PART III
The playroom Ryan said we’d go crazy for was a revelation, my heretofore sheltered eyes never having seen anything like it before, street-wise though I had unexaggeratedly been. It was located in what the home builder had originally designed as a downstairs storeroom, the house constructed down the side of a steep hill, only the upper floor windowed on all four sides. That was where the living room was, the dining room and den.
Next floor down would have been the private part of a normal family’s abode had a normal family occupied the place. Most of it was master suite for husband and wife, the rest being kids’ bedrooms and baths.
Below this was the service area, laundry room and maid’s quarters.., and that aforementioned storeroom, a long, not-so-narrow inner chamber tucked up against the sloping earth, windowless. “My secret workshop.” our new-found buddy announced as he unlocked the door and turned the lights on. Indirect Low. Deliberately flickering.
Stone had been mortared to the walls in irregular patterns; to the ceiling as well. We were immediately transported to the cellar of a castle somewhere in medieval Europe, 13th Century, our eyes drawn to the instruments of torture hanging neatly from pegs which stuck out of the vertical stones, innumerable whips of varying lengths and “tails,” probes, harnesses, rawhide strips.
My cock began to crawl down the length of my left inner thigh, tickling the hairs. “Wow.”
“Wow” because, in the center of all this was a large wooden frame enclosing something I had only seen in pictures about knights in shining armor, the ones which were made back in the late ’40’s and ’50’s. Prince Valiant. King Richard and the Crusaders. The Black Shield of Falworth. Not all of them had Tony Curtis bound to a rack like this—I don’t really remember whether it was Tony Curtis (in his hunky heyday) or some other beefy Hollywood “sighguy”—but some of them did and whenever they showed up on late night TV I’d try not to miss them, especially if my folks were asleep and I could shoot a load onto the tube just as the screams were rising and the writhing figure went limp, chest hair matted with sweat and dirt If I aimed right a load of hot dripping cum would be added to the wetness on the unconscious hero’s stripped naked tied-up body and he’d lie there moaning low covered with the stuff that the real dungeon ‘’guest” must have been covered with back when people were actually living those armpit-smelling lives.
It would be interesting, seeing if it was as much of a turn-on today as it must have been those 700 years ago. not that I had any doubt that it would be. How could it not. I wondered, given who we were going to have stretched out prone and stripped in those hempy ropes…?
A doorbell rang, auxilliary unit right here In the chamber. Ryan crossed to the box and depressed a button. “Sergeant Dick?”
“Yeah.” There was a metallic echo to the voice which made its demanding tone that much more imperative, emphasized even more by how low it was pitched. A chill traversed my spine, shoulders to butt, my eyes exchanging a fast glance with Mark’s. In all candor, our confidence was no more than skin-deep, never having attempted anything so dangerous before; certainly not with a massively muscled and highly trained killer stud like Jenner.
What if three against one wasn’t enough? What if he saw through the trap and overturned the odds? While our intention was to humiliate his ass, to turn those big studly muscles into spat-upon shit, what would his intentions be for us if we failed? Getting dicked by an angry Marine was one thing, but I had the feeling that our heavyweight D.l would find it more satisfying to bite our heads off at the neck. To slice our guts up with the bayonet we’d occasionally glimpsed on the strap above his ankle. To—
“Be right there, sir.” Ryan was saying smartly into the mike built into the intercom, the crispness in his voice returning me to reality. Dwelling on worst-case scenarios wasn’t good, anyway: the last thing any of us needed now that we were in it up to (and including) our cojone, no backing out, was to have our stupid psychologies result in what shrinks like to label self-fulfilling prophecy. “Put these on.”
Our bodybuilding young host had tossed us a pair of leather hoods, the kind tthat completely encase the head and buckle tight beneath the chin. There were holes—slits—for the eyes, the nostrils, the mouth. Barely visible to even the discerning observer.
“Weren’t we going to be the ones who ’hood the falcon?’” Harker inquired as he examined the things, fingering the stitching, holding it up to his nose and sniffing.
