying the shrill screams emanating from below.
Royce was ordered to help the Arab soldiers, and they quickly shoveled sand down into the pit.
Armstrong realized he would have to stand up to keep from being buried alive. He gained a foothold on top of the sturdy torso of Ryan, the dead captain who already occupied the grave, and positioned the arches of his bare feet over the firmly rounded mounds of chest muscle -- boxer's pectorals.
At this height his chin was above the level of the ground around him. He looked up at the men shoveling sand around him and cursed them, especially Royce, on whom he hysterically, desperately blamed his entire dilemma.
"Marine Whore, you didn't suck me hard enough!" he yelled. "I could have come if you'd blown me right!"
Royce, tired of the West Point prick, the taste of whose shit he still had in his mouth, merely threw a shovelful of sand in the bastard's face.
The Arabs laughed. One of them stopped shoveling and unzipped himself in order to piss onto the condemned man. Soon two others followed suit, and before long, Armstrong's head and chest were soaked with stinking yellow man-piss.
By the time the sand was up to his tits, Armstrong had become almost completely immobilized. On occasion he would become momentarily quiet, and when this happened the soldier holding his ball leash would give him a hefty yank and make the prisoner scream from the pain in his swollen nuts. After only a short time more the hole had been filled, and sand was up to Armstrong's jutting Adam's apple. Only his head protruded above the ground.
Suddenly he dropped slightly farther into the sand and with a new look of wide-eyed panic, he screamed,
"Fuck! His chest is caving in! Oh, fuck! I'm standing in him!
"God-damn it, I feel his goo under my feet!"
He was nearly bawling as he felt Ryan's body crushed beneath him. His head was bent back at an angle now, staring directly into the desert sun, and his chin was buried in the sand, barely leaving his lips and nose exposed above ground level. He prayed not to sink any further.
Khaled placed an ornate porcelain dish only inches from Armstrong's nearly submerged face, then poured clear, cold water into it from a jug. He then withdrew a pouch of salt from under his tunic, poured some into the palm of his hand, and rubbed it onto Armstrong's lips and into his mouth.
The lieutenant spat and choked as the combination of heat and salt began to burn his face and lips. Then he screamed as the men yanked violently on his ball leash, sending waves of unbearable pain through his whole body. Khaled now produced an elaborate curved sword with a jewel-encrusted hilt.
"This is what will kill you, Weak One," he informed the doomed man. "But only when you request it.
"Kiss the blade that will take your life."
He held the sharp sword's edge up to Armstrong's salt-blistered lips, but the prisoner merely tried to spit on it though his mouth was already dry, and he screamed hoarsely a particularly foul curse at his chief executioner.
"You will ask for the blade," Khaled assured him. "And sooner than you think."
He gave some final instructions to his men, then retired to his quarters to await news of the prisoner's condition.
After thirty minutes or so the Arabs grew bored and began taking turns at the ball leash, each man seeing which one could yank it with the most force. Armstrong could only yell, his agonized cries growing more hoarse with each administration of torture. They appeared to be attempting to rip his scorpion-stung balls off altogether with the firmly-tied rope, after which they would pull the trophy up through the sand.
This didn't happen, which in a way was unfortunate for the hapless Amercan officer, since emasculation, after the initial shock had receded, would actually have spared him a lot of pain.
After an hour or so, tears streaming from the handsome lieutenant's eyes as he looked pitifully at the inaccessible bowl of water, Armstrong began blubbering something new around his swollen tongue. Royce was shoved to the ground and ordered to listen to what the man was saying.
The Marine crouched beside his fellow prisoner's reddened and blistered face and heard him croak,
"Please, I'm begging -- kill me!"
Making the gesture of the slit throat, Royce nodded up to his captors,
"Bring the sword...."
One of the men immediately ran for Khaled.
The Arab boss appeared soon after, his tunic flowing in a hot desert breeze, that was now kicking up sand into Armstrong's abused face. Servants carried an ornate chair along behind him and positioned it in convenient view of the impending decapitation.
Before seating himself, Khaled flung off his tunic, letting it fall to his feet and revealing his tightly-muscled, stiff-pricked body. He situated himself in his comfortable chair and clicked his fingers to the guards who were standing on either side of his Marine slave.
They shoved Royce over to the waiting Arab and flung him butt first into Khaled's lap. Royce felt the man's incredible boner poke his ass and shifted uncomfortably as it found its awkward way up his fuck-hole.
Khaled grabbed Royce's one remaining clanker and squeezed it hard with his right hand, while pinching the man's nipple with his left. With each squeeze, Royce jumped a little from the pain, then settled back a little farther down on Khaled's erect penis.
Khaled enjoyed the procedure immensely -- squeezing Royce's ball was rather like operating a hand-held squeeze pump. After a moment or so Royce had been jostled all the way down onto the handsome Arab's lap, so that Khaled's cock was buried to the hilt up the hot Marine ass.
Khaled assigned the execution to one of the soldiers, who bowed before Khaled to express his gratitude for the honor.
"I hope you die better than you lived, Lieutenant!" called out Khaled derisively to the condemned man.
