LIPS OF POISON

LIPS OF POISON

by Hamilton and Jardonn

 

Frank Cypert’s parts will be told by Hamilton; Jack Pendleton’s by Jardonn.

 

 

Part 1 — Wrong Place Right Time

 

Please be Chinese. What the hell are they doing down there? Not supposed to be any soldiers around for hundreds of miles. Please be Chinese… Chinese under Stilwell… please… they’ll recognize General Stilwell’s name when I say it… come on, be Chinese… Holy crap! Those uniforms are… are Japanese. Damn it to hell. So much for Army intelligence.

 

Well, Captain Francis Cypert, pray they start shooting. Come on, shoot me. I’m in range. Son of a bitch. They ain’t shooting. Means they got questions. Damn it to frickin’ hell. Well then by god, I’ll shoot at them. Maybe they’ll shoot back, if I can get to my… Geezus… I’m gonna clip that tree… gotta steer it…

 

Yabba dabba dabba, ching chang chong… Yeah, chirp away you dirty birds. All I can do is hang here waiting for you to cut me down. Can’t even move my arms to get my pistol after you. Boy, they got ’em a prime catch, that’s for sure. Damn Stilwell… Stilwell’s revenge, that’s all this is. Japs chased him outta Burma three years ago and now he’s back. And here I am supposed to hook up with Burmese natives, the Kachins… supposed to scout a trail for Stilwell’s secret soldiers, the 5307th. Ha, some reporter named ’em the Merrill’s Marauders, but they won’t be marauding a damn thing if I break. Looks like I’m about to find out if that training on how to deal with torture was worthwhile or a waste of time.

 

Yeah, climb on up here, you monkeys. Cut me down and let’s get this started. Damn, looks like he’s gonna club me. Can’t you get me down before you start beating on me? This ain’t a fair fight, you ying-yang chirping… UGH.

 

 

Man, my head’s hurting. Looks like I’m in a hut — no, more than a hut. Got a wood floor. Wrists are tied behind me. Laying face down. Long pole wedged inside my elbows… can’t roll over. What the hell’s up there on that table? Gotta strain my neck… looks like a… a microphone.

 

 

* * *

 

And so begins an untold story of the CBI Theater, or if you prefer, China-Burma-India, 1943.

 

Captain Francis Cypert, or Frank, never told it. Not until telling it to me 40 years later at one of our reunions. I’s one of those Merrill’s Marauders he mentioned, Jack Pendleton by name, Private Pendleton back then. I’s one of 3,000 that went into Burma; one of 280 that came out alive. Hell, none of us were supposed to come out alive. They had no plans for what to do with us when we did. Death by typhus, malaria, falling off cliffs, poison snake bites, and plenty of Japs. Of course, we didn’t know it was a suicide mission when we volunteered for it, but by god we did what we’s supposed to do. Took that god damned airfield at Myitkyina. Call it Mitch, it’s easier.

 

The way we did it had never been done before. We worked behind enemy lines. Hit the Japs with quick strikes, sudden surprises, obliterated platoons in one battle after another, in rivers, in the jungle, on the mountaintops, in some of the most forbidding terrain and ungodly heat anywhere on Earth. Thus, the nickname Merrill’s Marauders. We must have done it right. To this day our battles and our tactics are the basis for training of Army Rangers at Fort Benning, Georgia. If you don’t believe me, ask one of ’em. They run across one of us and they can’t wait to shake our hands.

 

Thing is, Frank Cypert, a full grown man of 27 at the time, really wasn’t one of us. He’s out ahead of us. Got captured before he could do what he’s supposed to do, and they whisked him away to a Jap headquarters deep in the jungle while we Marauders began our march down the New Ledo Road. Kept marching until we caught up to the crews building it — Negroes, under supervision of white man engineers, of course. From there it was all jungle trails. There’s one of those meaningless exercises in Army stupidity, General Stilwell stupidity — a 300-mile march to toughen us up before we could even take on any Japs. They could’ve air-dropped us. That’s what the British told us to do. Probably why Stilwell made us march. He hated the British. Hell, most of us had already defeated the Japs at Guadalcanal. We were as tough as they come, plus we already knew some of the tricks the Japs’d try to use on us. That march nearly screwed up the entire mission. They weren’t supposed to know we were in there, but they did. The Japs just didn’t know where.

 

That’s where Frank comes in. That’s what they were trying to get out of him, and what he told me at the reunion in 1984 is exactly what needs to be told now. Put what I know from where I was together with what he went through where he was, and we got us a story to tell.  

 

 

Part 2

 

“Son of a bitch, Frank.  You had to go off half-cocked.  Always pushin’.  Man, you deserve this; fuckin’ caught by these yellow bastards.  It won’t be long.  Hell, it never is.  They’ll come for you and then the fun and games will begin.  Wonder if all those damn stories are true; the tortures these bastards use on our guys.  Shit, the guys in Europe have it easy.  Damn krauts have a little more respect.  Not the nips, no way.  These rat bastards have made an art of torturing our boys and now, I’m about to find out just how good they are.  Yeah, Frank.  Don’t you mean how good you are?”

 

“Guess this is where they interrogate poor sons of bitches like me.  Got my arms tied behind my back with that damn bamboo pole.  Hell, I ain’t goin’ any where.  Fuckin’ footsteps.  Shit, now I get to see if all that training was worth it.”

 

As the door opens, three Japanese soldiers enter the room followed by what appears to be an officer.  Two soldiers quickly grab an end of the pole and pull Frank to his feet.

 

“Hey, fuckin’ watch what yer doin'”

 

“Captain Cypert, I want to welcome you to our little jungle retreat.  I hope your stay so far has been comfortable.”

 

“You speak pretty good English, for a Jap.”

 

“Why thank you, Captain Cypert.  I must confess that I was educated in the United States.  Is there, perhaps, something you would like to tell me.  Something that I might find interesting?”

 

“Hey, you know the drill; name, rank and serial number.”  Frank, cocky as ever wonders why in hell he blurted that out.  Laughing, the officer says,

 

“Captain Cypert, I already know that.  No.  I am interested in something more, something I fear you are not about to give me.  Captain, you leave me no choice.”

 

“Here it comes,” thinks Frank, “just like a B-rated movie, and I’m in the starring role.  Fuck you, John Wayne.”

 

Standing directly in front of Frank is the third soldier who entered the room.  A big, burly Jap.

 

“Shit,” Frank says to himself, “this doesn’t look good.”

 

“Frank, may I call you Frank?  This is Wojo, a master of martial arts.  You may not know this but there is a way to strike another human being without inflicting permanent damage.  We Japanese have mastered this art over many centuries and I know what you are thinking.  You are wondering if it is possible.  Let us assume for a moment that you are from Missouri and need to be shown.”  He nods to the soldier.

 

“AGGGGGGGGGGH”  Wojo’s fist slams into Frank’s vulnerable stomach, forcing him to double over while the two soldiers pull back on the pole.

 

“Holy mother of God,” he thinks as he is pulled upright.      AGGGGGGGGGGGH, shit you mother fucker.”  He stares into Wojo’s face before doubling over saying to himself,  “This fucker enjoys his work.”

 

“Frank, as you can see, it is possible to strike a man without causing permanent damage.”  Nodding to the soldier in a polite manner, they, again, pull Frank upright.  Instantly, Wojo begins a slow steady barrage of punishing punches to Frank’s painful stomach.  Each time he doubles over, he is pulled into an upright position.  Three times more, yellow fists pulverize yielding abdominals and Frank vomits, violently, all over Wojo.  Saying something in Japanese, Wojo grins.  The two soldiers pull back on the pole leaving no slack.  Now, Frank won’t even be allowed the relief of doubling over.  The disgusting sound of flesh hitting flesh fills the room, each blow punctuated by the deep, guttural groans of Captain Frank Cypert.

 

So engrossed in the proceedings, no one notices the door opening or the young soldier entering the room..  He hands the officer a note.  Reading it, he says something in Japanese and Wojo stops working over Frank’s midsection.  The soldiers let go of the pole and Captain Frank Cypert falls into a heap, resembling a sack of government issued khakis, stained with sweat and vomit.  Wojo’s face registers his disappointment.  The door closes as Frank lies in his own vomit unable to extract his handsome face from the vile smelling contents of his gut.  His mind, although cloudy, manages to string together a coherent thought.  “Nice going, Frank.  Something tells me that was just the beginning.”  His thought is abruptly interrupted as his stomach contract expelling more of its foul-smelling contents.

 

Outside, the officer walks toward a military truck.  The door opens and two very shapely legs swing out.  It seems a guest has arrived at the compound; a very special guest.

 

 

Part 3

 

All eyes follow the woman’s legs as they swing out of the truck. A young Japanese soldier offers her his hand. Giving him a smile, her lips, a deep shade of red, have a predictable effect on him. Her dress reveals a body that would wake the dead, make them rise, stand up and take notice. As if drawn with a dark pencil, the seams on her stockings are perfectly straight. This is a woman who believes that God, or something like that, is in the details.

 

“Iva,” said the officer, “welcome to our little retreat. I am confident that we can make your stay quite pleasant.”

 

“Why thank you captain. Tell me, were you successful in obtaining our guest?”

 

“I am happy to report, Iva, that our guest has arrived.”

 

“Then, in that case, I am quite sure my stay will be most pleasant.” Her smile betrays much.

 

“My man, Wojo, has seen to his comfort.”

 

“Captain,” she says rather sharply, “you and your man haven’t damaged anything, have you? Your superiors would be most unhappy should anything have befallen him.”

 

“No, Iva. Let us say that he has had some stomach ailments, nothing more. Please, let us have some refreshment after your long journey.”

 

She follows him into his office. All eyes are on the sway of her hips. A young soldier says to his friend, “So, that is she. I had no idea how beautiful she is. I would fuck her all night.”

 

His friend laughs. “Don’t waste your time. She is here for a reason. Besides, what would she do with that little piglet of yours?”

