Mike and the Chilean Narcs

The Mike Trilogy
Book One: Mike and the Chilean Narcs
by Steve McHalperin
 
 
Chapter 1
Uncle Charlie
 
Charles Peterson rose quickly from his desk and came around to greet his nephew: “Well, well, Mike. At last I get a chance to see you again! So, how’s my future assistant manager doing?”

“You’re too generous, Uncle Charlie!,” Mike replied, shaking the older man’s hand vigorously, but slightly reddening from embarrassment. “How is Aunt Mildred? Your last e-mail said she wasn’t doing so good.”
“She’s doing better, doing better. Docs said the fractured shoulder will mend, but, at her age – hell, at my age too! – it’s going to take a while.”
“I’m glad to hear that. Can’t wait to see her. Hey, thanks for having me picked up at the airport. I’m not used to getting picked up in a limo!” Mike said.
“Well, nothing too good for my future manager,” Peterson beamed at his nephew. “So, sit down, boy, tell me how school is going,” he added, gesturing to a low settee against one of the large office walls.
Mike Peterson was 21 and attended Northwestern University in Chicago. He was visiting his uncle in LA during spring break. Mike’s life up to now had been somewhat chaotic. His father had been a petroleum engineer and the family of three had lived in Caracas, Venezuela for several years while Mike was in grade school. He had become completely fluent in Spanish, of course, and had intended to follow his father into engineering. When Mike was in the eighth grade, however, the lunatic Chavez came to power, nationalized the oil companies, and kicked all the gringo engineers out of the country.   Mike and his parents were on one of the last planes out of Caracas, a small BP company jet. Some of the rebels, Chavez’s low IQ henchmen, decided to make a stupid political statement and hit the plane with a bazooka shell seconds after it had taken off.
The plane went down smoothly, despite the hit, and skidded to a halt in a field next to the airport. A few of the passengers got out safely, including Mike, but then the plane suddenly caught fire, followed by an explosion, engulfing the plane in a fireball. Mike’s parents were still inside. Mike was thrown to the ground by the force of the blast. He was picked up by one of his father’s friends, who carried him to safety. After a short stay in a hospital, Mike was released to the American embassy for repatriation to the States.
That was when Uncle Charlie entered his life. Charlie Peterson was Mike’s father’s older brother, and had always been a part of general family life, but living in Caracas had separated Mike from his relatives. After the embassy notified Charlie of Mike’s situation, he and his wife immediately filed for custody of the boy and flew to his side in DC.
Mike spent his high school years living with Charlie and Mildred outside LA, where Charlie ran an import/export business with several supply companies in Chile.   Because of Mike’s fluency in Spanish, he often accompanied his uncle on trips to Santiago during the summer. Mike enjoyed using his Spanish, and he genuinely liked the easy going Chileans he met. Charlie’s business partners seemed to enjoy working with the new Nordamericano, even as they kidded him on his Venezuelan accent.
He originally wanted to major in engineering in college, but the more he thought about going into his father’s career – and footsteps – the more he disliked the idea. Uncle Charlie convinced him to major in general business, so he could eventually take over the import/export business when Charlie retired in a few years.
Mike was a big lad, tall and muscular, with a ruggedly handsome face. He spent a lot of time in school gyms, and he had wrestled varsity in high school and college. Quite frankly, he “turned heads” wherever he went.   He certainly was a hit on the LA beaches, where his muscularity fit in with the many other “California boys,” although his sexuality was firmly hetero. Despite the tragedies in his life, Mike felt good about his current position and about his future.
After a wonderful dinner at his uncle’s house, Charlie asked if Mike would accompany him on a last minute trip down to Caracas.
“How long will the trip be, Uncle Charlie?” Mike asked over coffee.
“Not much longer than a week, I suspect,” Charlie answered. “I know you have to be back at school after break, but there’s a new contact I want you to meet. You know most of my other suppliers, and I think this one’ll bring us a lot of new business.” Charles was proud of the way his nephew had taken to the business and had made strong friends with the key suppliers (and a few of their daughters). His plan to have Mike take over the business seemed on track.
“A week’ll be perfect!” Mike said, warming up to the idea of another trip to South America. He felt he was making genuine progress in understanding Uncle Charlie’s business and establishing good relationships with the suppliers in Santiago.
Uncle Charlie had also explained how business was done in South America. Everything was run by cartels, unofficial groups of business partners. Markets were nicely divided up, nobody poached on another’s turf, and price fixing ensured a good level of profit. The government and local agencies were all bought off, even though the police occasionally put on a show of cracking down. The same could be said about the South American narcotics officers. Under pressure from Tio Sam del norte, the federal departments in the various countries also did occasional “all for show” crackdowns. Everyone understood, however, that drug trafficking was an integral part of South American business.
Business between the cartels was stable, for the most part, but every so often a new cartel tried to encroach on existing business arrangements. After a few people “disappeared,” the new arrangements would crystallize. Uncle Charlie’s import/export was mostly with the Mendosas and Sanchez cartels, which controlled shipping in Santiago’s main port. Unknown to either Charles or Mike Peterson was the strong unrest within the Mendosa cartel over Mike’s appearance on the scene. At first they thought he was just a young, albeit quite handsome, gringo tagging along with his senior relative. When it became known that Charlie intended young Mike to take over when he retired, that did not set right with the Mendosas. Their plan had been to pre-empt Charlie’s business with the Sanchez cartel, taking it all for themselves when Charlie announced his retirement.   Young Señor Peterson had to be dealt with.
A plan was set in motion, a plan which was to change Mike’s life forever.
Chapter 2
The Plan
 
The Mendosa cartel’s plan to eliminate young Mike from his uncle’s import/export business was quite simple. Taking advantage of one of the periodic government crackdowns on drug trafficking, the plan was to plant drugs on Mike’s person, anonymously inform the government, and let the narcs take over. Their reputation for brutal, often fatal interrogation would ensure Mike would no longer be a factor in his uncle’s business. Even if he survived, his body and mind would be broken. He would be a maimed, brain-dead zombie, his uncle would retire, and they would muscle in on the new business.
“But I do regret putting that magnificent body of his through all those painful tortures,” Jorge Mendosa said to his chief lieutenant. “After all, he is quite charming. My own daughter has taken a liking to him.”
“Señor Mendosa, we have been through this before,” the second-in-command commented patiently. “There is no other way out. Yes, yes, he will be destroyed by the interrogations, but that is the only way for us to capture his uncle’s business. Then he smiled sarcastically: “Perhaps your daughter can have him as a pet when the federales are done with him.”
The both laughed at the idea of a 21 year old “pet” muscle man.   “Yes, but his dick won’t work when they’re done with him and his balls’ll probably be burnt off! What kind of sex pet would that make?” the cartel boss added.
The lieutenant responded with more laughter: “Even so, Señor Mendosa, he will still have an asshole and a mouth!”
“Ah!” the Señor said in disgust. “Only you sex devils() would think of that!” Then he added: “So, when is the plan to take place?”
“Tomorrow, Señor, just after 10 in the morning. When he is in town, the young Michael always goes out on Tuesday with the cook to the market. He carries the groceries back for her, and protects her from the locals.”
“Very good, Hector,” Jorge Mendosa said. “Let me know when it is done.”
“Si, Señor,” the lieutenant replied, bowing slightly to the cartel patron.
It was Tuesday, which was market day at Uncle Charlie’s home away from home. Charlie had taken over a large but run down hacienda on the Avenua Neptuno in the Cerro Navia district, not far from the former northern beltway, La Castenera Norte. You might recall that La Castenera has been supplemented by the newer Autopista Vespucio, the quickest way to get to Comodoro Arturo Merino Benitez International Airport, which is not far away. Cerro Navia also had good access to the commercial districts. The house was quickly fixed up and now looked quite grand. Mike had his own bedroom and a room with exercise equipment, since he spent so much time there during the summer. His uncle had plans to install a swimming pool in the large backyard, but construction had not begun yet.
“So, caro mio,” Senora Aqia said to Mike, who had just entered the breakfast room off the kitchen. Mrs. Aqia, the cook, was dressed in the traditional white uniform. All the staff at the hacienda wore uniforms.
Mike was wearing his usual non-business attire: short shorts and a string athletic T. (Sagging, very long shorts had not caught on yet in Chile.) His thighs bulged out the short legs of the cut-offs, and the crotch outlined a good sized basket. The back seam of the tight fitting garment was plastered into his ass crack. The string T showed off his upper arms and delts. His pecs pushed out the thin fabric over his chest; the stretchy fabric narrowed down at his waist and was mounded by the cut abs underneath. The look was finished off with untied construction boots, which most young urbans wore in Santiago, along with the universal baseball cap.
Whenever Senora Aqia saw Mike dressed this way, she always had a single thought: jugueta sexuale.() At 58, she did not expect anything, but the sight of him still got her juices flowing.
“So, caro mio,” Senora Aqia repeated. “We go to market today?”
“Yes, of course, Senora Aqia. Would I ever leave you on your own to shop?” Mike grinned at her, giving her a quick hug about the shoulders.
She took his eggs and toast from a warming drawer and poured him a cup of rich, sudamericano coffee.
Mike lifted the cup and smelled the aroma of the dark brew. “I will ALWAYS come back down here for the coffee!”
“And I thought you were down here for the girls!” Senora Aqia teased.
Mike merely grinned his answer as he devoured the breakfast.
Fifteen minutes later they were on their way to the market, which was only two blocks from the hacienda.
Mrs. Aqia fussed and fumed over vegetable selections, and got quite violent with the cheese vendor, but that was how shopping was in Santiago. Despite the intensity of the interchanges, everyone left satisfied.
They were leaving the market, Mike with bags in arms, when a shot rang out on the other side of the plaza. All heads instantly turned to the source of the loud bang. Several policemen nearby started running into the plaza in the direction of the sound.
One of the police briefly stopped next to Mike and Mrs. Aqia. “You heard that, right?” he asked impatiently .
“Si, Senor,” they both replied. “¡Por ahí! Over there! The shot came from over there,” Mike added, pointing towards the other side of the plaza. While Mike was pointing and looking away, the policeman dropped several small plastic pouches of white powder into the bag in Mike’s right arm. It was the work of seconds and neither Mrs. Aqia nor Mike realized anything had happened at all, since all attention was on the source of the gun shot in the plaza. The policeman then quickly joined the others who raced into the plaza.
Mrs. Aqia and Mike stood there for a few more minutes and then realized there was nothing they could do about what had happened. They turned to continue their walk back to Uncle Charlie’s hacienda.
A block away from the house, a black SUV abruptly pulled up to the curb. Four men in black uniforms jumped from the car, accosted Mrs. Aqia and Mike with drawn guns, and forced them into the SUV. The car then sped from the curb, squealing tires, and joined the flow of traffic on Avenua Neptuna. Again, the work of seconds.
“Say NOTHING!” one of the men in the car yelled at Mrs. Aqia and Mike, just as Mike was about to protest their treatment. The gun in his face convinced him to keep quiet. Mrs. Aqia was terrified. The car sped through the congestion of downtown Santiago traffic, and then headed for the government district. While they were driving, Mike’s wrists were cuffed behind his back.
The black SUV careened into an underground parking area under one of the large, faceless federal buildings and stopped next to a loading dock area which was dimly illuminated with only two bulbs. Mrs. Aqia was hustled out one side of the SUV and taken to a door on the right. Mike was hustled to the left of the car through a second door. He briefly turned to see Mrs. Aqia disappear through the door, two guards holding her arms. The guards holding him captive jerked his arms, forcing him to turn ahead.
“What the fuck . . . “ Mike started to protest, but he felt a sharp metal object stick into his back, presumed it was a gun, and stopped what he was saying.
The guards force-marched him through several corridors and down several flights of stairs into what he presumed was a sub-sub-basement, deep under the large building. He was then hustled into a small room which had only a desk and chair with a bright light shining on the desk top. He was forced down into the chair, which painfully pushed against his bound arms. The guard with the gun came to his left and stood there, still brandishing the weapon directly at Mike. The other guards spaced themselves around the small room. Not a sound was made! It was quite eerie.
Mike was forced to sit there for many minutes. His shoulders were cramping. The room was hot and he started to sweat. He looked around, fearful someone would tell him not to, and saw the other guards sweating also.
They all bolted when the door was suddenly opened. Another black-uniformed officer quickly entered the room and sat across the desk from Mike. He was holding a file, which he spread open in front of him. Mike thought he saw a head shot of himself stapled to the inside cover.
“Senor Peterson, you are in much trouble,” he said in accented English.
“Sir? Sir, what is this all about?” Mike started to ask.
“SHUT UP!” the man screamed at him. “I do the talking – for now!” Even the other guards jumped at the violence of the outburst.
“The Federal Government is in the middle of a major drug program, and I am one of the officers in the program,” the official continued.
“Drugs? I don’t do drugs!” Mike said.
“SHUT THE FUCK UP I SAID!” the officer screamed again, as he reached across the table and slapped Mike across the face with his black-gloved hand.
The slap hurt and Mike cried out in surprise. He then began to feel the metallic-salty taste of blood on one side of his mouth, where the officer had struck him.
“It is a very simple case, gringo Peterson. You had drugs in the shopping bag and we found them. All we need to know now is who you got them from. Now you may talk! Tell me who your supplier is!” the man insisted.
“But, but, Sir, there’s no supplier! There’s no drugs! I don’t do drugs!” Mike said in desperation.
“Yes, yes, yes, they all say that – in the beginning. Look, gringo, I have many druggies to deal with. The crack down project has been very successful. I am not asking you IF you had drugs. You clearly had them. I am only interested in who is your supplier. I will ask you just one more time and then it is out of my hands. Who is your supplier!?” he yelled rising slightly from his chair.
“Sir, honored Sir, there is no supplier. We did not have any drugs!” Mike replied, his voice pleading for sanity.
The officer exploded in disgust. “Ah! Fucking gringos! Why are you all so stupid!?”
Then he turned to face the guard with the gun and said in rapid Spanish: “Take him away! Make the fucker talk!” He then rose the rest of the way out of his chair, took up the folder from the desk, and rapidly walked over to the door, which one of the other guards opened respectfully for him.
He briefly looked back at the guards. “You know what to do! Break him!” he said as he turned and left the room.
The guard with the gun, whom Mike guessed was senior to the other two guys, put the gun into his belt holster. He motioned with his head for the other two to get Mike up out of the chair, which they did by grabbing his big biceps. The senior guard then stood in front of Mike, and surveyed his body slowly. He reached out and cupped Mike’s right pec under the string T. He grabbed the low collar of Mike’s T and with a quick swipe of his hand ripped the thin garment away. He smiled into Mike’s face as he eyed Mike’s hairy chest and cut abs. He ran his index finger down Mike’s stomach hairline. Then he groped Mike’s crotch under the tight shorts.