The soldiers began shoving aside the sand from around Armstrong's neck. They exposed his throat and the tops of his shoulders, giving the swordsman enough maneuvering room to behead his victim.
"Now kiss my sword, Lieutenant!" Khaled ordered.
This time there was a firm anger in his voice.
The executioner held the blade up to Armstrong's mouth. Armstrong hesitated. The Arab with the leash yanked his balls with another forceful heave, causing him to cry out in agony.
The sword was once again brought close to his face, and this time he met it with pursed lips. The victim looked straight ahead with dull and unfocused eyes as he awaited his doom.
"Good! Now take off his head!" Khaled called.
The command in English was obviously for Armstrong's benefit. Khaled's dick spasmed inside Royce's ass. He was getting off on the scene. He twisted Royce's tender nipple so hard that the Marine cried out in pain.
The swordsman drew the sword well back over his shoulder, rather like a golfer or a baseball batter, then swooped it powerfully downward, leveling it as it neared the ground.
There was a sickening thwack as the blade met Armstrong's neck. His handsome head went flying in a spray of blood. It rotated longitudinally in the air as it flew fifty feet and landed with a thud in the sand.
Royce's eyes were still open, staring vacantly, and his swollen tongue protruded from his mouth.
'So much for the fucking Rangers,' thought Royce as Khaled's dick continued to poke him.
The moment of impact was the moment of Khaled's ejaculation. He had grunted softly and shot large, hot wads of spunk up into Royce's guts.
The ground around Armstrong's burial plot was soaked with blood. The men scattered sand over it to discourage the horseflies. They left the lieutenant's headless body buried upright and refilled the small depression they had dug around Armstrong's head. Only the trail of rope lying on the ground was a reminder that an Army Ranger was buried there, his feet planted firmly inside the mutilated body of a dead comrade.
When Khaled had spent himself up Royce's ass, he impatiently shoved the Marine aside and dressed himself. Royce was dragged to the brig and thrown in. Armstrong's decapitated head was tossed in after him. He would spend the night with it.
The next morning Royce was spared the horse whipping that he had endured each day since his arrival. He was escorted to the stables, where he spent the day with a shovel, doing the work of three men. But even when his pace slowed as exhaustion overtook him, his guards did not lay the whip on him as they usually did. In the evening he was allowed to bathe in the small spring-fed lake.
When he returned to the brig, he was relieved to find that the severed head of his former cellmate had been removed. There was a pot of rice and beans waiting for him, which he consumed ravenously.
It occurred to him as he ate that his improved treatment was likely a sign that his time at the horse farm was nearly up. He was to be returned soon to Assad, and Khaled did not wish to return Assad's property in shabby condition.
Soon after Royce had consumed his repast, a medical officer entered the jail and applied salve to the young Marine's cut-up back to encourage the lash marks to heal. He then had Royce stand up while he poured a scented oil onto his shoulders, letting it run down his body.
Tugging gently on his one ball, the officer led Royce out of the jail and toward the building that contained Khaled's private quarters.
When he entered the Arab's bed chamber, he was taken aback by the size of the bed that stood in the center of the room. It was enormous -- big enough for twenty men to engage comfortably in an orgy -- something which had no doubt happened there.
Khaled was reclined among satin pillows, nude. He beckoned for Royce to join him, and two attendants made sure he complied by shoving him forward.
As he fondled Royce's nut and ran the tip of his index finger around the scarred hole where his cock had once hung, Khaled remarked,
"You pleasured me greatly today while we watched your friend die. You will pleasure me one last time tonight.
"Tomorrow you return to prison to have your sentence carried out. Assad is your real master. I will send you to him with my seed in your body."
He threw the handsome Marine belly down onto the bed and mounted him. He rutted the man fiercely and without lubrication.
Royce, however, scarcely felt the pain in his rear. The humiliation of once again being used by his captors hardly registered at all. All he could think of as he lay there submitting to his rape was Assad's massive, hair-covered chest, the obscenely large bulge in Assad's crotch, the hideous ball-crushing instruments Assad kept at the gallows, the kiss Assad had given him on the lips as they parted, and that noose...
that God-damn noose....
|A few comments ...
American soldiers are no longer told to resist torture, giving information, or signing confessions. They are not to resist heroically. This is because information will already be out of date and useless if not misleading. And signed confessions under duress are worthless. There is no sense in men not cooperating with their captors.
It is a frequent observation that men cooperate in their own executions and murders. If they resisted with force and/or violence, they could not be so easily overcome. As here, all men were killed. If they had rushed their original captors, they had a chance of overcoming by sheer numbers. Guns jam, men hesitate, some will never fire. Without their cooperation, the men would have not been captured.
We have made the argument before -- the world needs slavery as a recognized, legitimate institution. If there was an established mechanism for selling men captured in war or other hostilities, there would be an economic incentive not to kill them. In the past few years, this has been especially evident in civil wars in Laos, Afghanistan, Somalia, Rwanda, Bosnia-Herzegovena, and Georgia. Slavery is bad, but death is worse. When there's life, there's hope.