 

“Fuck you.”

 

An officer tells several soldiers to unload the truck. Struggling, they carry out two large, black trunks. Back in the interrogation hut, Frank’s stomach has finally settled down. He is able to roll over.

“Damn. I haven’t eaten in two days. How could all that shit be in my stomach? God, it stinks; I stink. Nice going, Frank. Hell, that little yellow bastard isn’t getting anything from me no matter what he does.”

 

Poor Frank is trying to bolster his confidence. He knows, only too well, what these sons of bitches are capable of; heard the stories of their interrogation techniques. Creative little bastards with their proper society based on respect and the code of bushido yet known for a level a cruelty that defies their well-regulated demeanor. It is hard for our hero to move. Wojo is an expert at hurting another man, and, in this little jungle retreat, his skills are in much demand. Frank won’t argue that point.

 

His mind wanders back to his home, his town. He sees himself hanging outside the local soda fountain; remembers spinning on the stools listening to Goodman on the juke box. His buddies start to congregate as they plan the evening festivities. He sees Kathy Conway, well, he smells her because she always wore that expensive perfume. Yeah, Kathy wasn’t the type of girl to shop at Woolworth’s.

 

“Man,” he thinks, “she could fill out a sweater. What a rack on her. And those legs; mile high stems. Ahhhh, that walk, her hips swaying, inviting.” He wonders how in hell she ever walked in those heels. She’s a hot little number and she and Frank have a thing; well, had a thing. Then came the fucking war. His mind floats back home. The smell is of Kathy; the sounds, his buddies; the promise is of the evening ahead. He reaches into his wallet. “Yeah, there it is. All ready.”

 

His eyes squint as the door opens, heavy steel scraping on cement.

 

“What the hell is that smell,” he thinks. Then, he realizes where he is. The pain in his gut returns. “Ahhh, SHIT.”

 

“I must say captain, your man makes an excellent martini. Why, you have even seen to the olive.”

 

“Thank you, Iva. I am glad you are pleased.”

 

“I would like to see our American GI as soon as possible.” She secretly hoped that he was all she imagined a young GI to be.

 

“Iva, he is, shall we say, not presentable. My men will see that he is properly bathed.”

 

“As always, captain, you are most kind.”

 

“Iva, his will to resist is quite strong. I fear that he may not supply you with any information of importance. We will have to employ drastic measures.”

 

“My dear captain; I am not interested in what he knows. My purpose is far greater than any information this GI may possess.”

 

The captain appears surprised at this admission. He cannot help but wonder what this sexy woman means, or has in mind.

 

“Now, captain. As soon as he is presentable, I would like to see him. The men who have accompanied me will need to set up my equipment. Please see that your men cooperate to the fullest.”

 

Glasses clink and they both smile.

 

“Easy, you sons of bitches,” yells Frank as a soldier turns a hose on him. He can’t escape the pain in his gut as they pull him to his feet. Stepping in front of him, Wojo grabs Frank’s shirt and with great force, rips it open. He grins.

 

“Well, I can see from your shit-faced grin that you like what you see, you dumb, yellow bastard.”

 

I would shut up Frank because I can tell you in no uncertain terms that this guy definitely likes what he sees. This time, Wojo again reaches for Frank’s tee shirt and likewise rips it open. His smile grows wider as he stares at the near-naked torso of the twenty-seven year old GI. Frank’s dog tags hang between two well-formed pecs topped by quarter-sized, dark nipples. A soft layer of black hair radiates over his chest, down his abs, into his deep navel, to the top of his trousers and beyond.

 

“Yeah, I figured you for a faggot; a big, yellow faggot.”

 

Wojo’s hands begin to unfasten Frank’s web belt. He tries to resist but it is no use. Within moments, prime USDA grade A American cock makes its appearance. The soldiers are fascinated. Not only does Frank possess a seven and a half inch piece of dick meat, but it is thick and…cut. These soldiers aren’t used to cut cocks and Wojo, especially Wojo, seems to really enjoy this simple fact. You see, he gets to interrogate prisoners and the Japanese seem to have devised numerous techniques that involve the male appendage. His smile is nothing short of sadistic, and the front of his trousers cannot conceal his excitement at the prospect of handling Frank’s fine equipment.

 

A small man enters wearing round glasses the size of coke bottles. He wears a white coat and carries a black, leather satchel. Speaking to several soldiers, they position a stand with a red enema bag close to Frank. Frank’s eyes follow the proceedings and he knows what is about to happen. The doctor, his eyes large and frog-like, reaches into his bag and pulls out a rather long, large nozzle. Holding it before Frank, he smiles as he rubs the rod in and out of his fist. Our hero struggles and Wojo slams a fist into his already battered stomach. Within moments, Frank is completely stripped of his uniform as he lies on the floor, Wojo and the doctor, standing above him, admire the body they will soon have the pleasure of dealing with.

 

 

“Iva,” the Japanese captain says as he knocks on the door. “Our guest is ready.”

 

The beautiful woman opens the door, a vision of beauty and sexual prowess. “Captain, do come in.”

 

As he enters he notices that leather manacles have been placed at the four corners of the bed. Sensing his curiosity, the woman speaks. “I see you are wondering about my little additions. Well, one never knows if one will be ‘entertaining’.”

 

They smile as they leave Iva’s room. Walking across the compound, the soldiers cannot help but stare at the woman, her gauzy dress allowing the sunlight to shine through in a way as to give a teasing glimpse of what lies beneath. The young soldiers, if not at full mast, are at least at half mast. Opening the door to the interrogation hut, the captain and Iva step in. Gazing at Iva, the captain gauges her reaction. “I have a feeling you will be doing a bit of entertaining after all!”

 

Standing in front of them is Captain Frank Cypert, bound, arms overhead, spread-eagled, naked as the day he was born.

 

Seductively walking toward him, Iva, her heels clicking out each beat, stands directly in front of him. “My my, Captain Cypert; you certainly are a big man.” Her eyes roam down his body. “Yes, a very big man.”

 

Frank blushes but feels his pride swell.

 

“Damn,” he says to himself. She’s a looker, one hot dame. That voice. It sounds so familiar. I’ve heard it before.”

 

Iva is quite impressed with Frank. She walks around the bound GI and feels her own lust growing as her eyes drink in the sight of his broad back straining from the bondage position. She marvels at the strength in his arms. She feels her own lust growing. The sight of his strong, supple buttocks dampens her panties. She wants to touch those two firm yet fleshy globes and run her red nail down the dark, hairy crease that separates them. This is a body made to please a woman and she is determined to take her fill. The captain is jealous and is determined to make Frank suffer in the most sadistic ways. Stepping in front of him, she can see the defiance in Frank’s eyes, yet, she senses a humiliation. She can’t help but smile. “Men,” she thinks, “always so cocky until they stand before a woman in charge. Then, they become little boys, embarrassed and wondering if they measure up. Don’t worry my big GI; you measure up beautifully.”

 

“Captain Cypert. I must say that you are a very handsome man. Do you have many girlfriends?”

 

Looking at her with a Lil Abner kind of smirk he says, “Enough.”

 

“That makes me happy. You’ll get to show me what you’re made of.” She leans close to him and runs her two red nails over his nipples, her lips come close to his. “Very good. You respond quickly. I like that in a man. Tell me, GI, do you always turn red around a woman. I see I have aroused you. Do you want me to play with you, to work over your big American GI body?” She gently presses her lips to his, her firm breasts mash into his chest. “Don’t worry, my big handsome GI, I will play with you, oh how I will play with you. So strong, so powerful.”

 

Frank’s eyes open wide. “You’re, you’re Rose. You’re fucking Tokyo Rose.”

 

Iva smiles. “Yes. I am Rose. I will broadcast to all your GI buddies right from this compound. As a matter of fact, I will broadcast right from this room. You, captain, are going to be the star of my broadcast. Each day, we will broadcast your interrogation to all your men. They will hear their brave captain scream and groan. But worst, they will hear their brave captain beg; beg Rose to stop hurting him. Now you must promise me that you will not give in too quickly. I want you to think of all your buddies. Think of their morale. You, my brave GI captain, you must not let them down. They need you to be strong.”

 

“Fuck you, bitch.”

 

“Oh captain, how you do romance a girl. I can arrange that. You see, I like my men strong and handsome; which you are. I like my men hard,” she looks down, “which you certainly are, big and hard. I believe you Americans say BINGO. Now, we must set up our equipment but I don’t want you to think we Japanese are not without class.”

 

Rose turns to her assistant who opens the door. In walk a pair of young Japanese girls, late teens, quite pretty. They stand by Rose while admiring the bound man. After a few words, they begin to massage the naked body of Frank Cypert. In less than thirty seconds, Frank knows that these young beauties know exactly what they are doing.

 

“Enjoy yourself, captain. In a short while we will begin my broadcast…oh, and, of course, your interrogation.”

 

 

Chapter 4 – Jack Pendleton’s Indian Adventure

 

Looking back on it, there’s not much mystery as to why I volunteered to participate in this mission. Like I said, we’d already whipped the Japanese at Guadalcanal, and from there they sent us to Australia for some rest and relaxation. Too much of it as far as I’s concerned. Got bored real quick. Worse yet, there was a war going on and I felt like I’s no longer part of it. Guess they’d whet my appetite for killing, and I figured if they weren’t gonna let me fight they might as well send me home.

 

Of course, they never told me the place or purpose of this mission. Top secret. But the sales pitch was that even though this venture would be physically dangerous in conditions miserable, the chances for survival would be relatively good. Plus, it was to last only 90 days. The kicker? After my 90 days they’d rotate me back to the United States. Most of what they told me turned out to be profoundly inaccurate.

 

Not knowing or caring at the time, I jumped on it.

