chapter 2: the Noose
 
Marine Private Royce was hauled naked and handcuffed into the back of an Arab transport. They were taking him to the place where he would be executed. His slavery at the Arabian horse farm had ended with the protracted executions of his fellow prisoners, two captured Army Rangers. 

Now it was Royce's turn to bite it. His dick had already been amputated by the sadistic hangman, Assad, known to the Marine and Army Ranger captives whom he executed as "the Ball-Crusher." The hairy-chested giant Assad had likewise severed one of the proud Marine's sizeable nuts before sending him off to slavery. Royce, or what was left of him, would now be returned to Assad so that he could follow his buddies, who had earlier dropped through Assad's infamous trap-door, their squished manhood dangling pitifully between their naked legs. 

The executioner had taken a special interest in Royce, even paying for his return to the prison so that no one but Assad would have the privilege of finishing off the handsome Marine. Royce knew, however, that Assad wouldn't have gone to that trouble if all he had in mind was a swift snap of the neck. He could only speculate what Assad would put him through before allowing him to die. It would likely make the horrors of the horse stables seem like a picnic. 

Another truck pulled into the compound just as Royce's transport was about to depart. Three captives, all Westerners, were shoved out of the back of the vehicle. Their clothing was promptly ripped off of them. They appeared to be the typical sort of captives impressed into slavery at the oasis young, strong, virile. 

Royce heard one of the young men talk back defiantly as he was being stripped. He had an accent from the southern US. Perhaps a college kid like one whom Royce had seen executed when he first arrived at the farm. Another prisoner, a hunky man in his early twenties, wore a US Navy uniform. He was perhaps a sailor, now presumed AWOL, who had been kidnapped and sold while on shore leave in the port of some neighboring emirate. 

The final man was a handsome young blond, who cried out in a language Royce guessed was Dutch. No telling what his story was. The only certainty now was that the trio would suffer indignities they could not have imagined, including forced sex with each other and daily "milking." They would be put to death when they could no longer "produce." 

From what Royce could see, the men seemed well-endowed, which gave him hope but also a sense of dread that the new captives would endure a lengthy imprisonment before their gonads played out. 

Looking out the back of the truck as it rolled away from the horse farm, Royce noticed several Arab soldiers and Khaled, the cruel owner of the place, mounted on magnificent steeds and engaging in a game of polo. Their mallets bashed a peculiar object, much larger than a polo ball, which appeared to be securely wrapped in white cloth. With each successive blow from a mallet, the object acquired more and more of a red color. 

Royce realized they were using as a polo ball the severed nod of Lt. Armstrong, one of the Army Rangers who had shared his prison cell. Only a couple of hours earlier Royce had been forced to watch as Armstrong was beheaded. 

He turned away in disgust and contemplated his own fate. One of the guards riding with Royce grinned with sadistic pleasure as he saw that his prisoner had understood the nature of the polo match. Then he gave Royce a quick gesture of the slit throat, reminding him that he too was about to die. 

An hour down the nearly impassable desert road the truck lurched suddenly to one side, then stopped. A tire had blown, and the Arab soldiers shouted curses of impatience. 

They hauled Royce down out of the truck, unshackled him, and poked him with gun barrels and bayonet points as they forced him to take a tire iron and begin replacing the tire. They cooed and taunted him the whole time, frequently reaching around and tugging on his one remaining testicle, which they used as a kind of handle with which to lead the prisoner and control him. If he failed to move fast enough, they squeezed his one good ball tightly until Royce cried out from the pain. 

When the replacement tire was finally tightened into place, the men rewarded Royce for his service by flinging him belly down over the old tire and kicking his legs apart. 

The men were horny, and Royce's strong young Marine ass was inviting. He braced himself for yet another rape session by his captors. His ass was so abused from such repeated treatment that he no longer felt the pain of the intrusion the way he once had. 

Back at the horse farm they had forced Ryan and Armstrong to butt-fuck Royce every morning, though in the end the two Army Rangers had ceased to protest this requirement and had begun to enjoy abusing their Marine compatriot. 

Royce still screamed loudly, however, when the fuckers reached beneath his crotch for the dangling sexmeat he had been left with. They squeezed it tight while they rammed him, and this seemed to get their rocks off. 