“Oh yes, handsome young gringo drug dealer with many muscles and big balls,” he said in broken English. “We indeed do we know what to do to break you up!”
____
Sex devils, literally “los demonios del sexo,” is Chilean slang for what we would call AC/DC.
2Jugueta sexuale” is the formal term for what we would call a “sex toy.” Slang or street pronunciation usually abbreviated it to the rhyming “ju-ge sex-e.”
Chapter 3
Softening Up
The guards forced Mike down two corridors, both dimly lit and heavy with musty odors. Mike was sure he heard several faint, distant sounds of men screaming in agony, but the sounds were drowned out by the thud of the guards’ boots on the damp cement. As they walked, the guards whispered together in hushed Spanish. They appeared unaware that Mike was fluent in their language.
“He’s a big one, Tomas, a real big one. Wonder how long he’ll last?” one of them said, gripping Mike’s bicep tightly.
The other guard, on Mike’s other side, replied: “I hope it is a long time, a very long time. I want to hear him scream and watch those big muscles struggle!”
“Will they use the electricity on him?” the first one asked.
“Most assuredly,” came the reply.
Finally, the guard behind them, the one with the gun in Mike’s back, admonished the two: “Shut up, you two! Who knows what el Sargento Maestro (1) will do to loosen his tongue!?”
They stopped in front of a large, metal door with crude lettering painted on it: Sala de Interrog. Nom. 4” an abbreviation for Interrogation Room #4. The guard with the gun again holstered it, and with great effort opened the wide door. They pushed Mike into the room.
It was quite large. The first thing Mike saw across the back of the room was a wall of bars. He at first thought it was one big cage, but then saw it was subdivided into at least four very small, but tall cages. There were several bright lights hanging from the rather tall ceiling, each one centered over a specialized object, things clearly designed for torture.
One light lit a heavy wooden chair with multiple leather straps hanging from the arms, back, and legs. Another light was centered over a thick pillar which ran from floor to ceiling. Chains hung from the pillar at about the location of a man’s stretched out arms; there was a set at the bottom, too. The pillar wood was darkly stained. Easy to guess what that was. There were chains hanging from the ceiling, chains against one of the cement walls, chains on the floor. The room was full of fucking chains! Ropes, belts, and strange leather and metal devices hung on the left wall. He had no idea what the items were intended to do, other than produce pain. In the very center of the room was a wide wooden table, also darkly stained like the pillar. More chains and cuffs rested on the table. A picture of his own body spread out on the table flashed across his mind and he involuntarily shuddered.
One of the most amazing contraptions was against the right wall. It was a long table made of heavy wooden beams. The top was illuminated by several lights. At one end was a large cylinder with chains wrapped around it. The chains ended in heavy cuffs resting on the wood. The chain cylinder had gear teeth along one edge, which meshed into the teeth of a smaller gear. The smaller gear had multiple long rods sticking out of it. It was a fucking medieval rack! Good Christ, he was going to be stretched out on a rack! A knot of fear suddenly tightened in his stomach.
The main guard spoke up: “That’s right, gringo muscle man [which he pronounced ‘mus-kul mun’], look around and see to you what there is to be in your future.”
Mike stood there, still held captive by the guards gripping his biceps. He was going over in his mind the questions all victims of imminent torture ask themselves: How much can I take? Will I break? Is it worth it to resist? What the fuck do they want, anyway? I don’t have anything to tell them!
Mike was no stranger to pain. His intensive workouts in the gym always produced high levels of pain, which he cured with aspirin, beer, and scorching hot baths. He also wrestled to total exhaustion. But this kind of pain was going to be something else entirely. Then he remembered being groped by the guard before they left the interview room and more unsettling questions crashed through his mind: Would there be sexual tortures? Every man knew what it felt like to have his balls hurt. Would they crush his nuts? Would he come out of this still a man? More shuddering, although the room was steamy hot.
“Take him over and rope him to the bars so we can soften him up for El Sargento,” the main guard ordered the other two in Spanish.
The guys holding Mike dragged him over to the far wall, turned his back to the bars, and pressed him against the metal rods. The main guard secured several hanks of rope from the storage wall and handed them to his subordinates. Mike’s wrists were still cuffed by the manacles he had been wearing since his abduction. The metal was beginning to chaff his skin. He laughed a weird laugh to himself: guess the pain from the manacles is nothing compared to what can happen here!
One of the guards went inside the cage behind Mike, while the other one passed ropes through the bars to him. They tied his biceps in tightly, using a metal cross member in the cell wall to prevent the ropes from sliding down. Another two loops went around his chest, pushing up his meaty pecs. His wrists were pinned between his lower back and the metal rods. A loop went around his neck and this was pulled in tight to hurt, but he could still breathe. Multiple loops were threaded around his upper thighs and boots, pulled in tightly and tied off, securing him to the cell wall. Mike was suddenly amazed to realize he was still wearing the boots.
The senior guard then stood in front of Mike, one hand resting lightly on the young man’s shoulder, the other slow kneading Mike’s puckered left pec. “It is permitted to me to explain what we do here, gringo muscle man,” he began, still in broken English. Mike could smell his foul breath, mingling with the other dank odors in the torture room, but he looked him right in the eyes to register his defiance, defiance he wasn’t so sure about.
“Soon to visit us will be El Sargento Maestro, who is very practiced in the ways of pain. It is his job to make you tell to us what we need want,” he continued, now slowly twisting Mike’s pec peg. “However, gringo, it is left to our job to begin. And so, we do it now.”
Due to the tangled English, Mike didn’t know what the fucker was talking about until he pulled his fist back along his side and landed an explosive punch into Mike’s stomach. Mike’s gut wrenched in instant pain and his lungs expelled all their air. He let loose a loud grunt of agony as his body tried to double over from the blow, knotting his abs into cords. The neck rope bit savagely into his adam’s apple, and he pulled furiously against the arm ropes. Even his legs spazed from the suddenness and ferocity of the punch. His wrists were crushed against the metal bars as his torso was propelled back by the big guard’s strength. He gasped for air as the pain radiated through his mid-body.
Then, no waiting, another savage blow to his abs, this one higher up his stomach. Another burst of air, doubling over, wrenching, sickening pain, extreme struggling against the thick ropes. More gasping for air in between grunts of pain.
Mike fully expected a third blow, but the guard held off.
“Now you can to see, gringo muscle man, what this is like. And this is only – what you call it? – Page One. Yes, this is only Page One. What we do like about this, gringo, is that you do not have anything to tell us. We are not the asker of questions. He will come later, along with more for pain. Our job to us is to play with your body, get you ready. Like this.”
With the last statement he again jabbed Mike in the gut, low this time, not far above his genitals. The blow was not at all softened by the fact that Mike was still wearing his cut-offs. Mike screamed this time, no pretense about standing up to the pain. His whole lower torso was in agony and he had trouble alternating screaming with breathing. Finally he was in control, but his breathing came very heavy and hard. He felt tears running from his eyes.
Then he felt his stomach slowly turning over, going sour. He knew he was going to be sick. The guards also realized what was happening. One of them picked up a metal bucket Mike had not noticed and roughly forced his head into it, putting a huge strain on the front of Mike’s neck. Mike knew he was turning shades of green and his stomach was getting ready for some heavy duty workout. He was losing focus, getting slightly feverish, until his stomach finally reacted with a violent upheaval and out came the bacon and egg breakfast from just a few hours ago. Plus the coffee and the toast. Plus some chicken from last night. It all went in the bucket.
He wretched several more times, finally hitting the dry heaves, his stomach muscles cramping strongly in their reflex to empty everything out. Saliva was dripping from his mouth as the guard took the bucket away. Mike thought he saw the guy go over into a corner and use a hose of some type on the bucket; he wasn’t sure. He hung in the ropes as the dry heaves subsided, the taste of vomit strong in his mouth. He hung there moaning from the pain in his stomach, from the pain in his abs, from the pain inflicted by his struggles in the ropes. More saliva drooled from his open mouth, dripping onto his sweaty chest, sliding over the ropes under his pecs. He only then realized his cut-offs were damp with wetness. He had pissed himself. Humiliation flushed through him, mixing with the pain.
So this is Page One, he thought. Christ, this was going to be rough! Fucking rough! Fucking, fucking rough!
______________
(1) Master Sergeant, a rank in the police force. In the narcotics division the ranks above that were el lieutenant, and el capitán. At this particular government site the highest ranked officer was el comondante.
Chapter 4
El Sargento Maestro
All three guards smiled as they saw the deep look of fear in Mike’s eyes. The guards were not very sophisticated in prisoner psychology – actually, they weren’t very sophisticated in anything – but they did know the prisoners went through mental or emotional stages.
Often there is initial defiance. They had seen that in Mike earlier. Then there is shock, when the first blows are dealt. Sometimes defiance comes back, sometimes not. If the senior guard did his job correctly, softening up the prisoner usually resulted in outright fear, since the prisoner well knew this was only the preliminaries, the “Page One” as the ignorant guard had pegged it.
Mike was in fear. He knew his body could take a lot of punishment, but, for the first time in his life, he was uncertain about his mental stamina. Sure, he had developed enormous mental focus for wrestling. He was able to put everything else out of his mind except pinning the big guy he was fighting. His coach had said that Mike went beyond focus to ”automatic body thinking,” as his own highly trained muscles felt their own way through the match, feeling out the other guy’s body, reacting to his opponent’s muscular tensions, sensing an opening and seizing it for a pin. His coach often joked that Mike wrestled naked, even though he was wearing the standard, tight singlet. He meant Mike was so attuned to what his body and his opponent’s body were doing that it was as if the colored, stretchy cloths separating the two of them weren’t even there.
This was different. Mike didn’t know if the pain was going to be worse if it focused on it, trying to conquer it as he did with wrestling pain, or if he should let himself drift, trying to abandon or ignore the huge aches and pains his body was already broadcasting to his brain.
His thoughts were derailed when the metal interrogation room door was suddenly opened. Even the guards flinched at the sound and turned around to face the door. They immediately came to stiff attention, saluting the Master Sergeant, El Sargento Maestro, as he entered the room.
The man was not very tall nor thick with muscle.   By the way he effortlessly closed the heavy door behind him, it was clear he was strong, but more on the wiry side, more like a gaucho cowboy.
“Señor Sargento! Sir!” the three shouted out to the new arrival. He returned their salutes in a perfunctory manner, and murmured something unintelligible in reply. He focused directly on Mike.
He stood in front of Mike, inches from his chest, and looked steadily into Mike’s eyes. Mike averted his glance, not wishing to antagonize the new arrival.
“I am Sargeant Jesus Balisa. I am a senior officer in our government’s narcotics defense office. And it is my job to interrogate druggies like you,” the new officer started to say.
Mike butted in: “But, honored Sir, I don’t do drugs! I don’t have any drugs!”
The man went wild. His face screwed up into rage and he slapped Mike’s face back and forth with each word: “You . . . do . . . not . . . talk . . . until . . . I . . . say so!”
The slapping opened the small wound in Mike’s cheek from the earlier slapping, as well as breaking new skin. Now Mike tasted blood mixed with left-over vomit. He was stunned into silence, but his eyes betrayed feral fear.
The man continued: “Yes! That is more like it! You will have your time to talk, young gringo, but it is not yet. First we have some more business to attend to.”
He stepped away from Mike and turned to the senior guard. “Finish your job, if you have not already done so. Prepare the gringo for me.”
The senior guard nodded obsequiously and took up his position in front of Mike. Mike steeled himself for more punching, since that seemed to be the guard’s specialty. Instead, the guard braced himself by putting both hands on Mike’s shoulders. With no further warning, he swiftly lifted his knee and jabbed it into Mike’s crotch.
Mike screamed from the sudden, blinding pain from his balls.
Unfortunately, the tight shorts and his bikini underwear bunched up his nuts into a perfect target for the guard’s knee. His balls took the full force of the kneeing.
Mike threw his head back against the metal bars, pulled against the ropes with all his strength, and continued to scream from the uniquely horrible ball pain. “A-a-a-g-g-g-h-h-h! A-a-g-h!!” For some reason, a scene from the latest James Bond film, Casino Royale, flashed through his head as he mimicked Mr. Bond in lusty shouts of deep-seated agony.
Again he slowly returned to sanity as the pain ramped down from agony to extreme ache. He thought his balls were going to hurt for a week after that one.
Then Mike’s emotions got all out of control and he burst out in protest: “Why the fuck are you doing this to me!? What the fuck do you want!?” he yelled, still gasping for breath.
The senior guard prepared to slap Mike across the face again, but the Master Sargeant stayed his hand. “No, Hector. Let him talk. It’s just babble anyway. He’s not ready to tell us what we want.”
The senior guard responded with the standard military, “Yes, Sir!” and started to back away.
“No, Hector, give him one more kick and then your job will be done and I will take over the interrogation,” the sergeant commanded.
Mike heard this and braced himself for another onslaught. The sergeant noticed this and raised his eyebrows. “No, Hector, wait one minute. It seems our gringo understands what we have been saying.”
He addressed Mike directly: “Is that true, gringo? Do you know Spanish?”
Mike said nothing but slowly nodded his head yes. He was still trying to recover from the kneeing.
“That changes nothing. It just means I can use English or Spanish. So, Hector, go ahead, give him one more reminder of what is to come.”
Mike again braced. The senior guard braced on Mike’s shoulders and made as if to raise his knee. Mike tensed in the rope bondage for the blow, but the guard was faking it. All four narcs laughed at Mike’s predicament. Then the senior guard delivered the blow, sending Mike into agony once again.
“A-a-g-h!! A-a-g-g-h-h!!” the deep throated scream echoed in the torture room, the sound of a young man’s healthy genitals being brutally assaulted. Mike’s body was again trying to double over, his abs were cramped into mounds, his shoulders and arm muscles bulging from the effort. Big veins had popped out on his delts, his biceps, his chest, and sweat was streaming down his big body. The top of his shorts was now dark with sweat, matching the dark stain of piss at his crotch.
Amidst his torment Mike heard the guards all laughing, adding to his confusion and humiliation. He wanted to lash out again, but realized the futility of the whole fucking thing. Nothing was going to make sense here. Nothing was going to work. He started to slide into despair.
The sergeant was a master interrogator, using the prisoner’s emotional states against himself, and he sensed Mike’s growing hopelessness. He thought this would be a good time to let the emotion grow, let Mike wallow in it. The pre-torture punches and kneeing were meant to soften up his body. Now the sergeant would leave Mike stew in despair to soften up his mind.