 

Near the end of 1943 ships took us to India. Trains took us to Calcutta, and then to a rest camp, and then to a training camp. Men who’d fought in New Guinea joined us Guadalcanal veterans and about 300 greenhorns who’d never seen battle, which altogether made up the 3000-man force of the 5307th Composite Unit. Here we met British General Orde Wingate, he of the famous Raider campaigns in Burma the year before, so we could profit from his experience and hopefully come out of the jungle alive. His initial speech to us was invaluable. He told us never to speak above a whisper in the jungle, never to pull off a blood sucking leech, never to drink jungle water without sterilizing it first. For three weeks we trained under British commanders. Everything issued to us was dark green solid, down to our handkerchiefs and underwear. Ironically, most of what the British taught us was taken from accounts of American frontiersmen in their early struggles against the American Indians of the Northeast.

 

Top-notch man, General Wingate, as were the commanders under him. A lot of my fellow soldiers thought the British were arrogant sonsabitches, but I saw it this way: if you’re smart and you’ve earned your knowledge through successful warfare, you’ve got a right to be arrogant. General Wingate and his men had one priority, and that was to give us the best chance for our survival and success. For that I’ll always remember them with respect.

 

One thing I did not care for was the way they treated their Indian subjects. I’m not saying we’ve got no skeletons in our closets — things we did to our Indians, things we did to the Negro — but one particular incident during our training disturbs me to this day. The British wanted us to have some knowledge of what to expect should we be captured, and for demonstration they used live Indian adult males. Could have, should have used stuffed feed bags in my opinion, but they wanted us to hear the men scream. Believe me, they did.

 

Both men were tied up and dangling from a wood frame, top three sides of a rectangle, their feet off the ground. One man’s wrists were spread apart about three feet and over his head. He’s stripped down to a skimpy loin cloth of white. The other had his wrists roped behind his back, made his shoulders look like they’s gonna pop out of their joints. He’s stripped naked. The loin cloth guy took a horrible beating. The British showed us how the Japanese would torture a man with their fists, with stiff-fingered jabs, with side-hand chops, with bamboo poles, with rifle butts, with knee kicks and with extended leg kicks. And I mean to tell you they battered every inch of this man from his forearms to his feet. Ribs cracked. Organs ruptured, and it was a damned relief for us when he finally stopped screaming and passed out. Ha! That’s kinda selfish. I’ll bet it was more of a relief to him. Hell, he might’ve been dead for all we knew by the time they cut him down and hauled him off.

 

All this time, the other guy’s hanging there with his elbows jammed up behind him nearly to his head. That should’ve been torture enough, but this guinea pig was strung up there for cutting on. They used sabers. They used Gurkha knives. They used blades of elephant grass, damned shit taller than a man and something we’d be needing to avoid once we marched into Burma. Cuts in humidity like that just don’t heal no matter what treatments you give ’em. The British demonstration was thorough, sounds of the Indian victim authentically haunting, as they sliced and diced him in increments of inches — one, two, three, four, five and six, on his arms, legs, chest, belly, ears and face.

 

Next came the most vital of our lessons — the distinctions between Burmese natives. Mortal enemies, the Kachins and the Shans chose sides in this world conflict. The Kachins were invaluable to the Allies in general, and to our 5307th in particular as guides upon jungle trails known only to them. As for traditions, the Kachins tortured their captured enemies, the Shans, men and boys, by inserting a bamboo stick into the slit of the penis and setting it afire. The British showed us — on the Indian subject. By contrast, the Shans tortured their prisoners, men and boys, by castration, the severed penis and testicles stuffed into the victim’s mouth for him to chew on until he bled to death. The Shans showed the Japanese how to do this and the British showed us — on the same Indian subject.

 

And so, our day of mental and gastric toughening came to a horrific end. All’s fair in love and war? Hardly. Neither of those men were enemy combatants. Perhaps they were convicted criminals, perhaps total innocents. I’ll never know, and it is pointless to preach any further about such obvious atrocities. Fortunately, none of what I saw on that day was repeated for me in the jungles of Burma. Not that it didn’t happen. Probably still does.  

 

First part of February 1944 our training was ended and we made ready to depart. They loaded us onto trains. You should have seen the roaches and rats fleeing our coaches when Indians fumigated before we could board. Roaches bigger than the rats.

 

February 7th we arrived at some little Indian village eight miles from Ledo and the Burmese border. Supplies were waiting for us. 700 U.S. Army pack mules were waiting for us — mute mules, their vocal chords cut so they couldn’t bray and alert the Japanese of our presence. Soon, we’d be mostly mute ourselves, but our eyes, feet and ears would be getting a workout.

 

 

Chapter 5 – Confusion on the Ledo Road

 

Part A – Jack Pendleton Enters Burma

 

by Jardonn

 

At dusk we moved out. One by one men and animals fell into line and marched down the Ledo Road, a 40-foot-wide twisting trail of hard-packed earth. It stretched from India into Burma and connected with the Burma Road, which the Japanese had cut off — the reason for our mission — to flank behind the Japanese 18th Army and nip at their heels, while General Stilwell and his Chinese Battalions attacked from their front. Retake the Burma Road and supplies could once again flow from India to our allies in China.

 

As far ahead as my eyes could see in fading daylight, both sides of the road were lined with bobbing green helmets interspersed with pack mules, their cargos of mortar and equipment lurching left and right. We’d march only from dusk until dawn, 50 minutes on our feet, 10 minutes to rest. At first morning sunlight, we’d pull off the road and make encampments in the jungle. This I learned from Mike Stover, a man soon to become my vital companion. He marched directly in front of me. Carried a field radio assigned to our battalion. Messages from General Frank Merrill at the front of our 3000-man column were relayed down the line in this manner, but before we’d even marched to our first 10-minute break, Mike waves me forward.

 

“Listen to this,” he said softly while we continued our march.

 

“American music?”

 

“Sure enough. Sounds like String of Pearls”

 

“Glenn Miller. That’s exactly what it is, Mike. Who the hell’s playing music out here in the…” Before I could finish my question, a female voice spoke in English. Said this was a special broadcast of The Zero Hour. Said welcome to all new Americans in Burma, and to enjoy our stay because it would not last long.

 

Both of us being veterans, we instantly knew this was coming from Tokyo radio. But how could it be interfering with our field communications? The signal for Tokyo radio and its propoganda was sent out on the short wave band. Always females playing American music and telling us we had no chance against the mighty Japanese Imperial Forces. Collectively, these females were known by us GI’s as Tokyo Rose, but Tokyo was thousands of miles away. How could this particular Rose be coming through so clear it sounded like she was right there on the Ledo Road with us?

 

The questions in our heads quickly progressed to confounded puzzlement, because this Rose launched into a scenario unlike anything any American GI had ever heard before.  

 

 

Part B — Live, It’s the Frank and Iva Show

 

by Hamilton

 

“Hey, all you big, strong GI buddies. I hope you liked my musical selection. For our next number we have something special for you boys. With me is a special guest, a very special guest. Say hello to your friends, Frank.”

“Fuck you, cunt.”

“Maybe if you wish upon a star.”

Her laugh was dripping with sarcasm, but, if truth be known, Iva, or Tokyo Rose, liked the idea. She liked it very much. You see, standing before her was a very naked Frank Cypert who while Rose and her staff were preparing the broadcasting equipment was being entertained by two lovely Japanese girls. Though he fought the urge to give in, men like Frank just can’t seem to help it. Their probing fingers, nothing too aggressive mind you because that was reserved for others, their moist, raspy tongues, and their pouty lips made short work of getting our hero to rise to the occasion. Trying to resist, his eyes would fall on Rose who smiled, enjoying the little show. He felt humiliated, vulnerable, and, worst of all, unable to prevent it from happening. Men like Frank need to be in control. Giving it to someone else is bad enough. Having it forcibly taken is a different story. He hated her, but with these two, young babes working him over, (he couldn’t believe the places they put their torturing tongues), and Rose’s legs; legs that went on for miles, his body went into overdrive. He knew that once they got down to the interrogation part, the pain part, he would pray for death. His real fear, the fear of any man, was that he might beg for death, or worse, beg them to stop, to just stop hurting him.

The two young beauties were quickly dispatched and two burly men took their place. Their job was to put the handsome hero in the ancient Japanese bondage of shibari. Known for some of the most brutal and barbaric indignities inflicted on many of their subjugated peoples, the Japanese are also known for more subtle, yet just as effective, forms of torture, tortures that allow them to preserve the body of the victim while causing him or her unbearable suffering. You might say that Rose has elevated this to an art form and this sexy artist is about to transform this drab little hut into quite an exciting place.

I would like to give you some insight into this ancient form of rope torture because I feel it would give you some insight into Rose, and, of course, Frank; what they feel and how they act. In the realm of torture, interrogation, abuse and punishment, there are those who take a savage approach. They maim and mutilate their victims, getting off on spilling blood. Others are more refined and view torture as an art form, something to be savored by all the senses. They’re purpose is to create a tableau of pain and suffering, humiliation and despair laced with an abundance of sex. This groups knows that to sexually torture another is the highest form of humiliation. Shibari offers all that, and so much more. Let’s examine this by using our hero, Captain Frank Cypert.

The men have begun wrapping the strong rope made of hemp around Frank’s body. This is not haphazard but is done in a methodical way, a way that insures Frank will remain focused on his body, particularly those parts we associate with sex. His arms are secured behind his back. Once done, rope is used to bind his arms to his torso by tying rope around his biceps, a length of rope passing above his pecs while another passes just below them are joined in the back and tied to his wrists, pulling them slightly upward. The effect forces his pecs to stand out making them ideal targets for further play. As time goes by, Frank’s mind will focus on his chest, how it stands out, ready and vulnerable. He is one tough son of a bitch, but his mind is having trouble with these two men, handling his naked body as if he didn’t exist, tying him with this rope in this strange manner. Rose smiles and it is no wonder. Before her is one good-looking American captain, naked and bound. She is far from through.