The spectators enjoyed each rape immensely. They stood in a circle around Royce and rubbed their hard-ons in appreciation of the Marine's repeated humiliation. 

Before it was over, five well-hung Arabs plowed the young man's ass, each of them shooting off a load of cum into Royce's gut. Then they cuffed him again, threw his ass back into the truck, and headed off to keep Royce's appointment with his execu tioner. 

It was nearing dark when the transport once again lurched to a sudden halt, and surprised shouts of alarm could be heard from the cab up front. 

The Arab soldiers sprang one by one from the rear of the truck and were mowed down by automatic rifle fire as soon as they hit the ground. Subsequent small arms fire made sure each one was dead, and the same fate was met by the men up front, whose brains were splattered all over the inside of the truck cab. 

The tarpaulin flap was yanked back, and Royce, unable to fathom what was happening, saw several rifles aimed at him, their owners cautiously concealing their heads. 

Slowly the helmeted, fresh-faced nod of a strapping young US Marine raised itself to peer into the truck's interior. 

"Damn, boy!" the Marine said as he caught sight of the naked Royce. "Who the fuck are you?" 

Royce didn't know what to answer. 

Suspicious that the missing transport plane full of Marines and Army Rangers had not dropped into the Red Sea but had actually fallen into hostile hands, a surprise incursion had been secretly mounted by the Pentagon in order to ascertain the fate of the men and, if possible, rescue them. 

The prison where the men had been briefly held, then executed, fell quickly and easily into the hands of the invading Marines, and the adjacent settlement had been devastated by napalm. 

The few Arabs who resisted were killed, those who surrendered were being sys tematically executed by Marine firing squads in order to protect the secrecy of the mission. It would be obvious that someone had been there, but no one would be left alive to say exactly who. 

They were to pull out that very same night. 

The mass executions of so many American servicemen at the hands of a piss- ant Arab emirate was also not something the brass wanted generally known bad PR back home, bad for morale within the armed services, and as Royce soon learned, the "official story" would indeed be that his plane had been "lost at sea no survivors." 

Royce's transport, having reached the outer perimeter of the prison, had unsus pectingly driven into the midst of the Marines' mopping-up operation. 

As the only survivor of the ordeal, he was a strange sight to his fellow jarheads, no less a dickless freak to them than to the Arabs who had been tormenting him for the past weeks. 

His physical inspection by a field medic was cursory. 

"No broken bones," was all the medic said. 

He did, however, spend a considerable amount of time prodding Royce's mutilated genital area an examination which showed normal healing of the amputation wounds and no signs of infection. 

The medic also had Royce bend over and grab his ankles so he could inspect the young Marine's rectum. The abuse Royce had suffered at the hands of his captors and his fellow prisoners was no doubt obvious to anyone checking out his fuckhole. 

"Hmmm. . ." was the medic's only comment as Royce spread his ass cheeks. 

Royce's debriefing and interrogation by a Marine lieutenant colonel named Forrester was quick, concise, and often unpleasant. 

Royce spoke with some urgency about the executions of three Westerners he had witnessed upon his arrival at the horse farm, and about the plight of the three newcomers there, but the officer showed little interest in the information. 

He sat passively, at one point leisurely lighting a handsome cigar. Royce sus pected it was a Cuban cigar. Forrester was, evidently, highly connected. 

The lieutenant colonel made some notes on a paper in front of him when Royce described the electrotorture and eventual execution of officers in the prison and the torture crucifixion of Army Rangers Ryan and Armstrong, after which they were sent with Royce to the horse farm. 

"Ryan and Armstrong didn't survive?" Forrester asked. 

"They were . . . beheaded," Royce responded. 

He decided not to go into the details of his relationship with the Army men while they were imprisoned together. His ass ached just thinking about the daily rape sessions at the hands of the two big Rangers. 

Scribbling something on his notepad, Forrester muttered laconically, 

"Uh huh." 

He exhaled a lungful of cigar smoke in Royce's direction, 

"But you did survive . . ." 

Forrester seemed to be suggesting Royce should have gotten it in the neck like the others. Maybe he was right. 

Most disconcerting to Royce was the decision not to give him anything to wear. He sat in front of a bright light in a little office located in the same building as the gallows where his buddies had died and where he had suffered the mutilation of his manhood. 