“OK, muchachos, we are done here for the moment. Let us take a break. Cold cervesas await us in the common room. Let this gringo stew here in his pain and turmoil.” The guards all agreed heartily and obsequiously.
“One more task, though, before we leave,” the sergeant continued. The guards stopped moving towards the door. “Hector, strip him so he can worry about the future of his young man fuck plumbing.”
“Yes, Sir!” Hector barked back. He withdrew a small knife from his pocket and smiled broadly into Mike’s face. “We have been waiting for this for a long time, big mus-kul gringo!” he laughed as he cut away Mike’s denim shorts.
Hector held them up between two fingers, joking about the piss staining. Then he pretended to smell the crotch, and jokingly held it at arm’s length. All the others laughed. Mike was again humiliated that he had lost control of his bladder in the midst of the earlier torments.
Under the shorts Mike was wearing a white bikini, which he often wore. He had dozens of them in various colors and styles. Hector again reached over and groped Mike’s basket, now bulging under the tight, stretchy fabric. After more laughter and crude comments, he knifed through the bikini string sides and pulled the garment away, leaving Mike naked.
There was total silence in the room as all four narcs gazed in wonder at Mike’s cock and balls. Mike had a good sized cock, and he knew it from all the comments and observations in the showers over the years. But he had very large testes and they hung low from his crotch. From what he had seen, he had the largest balls of anyone he ever met.
The senior guard Hector cursed softly: “¡Jesu Cristo! He has fuckin’ bull balls!” There were quiet murmurs of agreement. Nobody moved for several more minutes, still transfixed at Mike’s endowment.
Then the Master Sargeant spoke up: “Yes, muchachos. We will call him torrocito! He will be our gringo torrocito!
Then he reached over and grabbed Mike’s big balls. “So, torrocito, you will indeed be tortured very soon and you will reveal to me what we want to know. We are leaving you for a break. We will drink cold beer while you hang here in the heat and worry about your future.”
He gave Mike’s balls a sharp, parting squeeze and Mike grunted from the renewed pain. Then they all left, closing the big metal door behind them. Mike thought he heard some type of lock being pulled into place. Then there was silence: The silence of his own breathing and his occasional groan from the memory of the pain he had just endured.
His mind went quickly to work worrying about all the equipment he could see: the chair with the straps, the rack, the whipping post and wide table, the whips and leather things on the wall, all the chains and metal cuffs. He imagined himself in each device and wondered what level of pain the thing would inflict. He could hear himself scream in his mind. His stomach still hurt, his abs were aching, and the ropes had seriously chaffed his arms and legs, as well as the front of his neck. And now he had to add his nuts to the inventory of pain.
His big body positively ached now. What’s it going to feel like when they get serious? he thought.
_____
3 There are various words for “drug” in Spanish. Narcotics, as we understand the word, is “narcoticos,” and a drug user would be “uno usuaro des narcoticos.” Our slang word, druggie, is usually rendered “narcos” in Spanish, which seems easy to confuse with narcotics officers, whom we commonly called narcs. Narcotics officer, however, is “official de narcoticos,” often abbreviated in street or slang usage to “offi-narcos.” Thus, the druggie is “narco” and the narc is “offi-narco” in Chilean street slang. We caution that the slang terms do differ in other Sudamericano countries.
4 “Torrocito” is a technical term that bull breeders use. It refers specifically to an almost mature bull which is just ready for training. It also is used to signify that the young bull has exceptional sexual equipment. It could be considered a term of respect when applied to a human, since we do have the English term “bull balls.” One would think, however, that the guards intended it as a term of derision. Not sure about this point. Mike never elaborated on it.
Chapter 5
Mike Gets Harnessed and Gagged
 
Mike lost track of time as he hung from the ropes holding him to the cell bars. The room was hot, and he hadn’t stopped sweating since the groin kicks he had just endured. His skin glistened in the bright light from the overhead bulb. Beads of sweat were dripping from his dick and his ball sack, and running down his legs. Inside the large nut sack, now hanging several inches down his thighs, his balls ached mightily. He was worried about the pain from all the devices in the room. Now added to his intense worry was the future of his cock and balls. What else was in store? How would he handle it? Who – or what? –would he be when – or if – he got out of this. He slumped in the ropes as he wallowed in worry and hopelessness.
The sound of the metal door being opened snapped his attention back to the moment. He tensed in the rope bondage, futilely trying to pretend he was ready for what they could dish out, but full well knowing the pain to come would be overwhelming.
The three guards and the Master Sargeant entered the room, laughing at some joke apparently told in the corridor. Mike was surprised to see they had all removed their uniform blouses, but had sam brown belts across their bare chests. They retained their black offi-narco pants. Mike had not noticed before just how tight the pants fit; large baskets were emphasized by the tight black cloth. The pants were tight across the ass, and thighs too. They were still wearing their high black boots, highly polished and fitted to their big calves, as well as their uniform caps.
The three guards were muscular-beefy, maybe a tad overweight. The two lower ranked ones had burly, hairy chests, whereas Hector, the senior guard, was hairless. Hector and one of the other guards had multiple tattoos on their arms and shoulders, styles that in the US were known as “flares,” since they consisted of sweeping curves of dark ink in intricate, flowing patterns. As Mike originally thought, Master Sargeant Jesus Balisa was indeed wiry with not an ounce of extra fat on his lean frame. He had a tattoo on his upper right arm, a small band which encircled his bicep.
Sargeant Balisa came over and stood in front of Mike, his hands on his hips. “Even so, gringo torrocito, I hope you enjoyed your little rest. You will not be getting much more once we start,” he said as he ran his right index finger back and forth across Mike’s chest, deliberately scraping his finger nail over Mike’s nipples with each pass.
He continued in flawless English: “We have a simple plan, which we have found always works. I realize that you will not tell us what we need to know and I am not going to ask you again right now. Instead, we will begin the program of pain that we use on druggies. You had a chance to look around you and think about the various things in this room. All are designed to cause you unbelievable pain and torment – pain which you cannot even imagine at this point.”
He stopped running his finger over Mike’s chest and moved his hand down to Mike’s cock and balls. He lightly grabbed Mike’s monster nuts in his palm, as he continued: “And, yes, these torro-balls will be prime targets. You have already felt what ball pain can feel like. It is every man’s worst fear. What you have not experienced is what electricity can do to these eggs. How long can you hold out when you smell your own balls burning? We shall see!” he added, leering into Mike’s face as he slowly closed down on the bull balls in his hand.
Mike was truly terrified at this point; Sergeant Balisa could see it in his eyes. “Good, good,” the Master Sergeant said. “Muchachos, I think he is ready for the whip. String him up in the chains!” he ordered.
One of the guards entered the cell behind Mike and began untying the thick ropes holding Mike to the metal rods. Mike almost fell forward when the neck and bicep ropes were undone. The sergeant pushed his hand against Mike’s chest to stabilize him.
After Mike was released from the ropes, the two guards grabbed his upper arms and moved him to an open area in the room. In the center of the area were two sets of chains, one hanging from the ceiling and another set on the floor. Both the ceiling and floor chains were attached to heavy metal rings, and both had rather thick cuffs at the outboard ends. The cuffs were opened in half.
While the two junior guards held Mike in position, Hector began to apply the cuffs. He first removed Mike’s boots, the last stitch of clothing Mike had on. He threw the boots into a corner. He forced Mike to spread his legs by kicking against his ankles. Mike felt the heavy metal close about his ankles and he could feel some kind of lock engage, or at least he felt, and heard, metallic clicks as the metal half rings seated themselves into tight circles on his ankles. This was repeated on his arms, stretching them out overhead but slightly to each side. Mike was spread-eagled, totally vulnerable to whatever the narcs wanted to do to him.
The sergeant again stood in front of Mike. “We also like to make sure our guests enjoy themselves. Hector, get the cock and ball harness, the one with the big ball stretcher. Equipment like the torrocito has must be reined in properly!”
“Si, Senor,” Hector answered as he went over to the equipment wall and removed a small leather harness thing consisting of several straps with small buckles. Hector returned to Mike and started to attach the harness to his cock.
“No, Hector!” the Master Sergeant yelled. “You idiot! How many times do I have to tell you, that is my job. I control the pain the prisoner experiences, not you!”
Hector dropped his eyes. “Si, Senor,” he intoned, handing the leather harness to the senior narc agent.
The sergeant knelt down in from of Mike and tightly buckled the first strap at the base of Mike’s big cock. There was a small strip of leather extending out from the top of the first strap. Two more circular straps were stitched to the strip. These were buckled further up Mike’s shaft. Then the sergeant went to work on the ball stretcher part of the harness. This consisted of a very broad piece of thick leather with snaps long the edges. The sergeant grabbed Mike’s two monster balls and pulled down on the ball sack until it was stretched out some 5 inches. Then he progressively snapped the thick leather piece along the stretched out ball sack skin, starting from Mike’s crotch and working outward. Each snap pushed Mike’s balls out farther in their sack until the entire 5 inch piece of leather was snapped tightly. Mike could feel the strong tug on his nuts after the full stretcher was in place.
“Now for a fun part,” the Sergeant said, but not very humorously. At the end of the stretcher leather piece there were two small belts. The Sergeant threaded the buckle together and then pulled in sharply on the lead strap, forcing the leather to cut into Mike’s balls, forcing them to spread apart. Mike grunted as the pain from his bull balls escalated. The Sergeant buckled off the strap, taking it in to the last hole, spreading Mike’s balls very far apart.
Sergeant Balisa stood up, turned to Hector, and commanded him to suck Mike’s cock: “Get him hard. You are very good at it. Remember, if he cums, you will be flayed alive right next to him!” he added.
Hector mumbled a “Si, Senor,” knelt down in front of Mike, and started to work on the head of Mike’s flaccid cock. Mike was furious at the sexual challenge. He pulled against the chains and started to protest his treatment. “Hey, wait! Stop that! You can’t do that!”
“¡Jesu Christo!” the Master Sergeant yelled in frustration. “I am so very tired of hearing from you, torrocito.” Then he addressed one of the lower ranked guards: “Julio, gag this son of a bitch with the leather thongs!”
Julio instantly went over to the equipment wall and got what looked like strands of leather. There were some 4 or 5 strands, each maybe 10 inches long, gathered and anchored at each end. Each anchor had a single, heavier leather strap attached to it. Julio went behind Mike and tried to force the leather strands into his mouth. Mike resisted, of course.
The Master Sergeant quickly grabbed Mike’s strapped and imprisoned bull balls and viciously pressed them between his hands. Mike screamed instantly. “A-a-g-h! No!!!” As soon as he had opened his mouth, Julio pushed the clump of strands in and pulled the two anchor leather pieces tight at the back of Mike’s head. Then he pulled them in even tighter and buckled them off. Mike’s screaming was reduced to incoherent gurgles and weird sounds, no more words.
“Yes, that sounds better already,” the Master Sergeant said. “Thank you, Julio. I was getting a headache.”
Julio replied with the standard “Si, Senor,” and resumed his position at Mike’s side.
“’Now, Hector, back to work on his cock!” the Sergeant commanded.
Hector redoubled his efforts on Mike’s cockhead, using his tongue on the most sensitive part, just below the head on the underside of the shaft. He alternated this with long, deep suckings of Mike’s cock into his mouth. The slurping sounds filled the room.   Against Mike’s every attempt to resist, his cock responded to Hector’s expert ministrations. The shaft thickened, lengthened, hardened up. Cock veins popped out and Mike’s dick got dark from engorged blood. Mike had a good 10 inches hard, which again amazed the three guards, as well as Sergeant Balisa.
Mike could then feel the effects of the straps along the shaft. They were hurting him as his dick tried to expand against them. The straps were diabolically clever. They were not tight enough to restrict a hardon, but they made it very uncomfortable. The strap at the base was a perfect cock ring. Blood went in, none come out. Despite the intense pain, Mike could also feel the pleasure of the hardon, although he suspected he would not be allowed to cum for a long while.
Hector stopped for a minute, releasing Mike’s cock from his mouth. Mike looked down at his crotch. His big cock was arching up grandly, restrained only by the shaft straps. The saliva-slick skin glistened in the light, the cockhead was distended by Hector’s furious sucking. Mike couldn’t see his balls, but he could certainly feel the pain from their stretch. Then Hector resumed his task. It was not very long until Mike felt his dick at rock hard. This was mildly pleasurable, but as his dick hardened up, the internal plumbing tried to pull his balls up closer to his crotch, the normal position for a climax. The leather stretcher piece cruelly prevented this and the added pull on his internal nut strings suddenly caused him stabs of pain.
“Good work, Hector,” the Master Sergeant said, which was followed by the standard military reply. “I will expect you to perform the same for me later tonight!” he added. Muffled giggles escaped from the two lowest ranked guards. The Master Sergeant glared at them in reprimand. They stopped laughing and dropped their eyes to the floor.
The Master Sergeant walked over to the equipment wall and took his time selecting a whip. Mike followed him intently with his eyes. He picked up a long bull whip and snapped it in the air. Mike jumped in the chains. Good God, he thought, that would flay me alive! The Sergeant returned the bullwhip to its holder, and lightly passed his hand over other styles of whip. Finally he settled on a cat-o-nine-tails. Mike was suitably horrified.
The whip had a beautifully sculptured leather handle with intricate patterns of colored leather. The heavy leather strands had numerous knots along their lengths, and the tip of each strand was knotted around a piece of metal. The metal pieces were not sharp and would not cut the victim’s skin; they were smooth weights which would increase the whip’s impact. They themselves would cause blisters to form wherever they hit.
He brought the whip over to Mike, bunched the strands together, and pushed them under Mike’s nose. Mike smelled the heady aroma of oiled leather while the Master Sergeant recounted the history of this particular whip: “This is a classic cat-o-nine-tails. We still use it in the army and navy for heavy punishment. This one actually came to me from one of our cruisers as a gift from the ship’s Captain. I had performed a discipline-training class on the ship, showing the proper use of the whip, along with other instruments. The crew was suitably terrified, and the Captain was grateful. The young sailor getting flogged took two months to recover!”
“I am going to beat your back, ass, your chest, and stomach with this very whip, gringo torrocito. You will scream – into the gag, gracias a Dio – and you will dance in the chains, just like the young sailor. I also need to tell you that you will not die in this whipping, or in any of the tortures we use down here. What do you call that? “Counter productive?” Yes, that would be counter productive. No, we will torture you grandly, let you recover a little bit, and then torture you again. And we will keep this up for many days. Eventually you will decide that the name of your supplier is not worth the pain and you will tell us his name. We will then release you to the police and they will take you home. It’s that simple, gringo. Even a fuckhead like you can comprehend, no?!”