One of the men grabs his right ankle and Frank tries to resists. A quick blow to his already punished stomach insures his compliance, at least physically. A length of rope is wrapped around his ankle and the man pulls his leg up, binding his ankle to his right thigh. Frank is now standing on one leg. Another length of rope is tied to the configuration behind his back, passes over his right shoulder and is wrapped around his testicles and the base of his penis. Now, as he hops to maintain his balance, his large penis bounces obscenely. That is the beauty of shibari. His mind is overloaded with sensations. He is trying to maintain his balance, trying to find the courage he knows he will need to keep silent, trying to maintain some form of dignity, knowing he is naked, that his penis is bouncing almost uncontrollably, feeling it start to harden, all this is front of this beautiful woman who, by her admiring looks, is truly enjoying the show.

While Frank is being gift wrapped for Rose, she is describing, in intimate detail, all that is happening.

“Hey GIs; you should see Captain Cypert. He is hopping on one foot trying to keep his balance. His big penis is bouncing, up and down, up and down. GIs, just looking at it makes me hungry. Oh my, he just spun around and, how do you Americans say it, ah yes, he has one fine ass. Rose is so very hungry now.”

Imagine what our hero is thinking. He is a fighter, a leader of men; yeah, he is a bit cocky, has no difficulty finding trouble and, when it comes to women, he’s in charge, a real pussy pleaser. What he doesn’t realize is that shibari is a slow torture that will focus his attention inward. There, he will start to question right and wrong, good and bad, hell, even black and white. The rope may make love to his body, playing havoc with his muscles, joints, ligaments and tendons, but it really fucks up his mind. Rose has definite plans for Frank, especially his bouncing appendage something more private and very intimate. But now, she has to teach him and his appendage who is in charge. Just then, the door opens and a man enters. He is dressed all in black, which is quite surprising considering the location. He doesn’t speak a word, his slanty eyes are fixed on the sight of Captain Frank Cypert. I’m not sure you can call it a smile, but he certainly likes what he sees.

“GIs, in the sixth century, the Chinese, a foul people, introduced the Japanese to a form of healing. You Americans are unfamiliar with this.”

While Rose is talking, the sinister man reaches into a black, leather satchel and removes a small wooden case. Rose picks up the microphone and walks toward the man as he opens the case, the lights shine on the contents. A stool is placed directly in front of Frank along with a small table. Rose walks up to Frank, and placing her hand on his bulging pec, she whispers into his ear…

“Be brave my strong, handsome captain. Rose has plans for you after we conclude this nasty business though I’m afraid that may take several hours.”

Frank would wring her neck if he could, but, fucking A, she knows how to push his buttons. The man sits on the stool and places the wooden box on the table. I don’t need to remind you of where his eyes are focused, do I?

“Shit,” Frank says to himself, “this can’t be good.”

“GI’s, Rose is going to teach you, and my big, handsome Captain Frank…”

“Fuck you, cunt, I don’t belong to you,” Frank angrily said.

Rose smiled while the sinister man’s eyes remained fixed on the object of their attention, his hand reaching for the wooden box.

“About ACUPUNCTURE!”

 

 

Chapter 6 – That Tingly Feeling

by Hamilton (with a Jardonn insert)

 

Frank can’t take his eyes off the yellow bastard sitting in front of his genitals and the thin, shiny needle he holds in his hand. So intense is his gaze that he never notices Rose walking behind him. All at once, he feels her soft yet firm breasts against his back, her nipples, like two sharp points, poking his flesh. Trying to balance himself on one leg, worried about Tojo the Torturer holding the needle, our hero is caught between fear and pleasure, a pleasure that increases ten-fold as Rose positions her pelvis against the crack of his muscular ass while placing her hands gently on his bulging pecs. Frank’s senses are attacked by the intoxicating aroma of her very expensive French perfume, a gift from a visiting Nazi major. Under normal circumstances, Frank would fuck her brains out, but these were not normal circumstances, and he was not about to fuck anything. She licks his ear, inticing him to turn towards her, as she whispers, seductively…

“You will be brave for Rose, won’t you, Captain Cypert?”

So taken with the overt sexual advance of Rose, Frank doesn’t notice Tojo the Torturer reaching for his penis. Male fingers grab hold of his cock, and Frank jerks his attention to Tojo and that fucking shit-faced grin. Yeah, Tojo knows what he’s doing as he shows Frank the small, glistening needle.

“Fuck,” thought Frank, “he’s going to stick that in my cock.”

As soon as Frank forms this thought, Rose begins to gently knead his pecs. Her mission is clear. She must instill fear in the American forces and she will accomplish this by subjecting them to Captain Frank Cypert’s interrogation. But, Rose has a hidden agenda. She is about to begin her enslavement of the big, strapping American GI and, if all goes well, she will return to Tokyo with her prize sex slave. She begins scratching his large nipples with her red nails. Frank’s movements, and the sight of his sexy body bound and naked, about to be tortured, starts her pussy juices flowing.

“Well, my GI buddies; we are about to begin. The doctor of acupuncture has ten very small needles. He will begin to slowly insert them into Captain Cypert’s very large penis, or, as you Americans say, cock.”

Whispering in Frank’s ear, Rose tortures him in an unexpected way.

“Frank, you will take it like a man, won’t you? Remember all those young soldiers out there. They are counting on you to remain strong, to show the people of Imperial Japan that you are better. It would be a shame if you let them down.”

Saying a few words in Japanese, Tojo the Torturer moves the shiny needle to the head of Frank’s stiffening penis, which the man has been manipulating for several minutes. As the needle touches his flesh, Frank’s whole body tenses in anticipation of the blinding pain he knows must surely follow. Rose continues her pelvic grinding and her hands begin squeezing his chest more aggressively. He inhales deeply and realizes that there is no pain.

“The fuckers played me,” he thinks. “God damn it!”

Rose’s hands slide down his muscular, and by now, sweating and heaving torso, to stroke and squeeze his stomach making sure her nails rake the ridges of his abdominals and probing his navel with her nail.

“Well, my GI buddies, the first needle has been inserted into the head of Frank’s beautiful cock. It is time for number two.”

 

Tojo, taking his time to prolong his pleasure, and Frank’s torment, holds the last of the ten needles. Squeezing the head of Frank’s erect cock, his piss slit opens and placing the needle on an angle, gently pushes. Rose describes where each needle is placed and by the last one, Frank’s sweat is dripping off his body and hitting the floor beneath him. The front of Rose’s dress in soaked with his sweat as she breathes the intoxicating odor of a man who is both tormented and sexually stimulated.

“Now my GI buddies, the doctor will manipulate the needles to ease Frank’s pain.”

“What pain?” Frank thinks to himself.

Suddenly, his world explodes and a blood-curdling scream escapes his mouth, filling the room, and of course, the mic. Rose restrains his shibari-bound body as he completely looses his balance. Five minutes of manipulation and Rose is lost in a vortex of sadistic sexual pleasure as she pushes her pelvis into his sweaty ass as if trying to enter him. Her moans build steadily until, unable to contain herself, she screams out from her own orgasm.

For the next hour, in spite of Frank’s total exhaustion, Tojo the fucking Torturer finds new ways to torment Frank’s cock. Somewhere during that hour, our hero gave up trying to control his screams. His body hangs, limp and drained, there is no longer any concern for keeping his balance; his head droops to the left. Under his massive body lies a puddle of sweat.

“Well, GI’s, that is all for tonight. I hope you all enjoyed yourselves. Rose had a wonderful time. Tomorrow, we have another exciting show with my guest, Captain Frank Cypert, and I know you won’t want to miss it. Good night, GIs.”

Walking to the bound man, Rose lifts his head. He can barely open his eyes, but, he can’t help it.

“Clean him and bring him to my private quarters. Captain Cypert, I have planned a memorable evening for you. I’m sure you will enjoy yourself.”

For emphasis, she grabs his tortured cock.

 

On the Ledo Road, moans of male agony gave way to dead air and crackles of static.

“Holy crap, Mike! Was that for real?”

“It… it had to be, Jack.”

“God almighty… even if that guy was some Japanese actor, sounds like that can only come from very real pain.”

“Hold on, Jack. The guys are going nuts.”

Every field radio was abuzz, each operator up and down the line trying to find out if others had heard what they’d heard. Wanting to know about this supposed Frank Cypert. Real? Fictional? Theater of the hideous concocted to intimidate? Or sadistic reality of the cruelest sort perpetrated upon an actual prisoner of war? Either way, as Mike put it, this was some fucked up shit.

Stupidly, but perhaps understandably, each man who’d listened was too dumbfounded during the broadcast to think of alerting their commanders as to what was happening. General Frank Merrill, Colonel Charles Hunter, none of them ever heard one second of it, but now they heard plenty. They were put to work contacting General Stilwell and anyone else who might know. Who is Captain Frank Cypert? And could he possibly be prisoner of the Japanese?

  

Sitting in front of the mirror, Rose brushes her hair. She is dressed in a revealing negligee, no doubt another gift from some Hun bastard.

“Captain Cypert. I hope you realize that your inability to control yourself has probably shaken the nerves of all those brave, young boys out there. You are such a strong man yet you screamed like a little girl. Please don’t worry. Tomorrow you will get another chance to redeem yourself.”

Rising from the chair, Rose turns to see the magnificent vision of Captain Frank Cypert, bound, spread-eagled to her bed, naked and quite vulnerable. She walks towards the bed and traces her fingernail along his ankle and up his leg. Soon, a second finger joins the first and then a third. Smiling, she sees his flaccid cock start to stiffen.

“My, my, captain, I see from your reaction that you like Rose, even though she had you tortured, made you scream and made you betray your friends.”

Poor Frank, he had to admit it. With all this fucking cunt subjected him to, she was one fuckable bitch. Rose picked up something from the table. Holding it up so Frank could see, it was a leather lace. Without saying a word, she proceeded to bind his cock and balls.

“My dear Captain Cypert, Rose can’t have you making a mess. Besides, I need these filled for tomorrow’s broadcast. But don’t worry, it won’t interfere with our evening. Our evening of Rose’s pleasure.”