Outside, at periodic intervals, volleys of rifle shots could be heard in the prison courtyard. The Arab soldiers were being taken in pairs before a firing squad, tied to two posts in front of the prison wall, and shot through the chest. 

Often the condemned men screamed something right before the command to fire was given. 

Royce thought he could discern an Arab phrase he had picked up during his ser vitude, 'Allah is great!' the men shouted, after which the crack of the rifles signalled their deaths. 

Noticing Royce's interest in the sounds of the execution squad, Forrester said, 

"We're taking them out to the mass grave where they dumped your buddies. 

"You say one of the executioners here tortured the men he hanged?" 

"The Ball Crusher," replied Royce, as if in a daze. "A big, hairy mother- fucker. 

"He shaved us, then popped our nuts while we waited in the noose. Sometimes he took half an hour to get around to dropping a guy. 

"The other one Hamed, the guy with glasses he just dropped them quick and clean. 

"Which one a guy got sent to was just the luck of the draw. We all hoped we'd get Hamed and go out with our balls still hanging low." 

His gaze once again lowering to the young Marine's shaved, mutilated crotch, Forrester said simply, 

"Hamed's dead. The men got carried away when they found out he was the hangman who dropped their buddies. 

"I couldn't have stopped the lynching even if I had wanted to. He's still in there, dangling in his own noose." 

"Assad too?" Royce asked. 

He didn't quite know why he felt a tinge of disappointment at the unexpected prospect of Assad's demise. 

"From your description, that must be the stud we've got waiting upstairs on the other trap-door. We've already tied him and noosed him," Forrester said. 

"He wouldn't tell us anything, but now that we're sure who he is, we'll execute him before we pull out." 

Royce's eyes widened in surprise. The Ball Crusher would die in his own God-damn noose. 

A distinct note of suspicion creeping into his voice, Forrester asked evenly, 

"How come he let you go, son?" 

"He didn't, Sir," replied Royce. 

He stood up and thrust his naked, dickless crotch toward the lieutenant colonel. 

"May I please be issued a uniform, Sir?" 

The officer sighed and tossed his ballpoint pen onto the desktop before him. He rose and moved around the desk, placed his hand on Royce's bare shoulder, and gently pushed the young Marine back to his seat. 

A crack of rifle fire from the courtyard punctuated the silence. 

"You've been through hell, son," Forrester said. "There's no denying that. But this is a messy operation all around. Very delicate. Very hush-hush. 

"Nothing like this has ever happened to the Marines before, son. Not even Beruit was this bad." 

Forrester's hand seemed to grow heavier as it rested on Royce's shoulder. 

"You want the best for the Corps, don't you son?" 

The implications of the question frightened Royce, and the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach told him he was about to hear even worse news. 

"Yes, Sir." 

Royce almost didn't recognize his voice say the only thing he could say. 

Forrester patted him on the shoulder. 

"I'll get you a uniform, son." 

He opened the door to the little office and beckoned to a sergeant waiting outside. He closed the door and returned to Royce, clutching a rolled bundle of clothing under his arm. 

"I want you to wear this, son. I think you know what we need you to do." 

Royce unrolled the bundle to discover that it was the uniform of the enemy. It was still warm with a man's body heat. The front of the shirt was riddled with bullet holes, around which were drying patches of blood. They had stripped it off one of the Arabs they had just shot. 

Royce's unspoken orders were clear in all their obliqueness. He was to don the uniform of the enemy and slip into the line of prisoners awaiting execution. His fellow jarheads would finish him off the only man left alive who could describe the ignominious demise of his dead comrades.

 
In the growing darkness the Marines in the firing squad would never even know they were shooting one of their own men. If he were to be really gung-ho about it, Royce might even shout "Allah is great!" before they shot him. 

Forrester was prepared for Royce's hesitation. 

"I recognize the unorthodox nature of this request, son...." 

His voice was simultaneously accommodating and condescending to the naked Marine. 

"And my superiors in the Pentagon and I are prepared to recommend you for a silver star based on the extraordinary ordeal you have endured at the hands of the enemy. 

"I'm afraid, though, that circumstances dictate that you receive this honor for some other act of bravery which we are prepared to fabricate and that you receive this medal . . . posthumously." 

Royce, staring at the bloody uniform on his lap, still gave no answer. Never had he dreamed his Marine career would end with him facing a firing squad of fellow jarheads. 