Then Sergeant Balisa turned his attention to the guards: “Hector, guards!” he commanded loudly. “Back away so I can whip this fucker raw!”
Chapter 6
Mike Gets Lashed
 
For the past few hours, even since taken into captivity by the federal narcs, Mike had been dreading this moment, trying to prepare himself for the ordeal he knew must be coming. Now it was here. Master Sergeant Balisa had the cat in his hand, Mike was spread-eagled in heavy chains, torture was imminent, and nothing else in the fucking universe mattered.
Again the Master Sergeant cracked the whip in the air, and then against the cement floor. The reports echoed in the large room. Each crack unnerved Mike a little more, made him sweat some more, make him tense and pull against the chains. Every movement of his body made his rock cock throb and sway obscenely back and forth, this against a constant background of nut pain.
The Master Sergeant was an experienced whiphand. He knew the special intricacies of each whip, where and how best to use them for maximal pain, minimal damage. But he also knew that Mike would not know that. Men inexperienced in torture always imagined the worse. He would tear into the gringo torrocito’s back alright, but Mike would have instant visions of torn and bleeding flesh, hanging in shreds from his back. The reality, however, the clever twist Balisa used for druggie torture, was not to “damage the merchandise.” There would be unbelievable pain, intense torture, maybe a small amount of blood, but no scars, no permanent record that Mike’s body had been worked over. After a week in recovery, there would simply be no physical evidence of torture. In the unlikely event of a legal action, it would be Master Sergeant Balisa’s words against Mike’s, with Balisa a decorated veteran of two decades of loyal government service, and Mike a muscle-bound gringo estupido. Easy guess how that would come out.
Sergeant Balisa liked to toy with the victim. This was a contest of wills as much as plain torture. He always drew out laying on the first lash, prolonging the victim’s dread, intensifying the emotions of terror and fear. Then, at a totally unpredictable moment, he would strike. Even Sergeant Balisa did not know the moment. It was as if his arm and hand were on auto-torture, waiting, baiting, teasing until some subliminal signal from the victim said: “Whip!” And so he did.
The cat sang through the air. The leather strands made a low, whistling sound, quickly lost in the loud THWACK as the leathers crashed into Mike’s muscular back. The reaction was instant: he pulled in violently against the chain bondage, every muscle group taut, and then screamed his gagged guts out. “A-a-a-g-g-g-h-h!! Mum-f-f-f-f!!” The sounds were recognizably from someone in agony, but the gag filtered out any intelligible part and left only a visceral, animal sound.
Jesus, it hurt! Mike had never felt such pain. It was white heat, a burning brand slashed across his back in a single second. It was intense, focused, localized, boring into his brain with megawatt intensity. He continued to scream and struggle against the chains, even as he started to realize that pulling on the heavy metal links was futile, stupid even. But, at least it gave him something to do to try to escape the pain, to try to take his mind off the neural poker stabbing into his consciousness.
Then his rational mind kicked in, analyzing the “shape” of the pain, realizing that the intense, initial peak was short-lived and was already ramping down into an agonizing ache. The ache was bad, but nothing like the short, sharp peak of impact. He started to moan and groan, rather than scream. That felt like progress. He started to think he could survive this, he could “do it.”
Sergeant Balisa, of course, knew the exact sequence going through Mike’s mind and waited until he reached the ramp and rational analysis returned. He also waited to see if the “weird effect,” as he called it, happened with Mike.
Mike’s body began to shake, a mighty shuddering in the chains. It seemed to rise from deep within him and he was powerless to stop it. But, it also didn’t last long. Sergeant Balisa relished it when the shaking occurred. It meant the victim’s body was reacting on some visceral level, an animalistic, sub-human plane, registering the intense pain as a supreme challenge to its survival. As suddenly as it came, it stopped, to be followed by a round of intense sweating. The Master Sergeant smiled, confident the shuddering would further scare the victim, intensifying his fear.
The whipmaster went behind Mike to observe the first lash. A wide tracery of welts had quickly risen on Mike’s broad back. He ran his index finger across them, lubed by Mike’s sweat. He thought he could almost discern each of the nine fiery strands. The metal end pieces had done their job; there were nine blisters on his skin, bruise marks, but no broken skin. Well done, Senor El Sergento Maestro Balisa, he told himself.
He returned to his whipping position and then struck again, this time lower on Mike’s back.
THWACK!! “A-a-g-g-h!!” The same sequence as the first time, the two sounds fractions of a second apart, the time for nerve conduction from back to brain. Mike’s muscular body protested violently. He continued to scream as the peak pain bore in, then he stopped when the pain began the inevitable ramping down, and changed over to panting, gasping for breath. Saliva dripped freely from his gagged-open mouth, mixing freely with the sweat on his chest.
He struggled, pulling against the heavy chains. His big muscle groups were now cramping, putting on a truly magnificent show for the narcs. Mike was certainly one of the more photogenic vics they had tortured in a long time. Plus, that incredible endowment! ¡Diablo! To have a cock and balls like this torrocito!
The strong movements of Mike’s body produced sudden and strong swings of his monster, young man hardon. There were small, glistening drops emerging from his pissslit, catching the light as they were flung off by the cock’s wild gyrations. The internal strain on Mike’s nut strings was now producing a continuous background of deep, sex pain.
The Master Sergeant picked up the pace of the whipping, knowing the initial shock and awe effects were over and the time had come for intense lashing, intense pain. Another blow, another scream, another spasm of muscular cramping. That last one was last number three.
Then four and five were quickly delivered. TH-WA-A-A-CK!! SCREAM! TH-WA-A-A-CK! SCREAM!! Mike went wild from the double peaks of pain. Tears started streaming from his eyes, down his cheeks, flinging from his chin as his head surged back and forth in the pain. Very small rivulets of blood started to flow down his outstretched arms, as the metal cuffs chaffed his flesh. It was metal against flesh and metal always won. His shoulder muscles and upper arm muscles screamed from the pressure on them. His thick thighs and calves were mounded into awesome contours of muscle as they joined in the effort to pull against the chains and escape the torment being inflicted on him. He was getting delirious and losing the distinct stream of consciousness.
Again, this was astutely picked up by the Master Sergeant. He knew every flicker of emotion as Mike passed through the arc of torment. He held up for a minute, giving the vic just enough time to recuperate and rejoin the current reality. Then two more violent lashes!
THWACK! SCREAM!! THWACK!! SCREAM!! Mike was plunged into agony. No amount of struggling, sweating, panting, screaming would reduce the pain racking his big body. He had thought it was going to be “rough, fucking rough,” as he had told himself earlier. It was well beyond that. It was approaching unendurable, totally unendurable agony!
THWACK! SCREAM!! THWACK!! SCREAM!! Balisa liked two lashes close together. It escalated the pain in the vic’s mind very nicely. The screams were followed by groans and hard panting, gasps for breath. More sweating, deeper into agony. Muscles cramping, mounding, veins popping, every limb taut, abs knotted, pecs striated with strain. Mike was barely keeping it together. Somehow he did, temporarily departing from reality for a few seconds, forced to return by the on-going pain. Everything fuckin’ hurt!
Again Balisa stopped the torture for an inspection. Mike’s back was now covered with dozens of red welts and purple bruises. Where they criss-crossed, there were small droplets of blood, nothing that wouldn’t quickly heal. Balisa loved to run his fingers over a vic’s back during a whipping, seeing the blood and sweat mix, feeling the ridges of the welts, noting where further attention with the whip was needed.
The Master Sergeant had slowly worked his way down Mike’s back and was now ready for intense ass work. Whipping a young man, especially a muscular young man on the ass was a special treat. Balisa could feel his own cock swell in the tight uniform britches; he rubbed and scratched it constantly during a whipping. The three guards were also sexually excited by torture, even though they did not directly participate – at least not yet. Mike was in no condition to note four bulging baskets, cocks made hard at his expense.
He did notice that all four narcs were sweating, especially the Master Sergeant. The sweat matted down the copious hair on their chests and bellies. They had taken their uniform caps off. Their head hair was matted to their scalps.
“Muchachos,” the Master Sergeant said to his cohorts, “Before I tear up the torrocito’s magnificent ass, let us take a short break! I suggest we retire to the common room for more cervesas!”
The three guards happily chimed in with “Si, Senor!” Balisa coiled the cat and stuck the top of the coil into his uniform pants. All who would see him – whip coiled, bare chested, sweaty – would know he was torturing a druggie in the sub-sub-basement. Word had spread through the narcotics division that the current druggie in interrogation was young, muscular, and hung like a bull. Many envied Balisa and the guards’ tasks! There would be requests to see the videos automatically being recorded from two security cameras in the room – unbeknownst to Mike.
The four narcs abruptly left the interrogation room, slamming the metal door behind them. Mike was surprised at the sudden break in the torture. He was sinking fast, his resolve torn to shreds along with his back. How in the fuck can I take anymore? he asked himself over and over.
He finally relaxed his body, trying to stretch out the cramped big muscle groups. His back stung as sweat rolled over the welts, but at least the pain level was down from Code Blinding Red. He tried to take pressure off the thick metal bands on his wrists and ankles. Looking up, he saw the rivulets of blood slowly streaming down his forearms from his wrists.
He hung his head in despair. Looking down, his field of vision was dominated by the view of his own dark red, engorged cock, swaying slowly as he breathed or moved in the chains. He also noted how the background nut pain had now increased to a very painful level as his balls were prevented from sucking in to his crotch. How much more could he take? How much more, indeed.
Chapter 7
Mike Gets His Ass and Chest Lashed
Mike’s spiral deeper into despair was interrupted by the sound of the metal interrogation room door opening, accompanied again by laughter from the guards and the Master Sergeant. Balisa came over and stood in front of Mike, who lifted his head and stood as straight as he could.
“Just so, torrocito,” the Sergeant began: “You are the talk of the department!” Then he added, “At least, your body is!” Light laughter from the guards. The Sergeant reached over and fondled Mike’s captive balls, pulling and twisting them in their tight leather harness. Mike sucked in air at the sudden surge of pain from his gonads.
“Yes, and you will apparently continue to be popular long after you have left us,” he continued. Mike did not understand what he meant. “Perhaps I should have told you before this,” the Master Sergeant explained: “There are four videocameras in each corner of the room,” he began, pointing to the corners to either side of Mike. “They have been recording all your torments, screams, and other goings-on. We expect the tapes from your performance will be viewed many times, not only as excellent examples of my expert interrogation, but also due to your magnificent body – and manhood!” The Master Sergeant then lifted Mike’s big rock cock and twisted it to the left.
Normally Mike would have reacted strongly about being naked and videotaped without his permission, certainly about someone pawing at his cock and balls. At this point, however, he really didn’t care. He as much as ignored the Sergeant’s remarks. This did not go unnoticed by the Sergeant, who suspected Mike was wearing down nicely under the whipping. The Master Sergeant was hoping Mike’s mind was not as strong as his muscular body. It was always the mind which gave out first, he reminded himself. Always the mind.
“But, torrocito, we have a job to complete. Your ass! Your lean, young man ass needs our attention!” he joked. Mike again did not react at all.
The Master Sergeant removed the coiled cat from his waistband and snapped it a few times on the ground. Mike flinched from the sound. There’s no way anyone wouldn’t react to the sharp crack – especially if the next crack were being aimed at their ass.
Sergeant Balisa took up his position, again to Mike’s side, and cracked the whip a few more times. He finally stopped and Mike knew this was another key moment in his captivity, the beginning of another torture session.
Whoosh! TWAAACK! SCREAM!! Same sequence, same structure to the pain, same reaction to the white-hot peak, followed by the duller ramp as the pain slowly subsided. The pain was intense on his ass cheeks, but for some reason it seemed not to hurt as much as the whipping on his back. Mike didn’t know why, he was only thankful for the decremental drop in the size of the pain peak, and the quicker ramping down from that peak.
The Master Sergeant delivered three hefty lashes in quick succession, stunning Mike with their intensity. There wasn’t a chance to recover from one before the next was laid on. A round of gutsy screams was torn from his throat, muffled slightly by the gag, but still filling the torture room with agonized young man volume. “A-a-a-a-g-g-h!! A-a-a-a-h! A-a-h!!” reverberated around the room, filling Sergeant Balisa and the three guards with intense lust.
All four narcs were fondling their own baskets as Balisa tortured Mike; they loved torturing men, especially young torrocitos. Sergeant Balisa was even now looking forward to the next level of torture for Mike after the whipping was finished: fucking the young man’s bruised and bloody ass!
But, first, to the task at hand. The Master Sergeant waited a few minutes. He wanted to keep Mike completely off guard as to the timing of the lashes. While he waited, he went over to Mike and ran his fingers over Mike’s ass cheeks. The four lashes had already covered Mike’s ass with numerous welts, purple-red angry to the touch. As with Mike’s back, droplets of blood mixed with sweat as Balisa ran his fingers over the bruises. Mike flinched and sucked in air as Balisa touched intersections of the welts.
Mike was breathing heavily, trying to get more air. When a torture vic is screaming from pain, their breathing is disrupted. The pain can be so intense that it becomes difficult to get a full breathe of air, so compelling is the need to scream. The body automatically uses any break in the torture to replenish the air supply.
Then Sergeant Balisa moved back into whipping position and laid two lashes on Mike’s buttocks. Whoosh! CRAAACK! “A-A-G-G-G-H-H-H!!” times two. All four narcs admired how Mike’s big muscle groups reacted instantly to the pain. The muscles tensed immediately, each one pulling against the impossibly strong metal bondage. Every striation, every vein, every tendon was visible under Mike’s skin, since his body fat was so low. Mike had highly developed arm and chest muscles from his wrestling experience and he put on quite a show of strength as he reacted to the brutal lashing. His biceps and delts were mounds of quivering man-muscle. The whole display was enhanced by Mike’s sweaty, glistening skin
Their lust was increased as they watched Mike’s big cock and balls gyrate and swing from his body movements. Small droplets of precum were now appearing on Mike’s cockhead. They hung there, glinting in the bright light, until they were flung off as a streamer whenever Mike’s big cock moved. His balls were turning purple from the constriction. Balisa knew exactly how long to keep the torrocito’s cock and balls harnessed up to avoid inflicting any kind of permanent damage. There would be no evidence of the interrogation sessions.
Two more strong lashes on Mike’s ass finished the session. Mike went wild, thrashing crazily in the chains. One long uninterrupted scream tore from his throat: “A-a-a-ag-g-g-h-h-h!” Then a series of quick screams as he panted for breath: “A-a-g-h! O-o-w-w! Y-a-a-g-g-h!”