 

Chapter 7 – Frank’s Long Night

by Hamilton and Jardonn

 

“Do you have a wife, Captain Cypert? Perhaps a special girl. A big, strong man like you must surely have someone he loves. I see you don’t want to talk to Rose. Well, that is fine. We have more important things to do tonight than talk. You are a man of action, are you not, Captain Cypert? Well, I think tonight, Rose will give you a chance; a chance to show her you are, indeed, a man of action.”

All this time, her fingertips have been maddeningly raking his body, paying particularly close attention to Frank’s deep navel. Rose had a thing for navels and Frank’s was, in her estimation, pure perfection, the type made to tease or torture. Her nail gently scratches the delicate, dark depths.

“Fucking bitch,” he thinks as her nail torments his navel. “I’d fuck her brains out. This is crazy. She’s using me to get to the men. And she’s doing one hell of a job. Shit; I can’t fucking take this. Oh God, no!”

Rose’s moist, raspy tongue begins swirling around the newly sensitized flesh.

“Captain Cypert, men have no idea what a woman desires. They’re only interest is to get it over with as soon as possible. Imagine if you were not allowed to get it over with as soon as possible; if you were teased and brought to the brink only to have the torment stop. Then, at just the right moment, and, Captain Cypert, it is just that, a moment, you were teased again, brought even closer. Think of how you would feel as you were allowed to, but no, sorry. In the hands of a knowledgeable woman, this could go on until you begged. Captain, I am such a woman, and, you will beg. And, as if that is not enough, you will give Rose everything your magnificent body has to give without tasting relief.”

She reveals two perfect peach-half breasts and Frank’s cock springs into action.

“Well, well, you like Rose, don’t you? Let us see how much you really like Rose; how much you are willing to make her happy?

The camp found it difficult sleeping that night. To another man, there is no sound as painful as that of a man slowly being driven insane with pleasure. Some of the men even feel sorry for Frank. But not Wojo. He just lies in bed, grinning.

“Not again, you fucking bitch. God damnit, let me cum. You’re fucking killing me.”

Frank was a writhing mass of muscled flesh, sweaty, exhausted and almost broken.

“My handsome, slave, Rose has no intention of killing you.”

Her mouth slowly descends toward his raging cock.

“NOOOOOOOOOOO! GOD, PLEASE. AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH…….

Next day—

Rose and the Japanese captain are having tea. She explains that tonight’s broadcast will be special.

“Captain, I have prepared Frank for the evening broadcast. But I must ask a favor. Do you think Wojo could be spared to help me.”

“Of course, Iva. Tell me what he must do.”

She smiles an evil smile, a very evil smile.

“It is imperative that the GI’s hear Captain Cypert suffer in a way that will strike fear into them; fear tinged with humiliation. That is where Wojo comes in. Tell me, captain, would he be willing to, there is no delicate way of putting this; would he be willing to violate Captain Cypert?”

“Yes, Iva. I am intrigued. What are you planning besides the obvious?”

“Think of how all those young, impressionable GI’s will react to this. Please send for Wojo. There is something I need to check.”

The sadistic soldier stands before Iva and the captain.

“Wojo, do you understand what I am asking?”

“Yes.”

“Can you do it?”

“Yes, it will be my pleasure.”

“Fine. Can you do it with me there, watching?”

“Yes. I will do it in front of the whole camp,” he says with pride.

“Fine. There is one more thing. I need to see just what you will do this with.”

Wojo tugs at his zipper, reaches in and proudly pulls out his cock. Rose is visibly pleased.

“Wojo, you must promise that you will degrade our guest. Make him the lowest of the low. It is imperative that you not falter. Do you understand?”

“Yes. I have seen to our guest’s frustration. You will see to his shame, a shame he must feel only for himself. When I tell you, you will spill your seed; not one moment before.”

“I understand.”

“This will be my finest broadcast.”

Later that day—-

“Rose; I have done as you asked. Wojo has been exercising all morning. He is, shall we say, smelling like a fish in the sun for three days. I told him he is not to shower. Why?

“Why, Captain, you must wait until the broadcast. It will be quite memorable and should achieve the results Tokyo is looking for.”

“I have a feeling Iva, that this will involve our guest, Captain Cypert. Shall I assume he will not be pleased?”

“Oh, Captain, it most certainly involves Captain Cypert, and I doubt that he will find it pleasing.”

Rose smiles as she returns to the hut to prepare for her finest broadcast. Later, she will look in on Frank, who remains tied to her bed, to reignite her desire and his frustration.

Evening—

We enter the hut and find Rose and her staff making final preparations. She carefully chooses her opening song, a Miller arrangement of Little Brown Jug. In the center of the room is Frank, naked and sweaty. He is bent over a saw horse, bent over backwards, the small of his back perpendicular across the top beam of the horse, his legs spread wide, ankles roped to legs of the horse on one side of the beam right and left, his wrists roped to opposite legs on the other side, right and left. He is looking quite vulnerable. His back is painfully arched. His chest and face are upside down. His stomach is flat, his belly button the highest point of his backward-arched body. Rose walks up to him and gently lifts his head.

“Hello my lover. Rose has prepared something special for you. I am a sharing person, Captain, and I wish to share you. You are quite frustrated, I know, so I will see that your frustration is sated, and that your men will know how much I care for you.”

Rose nods to a soldier who opens the door to the hut. In steps Wojo. The soldier’s reaction to the stench of this massive man is quite humorous to all but Wojo. He pushes the soldier away. His eyes focus on Frank, helpless and vulnerable and bound in a very awkward position. He smiles. Rose beckons him. A few words in Japanese and Wojo begins to strip. He is, for the most part, filthy from the exertions of the day.

“Captain, I told you that I would share you. I left out one very important detail. I will share you with…Wojo!”

“Damn you, bitch. If I get loose I’ll slit your throat….

“Enough, captain, we both know you are not getting loose. No. This is to be your night; a night to experience never before feelings and, my lover, to experience them fully, and deeply. And, because I want you to know these joys, we will make it last. Only the best for my love slave.”

Rose cues the seventy-eight and the familiar scratch of spinning wax fills the room. Then, the unmistakable Miller sound, those sweet clarinets and sonorous saxes. She motions to Wojo and he stands in front of Frank. One garment remains. As he lowers it, Frank shudders. He knows what is about to happen and he knows this son of a bitch intends to make the most of it. There, in all its glory, is the sweaty, stinking body of Wojo. He smiles as he strokes himself, quickly hardening into a nasty shaft of slimy flesh. He slaps Frank’s face with his cock, back and forth. His contact with Frank’s cheeks causes him to dribble, his slick smearing Frank’s face as Frank uselessly tries to bite him. Rose is pleased with the game. A game of cat and mouse, as Wojo humiliates Frank with his foul-smelling organ, sliming his cheek and moving out of range from Frank’s snapping jaw.

“Well, my GI buddies. Did you enjoy Mr. Miller? I have something special for my American friends. Your Captain Cypert is with me. He is tied up, right now, in a rather uncomfortable position and rather vulnerable, spread wide. Fortunately for him, one of Japan’s finest specimens is standing right before him, and not wanting your captain to be alone in his nakedness, has also removed his uniform. So, let us all sit back and enjoy. You may begin, Wojo”

Whispering to Frank, Rose says, “Lover, feel free to scream, or moan and groan with pleasure. Your men will hear you enjoy Wojo’s tenderness.”

Suddenly, the room is shattered by a wall-crumbling howl. Rose has inserted a bamboo stick into Frank’s navel. It is stretched, vulnerable, the saw horse beam directly below his belly button supporting the small of Frank’s back. She mercilessly grinds the stick into his depths. His belly button is speared, the stick piercing into his knot. In front of Frank’s inverted face, Wojo is relentless. Stroking himself. Slapping Frank’s cheeks. Avoiding Frank’s chomping teeth. The victim growls with anger and pain. He groans at his humiliation.

Within minutes, everyone in the room has placed hands to their own crotch. Rose herself, standing between Frank’s spread open legs, does likewise, fingering herself with one hand, torturing Frank’s navel with the other. She grinds the bamboo stick into him deeper and deeper. She nearly runs him through. And because the nerves here send shockwaves to a man’s groin, the man’s organs of sex respond. Frank could not know. Could not feel. He could only feel his belly button. He could only feel his outrage, as Wojo’s sticky pre-come slimed Frank’s cheeks, his nose, his eyes, his lips. He frantically struggled for air. His belly button pierced, his stomach brutally compressed. Every dog-like pant fouled his nostrils, his tongue and his throat permeated with the stench of Wojo, the dried and new sweat, funk of his ass, funk of his crotch. So horrific was Frank’s pain and degradation, he could not know the woman was using him to pleasure herself. Frank was oblivious to everything below his tortured navel, and he howled not as a man, but as a trapped and frightened beast when Wojo painted his face with heated liquid. Wasted seed splattered Frank’s cheeks, his lips. Gobs of Wojo’s nasty white worms dribbled into Frank’s inverted nostrils. He snorted to expel this disgusting discharge, his own mucus mixing with balls of Wojo juice. The ultimate humiliation. The lowest of the low. Frank Cypert suffered what no man should suffer, not even realizing that the shrieks of female pleasure matched his own cries of degradation and agony. All sounds received by the microphone. All sounds broadcast to men of the 5307th.

An hour has passed since Wojo and Rose first began their assault. Captain Frank Cypert hangs limp in his bonds, his head hung low. Sweat drips on the floor beneath him; sweat, mingled with slimy snails of the seed of Japan.

Rose, too, has achieved a powerful pleasure, and her sign-off needs few words. “Good night, American GI’s. Thank you for joining your Captain Frank Cypert in his hour of happiness.”

The broadcast is over, but Rose is far from finished. Lifting his head, she enjoys Frank’s torment, reflected in his eyes. They speak of his shame, his agony and humiliation, and his sense of betrayal to the American GI’s forced to hear his screams.