"Is that an order, Sir?" 

Forrester would certainly not like the question, but it was a way for Royce to find out what his alternatives were. 

Forrester drew his sidearm from his holster and placed it on the desk before him. As he had suspected, Royce would have no alternative. 

"I think you sang like a bird, son," Forrester said menacingly. "I think you kept your yap shut while they sawed off your God-damn cock, and you kept it shut again when they whacked off one of your clankers. 

"But when they were about to cut off the other one, I think you told them everything they wanted to know. You were working for them, weren't you Prick?" 

It was clear where Forrester was heading with this. If he could make the case that Royce was a spy, he would have legal authority to execute him in the field. Royce was going to die, no matter what decision he made. 

Another round of rifle shots emanated from the firing squad outside. 

Forrester wasn't finished with his insinuations. 

"The doc who looked you over told me your God-damn ass-hole is stretched so big a guy could fall into it. 

"You were their pussy, weren't you, Ass-Wipe?" 

Royce remained silent. The pit in his stomach grew heavier. He was dead meat. He wondered how much it would hurt when six rounds slammed into his chest. 

"You enjoyed those Arab cocks up your ass, didn't you, boy?" 

Royce contemplated his options and realized he had none. Forrester was going to ice him. 

Clenching his cigar between his teeth, Forrester said, 

"Do what's best for the Corps, son." 

He picked up the bloody shirt and draped it over Royce's bare shoulder. 

"The firing squad's had lots of practice by now. They'll make quick work of you. You won't suffer much. 

"Besides, you know as well as I do that a Marine has got a cock and two balls." 

He looked disdainfully down at Royce's mutilated crotch. A Marine de-cocked by the enemy would be an embarrassment to the Corps. 

"What kind of a future do you think you'd have, anyway?" 

Forrester was a real bastard, probably one of those career jerks intent on climbing the ranks in the Pentagon, maybe being CIA director some day. 

"I accept with gratitude your recommendation for a silver star, Colonel," said Royce. 

"Well put, son," murmured Forrester. 

"I have one request, Sir," continued Royce. 

"You do?" 

"Marine Private Royce requests the honor of executing the hangman Assad, Sir." 

Forrester eyed the Marine curiously, scratched his big square jaw in contemplation, then said, 

"Permission granted. Do whatever you want to the fucker. I'll give you thirty minutes with him." 

The sergeant waiting outside the office escorted Royce up the familiar gallows stairs to the platform where Assad had conducted his horrific chores. 

"Is he the one who had your dick cut off, boy?" asked the sergeant asked about the noosed prisoner. 

Royce nodded. 

"Do him good, boy!" the sergeant grinned. 

He dropped the Arab uniform onto the gallows floor for Royce to put on once he had finished getting revenge on Assad. Then he left Royce alone with his former nemesis. 

Assad looked much the same as before. His manly splendor seemed well suited to his bound position on the very trap-door through which he had sent many a brave young man to oblivion. 

The noose Assad had used on Royce's buddies and all the other studs he had executed now clutched his own thick neck with a final tightness. The big man's hands were tied behind his lower back. 

He was shirtless, just as he had always been when Royce had observed him go ing about his grisly work, and his massively muscled chest was heaving slightly, causing the sweaty pelt of man-fur covering his pecs and belly to glisten in the oscillating light of a naked light bulb swinging from the ceiling of the room. 

He had been standing there for nearly two hours, listening to the sounds of his men and their executions as they went before the American firing squad. He had watched five excited Marines lynch his colleague Hamed after the man had foolishly admitted to them that he was an executioner of prisoners. 

Now he looked at Royce with great interest. 

"So, my property has returned!" he said. 

His lips were broken and swollen, impairing his already labored English. The jarheads had roughed him up pretty good before noosing him. He had a black eye and was covered with welts. 

"You enjoy your stay at the oasis, American?" 

Assad threw his head back and laughed heartily. 

"You know what I have to do to you," was Royce's solemn reply. 

"Yes, a pity. I looked very much forward to your return. Now tell me, American. What tricks you learned during your stay with us?" 

Royce ripped open Assad's trousers and let them drop around his ankles, then pulled down the man's undershorts to expose his genitals and ass. 

Assad winced. It was his first taste of the abuse he had regularly dealt out to prisoners. 