Instead of making a big show of it, Sergeant Balisa decided to switch to lashing Mike’s chest and stomach. He wouldn’t even stop to let Mike get some air. Mike’s bondage in the spread eagle left his body totally vulnerable from whipping from almost any position. Balisa merely changed hands, and laid the cat soundly across Mike’s heaving chest.
Another Whoosh! CRAAACK! “A-A-G-G-G-H-H-H!!” Mike was aware that the pain was now coming from another location in his body and he briefly remembered that Balisa had said he was going to whip his chest, but the reality was horrible to experience. Some of the leather whip strands had cut across his nipples, producing intense, localized pain. When he hung his head down he could see the red-purple tracery of the cat’s print on his upper chest. His nipples had been hit by the leather, but, no, they had not been sliced open. It only felt that way!
This can’t go on, he began to think. I can’t take much more of this! Sergeant Balisa, ever seeking changes in the victim’s mood, sensed this new level of despair. He capitalized on it by laying on a vicious series of three lashes, quickly delivered, moving progressively lower on Mike’s chest and stomach.
A gut-wrenching scream tore from Mike’s throat. Despite the gag, he screamed as he had never before screamed in his life. “A-a-a-i-i-i-i-i-i-i!” echoed in the torture room. He couldn’t tense his muscles any farther; they were already cramped in maximal contraction. His body was now totally drenched in sweat. As with his back and ass, tiny rivulets of blood began to run down his chest where criss-crossing welts had broken the skin. The rivulets and sweat collected in the valleys between the mounds of ab muscle and followed the strong hairlines, all culminating at Mike’s crotch.
Sergeant Balisa decided that would be the end of this round with the cat. He walked over to Mike and again forced the whip strands under his nose, lifting Mike’s head in the process. Mike’s face was a mess. Tears were running down his cheeks, mixing with sweat. Drool was coming out of both sides of his mouth, and his cheeks were red from rubbing against the leather strands of the gag. Clear liquid was dripping from his nose. His eyes were red coals of pain and despair.
“We are stopping the whipping to let your body recover,” Batisa said as he looked deeply into Mike’s eyes. “We expect you will need several such sessions before you decide to tell us the name of your supplier. For that reason, I will not ask you again for his name. You will simply tell us when you are ready.”
“It is also necessary for us to take the harness off your torrocito cock and balls in order to do no damage. I should warn you that there will be much pain when the harness is removed, especially in your balls – those fantastic bull balls,” he added.
“Hector,” the Sergeant commanded, “Take off his cock and ball harness. Be very careful in the process that you do no damage.”
“Si Senor,” Hector responded, kneeling down in front of Mike. First to come off was the strap spreading Mike’s big balls apart. Then Hector undid each snap along the long leather ball stretching piece. Mike felt only relief at this point and was confused about the Sergeant’s earlier remarks. When Hector removed the cock straps, especially the main one at the base of his cock and ball sack, that’s when the pain started. Apparently when blood returns to balls which have been deprived of flow, the effect is dramatic.
The moan began deep in Mike’s throat as the pain from his balls went through hurt to sharp sting to pins-and-needles agony. This was compounded by the internal pain of his nut strings sharply contracting to pull his balls up to his crotch. Soon Mike was actually shaking in the chains and groaning loudly in an effort to distract himself from the intense ball pain. I
The pain event lasted a few minutes and then slowly subsided. Mike was left with the pain in his cock, that special ache from being deprived of a climax while his cock had been force-erect for two hours.
Mike didn’t hear the low spoken command Balisa had given the three guards to remove Mike from the chains and reposition him against the wooden table. He was surprised when he felt the cuffs on his ankles being released. He pulled his legs painfully in, but it was relief from their widely spread position. Then his arms were uncuffed and lowered, again generating relief in his shoulders and wrists. He saw that his wrist skin was rubbed raw from chaffing against the metal and the skin was broken in many places, slowly oozing blood.
He started to collapse once his arms were no longer holding him upright. Two of the guards quickly gripped his arms and held him up. They made him walk over to the wooden table in the center of the room. His legs could hardly obey Mike’s commands to move!
The guards made him stand against the center of the table, his cock and balls pressed against the thick wood side. Then they forced his torso down, chest to table top, with their hands on his back and shoulders. The rough table wood rubbed against his newly flogged chest and stomach, renewing the pain of the lashing.
Hector came over and Mike could feel him attaching something to his bruised ankles. It was soft and felt like leather. At least it was not metal, Mike thought. Mike heard chains rattling across the cement floor as Hector pulled Mike’s legs apart once again. The pain in his hips from the previous stretch returned. Mike moaned softly.
Hector then attached wide leather cuffs to Mike’s wrists. Mike could see the cuffs were lined, but the lining was darkly stained. Blood, no doubt, from previous victims. Each cuff was attached to a chain, which Hector drew across the table, pulling Mike’s arms up and out. At least he was not supporting his full body weight, as he had in the spread-eagle, and the soft leather cuffs were a good change from the harsh metal. Hector secured the chains on the far side of the table. Mike couldn’t see what they were attached to. He pulled lightly on the chains. There was no slack.
Finally Master Sergeant Balisa came over and rubbed his hand up and down Mike’s back. Mike hissed from the stabs of pain this caused. Balisa moved his hand down to Mike’s bruised ass, again making him hiss. Then he started to run his finger tips up and down Mike’s ass crack, going deeper with each pass. Mike was startled to attention; his body tensed and Balisa could easily see his new level of concern.
“Yes, that’s right, gringo torrocito,” Balisa said to him, digging deeper and closing in on Mike’s asshole. “Perhaps you know what is next, yes?” he taunted.
“I have been watching your magnificent body bravely endure the cat-o-nine-tails. I must say, you performed most excellently and your body gave us much entertainment. I also realize that your mind was slipping and that you were feeling helpless, which is understood.”
“That’s why we have this next ’treat’ for you. It will give me pleasure, a great deal of pleasure, but you will not like it very much. In fact, you will feel rage and anger when you realize what I am going to do to you – and you will also realize that you are helpless to stop me. So, I will keep you in suspense no longer.”
The Sergeant went to Mike’s side, where Mike could see him. He unbuttoned his bulging pants and winced as he pulled out his very hard dick. His cock was long, but not very thick. In a college shower it might have been called a “sports car” cock. He pushed down his pants and briefs until they were on his thighs. Then he returned to his position directly behind Mike. Mike flinched as he felt the Sergeant’s hardon replace his hand in his asscrack. The Sergeant moved the cockhead up and down, lubricating it on Mike’s sweat and its own precum. Mike indeed got very angry and screamed at the Sergeant: “No! No! Stop! You can’t do that!!” Unfortunately, the gag translated his outrage into muffled, unintelligible sounds.
The Sergeant focused on Mike’s asshole and put his engorged cockhead directly against it. Mike screamed and struggled, but could not dislodge the Intruder at the Gate. Then the Sergeant grabbed Mike’s hips and started to push.
Chapter 8
Mike Gets Sergeant-Fucked
Mike redoubled his screaming and thrashing as he felt the Master Sergeant push against his hole. He clamped down on the muscle guarding his gut and shook his head from side to side, mostly in disbelief of the violation about to be visited on him. He was overcome by the feeling of powerlessness, an inability to stop the sexual invasion. Here was Mike Peterson, titled wrestler, accomplished businessman, body builder, spread out naked in chains like an animal trussed up for breeding. He was humiliated at the savagery, the violation of his sexuality, the total perversion he was immersed in.
The Master Sergeant considered fucking the victims of torture good in two ways. One, it was usually a good fuck. The one with Mike, now deliciously spread out in front of him, would be monumental. There was an element of mystery in this, however. The Master Sergeant, as well as the three guards, were all married men. Off the job, they had regular heterosexual appetites and all four had mistresses on the side. On the job, however, they enjoyed raping male victims, especially muscle men like young Mike. It was also known that Hector and the Master Sergeant had their own dalliances, an open “secret” known to everyone.
The second reason for rape was more professional: Balisa knew the humiliation generated by being fucked by another man was often enough to drive the victim to despair, which quickly led to confessions. Many men could take beatings and whippings, but the violation to their very manhood struck a deeper chord and very nicely sped up the interrogation process.
The Sergeant reveled in Mike’s mighty yelling. He knew what Mike was shouting, even though the gag garbled the throaty sounds. He knew that even the feel of his dickhead prodding Mike’s asshole would be enough to enrage him.
Sergeant Balisa tightened his grip on Mike’s hips and pushed more firmly against the young man’s hole muscle. He could feel Mike clamping down; the young muscle man was even clenching his ass cheeks in an attempt to ward off the Invader.
Balisa pressed in earnest, feeling millimeter progress as his dickhead began the breach. More pressure, another few millimeters. Mike’s violent thrashing increased as he felt his hole muscle giving way to the pressure. Unfortunately, it was inevitable that the Sergeant’s dick would force Mike’s muscle open. After all, an asshole muscle was designed to keep stuff in, not out!
The Sergeant was very patient; he knew he would win in the end. In fact, the more violence the entry required, the more the Master Sergeant was aroused. He knew that Mike’s struggling so far had given him one of the strongest hardons of the past few months. He reveled in pushing into Mike, violating the young muscleman’s most private hole.
There was a sudden plop! sound and his cockhead broke through into Mike’s gut. Mike went wild! NO, NO, NO, this couldn’t be happening, he screamed in his mind. He kept screaming “NO!! NO!! NO!!” in his throat, too, but only “OOO! OOO! OOO!” came through the gag.
Balisa yelled triumphantly as he dickhead finally entered Mike’s ass. He loved the immediate feeling of warmth in a man’s ass when first breached. It was a liquid warmth accompanied by sexy compression of his entire shaft. Dicks were made to force-enter tight holes, and the Master Sergeant had once more demonstrated the immense satisfaction produced by millions of years of evolution.
Balisa was unaware that Mike’s asshole was not as tight as it should have been for someone his age and sexual orientation. With his thinnish cock, all assholes appeared loose to the Master Sergeant and he had experienced what his colleagues called “tight holes.”
Balisa slowly pushed his long hardon up into Mike’s now defenseless gut. Mike continued to thrash and object; Balisa could now feel Mike’s body react from the inside to the strong muscular contractions convulsing Mike’s abs, hips, and leg muscles. Balisa continued to push until his slender hardon was in to the hilt and his balls pressed against Mike’s ass cheeks. The added pain this would cause Mike would be lost in the ocean of rage and muscular cramping Mike was immersed in.
Still pressed tight against Mike’s ass, Balisa moved his hips in circles, cantilevering his cock to gyrate inside Mike’s gut, causing Mike more torment and rage. Then he began a slow, sensuous withdrawal until his cockhead was again pushing against Mike’s asshole muscle, but from the inside.
Another thrust, faster this time, quickly generating the feeling of fullness as Mike’s colon took the Invader in. More small hip circles, progressing to figure eights, more thrashing from Mike. Mike simply could not believe that he was being raped by another man. It was so outside his cultural range that he first had to go through denial. That stage didn’t last long! The feeling from his lower gut was quite clear. And the Sergeant was picking up the speed.
Balisa’s thrusts were indeed getting faster and stronger. He changed his grip from Mike’s hips to his stomach, and was rewarded with a first-hand feel of Mike’s mounded ab muscles heaving in massive convulsions. When his hands got sweaty from Mike’s body, Balisa had to grip his fingers tightly together to keep his grip on Mike’s stomach. Mike’s yelling was becoming synchronized with the Sergeant’s thrusts.
Balisa himself started to pant and groan with the thrusts. His breathing was heavy and groans accompanied each push in. “U-n-n-h-h! U-u-u-n-n-h!” filled the torture chamber, a metronome to Balisa’s fuckrate. Both men were now groaning/screaming, synchronized to Balisa’s fuck thrusts.
The Master Sergeant normally tried for a prolonged fucking, since all his colleagues boasted of how long they took to cum. But he was so aroused by the cat flogging of young muscular Mike, that he realized his journey to climax was going to be very short on this one.
He ramped up the speed and pressure, sensing he was not going to get a lot more mileage. The gruntings from Balisa and Mike increased in frequency and loudness. The three guards smiled to each other as they sensed Balisa’s foreshortened fucking. (They secretly liked to mock all the higher ranking officers.)
Suddenly Balisa’s climax relay switch went off. He went wild in Mike’s ass, tightly gripping the young stud’s muscular stomach as they both thrashed against the wooden table. “¡Si! ¡Si! ¡Si!” the Master Sergeant started to yell, reverting to Spanish, as his cum pump kicked in. He pushed insanely into Mike’s ass, as his sports car cock pumped loads of joy juice into the gringo torrocito’s gut. The Sergeant’s cries of pleasure merged with Mike’s cries of anguish.
A few more strong thrusts, a few more rounds of grunts and muffled groans, some more thrashing on Mike’s part as he pulled on the arm chains. Then it was over. The Master Sergeant collapsed onto Mike’s back, while the guards again sniggered at his quick climax. Balisa’s sam brown belt grazed over some of Mike’s whip welts; Mike raised his head off the table and yelled into his leather gag. Then silence.
The only sounds were the heavy breathing from Balisa and Mike, punctuated with the occasional creak of cuff leather and chain on wood as Mike shifted in the bondage. Balisa’s sweat run down his sides onto Mike’s back, merging with the young man’s own sweat. The sudden smell of man-fuck filled the room. Balisa kept his bear hug hold on Mike’s stomach, although he did back off on the intensity.
After several minutes the Master Sergeant slowly recovered from the after-cum daze and he raised himself off Mike’s back. The he began the slow process of pulling his depleted dick out of Mike’s ass. This did not cause Mike any physical pain, but he moaned from humiliation and shame. Streams of Balisa’s cum were oozing from Mike’s asshole and slowly streaming down his crack. As the creamy cum slowly cleared and liquefied, streamers ran down Mike’s inner thighs, spread widely apart.
Then an extraordinary event started: Mike’s shoulders and back started to heave sporadically and he began a plaintive wail. Hector the guard moved over closer to Mike, whose head was on its side on the table but facing him. “Senores,” he said, after looking closely at Mike’s face, “The torrocito is crying. He is crying like a child!”
Master Sergeant Balisa smiled triumphantly at the news. That’s what he wanted to do to Mike: reduce him to tears. Often the whipping and beating will do this to a man, but many men have resisted the direct torture. They all break down, however, when they are raped in the ass. NOW Balisa knew he had conquered Mike’s mind. Not only was the torrocito a great fuck, he was now destroyed on a basic emotional level, indicating complete breakdown.