“Oh, we are.” But first we’d have to draw the prey into the game, to put him at his ease so that he wouldn’t realize that someone was about to turn the proverbial tables. And the best way to do that, added Ryan, was to make our cruel and sadistic young master think that it was going to be a scene with him in command. “I’m an inexperienced young top who’s bitten off more than I can chew, trying to ‘train’ two tough young punks to my will. I need help.”
A big 230-pounder who knows how to bully tough young punks around, to make them bend and break, to get them naked and crawling, taking dick without protest and saying “sir, yes, sir!” whenever.
“I’ve got you hooded and handcuffed but you’re sassing me,” Lyndon’s manly young nephew went on, tossing us a pair of clattering manacles, dull-faced steel. “Spitting and kicking and keeping those anuses too tight to fuck. Sergeant Dick is going to fix all that.”
We weren’t to worry about the cuffs, incidentally.
“They’re the trick kind Houdini used to use.” Meaning that while they made us look retrained as could be we were actually free as birds, anytime we wanted to make our move. Which would be when Ryan gave us the nod. “You’ll know it when you see it.”
On which we hurried out and we hooded our heads, stripping down to our cheese-stiffened jockstraps before quickly fastening the metallic fetters first to our wrists and then to the pegs cemented to the stone wall, completing the task in the nick of time.
“How many?” we could hear Jenner inquiring as he was being led down the stairs.
“Two shit heads. Real hard street kids. Think they’re going to wear me down.” Ryan with that apple-pie face could really lay it on thick and get away with it.
“Do they.” Sergeant Dick didn’t even have to think about it He was used to handling 20, 25 tough motherfuckers at a time. Two?
Piece of cake.
He swaggered into the room, all 230 pounds of him, pecs and biceps bulging knots of intimidating muscle visible behind the flaps of his open Marine corps blouse (a dress blouse, no less!), his rolled-up sleeves. The dress cap was angled, pulled terrifyingly low over his brow; the bottoms of his pants were stuffed into the tops of his boots, billowing out over the claves. A half-smoked cigarette dangled from the down-turned corner of his smirking mouth, wisp of smoke curling up in front of the bronze of his face, the ice in his eye.
His swagger stick bounced against the palm of his hand, the tempo slow and measured. Andante. If the man had been awesome at Pendleton he was positively frightening now, the picture of barbaric cruelty. Sadist was too weak a word for this looming apparition; this was a descendant of the S.S. itself, the merciless ubermensch who’d get off on our screams of agony, who’d laugh as we squirmed while he crushed our balls in his inexorable fist and jammed his mammoth Nazi dick up our helpless POW asses, punching nine fat inches of rock-solid man-meat up those spasming chutes without the benefit of grease or spit “Take that swine.” he’d grunt sweating as he plowed forward and back, slapping our faces when his gigantic Aryan balls unloaded a flood of hot Gestapo jizz so far up our intestines the excess would drain out of our gaping mouths. “You want more?”
He never said “take that swine” or “you want more,” that was an image which flashed through my mind as he approached us and leered. What he did say was that we reminded him of a couple of the scumbags he had under his command right now down at Pendleton, tough young know-it-alls who like us dangling sex-slaves thought they could smirk their way through life without ever having to pay the piper. “Well,” he smugly wanted us to know, “I’m the piper and I’m here to fucking collect. You hear me, assholes, huh?”
Our silent response, the defiance glinting in our eyes, the dare, that was all deliberate. To make him mad—mad enough to take his eyes off his ass. When he did, man, when he did…
PART IV
“I am talking to you, you God-damn prick-faces! And when I talk to you I get an answer, you understand? Huh?”
“Like what?” My tone was offensive. A do-some-thing-about-it-sarge-if-you’re-man-enough.
The complexion mottled with genuine anger. Sergeant Dick didn’t like to be back-talked by anyone; he was the boss and he demanded the respect due the boss. “Like ‘sir.’” he advised, the voice a raw rasp. ‘”Sir, yes, sir!’”