Assad's sexmeat was as huge as Royce had estimated it to be, if not larger. He was circumcised, as all Arabs. Dark hairs nearly covered his enormous and strongly muscled ass cheeks. 

A strong musky odor reached Royce's nostrils as he grabbed Assad's thick man- meat and kneaded it in his fingers. He rubbed the big man's shapely ass, slipping his fingers into the ass crack. 

If he had a dick he would fuck that ass. 

Assad breathed quickly, puffing out his studly chest. His face acquired a pained expression of dread. He tilted his head to the right, as if trying to move farther away from the hangman's knot that touched his left ear. 

Royce ran his hands over Assad's hairy man-chest and firm belly, feeling the tender nipples, the bristly thick fur, the hard muscles beneath the soft skin. 

Assad's chest was a massive expanse of hairy hunkmeat an excellent target for a firing squad. Yet Assad would not meet the fate of his comrades who were dying in the courtyard outside. He would drop like a sack of stones and die in the noose he had himself tied and used to execute countless American soldiers. 

"You God-damn motherfucker," said Royce quietly into Assad's ear. "You should have killed me along with the others." 

He squeezed Assad's right nipple, then twisted it a full clockwise turn. Assad winced and stifled a grunt from the intense pain. Royce then grabbed the big man's fat, hairy balls and vice-gripped them in his fist before likewise twisting them a full turn, causing the prisoner to cry out and grimace in pain. 

He repeated the action several times. 

Most of Assad's playthings were still lying about. The Marines had pretty much trashed the place during their raid, but Royce could find several useful implements scattered about in the clutter. 

The flat-bladed pliers with which Assad had destroyed the healthy, sperm-filled testicles of numerous young American soldiers was the first instrument he set aside. Several long, thin spikes, as well as a couple of lengths of metal wire also appeared to be useful. 

Royce grabbed Assad's huge cock-shaft and forced one of the ten-inch spikes through his piss slit and down into the fuck-pole, forcing it into his flesh, well past the divergence of cum tube and piss tube. 

Assad growled and undulated his massive pelvis in a vain attempt to alleviate the pain. 

Once the dick was skewered, Royce commenced a tight-fisted pumping action on the sex-meat. With his other hand, the naked Marine coursed his fingers over Assad's chest fur, lingering occasionally at the left nipple, which he gently teased. 

Assad's breath came in short gasps as he anticipated the coming agony. 

Just as he had suspected would happen, Royce soon felt the Ball Crusher's mantool harden to an impressive state of arousal the fucker was very responsive. 

The thickening of his cock as it erected itself caused significant new pain as a result of the metal spike in him. 

Royce diversified the pain by torture- twisting Assad's left nipple. He spat in the executioner's face. 

The condemned man began to twist his head in his noose. Royce could hear the gentle scraping sound of the bristly whiskers at Assad's neckline as they rubbed against the hemp of the noose that would kill him. 

The condemned man began grunting, and his eyes rolled back in his head as he shot a load out through his ravaged cock. Thick white man-cum appeared in globules around the end of the spike which protruded from Assad's piss slit. 

Then Royce jacked him again. The second time Assad registered as much pain as pleasure, and he shot a mixture of blood and semen. 

It was time to crush his nuts. Assad knew it was inevitable, and watched with a sweat-streaked face as Royce retrieved the insidious pliers that in a matter of minutes could turn a man's balls into so much useless flesh. 

"You have the strength to crush balls of iron, American?" Assad taunted. 

A resurgence of bravery in the face of emasculation Assad had not yet lost his talent for mocking his enemy. 

Royce responded to the insolence by putting the pliers aside for the moment and picking up another couple of spikes. He held them close to Assad's face, letting him contemplate the pain they could cause. 

Then he placed one flat against Assad's hard belly, the sharp point aiming directly upward toward the man's jutting right pectoral. Royce forced the big needle up into Assad's pec meat, making the Arab writhe and curse from the pain. 

The spike passed through the pectoral muscle, nicely skewering it, and reap peared, coated with blood, a few inches below Assad's right collar bone. 

"Damn!" 

It was the voice of a Marine spectator behind him. The sergeant who had escorted him upstairs was lingering in the entrance to the gallows chamber, watching Royce wreak revenge on his former captor. 