Balisa shooed the guard away with a wave of his hand and approached Mike’s side. He put his head down on the table and gazed directly into Mike’s face. Copious tears were indeed streaming down the young man’s handsome face, mixing on the table with the drool from his gagged mouth. His shoulders were still heaving in sporadic sobs. Excellent!
“Quickly, quickly now,” the Master Sergeant ordered his three minions. “Uncuff him and get him into one of the small metal cages as soon as you can!”
The three guards sprang to action, releasing Mike’s wrists and ankles from the leather bondage cuffs. Then they lifted him off the table and dragged him a few feet to a small metal cage on the floor. It looked not much larger than a dog cage.
They put Mike’s feet in first, then folded his legs and body into a z-pattern. Hector pulled Mike’s wrists and forearms through the bars while one of the guards quickly snapped handcuffs on Mike’s bruised wrists. The cuffs were separated by several inches of chain. Balisa had gone to the equipment wall and took a leather collar from its peg, as well as some heavy metal locks. He handed the collar to one of the guards, who quickly pulled it around Mike’s neck and buckled it in the back. Balisa reached in and threaded the hasp of one of the locks through the collar buckle and snapped the lock shut.
Upon Balisa’s order, Hector slowly lowered the top of the cage down; it was hinged on one side. The cage bars pushed into Mike’s back, forcing his body lower and tighter into the cage. Then Balisa threaded two locks through metal fittings at top corners of the cage, securely locking the top to the sides.
Mike was still in a daze of humiliation and pain and offered no resistance to this whole operation. He grunted when the top was pushed into his back, but that was all.
Sergeant Balisa reached through the bars and unbuckled the straps holding the leather thong gag in place. Once unbuckled, he pulled down and out on one side, slowly sliding the gag from Mike’s mouth. The gag was covered in saliva and the back straps were soaked in sweat. Balisa handed the gag to Hector with a disdainful look on his face. Hector quickly passed the gag to one of the lower ranked guards who took it reluctantly, holding it at arm’s length. The guard went over to a corner of the interrogation room and began to clean up the gag with water from a hose.
Hector and the other guard stood with Balisa as Mike slowly wakened from his daze. He tried to move in the cage, but his big body was pinned in on every side. He pulled his hands in until the cuffs and chain rattled against the metal bars. Then he found voice, suddenly realizing he was no longer gagged.
“What the fuck did you do to me, you fuckheads!” he yelled. “Get me outta here! You can’t do this to me!”
Mike stopped his rant and looked up when Sergeant Balisa spoke to him: “Gringo torrocito!” he began. “You have just been whipped with a cat-o-nine-tails and I have destroyed your manhood by raping your ass! This is your opportunity to tell me the name of your drug supplier, or else.”
“Or else, what, fuckhead!?” Mike demanded, still pushing against the cage bars in a burst of defiance.
“Or else you will get much more pain and many more rapings,” Balisa answered.
“Go to hell! Go to hell!” Mike yelled, shaking the cage violently. “Get me the fuck outta here!”
“I fear you are in a hopeless state, torrocito. We will leave you to think about what I have said. When we come back you will have convinced yourself that the supplier’s name is not worth any more of what you have already been through. You will tell me his name!” Balisa yelled back.
“Never in a million fucking years!” Mike answered. “There IS no supplier. There ARE no drugs! You people are fucking nuts!”
“Ackh!” Balisa snarled in disgust. “Fucking stupid gringos. They never learn!” he said to the air. Then he went over to the cage and viciously kicked Mike’s thigh through the bars. “¡Gringo estupido! You will come around, you will come around.”
Balisa turned to the other three: “And now, muchachos, beer and rest for the Master Sergeant! Put the chains on the cage and lift it up. We will resume our tasks in the morning!”
“Si, Senor!” the three answered as Balisa strode out of the room. There was a chain hoist on a long track which traversed the width of the interrogation room. One of the guards pulled it along the track until it was over Mike’s cage. He then quickly pulled the lifting loop chain, lowering the main chain to a point a few feet over the cage.
The other guard in the meantime brought over a chain harness consisting of four chains hanging from a thick ring. Each chain had a metal clip at the end, and he attached clips to the four corners of Mike’s cage. Then he clipped the ring to the main chain from the hoist. He signaled to the other man with a thumbs-up sign, and the first guard pulled the loop chain in the other direction, slowly lifting the main chain.
After the slack in the harness was taken up, Mike’s cage was slowly lifted off the ground. Mike looked surprised at this, but said nothing. He glared at Hector, who stood in front of the cage.
“Very well, Senores, you heard Master Sergeant Balisa. Time to go home to our families!” he said, moving towards the door. The other three grinned and followed the Master Sergeant out of Interrogation Room #4. Just for effect, they turned off the lights.
Mike spiraled into rage and despair as he knelt tightly bent over in the small cage in the total darkness. He pulled his arms in until his wrists chaffed from the handcuffs, deliberately imposing more pain on himself. “Fuck!! Fuck!! Fuck!!” he screamed over and over, more tears coming from his eyes.
His mind was black with anger and hopelessness. He was powerless, totally fucking powerless, to stop the insanity he was in. What could he do? There was no drug supplier! What could he tell them to stop the agony and humiliation?! His screamed echoed in the darkness of the interrogation room: “Fuck!!!”
Chapter 9
Mike Gets Racked
Mike thought he got some fitful sleep, but he wasn’t sure. Every few minutes a new pain or cramp would shoot through his legs or his stomach from his compressed confinement in the small cage. He had the strange sensation that the cage was slowly rotating as it hung from the chain, but in the darkness he couldn’t be sure.
Mike was startled when the door opened. There was no way to predict how long the guards and Balisa would be gone at any given time, and their return always took him by surprise. He was blinded when they turned the lights on, and squinted his eyes, which were salt encrusted from dried tears. Even though he was now ungagged and could speak, he said nothing as his four tormentors came into view. They had already stripped off their uniform blouses, bare chested except for the sam brown belts. Instead of black pants, the three guards were clad in camo with light brown, laced boots. The pants were just as tight as the black ones, and their baskets were already bulging from anticipation of the day’s torture. The Master Sergeant continued to wear black pants and boots.
“What?, gringo torrocito,” Balisa said in mock concern. “No shouts? No threats?”
Mike remained silent, soundly resolved to bear up under whatever was coming. He also remained motionless, although he wanted to pull on the handcuffs holding his wrists against the cell bars, just to make a noise of protest. His thighs and calves hurt from the cramping. The interrogation room was warm and his back and chest stung as sweat found breaks in the whip welts. His asshole ached mildly from its recent violation. But he held his silence, thinking that might annoy his torments more.
Hector produced a small camera from his trousers pocket and took a few pictures of Mike’s imprisonment in the small animal cage. “For the family album,” he mocked.
“Lower him back to the floor and take him out,” the Master Sergeant ordered his men.
One of the guards ran the loop chain of the hoist, slowly lowering Mike’s cage to the cement floor. Then all three guards went to work getting him out of the cage. The chains had to be removed, the locks opened, and the cuffs removed from his wrists. Hector lifted up the cage door and the two other guards reached down and slowly pulled Mike up from his cramped position. Mike groaned as his body unfolded, stretching out cramped muscle groups.
As the guards were helping him step free of the cage, Balisa spoke up: “I am not going to ask you the obvious questions, torrocito. If you were ready to make your confession you would have done so. I also note that you are silent this morning. That usually means defiance and that you learned nothing from your torments yesterday.”
By now Mike was standing up, crucially supported by the two guards who were holding his thick upper arms. Balisa continued: “The only choice you leave us, gringo torrocito, is to provide you with more pain. This morning you will experience a very unusual pain from a device which is centuries old and part of our wonderful European heritage.” The Sergeant flicked his head to the right and the guards force-marched Mike away from the cage area towards the right side of the room. There, against the wall and brilliantly lit by three overhead lights, was the rack.
The “working area” of the rack was very long and constructed of wooden planks, maybe five, six inches thick, but the whole thing was only three feet wide. One’s eyes were immediately drawn to the huge wooden cylinder on the left end of the device. It was a yard in diameter and as wide as the table top. Ridiculously thick chains were wrapped around the cylinder, with the working ends coming off the bottom and ending in black, leather cuffs. At the other end of the table was some kind of low, wooden plank with half circles cut into it. The circles appeared to be lined with something black. The whole device looked every bit as menacing as its reputation.
The guards made Mike get up onto the table and stretch out. He immediately felt the roughness of the wood as it scraped his bruised ass and back. Without being instructed, the two minion guards began wrapping Mike’s ankles with long, thick leather belts. They placed his wrapped ankles into two of the half circles. Mike lifted his head briefly and saw there were four circles and his ankles were going into the two, outermost ones.
Then one of the guards lifted another wooden plank from the floor beneath the foot end of the device. It also had four half circles and fit against the lower plank. There were two keys on either side of the planks, and the guard placed the keys into small eyes drilled into the sides of each plank. This secured the wooden stocks very tightly around Mike’s ankles.
“Even so,” Balisa started to explain in a low voice, as he stood near Mike’s head, “Your ankles are being wrapped in order to spare them the full force of the stretching. We have found that doing this distributes the force between your ankles, knees, and hips. Likewise for your wrists,” he added, motioning to one of the guards to secure Mike’s wrists in the cuffs.
“These are suspension cuffs which will evenly spread the force around your wrist, elbow, and shoulder joints. The actual medieval device was stupidly crude and put all the force on ankles and wrists, often tearing them apart. We have perfected this machine so that it will leave no marks. All you will have, if you survive, is the memory of incredible pain.”
Mike suspected Balisa’s little speech was designed to generate fear. Then he realized it was working. A cold knot began to close in his stomach as the guards pulled his arms out overhead and began securing them in the heavy leather cuffs. He could hear – and feel – the chains rattling against the wood.
Now that Mike was secured to the device, Balisa came over and ran his hand over Mike’s chest. The whip welts had gone down overnight, leaving only the faintest of bruises. Most of the bruises on his chest and stomach were still open and moist; his cramped position in the cage had prevented them from drying out. Mike’s chest was wet with sweat and Balisa’s hand stung as he moved back and forth across Mike’s thick pecs.
Then he slowly worked his hand down Mike’s ags, stomach, arriving at his groin. He non-chalantly poked and prodded Mike’s cock, toying with it. “Get the harness,” he ordered the guards. Mike mentally groaned as he remembered the painful leather straps from yesterday.
Balisa went through the same procedure as before, first encircling mike’s cock and ball sack with the main strap, followed by the two auxiliary straps on his shaft. Then the main pain as Balisa pulled down viciously on his ball se hisack, tugging at Mike’s bull balls to force them to the end of the long sack. The thick leather piece was snapped in place, trapping his balls several inches from his crotch. Then the nasty spreader strap was buckled and pulled in tightly, wedging Mike’s balls to either side.
The Sergeant nodded to Hector, who went to work on Mik’s cock, lapping at the head, lipping it, licking it, forcing it to slowly come to life. And, just as yesterday, despite Mike’s willing it otherwi, his cock was forced erect. There was mild pleasure from the erection until the constrictor straps on the shaft cut into his cock. His balls also returned to the familiar aching. Mike moaned as his cock and balls were again forced to become instruments of torture instead of pleasure.
When Hector was finished, Mike’s rock cock arched up from his crotch, still gleaming with saliva. The Sergeant came over and pushed Hector aside. He gripped Mike’s shaft and twisted it from side to side. Mike groaned from the stabs of pain. Now it begins, he thought, now it begins.
Then Balisa spoke, still gripping Mike’s dick: “Although this might look like a medieval rack, it is of a more recent vintage. They are manufactured for our use by one of the workshops in a prison just south of the city. We have many in this building and they have all proved their worth.”
“Today, torrocito, you will feel pain as you could never imagine. The rack is so simple, when you think about it. Nothing electrical to give trouble, nothing to break, because it is built so well. Let me show you how it works, and then I will turn the grunt work over to my soldiers, here,” he added.
The Master Sergeant moved to the end of the rack with the large drum, as he continued his little lecture. “The big drum is driven by a small gear and the small gear is turned by these long metal spikes.”
Mike was tempted to look up and back to see what Balisa was referring to, but decided to look straight up at the light above his head, hoping its intensity would be a distraction for him during the imminent torture.
Balisa continue on: When I turn the small gear, thusly,” he said, “it drives the larger drum very slowly.”
Mike presumed Balisa was turning the gear; he refused to watch. As the drum rotated, there was a periodic metal clicking sound.
“Yes, you can hear the catch mechanism. There is a small metal bar on the opposite side of the drum from us that catches into another metal gear. When the bar drops down into place, the drum is prevented from moving backwards. This means the pressure on your body will be kept constant until we release the bar. Then the drum can unwind, freeing you up. This will happen when you decide to tell me what I need to know. Otherwise, we turn the gear, the drum winds in the chains, stretching you farther, and the little bar drops into a new, more painful slot. It’s all so very simple. And, an elegant way to make young muscle men like you talk.”
He was silent for a moment. Mike continued to stare overhead, but he could feel the cold knot of fear build in his gut. This might get rought, he thought to himself, fixing his attention on the center of the light overhead.
“We begin,” Balisa said in a low voice. “Hector, take up the slack in the chains and let the torrocito feel the initial bite of the rack.”
Hector moved to the drum end of the rack and slowly rotated the small gear by means of the long metal bars.   The catch bar clicked as the drum rotated very slowly. Click. Click. Click.
Mike then felt the initial tug on his wrists as the chains started to pull his arms up and out. Since the arm chains were threaded from the bottom of the drum, his body would be stretched out fairly straight. Another option for using the rack was to thread the arm chains from the top of the drum. This would pull the victim’s arms up from the table top, eventually lifting the whole upper half of his body. Either way was brutally painful.
Then Mike felt a really strong pull on his arms.
Chapter 10
The Rack Gets Mike
The suddenly strong pull on his limbs straightened out his body, and put pressure on his ankles tightly sealed in the stocks at the bottom of the table.   Balisa had been right in explaining the need for the leather windings on his ankles; Mike could feel the tug being distributed between his ankles, knees, and hips. The same effect started to become evident in his arm and shoulder joints.
Now his body was taut between the drum and the stocks. Click. Click. Click. Each sound of the catchment bar ratcheted up the pain.   Mike’s heart started to pound in his chest as he felt further pressure on his joints.
Click. Click. Click. Oh my God, Mike yelled in his head. This is going to fucking hurt!