“You have done well, my love slave. But the night is quite young, and Rose is feeling quite stimulated and alive. Clean him and take him to my quarters. Tie him to my bed.”

Frank has nothing left. His main concern is for those men out there in the jungle and what they must be thinking. He tried not to give in. He tried to be brave and withstand this brutal, two-pronged assault, but it was too much. A devastating cocktail of pain and degradation. As the soldiers untie him, he is dealt one final insult. Wojo backs up and spreads open his butt cheeks right above Frank’s nose. He’s too weak, his spine fused from one full hour of backward curve. His arms and legs are free, but he can go nowhere. Frank Cypert inhales the nose-burning stench of sweaty Japanese ass.

 

Part 8: Ears Burning, Stomachs Churning

by Jardonn

 

It’s a damn good thing the British had taught us how to keep our wits about us when it came to this torture business. Otherwise, 3000 men would have tore off into the jungle trying to find that crazy bitch Rose, and that disgusting pervert Wojo. Hell, we’d have all been dead, wandering around lost forever, or falling off cliffs.

In the interim between first broadcast and the one we’d just heard, General Merrill and his commanders had learned that, yes indeed, a Captain Frank Cypert had trained with Wingate’s Chindits and been dropped into the jungle as an advance scout. He was to meet up with Kachins and plot a path through mountain trails outside their territory for one of our battalions. Idea was to have about one-third of us Marauders on the Japanese 18th’s left flank, so as to cut off their eastward escape while Stilwell pressed ’em from in front and our other two-thirds hit ’em from behind and right. They’d never figure we could get our men over those mountains and that far east.

So, bad news — those sounds we heard were being done to one of our own. Good news? Some of our Kachins had run across some of their mortal enemies, the Shans, captured ’em, and learned of a Japanese encampment that had just been set up a couple weeks prior. Didn’t make sense for it to be there. Location was closer to us than it was to the Japanese 18th.

You know, I’m sure General Merrill would’ve preferred none of us knew about any of this, but those poor radio guys, Mike included, couldn’t keep such information from us. After listening to what that Wojo beast had done to Cypert, we would have perpetrated a little torture ourselves on Mike and them, if that’s what we’d have had to do so they’d tell us what Merrill had found out. As to what Wojo’d actually done, none of us was sure. Rose wasn’t telling, and that made it worse than it already was. Some of the guys thought they’d done plugged Frank in the ass, but most of us, especially the veterans who’d heard Tokyo Rose on the shortwave at Guadalcanal, didn’t figure he’d made the right sounds for that. A man being raped would end up whimpering and crying like a woman, or at least that’s how we imagined it. That strong-ass Frank Cypert was growling, grunting, calling Wojo and Rose every name in the book, and in our minds that was a man worth saving regardless of what they’d been doing to him.

It ain’t like General Merrill had a choice. Either we’d go after Frank by the Army’s plan, or we’d grab us a couple of Kachins, choose a couple dozen of the best men for the job and go on our own. Screw this shit. We weren’t going to take any more of it. Neither was Captain Cypert if we had our way. Merrill and his commanders did what was right, put together a mission.

Thirty of us would go. As an expert machine gunner with 67 confirmed kills on Guadalcanal, I’s one of the lucky ones chosen. Twenty mules would go carrying mortars, explosives, heavy guns and ammunition. Two Kachins would show us the way. We’d be getting a special air drop soon as daylight would allow. Easy mission for the flyboys compared to flying over the Himalayas delivering goods to Chaing Kai-shek in China. They say that to this day you don’t need any navigation equipment to fly over the “Hump.” Just follow the trail of crashed airplanes. I think I told you that was part of our main mission — capture the airfield at Mitch so we wouldn’t have to send our flyboys over the Hump from India and back.

Longest god damned night of our lives, as we continued our night-time march on the Ledo Road. Around midnight we thirty broke ranks and made camp in the jungle. Kachins said this was the best place to start our expedition. At daybreak, Mike would be giving coordinates for a nearby clearing to the cargo plane pilots. Until then, all we could do was try to sleep. Hard to do. Every man concocted every kind of ugly scenario imaginable, wondering what was going on with Frank Cypert between broadcasts. It just pissed us off like you wouldn’t believe.

 

Part 9: Charged

by Hamilton

 

Frank Cypert looked around the hut. Bound, spread-eagled and naked, he watches Iva’s men checking the settings on the audio equipment. Every once in a while, they look at him and laugh. They had witnessed his humiliation, his degradation at the hands of Wojo and Rose. No man can withstand such an assault on his pride. These yellow bastards heard him scream; they heard him beg not to be used by Wojo, beg like frightened woman. There was no shame in this, but our hero is slowly being broken and is losing his grip on reality. Soon, she will come.

“Yeah, figures,” he thinks. “A fucking hand-crank generator.”

He thinks back to last night, the scene of his humiliation. He was cleaned and brought to her, bound to her bed, again. It was going to be another long night. She was dressed in a style that would get to any man, no matter what he had gone through. All she talked about was what Wojo did; how he begged. She ran her nails up and down his body, turning him on and letting him know in no uncertain terms that he belong to her; her possessions. She spoke of their return to Tokyo and how he would serve her and her close friends as her GI sex slave. He would never see home again and, it didn’t matter because Japan would defeat the Americans, and he will have played his part in the final victory by helping to demoralize his men.

And she never let him forget how he betrayed them. He wondered why, after all she had done, she could still turn him on. All he wanted to do was kill her and yet, she turned him on.

“Your poor men. How you betrayed them. But don’t worry. Perhaps they will be spared. Well, at least the handsome ones. Maybe we will auction them off. Oh Frank; I see you still desire Rose. And I thought that, perhaps, you preferred Wojo. How silly of me.”

Yes, it was a long night for Frank, filled with pleasure he couldn’t resist and pain caused by his betrayal of his men.

The door opens and Rose enters. She smiles that seductive smile and consults with her aids. All is ready. Shortly, she is followed by the little doctor carrying his bag of tricks. A young nurse accompanies him. Rose walks to Frank and begin running her red nails along his pecs. He thinks to himself how good she smells. He loves her touch. He knows he’s losing this war.

“Frank; dear Frank. I am afraid that I must let the doctor hurt you…badly. Oh, don’t worry; he will not damage you. What good would you be to Rose and her friends? You will again betray your men. How does that make you feel, my big, handsome GI?”

Rose picks up a large, stainless steel probe and holds it to his eyes. “Does my lover know what this is for?” He knows, and he knows where it’s going. “My my, would you look at all this hard ridges. I’m afraid this is going to be somewhat uncomfortable. And these wires; do you suppose they are connected to something?” He hated her. He wanted to kill her, yet, “Fuck,” he thinks. She still turns him on.

Placing it down, she picks up another object, long, shiny and quite thin. It, too, has hard ridges along the surface and wires.

“Oh, my big, strong hero, I can’t bear the thought of what the doctor will do with this,” she says with mock concern.

The young female assistant constantly runs her eyes up and down his body, moistening her sensuous lips. Frank is sure if she wants to jump his bones or break them.

“Frank, Rose is hurt. She is a pretty thing, isn’t she. Would you like to spend some time with her after we’re through?”

The door opens and in walks Wojo. He smiles as he and Frank exchange glances.

“Oh, I’m sorry my lover. I forgot. Tomorrow we leave for Tokyo. Tonight, I am afraid I will not have the pleasure of your company, nor you mine. But don’t worry. You will be occupied; well occupied I might add. Tonight, you will be the guest of…Wojo.”

The look on Frank’s face is enough to make Rose cum for the first of many times that night.

Frank watches the young assistant put on rubber gloves. He carefully follows her as she picks up the large probe and grabs a large amount of lubricant. Holding it so he can see it, she begins to coat the large probe. Looking into his eyes, she smiles. Her gaze falls on his crotch as she begins to walk around him. He turns his head to follow. Their eyes lock. As he turns his head to the front, his eyes meet Rose who puckers her lips and blows him a kiss. Suddenly, looking down, he sees the doctor holding the long, thin probe.

“Well, Frank, we are all ready for your encore performance. Good evening, GIs. I hope you had a pleasant day. Did you enjoy our little broadcast last night? I did. Well, your buddy, Captain Frank Cypert is here with me and he’s just as I like him, naked and bound spread-eagled. Rose would like to play a game. Won’t that be fun? You Americans love games. Well, standing behind Frank is a very pretty, young nurse. She is holding a large metal probe with, what appears to be lots of hard, nasty ridges. Now, you have to guess what she is going to do with it.”

Several minutes go by.

“OK, GI buddies, Rose will give you a hint.”

Speaking in Japanese and nodding to the young nurse, the room is suddenly filled with the anguished cries of Frank Cypert. Rose’s orders were for the nurse to proceed slowly. From the screams coming from Frank, the young nurse has done this before.

“Well, GIs, does that help? Oh, come now. You know. While the nurse connects the wires, let’s play another game, shall we? Sitting in front of Frank, is the doctor. You do remember him, don’t you? Well, he has another large probe, much thinner but it too has those nasty ridges. Can you guess what he is going to do with it?” Oh my GI buddies, you are so bad. Alright, I’ll give you another hint.”

More words in Japanese and the room explodes with more screams from Frank. The doctor connects the wires to the generator. Rose walks to Frank and whispers in his ear.

“Now, I know this is a bit uncomfortable but I want you to be prepared for your new life in Tokyo. Soon, I will turn the crank on the generator and your world will come crashing down. Although I enjoy you in my bed, and you have satisfied me beyond my wildest expectations, I want you to know that I derive great pleasure from making you suffer. Yes, that is right, my big American GI; Rose loves to hurt you. In time, you will give into the pain, freely. You will offer your body to me so I may hurt it. Tonight, my slave, I will miss you. But Wojo will keep you entertained. He does have his ways.” She lightly taps the anal probe, “Doesn’t he?”