Behind the sergeant another couple of Marine studs stood peering into the room from a vantage point at the top of the stairs. More men joined them, and before long Royce had a gaggle of spectators watching him go about his grisly work. 

The sergeant and several of the others rubbed their crotches as their cocks re sponded to Assad's punishment. 

"Keep going, son!" the Marine sergeant told Royce. "Don't mind us." 

Royce continued the torture. 

He placed a second needle against Assad's belly and forced it upward through the prisoner's massive, hair-covered left pec. 

A trickle of blood made its way down Assad's belly from each of the spike wounds. He was acting less like a cocky son-of-a-bitch now. 

Royce picked up the ball-crushing pliers once again and held them in front of Assad's face. 

"Is this what you used on my buddies?" he asked. 

No answer. 

"Are you ready to lose your nuts?" 

"How you say, American? Fuck you?" was Assad's response. 

Royce noticed, though, that the big man's lower lip trembled slightly. 

Assad's testicles were so enormous that Royce had difficulty centering either fleshy nut between the blades of the pliers. But he worked carefully and soon had Assad's right ball exactly where he wanted it.

 
Royce looked into the man's face once more, then quickly, forcefully clamped down on the trapped nut. 

Assad's frame stiffened, and he threw back his head and yelled hoarsely in response to the agony. 

Royce continued the pressure, flexing every muscle in both arms as he applied both hands to the plier grips. He felt the flesh give way and even detected a slight crushing sound as the nut was squished. 

Assad was crying. 

"Finish me!" he begged. "Let me die partly a man! I would have done the same for you!" 
xxx 
Royce suddenly realized the "honor" Assad had had in store for him. The Ball Crusher had not intended to take his other nut before hanging him. Royce was to be the first victim Assad executed who had his manhood left partly intact. It was intended as a sign of special respect, if not affection. He recalled the kiss Assad had given him before sending him off into slavery. 

Royce paused a moment and considered Assad's request. It would be easy to pull the lever and be done with the fucker. Let him take his one remaining ball to his grave. But he thought better of the idea. There were still things he needed to do. 

He gripped the pliers once more and crushed the other ball. Assad screamed and cursed, then begged for his death. 

From behind him Royce heard another 

"Damn!" 

and the sound of a man gasping and grunting softly. The Marine sergeant had creamed in his pants. The other Marines quietly rubbed their crotches. One of them had his dick out and was nursing a huge hard-on. 

Before putting the pliers down, Royce used them to grip Assad's prodigious nipples one by one and twist them. 

Then, to the prisoner's horror, he ripped Assad's nipples off his chest. Bloody wounds now adorned his spiked pecs. 

Assad wailed and cursed his tormentor even more vehemently. 

Then Royce took the length of metal wire he had found and fashioned a second "noose" for Assad. It went around the base of his cock and mushed balls, squeezing them tightly and making the tortured sexmeat stick out from his crotch. 

He pulled the other end of the wire upward and tied to the hangman's rope, at a point just above the bundle of slack rope that was tied together with twine above Assad's head. Since the cock and ball noose was shorter than the neck noose, Assad would feel his 'equipment' ripped off of his body just before he felt the rope tighten around his gullet. 

Assad watched with frightened fascination, seeming to appreciate the genius of Royce's innovation in some ways they were two of a kind. 

As the Marine spectators watched their dickless comrade devise the death of the man who had engineered his emasculation, Royce began to prepare for the final stage of the execution. 

He knew what was expected of him drop the mother-fucker then, once the spectators had left, don the enemy uniform and let Forrester or the sergeant place him into the line of Arab soldiers being herded in front of the firing squad outside. 

Did Assad have any idea that Royce was just as much under sentence of death as he was? 

The naked Marine took another length of wire and secured it to the lever that opened the trap door. Holding the other end of the strand, Royce returned to Assad's side and began loosening the noose around his thick neck. 

The sergeant looking on expressed some concern about this. 

"You ain't lettin' the bastard loose, are you son?" 

Royce didn't answer, rather he opened the neck noose considerably wider wide enough to fit over two heads. 

He turned around and stepped back onto the trap door, pressing his ass against Assad's hands, which were tied behind him. 

Then Royce slipped his own head into the noose, which was now set to stretch not one, but two necks. 