“You cannot see it, torrocito, but there is a small pressure gauge on the big drum which measures the tension being applied to your body. It is the only concession we have made to modernizing the design. It lets me know where we are in the torture plan. You see, we have it all worked out to provide you the worst possible experience here. It is exactly gauged: so many minutes at this tension, then increase it, hold for so many minutes. A perfect plan, which always works. Soon you should start to scream for us,” he added.
Click. Click. Click. Mike did indeed start to moan out loud. The stretching was causing an unusual sensation in his joints, a kind of tingling pain. He felt something similar during certain exercises in which he hung from overhead bars to do ab raises with his legs. His shoulders joints in particular would develop this tingling pain, almost like “pins and needles,” but stronger.
This time the sensation was in all his joints. And it was slowly increasing. Click. Click. Click.
The stretching reached a point where the pain escalated sharply. Mike had to yell out loud in short shouts. “A-a-g-h! A-g-h!” echoed in the large room, punctuated by the catchment bar on the big drum. Click. Click. Click.
Then the clicking stopped. Mike found that when the stretching was not being increased, he could somehow accommodate himself to the pain. His yells turned to heavy breathing. There was an odd constriction on his lungs, which seemed to prevent him from taking a full breath. Although he knew it was not there, it felt like a weight was pressing on his chest, interfering with his breathing.
Mike lost track of how long he was held at this position, but soon the stretching was resumed. Click. Click. Click.
Now he screamed. “A-a-a-a-g-g-g-h-h! A-a-a-i-i-i-i-h-h!” The pain in his joints was intense, excruciating, unnerving. He had a picture in his head that his joints were slipping apart. The smaller joints, his wrists, elbows and knees, were white hot sources of pain. His shoulders and hips seemed to bear up better, due to their size. But soon even they were in agony.
Between screams he had to try desperately to get his breathe. The weight on his chest got heavier. He was in a mild panic to get a lungful of air, but then he would lose it immediately in a scream.
With his body stretched out, the big muscle groups could not mound up the way they had when spread-eagled during the lashing. His muscles struggled as he instinctively tried to escape the torment in his body, but they were so tightly stretched out themselves, their contractions were pointless. In this state, at least they couldn’t cramp!
Then the unexpected: his back started to hurt. Not his whole back, but mostly his lower spine. He had never felt this kind of pain before. Once he had thrown his back out when he lost his balance with a heavy barbell on his shoulders. The pain was similar to that, but this was more localized, like right in the vertebrae, if that made any sense. Click. Click. Click.
Very quickly the lower back pain escalated and started to eclipse all the other joint pains, plunging Mike into total agony on the rack. His whole world was the bright light above him and the searing pain in his back. In his delirium he imagined the two were the same, that he was actually looking at the pain in his back, which was a searingly bright light.
He was unaware the clicking had stopped and that the torture program called for holding him in this position for quite a while. He continued to scream and pant, unaware of whether he was breathing or screaming from the pain. He rocked his head back and forth in an unconscious, primal reaction to the agony.
“A-a-a-g-g-g-h-h-h-h! [Gasp!] A-a-a-g-g-h-h-! [Gasp!!]” filled the room. The guards and the Sergeant rubbed their bulging crotches in torture lust as they gazed on Mike’s agony. His magnificent, struggling body was coated with sweat. All the muscles were stretched out in display. His big chest and abs heaved as he struggled for air.   His cock continued to arch obscenely from his crotch, all the longer looking since his pube hair was matted down with sweat. His big, bound balls glistened in the bright light. The videocameras captured the intensity of the torture. The audio track would forever preserve Mike’s screams.
Balisa looked at his watch and gave the signal to Hector to release the drum tension. Hector turned the drum a fraction, taking pressure off the catch bar, and flipped the bar out of position. Then Hector let go of the metal bar he was holding and stepped clear of the metal rods. There was a whirl of action as the small gear spun wildly, releasing tension on the drum and allowing it to slowly unwind.
Mike had completely lost track of time. His consciousness was reduced to the bright light of intense pain in his back. Then, abruptly, he felt the pain ease from his body. The lower back pain instantly stopped, leaving only the lingering, deep ache in his joints. Slowly the overhead light became a light again, and not the focus of his agony.
It took quite a while for Mike to return to normal consciousness. Balisa knew this was natural; all the victims recovered slowly from the intensity of the rack. He motioned with his hand and one of the guards went over to the corner with the hose and filled up a small bucket with water. He handed the bucket to the Master Sergent, who quickly threw it onto Mike’s face.
The sudden coolness and wetness snapped Mike back to this reality. He blinked to dispel water droplets from his eyes and his nose smarted from the liquid which had splashed up his nostrils. He spat out the water from his mouth, although it did taste good. He swallowed a little bit to relieve his parched throat, which still hurt from screaming. He could feel his vocal chords starting to go hoarse.
“And that,” Balisa said, bending over and peering into Mike’s face, “and that was your first taste of the rack. You will have this one chance, and only this one chance today, to tell me you are ready to talk.” He grabbed Mike’s big cock and leered into his face.
Mike was going to say nothing, but then he changed his mind. “Go fuck yourself!” he murmured incoherently.
“What? What did you say,” Balisa asked, moving closer to Mike’s face. Mike was unaware of how slurred his speech was after the hour of screaming.
“I said ‘Go fuck yourself!’” Mike repeated. Then he had a brilliant idea. Slowly summoning the saliva in his mouth, he tried to spit at Balisa’s face. The drops of spit barely made it out of his mouth and landed on his own cheek.
“Ha!” Balisa laughed, finally understanding what Mike was trying to say and recognizing the failed act of defiance. “We have a much better idea!”
Then he turned to Hector: “Senor Hector, please go and get El Capitan Gomez. He has expressed his intention to have his way with the torrocito.”
Mike did not fully understand what Balisa’s comment meant, but the guards knew.
Then Balisa addressed the guards in rapid Spanish: “And you two, turn the torrocito over so he is ass up and hook him back up to the rack!”
 
Chapter 11
Mike Gets Captain-Fucked
 
Following Batisa’s orders, the two guards freed Mike’s wrists and ankles, but Mike had scant freedom. They quickly turned him over onto his stomach and began resecuring him to the rack. As with his back, the rough wood scraped his chest and thighs, rubbing a few of the whip marks open. His rock hardon was brutally forced against the wood as it lined up along his lower abdomen. Even his torrocito balls chaffed against the wood.
Hector came back and told Batisa that El Capitan Gomez was not ready yet for the “festivities,” as he called them.
“Very well, let us go to the common room until he joins us,” Batisa suggested.
He walked over to the rack and swatted Mike’s bubble butt hard with his hand, leaving a bright palm and finger mark on the white flesh. Mike flinched but made no sound.
“I told El Capitan how good your ass was. He said he wanted to find out for himself!” Batisa grinned as he turned to leave the torture room with Hector.
The door slammed shut, leaving Mike to his thoughts.
OK, so that’s what’s going to happen, Mike mulled in his head. More torture on the rack and then another fuck-fest, this time with Batisa’s boss. I think I can do it, he thought, but the cold knot of fear was already building in his stomach and he knew that such statements to himself were bravado. He also knew that ultimately it didn’t matter what he thought. The torture and the fucking were going to happen and that was that! All that was lacking were the details, and they would get filled in very soon.
It wasn’t long before Mike heard the metal door being opened. El Capitan Gomez was first to enter the room, followed by Batisa. Hector and the guards took up the rear. Mike studied Gomez as he strode over to the rack. The narc Captain had also shed his uniform blouse, but he was not wearing a sam brown belt. His dress uniform pants looked impeccable; they were fitted but not butt-tight like the other narcs. And he was wearing highly polished uniform shoes, not boots. He was well built, muscular but, like Hector, on the wiry side, not beefy. His bald head flashed in the lights as he walked across the room.
“Ah, yes,” Gomez said in a deep voice, “Sergeant Balisa, you were right to praise this one’s body. Look at him! What do the gringos call such a man? ‘Hunk?’ Is that it?” he asked.
“Si, Senor El Capitan,” Balisa answered smartly. “He is indeed a ‘hunk.’ Feel him out, Senor. Don’t take my word for it,” he added.
Gomez started to run his right hand across Mike’s broad upper back, feeling the texture of the thick muscles in Mike’s shoulders and upper arms. Then he put both hands on Mike’s ass cheeks, massaging the glutes, smiling broadly.
On a whim, he reached between Mike’s legs and pulled up on Mike’s harnessed balls. “¡Madre de Dio!” he exclaimed. “He is indeed a torrocito! I have never seen such equipment on any man!”
Balisa chimed in: “Si, Senor. I did not exaggerate!”
“Have you used the electricity on him yet?” Gomez asked.
“No, Senor, that is the next step in the plan, after this round on the rack. . . ah . . . with you,” he added haltingly.
Gomez ignored Balisa’s discomfiture, full well knowing his own cock was far superior in size and prowess than Balisa’s thin, little rod. Among the high command in the division Balisa was often referred to as “+++++++++++++, the “little stick.”
“OK, muchachos,” Gomez cut in. “Stretch him out for me. I want to hear him scream.”
“Si, Senor El Capitan,” Balisa responded, motioning to Hector to start the stretching. Hector in turn motioned to the two guards to man the small gear. Only one man was needed to run the rack, due to the large mechanical advantage of the small gear against the larger drum, but the two guards both took up rods and began to slowly rotate the gear.   Click. Click. Click.
Mike knew the sequence which would happen. He flinched as his body was straightened out, scraping more skin against the wood. Then the strong tug was imposed on his limbs, re-awaking the deep seated ache each joint harbored. He grimaced as the pain ramped up, but soon he had to moan as the stretching continued in earnest.
Click. Click. Click. The maddening sound of the catchment bar echoed in the room, but was soon drowned out by the sound of Mike’s intense screaming and pained, almost delirious gasps for air. “A-a-a-g-g-g-h-h-h!! H-u-u-h-h!!”
Click. Click. Click. Balisa looked at the tension meter on the chain drum. It was just registering the pressure at which the back pain, the worst pain, would start. That was where he wanted Mike for the “festivities.” He would then work Mike up to the highest level of agony for the pleasure of El Capitan.
The Captain was watching Mike’s torture intently, rubbing his crotch as were all the others. He had moved over next to the rack and started to run his hands up and down Mike’s legs, feeling the tension on his knees, and hips, violating the privacy of the inner thighs. Then he moved up to Mike’s ass, which was quivering in some kind of muscular spasm. He ran his hand over Mike’s sweaty right cheek, prodding and pinching the lean, sweaty flesh.
“Yes, it is time, muchachos!” he said. Mike, of course, was oblivious to anything else in the room except the torment scorching his joints, muscles, nerves and brain, but the narc officers knew what this meant.
El Capitan kicked off his brightly polished shoes, unbuckled his belt, and opened the waist button and zipper of his pants. He quickly lowered and stepped out of the garment. One of the guards eagerly moved to his side to take the pants from the superior officer. He then backed off, holding the pants almost reverently.
The Captain was now wearing only briefs and socks. He deftly mounted the rack table, stood up over Mike’s prone body, and whipped off his briefs. The other minion guard held out his hand for the briefs, which the senior officer casually threw at him.
All the narc officers watched in fascination — and envy — as the Captain’s huge hose uncoiled from his crotch. The Captain then knelt down over Mike’s ass, straddling the tortured body on his knees. He started to work on his schlong, slowly palming it to life. It got larger and darker, longer and thicker, as it grew, until it hit its limit at a good twelve inches. It was much thicker than Balisa’s “++++++++++” slender stick. Unfortunately for the Captain, his balls did not match his dick. Everyone knew how small they were, but that minor failing was overshadowed by the size of his cock. His small balls were now firmly nestled at the base of The Big One, as El Capitan’s plumbing stirred to life, preparing for a Big Event sometime soon.
The Captain reached down with his free hand and forced his fingers into Mike’s ass. Mike screamed the more at the thought of the impending invasion. His struggling muscles were stretched out tight, but still they reacted and tried to pump, to escape. Mike’s hole was forcibly opened by two of the Captain’s fingers. The Captain cruelly pulled up and down, widening it, lubing it with sweat, preparing it.
Satisfied that both he and Mike’s hole were ready, El Capitan lowered his hips, braced by one hand, and aimed his rock hard tool with the other. Mike’s glutes continued to quiver, which the Captain thought was an odd reaction, but which did not deflect him from his immediate target. He pressed his engorged cockhead against Mike’s hole, producing spasms of horror and pain from Mike.
In addition to the size of his man meat, the Captain was also known for quick, vicious entries. Once on target, he simply pushed with his body weight and hip muscles, quickly breaking through Mike’s battered hole. Mike screamed anew and a huge round of sweating broke out all over his body. The Captain was sweating now, too, and the tableau of the two of them on the table, glistening in the bright light, was a perfect study in sexual violence.
The Captain’s cockhead really hurt Mike going in, but once in, Mike’s asshole muscles closed down on the shaft, sealing El Capitan’s cock within. Then the plunge, inch by inch, as the monster shaft engulfed Mike’s gut. Mike was thrashing – as much as he could stretched out taut – as the Captain slowly pulled his dick out almost to the head. Then another plunge, another pull, plunge, pull.
Each plunge drove Mike almost to madness from the pain and horror of what was happening. He started to bang his forehead on the wooden rack table, but Balisa reached over and pressed Mike’s head firmly to the wood to stop the motion.
Now Mike’s screaming and the Captain’s sex grunts started to coincide, as the senior officer ramped up the fuck speed. Balisa had been instructed that, as the Captain approached his climax, he was required to stretch out Mike to the point of intense back pain, which Mike was hovering just under.
Balisa dismissed Hector from the metal rods powering the small gear and took control of the rack himself. Click. Click. Click. Carefully watching the tension meter, Balisa inched Mike further into the back pain zone. Mike was delirious by now and had fallen back to imagining his back pain as a bright light, only this time there was none he could see directly. Nevertheless, the image persisted.
The Captain’s fuck went into quick time, using shorter but more frequent, intense strokes. His grunting was a tiny accompaniment to Mike’s guttural, animal screams and loud gasps for breath. Mike’s whole body was quivering now, his big muscle groups pulsating in abject agony. The Captain had encircled his arms around Mike’s tight waist for leverage.
Then the Main Event. As Balisa realized the Captain was approaching his climax, he inched Mike farther into mind-numbing back pain. Click. Click. At this time, Mike was almost unconscious; the pain was so intense his brain was preparing to shut down in self defense. El Capitan was oblivious to Mike’s plight, and actually could not have cared less. He was in full sex lust and took his pleasure from Mike’s warm, muscular body, from Mike’s warm, muscular hole.
The basal yells from the senior officer announced to the world that It was happening. He pounded away at Mike’s ass, his plumbing releasing gobs of Senior Officer Joy Juice up the gringo’s gut.