Grabbing the crank, Rose starts to turn, slowly, sending a tingle through the probes and upping the fear in Frank’s brain. The nurse injects him with a stimulant preventing him from passing out.

“GIs, I give you entertainment to rival Bob Hope.”

Again, the room explodes.

The elaborate generator allows Iva to regulate the current letting her decide how much or little, and where to deliver it. After fifteen minutes, Frank’s body is twitching, sweat literally pouring off his body and pooling on the concrete floor beneath him. As he looks around the room he cannot believe that humans could be so cruel, that they would enjoy inflicting pain on another. Yet, he sees the proof. There is no mistaking the bulges in the trousers of the men and as for the young nurse, her hand has slipped under her uniform long ago. If Frank is not rescued soon he will become the mindless sex slave of a beautiful woman who is both desirable and cruel. He knows she orchestrated this whole thing. For her, he is more than a mere psychological tool to dishearten his men. He is a toy, a living, breathing toy made of flesh and blood, of bone and muscle and a hard cock to fill her pussy, as well as a strong back to taste the kiss of her lash.

His world explodes again and he feels himself slipping. This time, as the pain invades his body, his mind, his very thoughts, it is alive and it has a face, the smiling face of Tokyo Rose.

 

Part 10: NO SURPRISES

by Jardonn

 

I guess it shouldn’t have been surprising that Frank never attended one of our Marauder reunions until 1984. After all, he wasn’t really part of our outfit. Most of the men there milling about before our banquet started didn’t remember who he was, or perhaps they did and wanted nothing to do with him. Whichever the reason, Frank Cypert was like an island, standing there all alone with a barrier of space between him and all others.

That’s why I noticed Frank. I wondered if he had leprosy or something, so I moved closer to read his name tag, instantly following it up with an offer of my hand.

“Hello, Frank Cypert. I’m Jack Pendleton. See?” I pointed to my name tag as he hesitatingly took my hand for a shake. “I was in that rescue squad that got you out of the Japanese camp.”

He winced. Shook his head as though wishing away what I’d tried to stir up. In retrospect, that shouldn’t have been any more of a surprise than the fact he’d avoided our reunions for so many years. The question was, why did he show up for this one?

As it turned out, Frank’s rescue wasn’t nearly so daring as we’d expected it would be.

We 30 men never heard the third broadcast. Orders of our squad commander. After snaking our way through nearly invisible jungle trails from sunup to sundown, we cleared a space to make camp. Were told to make no noise, which included radio, because our Kachin guides didn’t want us attracting the attention of any jaguars. We knew that was bullshit. Those cats used their eyes and noses at night more than their ears, but we did what we were told regardless. Had no desire for listening to any more of that damned broadcast even if we’d have had the permission.

Near the end of our second day on the move, our advance Kachin backtracked to tell our commander he’d found the Japanese compound. Ten men were chosen, including me, and we moved forward to a point where our commander’s field glasses revealed the layout. That’s not all they revealed. A shirtless man was being escorted by two uniformed men from one building across open ground toward another building. With his arms draped over their shoulders and his feet dragging along the well-traveled and flattened undergrowth, there was little doubt this shirtless man was our target.

Our commander made a quick sweep with his glasses — no guard towers, they obviously didn’t want the compound to be seen from the air, and the only visible sentinels were two men pacing the front of one building, most likely the headquarters of their camp commander.

“At that pace, they’ll get where they’re going in about one minute,” observed our commander, who then made a bold decision based on little information. “You four men, get down there and kill quiet.”

It would be a challenge, but the four took off in a flash of stealth, while we machine gunners fanned out on the perimeter where we could cover every door of every building from long distance. As we did this, our commander sent a man back for the rest of our squad, ordered equipment be brought up for mortar fire. Amazingly, this camp was so secret and so hastily put together as though temporary, the Japanese saw no reason to devote much manpower to protecting it.

Our four sneaked out of the jungle at the back of the building just as the escort reached the front steps, and before the two Japanese soldiers made it to the door, their throats were sliced open and Frank Cypert was draped across an American shoulder being carted into the jungle toward our commander’s position.

Not a sound did our four make, and it was nearly ten seconds before the two sentinels even noticed two of their own lay dead on the porch of the building caddy-corner from them. Like shooting ducks it was. As the sentinels shouted their alarm in Japanese, their fellow soldiers came bursting out every door of every building and we machine gunners picked ’em off one after another. And just in case some of ’em got smart and stayed inside, our commander opened up the mortar fire until every building was hit. They’d all come out then. And fall as soon as they did.

I’m trying to spice it up. In reality, I’d bet no more than 50 men were in that compound. Maybe 10 women, not that we bothered distinguishing what gender got taken out. To hell with ’em. They were all part of something purely evil, and for no god damn good reason, which is a point Frank and I would be discussing at that reunion 40 years later.

The trick was moving with speed through the jungle in near-darkness until we reached a place we could defend. We rested, settled for the overnight, and listened carefully, not knowing if any signals had been sent for Japanese patrols to come looking for us. As for Frank, nothing was left of him physically, but his mind was alert enough to absorb our commander’s telling him he had to stay quiet. Easy to do when you can sleep in peace for the first time in many a night, knowing your comrades are there to protect you.

It’d been 40 years since I’d last seen Frank. We delivered his limp carcass to a medical triage on the Ledo Road end of the next day, and then we rejoined the other 3,000 Marauders to continue our march and our mission. An adventure worth ten books, but there’s ten hundred of ’em out there already so I’m too late.

“Let me buy you another drink, Frank,” an offer from me he accepted as we ambled to the cash bar for two scotch and sodas. I found us an isolated spot at the end of one of the banquet tables and we sat across from one another.

“So, what happens at these get-togethers, Jack?” he wondered.

“Nothing much. We eat. Listen to speeches about new information come to light since the last meeting, you know, military documents about us that might have been released, books written or articles published. The president reads a list of men who’ve died since last time. Tells of plans for the next reunion, and then we break up to chat. Leave whenever we want.”

“Just a getting re-acquainted thing, huh?”

“Yep, mostly.”

“Hell, I never knew any of you men to begin with. Don’t remember much of anything until I woke up in a Calcutta hospital.”

“I’m not surprised, Frank. No matter. Rehashing the past gets real old real quick. Been five years since I’ve done one of these. I only came to this one because Pittsburgh’s fairly close to where I live. More interested in the here and now.”

“I see some men have brought their wives and kids.”

“Kids? There ain’t no kids here, Frank.”

“Ha. Grown kids, I mean. What about you, Jack? Your family doesn’t come with you?”

“Nah. Not anymore. Can’t blame them for getting bored with it. Besides, I lost my wife three years ago.”

“Sorry about that, Jack.” He leaned forward, reached for his back pocket and opened his wallet. “Mine left me a few years back.” Frank took out a picture, flipped it onto the table as though tossing a coin. The photo was black and white and old. She was Mongoloid, perhaps Japanese. “Actually, I left her,” Frank corrected.

“Where’d you meet?”

“Fairmount Hotel lounge. San Francisco. She was a cocktail waitress. After they processed me out of Fort Ord, I headed for the closest metropolitan area available. Had a bad desire to be around plenty of civilians. Didn’t count on seeing any Asians, though. Didn’t think about Chinatown, but there she was and things kind of clicked for us.”

“She’s Chinese?”

“Born U.S., but ancestors, yes.”

“So, you say you two have split?”

“Yeah. There’s nothing left for us. No good reason to stay together. She served her function. Gave me two children, kept the house together for me while they were growing up, through college and weddings and grandchildren.”

“Grandchildren are no good reason to stay with your wife, Frank?” I handed the picture back expecting him to whip out more photos of Cypert offspring, but he didn’t.

“Look, Jack,” he took the three remaining swallows of his drink. “I did what I’s supposed to do. Ok? Got a good job in Livermore at a defense plant making electrical parts for ships and aircraft. Came home nightly and was always faithful to her, but once I retired it was time to live a little. Told her we were going to sell the house and travel. She didn’t want to leave the Bay area. All her family’s there, so I said fuck it. Divorced her. Let her have the house. Got me a conversion van and been exploring the country ever since.”

And apparently he had no regrets, certainly none detected in his tone of voice. Since he already seemed to be on the defensive, I figured there’d be no harm in further stirring his shit. “So, how come you finally decided to attend our little shindig here, Frank?”

“It was a fluke,” he chuckled, calmed down. “Saw a notice in the Philadelphia newspaper. Figured it was one of those meant to be things, so I called the number and made my reservation. Piddled around in upstate New York and Pennsylvania a few weeks. Then here to Pittsburgh. Only got into town a couple of hours ago.”

“Well, I’m glad you did.”

It’s a strange feeling when all of a sudden during conversation something sweeps over you like an ocean wave. The expression changes. The mood is altered. A man finagles his eye lids, his lips, his forehead, and you realize he needs something from you. Your connection passes beyond casual.

Most people call it that puppy dog look, and that’s what I got from Frank when he reached over and grabbed my hand, his palm atop the back of mine. His fingers slightly squeezed me as he said, “I’ll go get us another drink.”

Happened quick, that look and the hand thing, but I knew from then on Frank would be clinging to me until our banquet ended. He’d only been gone about fifteen seconds when our president announced from the podium that everybody should settle into their seats. Fifteen seconds later, Frank returned, but without our drinks.

“Jack, I’ve gotta get out of here.” His face was flush, hands unsteady, and I didn’t disappoint him.

“Me, too.” I stood and faced him. “Got my own scotch in my room upstairs.”

“Good. Let’s go.”

 

Part 11: REPLACEMENT

by Jardonn

 

We stopped for ice before entering my room, and as I fixed our drinks Frank scrutinized the room service dinner menu. He made his selection and I called it in, doubling the order to cover me because I liked his choices.

“Sorry, Jack,” he grinned, relieved to be away from the crowd. “Guess I panicked a bit down there.”