The knot was situated between their nods, just behind Assad's left ear and Royce's right ear. 

As they stood back to back on the trap door, Assad's bound hands grabbed hold of Royce's frequently raped ass and squeezed and kneaded the fuck-meat between stout, strong fingers. 

Royce pressed himself farther back against his death mate, enabling Assad to grab still more of his butt cheeks with his groping fingers. 

"Together . . . yes," Royce heard the Arab say. 

Before the Marine onlookers could do anything about it, Royce jerked the wire tied to the lever. 

Both men heard the crashing sound first, then a split second later they felt the floor disappear from beneath their feet. 

Butterflies in the stomach was the next sensation followed by the feel of air rushing up around their crotches. 

Royce heard Assad utter an abbreviated grunt of pain as the big man's sex was ripped off his body by the wire Royce had rigged. 

Then both reached the end of the rope. 

Neither man's neck snapped. Each could feel the twitching and writhing of the other as they began their death dance. 

The other marines watched, transfixed, as the two men ran in place, their feet dancing, Royce's hands involuntarily going to his neck and clawing at the rope crushing his Adam's apple into his throat. 

Assad dug his fingernails deep into the flesh of Royce's ass as he was dying. 

It took at least fifteen minutes, maybe thirty for Assad to die a fittingly long and agonized death for a man who had mutilated so many American soldiers. 

The sergeant, attempting to conceal the cum-stain on his trousers, ran and got Forrester, who quickly dispersed the crowd of onlookers and stormed into the lower chamber of the gallows, into which many a noosed man had dropped and where others had been kept prisoner, tortured, crucified, and killed. 

The lieutenant colonel had just about finished his cigar, the stub of which he clenched between his teeth while he examined the naked duo hanging noosed in front of him. 

Royce was still alive, wheezing for air. Forrester stood in front of him and snarl ed. 

The sergeant, now noticing that Royce was still alive, asked, 

"Shouldn't we cut them down, Sir?" 

Forrester glowered then ordered the sergeant, 

"Wrap your arms round him." 

The sergeant did and started to lift Royce up, thinking the lieutenant colonel wanted him to take the pressure off his neck. But Forrester grunted, 

"Now drop your weight on him." 

"What, Sir?" 

"You heard me. Drop your weight on him!" 

The sergeant dropped his weight and the rope dug into Royce's neck, crushing his Adam's apple all the way with a crunch, pinching off the corrotid artery. 

Royce's face and head turned dark purple then black. His tongue blorted out like a cock he didn't have. 

After several minutes, the lieutenant colonel said, 

"That's enough. You can get off him now." 

The sergeant tried to hide his erection tenting his pants, fresh cum-stains joining the dried. 

"It wasn't supposed to have happened this way, but maybe it's just as well. He would have had a hell of a life with no-dick." 

The sergeant had lined his erection up and down right behind his zipper. He nodded, 

"Sir, you're right, Sir." 

What the lieutenant colonel didn't say but thought was, 'The no-dick is just as dead with a stretched neck as he would have been with a chest full of Marine bullets.' 

The noose was twisting slowly. Forrester stood there watching examining first Royce's then Assad's motionless body. 

The sergeant muttered under his breath, 

"Examining the troops, Sir?" 

A round of machine gun fire covered the sergeant's sarcastic comment. Whether Forrester heard any of it, he didn't react as he closely examined the big Arab's crotch. 

Assad's crotch was a bloody mess nothing left but hunks of hair and raw meat. Above Assad's head the man's thick cock and smashed, hairy balls hung in one bloody piece from the strand of wire that Royce had used to de-cock and de-nut the prisoner just before his death. 

His cigar at an end, Forrester pressed the burning end of the stub against the raw crotch wound where Assad's cock had recently stood at attention. 

A faint smell of burning flesh reached his nostrils. He placed the cigar butt in Assad's open mouth for him to take to his grave. 

The lieutenant colonel reached into his shirt pocket and extracted a bit of shiny metal attached to piece of cloth. It was the silver star. He pinned it onto Royce's bare chest, jabbing the needle through the young Marine's nipple. 

"Semper fi, No-Dick," Forrester said quietly to the dead Marine. 

Then to the sergeant he ordered, 

"Cut them down and bury them.... Bury them together." 

1995, 1999 Katharsis™ 

Here endeth the lesson. 

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