“Eat my shit,” Harker spat, right through the little mouth slit of the leather hood. The hot drippy wad found its mark, landing hard against the spray of dirty blond hair on Jenner’s left pec. A little extra dampened a substantial area of the shirt adjacent, just above one of the little brass buttons embossed with the insignia of the Corps.
“Why, you sweaty little turd.” the D.I, shrieked, outraged. He lunged forward, hand jutting out The back of it cracked across Harker’s hooded face, knocking it sideways on the corded neck, producing a grunt of honest-to-God pain and some discoordination between the eyeballs. “I am really going to enjoy breaking you down. oh. yeah.”
Harker pretended to struggle in his cuffs, twisting his torso and belly as though trying to break free by sheer will power alone, his belly button winking in and out as he did. “If I wasn’t tied up ..
“Yeah?” Sergeant Dick spoke right into the holes of the hood, deliberately giving the kid a halitosic whiff. “What would you do. you dumb little cum-suck, if you weren’t ‘all tied up,’ hmm?”
“This,” my buddy said, fast, ripping his hand out of its apparent bondage and balling it up, letting the startled D.I, be distracted by that motion while the real action was happening below the belt Harker’s knee ramming up hard, hard enough to squash the unprotected balls in Jenner’s jock. Only when the howl was really rolling out of the suddenly O-shaped mouth did the baby Marine follow through with an “and this, too,” smashing a glancing blow off the side of the D.I.’s jaw, sending him reeling—first into Ryan and then into me.
Neither of us held back much, although I think I might have hit him harder, having more of a grievance; not that it would have mattered to the man in the middle of our violent little merry-go-round after the first number of punches. He reeled from one fist to another and back to the third, looking like a marionette with invisible strings, the tongue hanging out of a corner of his mouth, almost silly. Jenner’s eyeballs were a lot more discoordinated than Harker’s ever were by the time we gave him the coup de gras, knocking him backwards into the jagged stones of the wall, not letting him bounce back.
“Get his wrists in those restraints,” Ryan instructed, indicating a pair of lined leather buckles overhead, attached by chain to a pulley set in the ceiling. The two of us shook the exertion out of our hair and jerked the sergeant’s bulky, vein-lined arms upwards over his head, exposing his tufted armpits to view as we danced with him till the task was completed.., after which Lyndon’s dirty-minded young nephew hoisted our dazed prisoner up by those leather- shackled wrists, using a rope previously fastened to the pulley. The feet left the floor after a few turns of the crank, one foot two…
… The right height to suspend a burly, half-naked sex toy helpless to stop us from doing anything we wanted with and to his gravity-stretched body. Once he was awakened from that forcibly induced sleep, of course.
A bucket of ice water was perfect for that assignment, as Ryan decreed, doing the honors himself, flinging several chilled gallons at our side of living beef. If the dungeon weren’t soundproof, I swear, man: that splat! would have been heard as far south as Long Beach. San Diego, maybe—Sergeant Dick’s sudden monosyllabic vow of deballing vengeance most certainly would have been carried the distance; my ears hadn’t been so assaulted since my last heavy metal rock concert the one I forgot to bring my earplugs to.
It didn’t seem to faze Ryan: “What’s the matter, buddy?” he asked, mock solicitous. “Too cold for you?” The sergeant might want to “try this other bucketful—it might be more to your taste—!”
Another inundation with another sudden splat This time the suspended captive howled a different howl, a howl of scalded agony, Ryan having splattered him with water the exact opposite of ice cold.
Boiling hot.
No real damage was actually done to that pretty masculine skin, of course: the H-two-oh cascading off him onto the floor in less than a second. Things like that feel a lot worse than they actually are if they’re done right.
If the subject doesn’t know better. Which our mindblown D.I, didn’t. “You bastards,” he blubbered, wide awake and kicking now. “I’ll kill you. I’ll peel the skin off you inch by fucking inch. I swear!”
“Really.” I wondered about that in all seriousness, my eyes lighting quite unpremeditatedly on what had to have been the most innocuous instrument of torture in Ryan’s entire arsenal—an instrument which reminded me of what my sergeant’s limits were supposed to be.
Or were they.