“Not ready to dredge up the past, eh, Frank?”

“Not ready for others to dredge it up for me.”

After handing him his tumbler, I took a seat across from him at our little round table with chain lamp hanging from ceiling above, and although I probably should have let him stew while deciding whether or not he wanted to continue, I couldn’t stand the uncomfortable silence. So I broke it. “Ok, Frank, you’ll get no digging from me. I’m perfectly satisfied to cover the 40 years since.”

With a sigh, he leaned back, relaxed. “I think I’m beginning to see why I ran across that newspaper notice.” He held his tumbler forward for me to clink mine against it. “Salud, Jack. This makes the second time you’ve saved my ass from an uncomfortable situation.”

“Had a lot of help the first time, Frank. Cheers.”

We did cover our 40 years of civilian life during our dinner. Mine got better coverage. Like Frank, I did what I’s supposed to do. Road salesman for a hydraulic lift company in Cleveland. Graduating to Regional Manager based in their corporate office coincided with purchase of snazzy house in Shaker Heights. Continuation of ladder climbing elevated me to Vice President and Manager of Operations, the position I held when I retired a little more than one year prior to this Pittsburgh reunion. Faithfully came home every night to the woman I married, the woman who bore me three children, all now adults and scattered from Washington state to the Carolinas. And I stayed loyal to her through her breast cancer and double masectomy which didn’t take and her agonizing three-month demise from there.

“It’s a hell of a thing, Frank,” I concluded after leaving cart of emptied dishes in the hallway, “when the partner with whom you’ve planned your years of retirement up and dies on you right before you get there.”

“Am I supposed to feel guilty because I left mine?”

Convicted by his own words he was, words unsolicited by me. My back was turned to him when he said them. I was fixing our fifth scotch and soda. My response was a quick turn, a smile that said nothing, and then a return to my duties. Booze in moderation has a delightful way of loosening the tongue. And more. When I turned again Frank had lifted his knit shirt over his head and tossed it to the floor.

“Do you think running into my future wife at the Fairmount Hotel was an accident, Jack?”

“Things like that rarely are, just like you being right here, right now.” I handed him his drink and started to sit, but after a quick sip he placed his tumbler on the table and stood, so I stayed up with him.

“Who do you think I saw when I made love to her?” His defensive posture included fists clenched, arms slightly back, chest slightly forward and abdomen tensed.

“Dunno, Frank. I suspect it was a particular version of Tokyo Rose.”

“Damn right. And I have not had one orgasm without her being in my head. Not one with my wife. Not one done solo. She is there for every god damn one of ’em. How would you like to live with that for 40 years? Huh, Jack?”

“I couldn’t begin to imag…”

Before I could finish he grabbed my hand and led me to the bathroom. Turned on every light. “Get down there and look at this.” With his fingers he spread the rim of his belly button. Inside, along the skin of his knot, a swath of scar tissue. “See it, Jack?”

“Yes.”

“She did that. Cut me with her long-ass fingernail. A glorious nail painted ruby red. Stuck all kinds of metal shit in there, too. Digging around on me… trying to make me scream… trying to make my dick hard… and she did everything she was trying to do.” He covered his navel with the palm of his hand. “Now, get up here and see this.” As I stood, he pointed with his free hand to his right tit. “Did the same thing here… both of ’em, but mostly this one. See the cut? Her god damn nails again. So hateful, but so beautiful. Pinching on me. Twisting, turning, slicing, all for the same purpose… to make me hard… to make me surrender to her… to make me scream… and I did it, Jack. I didn’t want to. Tried everything in the world not to give in to her, but I was weak. I let you men down. I failed, Jack. Failed all of you. And myself. She turned me into a…”

“I think they’re handsome as can be, Frank.” With dry lips I kissed his right tit, not waiting for his reaction before doing the same to his left. It was also flawed with scar tissue, but not nearly so severe, and as Frank dropped both arms and looked toward the ceiling, my mouth lingered there. Lightly moistened his left tit with my tongue. Removed my mouth and stood up straight. His head was still tilted back. Eyes closed. No tears. “Come on, Frank,” I suggested. “Let’s finish our drink.”

We did so with Frank sitting at the end of the bed, me kneeling before him. By talking, he could pretend to ignore my removing his shoes and socks, my coaxing him to lay flat so I could unbuckle his belt and unsnap his jeans. By continuing to talk and maneuvering himself to lay full-bodied on his back atop the mattress, Frank could allow his pain to spew while I prepared him for worship. He could speak for the first time to anybody each detail of every minute of his captivity, and I could kiss every inch of him, hand rub every inch of him from his toes to his fingers. And when after an hour or more of it he was finished talking, Frank could lay there with his eyes closed and listen to me talk.

He could absorb my words of truth, of how his screams of agony and degradation beaming over the airwaves were not sounds of failure, but of a man giving all of himself to the limits of his endurance. Frank could pretend not to notice me stripping myself naked, as he listened to me explain how he defeated his tormentors, for his screams that were meant to demoralize us had just the opposite effect. Especially for the greenhorns who’d never experienced the cunning and cruelty of the Imperial Japanese. Frank’s determination strengthened them, angered them, gave them further incentive to do what they had to do. As it did for all of us.

And by the time I’d finished talking and taken Frank into my mouth to further solidify what I’d already started, we both were ready to obliterate forever the vision of Tokyo Rose from Frank’s tortured mind. My anus lubed with baby oil would see to that.

 

Part: 12: LIPS OF PASSION

by Jardonn

 

“You ought to follow me home, Frank. Only a few hours from here.” My invitation came in the morning after a night of cuddling. Mostly me cradling him in my arms, Frank’s face pressed into my chest so he could sleep knowing he was protected, just like the night after his rescue in Burma when 30 of us Marauders were there to protect him. Since I’d awakened with him on his back and my head laying on his chest, I burrowed down and got an early start on my breakfast from his morning hard-on. “That is if you’ve got nothing planned,” I finished my idea after swallowing.

“Nope. I’m free to do whatever the hell I want.” He stretched. He yawned. He coaxed me onto my back and jacked me off. Guess that’s what he meant by doing whatever the hell.

I figured he’d stay with me a few days, but didn’t count on me getting to alleviate some of my own burdens. Yes, I too had carried secrets around with me those 40 years. Bizarre little fantasies of mine, based on those broadcasts so long ago. Not knowing the details of exactly what they were doing to Frank, I concocted my own scenarios involving the Frank I saw as we carried him out of the jungle and onto the Ledo Road. Frozen in time, the Frank of my dreams was always there just beneath the surface, enhancing my performance when in bed with my wife. After her death, I sought out substitutes for Frank, found a few and practiced man on man sex, but never took any of them beyond the bedroom. Only Frank could give me the guts to try anything else. Only the hope of seeing Frank prompted me to attend those reunions. And now that he’d finally shown up, 40 years of aging did nothing to diminish my fantasies. In my eyes, Frank was just as beautiful now as then. Frank at 67 was fit. Muscles defined and firm. Body hair more plentiful, more handsome in silver.

I’d managed to keep myself in healthy condition as well — for myself, and maybe for him, too, just in case — and it was the brass railings of my queen sized bed that kind of got the ball rolling for us. Frank did it himself, reaching for those rails and grabbing hold during one of my marathons of body worship inflicted upon him. Next time we did it, next night, he let out some cute phrases, such as, “Go ahead… do what you’ve gotta do,” and “Ugh, god damn, you sadistic bastard.” Done in a playful tone, but an open invitation to continue our exploration.

With a pre-chosen safe word, we progressed to actual ropes binding his wrists to those rails. Frank even threw a pillow onto the middle of the bed to elevate his chest and belly, and when my tongue made contact with the scar tissue inside his navel, he groaned as though genuinely in pain, while his cock surged and slammed against my chest. Unlike our first encounter in the hotel room, Frank’s eyes were never closed. He scrutinized my every move — not because he didn’t trust me, but because I had replaced Rose. I had replaced real torture with the torments of ecstasy, of lingering denials followed by incessant milkings.

Most importantly, every session further sealed his victory over her. Now, he could flex and display his masculinity while enhancing it with verbal expressions of the tortured hero. My tortured hero who would never be broken, never defeated, and our progression to my basement workout room took us to heights beyond my fantasies and his. Frank’s bindings to flat benches and decline benches, his suspensions upright and inverted from pull up bars were a sight to behold — are a sight to behold. Strong-ass piece of work. Frank’s endurance never fails to please me.

Perhaps visions of two 90-something-year olds getting it on in a basement of pretend torture and real sex might sicken some people. Like we give a crap. Here we are, 24 years later, virile as can be and still doing it in Shaker Heights. Ok. We skip the actual ropes and bindings. Figure we’ll waste too much energy tying all those damn knots. But rest assured, both rockets still fire, and Frank has no problem hanging from bars or draping himself atop benches. We winter here. Root for LeBron and the Cavaliers. Lament the annual ineptitude of the Browns. Spring, summer and fall we travel, Frank’s conversion van replaced by a newer model now four years old.

Like Frank said, we did our duty, now it’s time to live a little. Our second life, you might say, 24 years and counting. Nothing’s by accident. Me? I was sent on a suicide mission in Burma. None of us were supposed to come out of there alive, but we did, or at least some of us did. And Frank? Well, it’s quite clear that with Rose gone his torture from then on was to be for information. With an infatuated woman no longer there to keep Wojo and the camp commander somewhat in check, it’s likely Frank would have been reduced to an empty shell — or worse — within a day or two.

None of that was meant to be. Frank and I were meant to be, but not until life had taught us everything we needed to know in order to make this work. Had he shown up at our reunion in, say, 1975, what would either of us have done about it? What could we have done? Not much. Just converse as though we had nothing more to give one another besides current events and memories of the past.

Now, we can both do plenty. We do so on a daily basis, and will continue until one of us dies in the other’s arms. That is exactly how it will end if we have anything to say about it.

 

END