Balisa was looking for the exact moment of his boss’s collapse and when he saw Gomez stop thrusting, he released the catchment bar on the chain drum. He quickly stepped back from range of the metal rods on the small gear as they spun in a blur. The big drum unwound, releasing all tension on Mike’s body.
Mike didn’t notice. He was spark out unconscious.
Gomez lay on Mike’s sweaty, burning hot body for a few minutes and then slowly raised himself up as he withdrew from Mike’s hole. Even limp, his equipment was impressive, and the dickhead emerged with a sucking sound. Balisa ordered one of the guards to get some towels for the Captain as he himself helped his senior officer climb down from the table.
El Capitan Gomez wiped the sweat off his body and the miscellaneous fluids from his crotch. Then he reached for his briefs and pants and quickly dressed. In a totally surprise move, he reached over to shake Balisa’s hand: “Good job, El Maestro Sargento Balisa. The torrocito was one of the best fucks I’ve had in years! Much better than some of the boys you have been sending me!”
Balisa started to blush at the beginning of Gomez’s statement, but then stiffened at the stinging end. He shook Gomez hand perfunctorily and then withdrew his own.
Gomez started to leave, but then turned to Balisa for one more comment: “I want all copies of the tapes for this session. See to it!”
“Si, Senor, but of course!” Balisa replied, hoping to regain the good graces of his boss.
Gomez turned on his heel without acknowledging Balisa’s reply and left the room.
Balisa turned to his junior officers. “You know the drill. Wake him up with some water, give him some dog food on the floor, and then lock him in his cage for the night! See to it!”
Chapter 12
Mike Gets Prepped for Electro
Mike spent the night in his cage, suspended a few feet above the cement floor of the interrogation room. There was a large pan directly under his cage to catch any discharges from his body, but there was none since he had not been allowed to eat since his capture.
For some reason the guards did not cuff his wrists outside the bars, as they had the previous night. They did install an insidious ball weight around his stretched ball sack using a simple leather thong and a small barbell weight. After they took the cock and ball harness off, they tied the leather thong around his ball sack. It was loose enough that it allowed some blood flow, but tight enough to prevent either ball from slipping through. They put this on him before they folded him down into the cage. After the cage was locked, they reached in, pulled the thong out, and tied on the weight.
“I know you this cannot see, but watch, gringo torrocito,” one of the guards said after the weight was attached.
He let the weight drop a few inches, putting suddenly enormous pressure on Mike’s balls. Constrained in the cage, Mike could only scream out his torment. Even with his hands free, the cage bars were so tight against his body that he could not reach around to relieve the painful tension on his nuts. The pain kept him awake most of the night. The slightest movement of the cage brought renewed agony in his balls. Sometime during the night, however, they went numb and he got some sleep, although fitful.
Mike was woken up as the three guards and Sergeant Balisa entered the interrogation room, again accompanied by loud laughing and noises. They were again bare-chested, but were all wearing their black uniform pants instead of the camo. The guards had sam brown belts across their chests, but Balisa was wearing an elaborate leather chest harness studded with gleaming metal buttons along the straps.
“This is my new Master’s harness,” he gloated to Mike, who looked away in feigned boredom. “My soldiers here gave it to me as a present to their commanding officer and an acknowledgement of his masculinity,” he added, gesturing to Hector and the other two.
Officer? thought Mike. You’re only a sergeant in a tin can department in a tin can country. Masculinity? With a pencil cock and bird balls? Give me a break! I’m five times the man you are. I’ve got the equipment to prove it and I can take anything you can dish out!
Then he had a brilliant idea. He could feel the pressure in his bladder for a morning piss, so he let it go right after Balisa stopped talking. The heady stream squirted from the cock between his legs and landed loudly in the metal pan underneath the cage. Mike was even hoping some might splash on Balisa’ leather boots.
Balisa fumed at the symbolic insult. “You fucking gringo! We’ll burn your balls right off your body today!” he shouted, backing away from the cage and pan. His face was red with rage. “Get him out of the cage and strap him to the chair!” Balisa ordered his minions.
The guards removed the ball weight and Mike groaned as blood reflowed through his nuts. The pins and needles sensation fortunately did not last too long. The guards kicked the metal pan aside and lowered the cage to the floor. Mike groaned again as he was unfolded out of the metal cage. All his joints ached from yesterday’s racking and from being confined for so many hours overnight. He looked down at the cage, remarking to himself how fucking small it was. The guards then grabbed Mike’s thick upper arms and force-marched him over to the wooden torture chair.
Mike examined the chair as he approached. It was constructed of very heavy wooden timbers, looked like 4 x 4s. The thing seemed to have leather straps everywhere. The back of the chair was high, most likely above his head when seated. When he got closer he could see that the wooden seat had a long, metal piece in the center, an inch or so thick. The base of the metal piece was a flange, which was bolted to the seat wood. The top of the metal piece was rounded.
The guards positioned Mike with his calves against the lower front of the chair.   They strapped his ankles and upper calves firmly to the wood. Then they forced him to bend over at the waist, still holding him by his upper arms. Mike was surprised when they moved in close to him, pushing their crotches against his hips. Mike flinched when he felt something gooey being applied to his ass crack.
Then Hector spoke up: “This is a special jelly, gringo, which makes the electricity flow better into your beautiful torrocito ass. And this marker will guide us,” he added. Mike could feel Hector poking into his ass crack, seeking out his hole. Then he felt marks being made on his ass cheeks, presumably by the marker Hector had been holding. Hector then spoke to the guards: “Lower him onto the grounding plug – and don’t screw up this time!”
“Si, Senor,” they both spoke in unison. Mike did not understand the last comment, but one of the guards squatted down beside the chair and guided Mike’s ass as the other guard made him begin to sit down. The guard was using Hector’s ass markers to ensure Mike’s hole would center down over the metal plug.
Mike felt the metal plug prod his greasy ass cheeks apart and center over his hole. The metal piece hurt just pushing against Mike’s battered and bruised asshole, but then the guard guiding him firmly pushed him down. The plug forced its way into Mike’s hole explosively, causing a spasm of pain. Mike cried out briefly as he felt his hole muscle give way and admit the plug. It quickly filled his lower gut as it slid in. Mike was now sitting on the chair seat with the six inch metal ram up his ass. It also prevented any substantial movement of his hips.
“Now, you two, strap him in tight!” Hector ordered his minion guards. They began the laborious task of strapping Mike to the torture chair. There was a heavy belt which went across his chest, just below his pecs. As the guard tightened the belt, the leather pushed his meaty pec muscles up and Mike could feel a mild constriction on his breathing, nothing he couldn’t handle. Another strap went across his waist; this was pulled in quite tightly and Mike could feel the constriction it produced on his abs. Yet another strap went across his lower hips, almost like a seat belt. This one was not pulled in tightly, but buckled with slack in it.
Heavy leather belts enclosed his upper arms, quickly forcing the big bicep veins to bulge. A set went over his forearms, just below his elbows, bulging out all the veins on the underside of his lower arms. A third set went around his wrists, but there was an odd twist here. The guards wrapped the belt around each wrist once before buckling it tightly to the wood.
Mike pulled on his arm straps. The leather creaked, but there was no wiggle room; the straps had been pulled in fairly tightly before being buckled. Mike looked at the belts encircling his wrists. The leather was very heavy. Then he looked at the other straps. They were all much thicker than dress belts, thicker even than army-issue belts. There would be no escape from the chair once the agony started. The leathers were also darkly stained. Sweat? Blood? Would he leave his own memento in the leather? He was already starting to sweat in the warm room.
Then a total surprise. Hector produced a kind of face mask, but it was composed of small straps riveted together. One long strap dangled from the side of the mask. Mike could see holes for the nose and mouth, but there didn’t seem to be any for the eyes. In fact, there were thick pads where the eye holes would have been. Hector fitted the strange strap mask to Mike’s face, threaded the long leather end around the back of the wooden chair, and buckled it on the other side of the mask. After it was buckled, Hector pulled in the loose end extra tight, firmly planting Mike’s head against the rough wood of the high chair back. That’s when the lights went out for Mike; he was plunged into total darkness. The pressure from the pads forced him to shut his eyes tightly.
Hector grinned at Mike as he rebuckled the face mask. “This is to keep your head from moving. Most men try to make themselves black out by banging their heads against the wood, like you tried yesterday. But this stops them and ensures they stay awake for the party! The blindfold will make sure you focus on the pain being produced in your body. You won’t have any distractions – and you won’t be able to see what we are going to do next! Clever, right, gringo?” he asked.
Mike, of course, said nothing. He was adjusting to the darkness of the blindfold, and trying to project the image that he was ready, ready for the torture.
“Thank you, Hector,” Balisa cut in, dismissing Hector away with his hand. “Hector is right. Most men do try to make themselves unconscious when the feel the full sting of the electricity. The special face straps will prevent that. And, you will be all alone inside your blind world of pain when we start. We have found that enhances the effect of the electricity.”
“We will use an extra element today,” he continued. “You blacked out on the rack yesterday, right in the middle of El Capitan’s enjoyment. He told me to make sure that does not happen again, and so I am going to use a special chemical on you today, and everyday forward from now – not that you will last that long,” he added at the end.
He withdrew a six inch long metal case from his pocket and opened it. Glass and metal glinted in the bright overhead light. He positioned the short, thick needle against Mike’s left delt and pushed the yellowish contents into Mike’s muscle. Mike hissed as the stinging fluid was discharged, but then the stinging dissipated. Initially he felt nothing from the drug and wondered what it was all about.
Then he could sense his blood pressure going up. His face and shoulders got flushed, and inchoate flashes of light appeared in the darkness. He felt like he had just had five cups of coffee at one sitting.
“Yes, what you feel is the drug that will keep you awake – and screaming – today,” Balisa said with a sneer on his face. Mike thought Balisa was getting progressively more evil as the hours of his interrogation wore on.
“I especially enjoy this part of the interrogation,” Sergeant Balisa said, close enough to peer into Mike’s face but far enough away to avoid any spit. “This pain will be very new to you. I don’t think you can imagine how horrible your torment will be. The amazing thing about this torture, gringo, is that it leaves no marks. No, nothing at all. There will be no evidence that you were mistreated in the slightest. In fact, although your beautiful equipment might not work for a while after the torture, your manhood will not be permanently damaged. It is an almost perfect torture!” he added, grinning at Mike.
Then he backed away and moved to a small metal cart parked near the torture chair. On the top shelf was a large metal box with dials, switches, and jacks. Numerous cables hung from the box jacks, their other ends on the lower shelf. Balisa picked up a thick, long cord and handed it to one of the guards, who quickly moved behind the cart and plugged the power supply into a wall socket.
“You cannot see the control box, gringo torrocito, so I will describe it for you,” Balisa said. “There is a big rotary switch on the front of the box. This controls the voltage going to your body. It has ten number settings. I enjoy explaining this to young men before the torture; it will increase your appreciation of what is going to happen to you!”
Numero uno causes a stinging sensation. It can be fun for sex games, but it is not torture. Numero dos will begin to hurt. It produces a strong sting. Then there is numero tres. Ah, now we are getting somewhere. That one really hurts, although I do not know if you will cry out or not. Weaker men cry out, but your body seems to be conditioned to handle a lot of pain. Perhaps it is your athletic training, which has produced all those fine muscles. I have heard the silly saying ‘No pain, no gain.’ Today we modify it: ‘All pain, all gain!’” he added, grinning at Mike at his cleverness.
Mike held his peace in his private darkness, trying to steel himself for the coming ordeal.
Balisa continued on: “Numero cuatro is very painful to most men and they will be afraid when they feel that much electricity ramming into their genitals or nipples. Numero cinco is what you might call a torment. You will most definitely be screaming by now.
Numero sies we use on very stubborn men. It will put you into agony and you will scream yourself hoarse and beg us to stop so you can tell us what we want to know. It always works.
Numero siete will begin to destroy your mind with pain. You will begin to wish for death! Yes, it is that bad!” he answered the unasked question. “You might make it to numero siete, torrocito. You might.”
“We rarely get to use numero ocho. I have used it twice, but it is very dangerous. The effects on a man are scary. They rapidly turn into animals, but, then again, they also always talk at that point, even if they have not done so before.”
“It is for that reason that we do not need to use numero nueve. Which is fortunate, because that level of electricity starts to burn body tissue and we do not want that. Likewise, we do not use numero diez. The instructions which come with the machine indicate it is lethal. That would do us no good at all, would it torrocito?!” he asked mockingly.
“Even so,” Balisa continued. “My trusty guards and I have taken some bets to see at which level of pain you will break down, beg us to stop, and then tell us what we want to know. I hope you do not disappoint me and start to talk at a low number.” Then he turned to Hector: “Put the electrodes on him. Use the biggest cock one. His equipment needs it.”
Hector enjoyed this part of the torture ritual. He worked methodically, carefully applying each electrode to its intended target. He applied the special jelly and pinched Mike’s pecs to accentuate the nipples. Then he snapped alligator clips onto the tender pegs. Mike hissed in sharp pain and struggled in the straps. In the private darkness he could feel his nips protest the metal clips. Another clip went on his navel, just below the tight stomach strap. The clips had wire leads which fed back to the control box.
Hector held up the next electrode in front of Mike’s strapped face, as if Mike could see it. “Ah, gringo, you will like this next one. It is a special metal cage for your cockhead and it has a nasty bit of wire which will go into your big dick. Once we activate it, it will cause you much pain!”
Mike felt the wire enter his piss slit. It was not very wide and caused no discomfort. Then he felt the other wires of the cage being fitted onto his cock head. Again, no overt pain, even when Hector pinched the cage in tight.
The next electrode was strange. It consisted of two thick pieces of clear plastic with metalized areas on their surfaces. Hector grinned as he held the plastic squares up in front of Mike. He twirled a wing nut with his fingers and the plastic pieces separated. Then he positioned Mike’s bull balls onto the lower piece, and slowly tightened the wing nut, bring down the upper piece.
Mike squirmed in blind horror as he felt his balls being trapped between the two pieces of plastic. His long ball sack divided around the central bolt and he felt a few pinches as the top plastic piece began to press tightly on his balls.
Hector did not tighten the plastic down much farther. Had he done so, Mike was gearing up to start yelling from the ball pain he would experience. As it was, he kept his silence, except for the occasional yelp.
The last electrode was a narrow band which Hector fastened around Mike’s right ankle, just above the strap holding it against the wooden chair leg. All the electrodes led back to the control box and plugged in to jacks appropriately labeled in Spanish for their body parts.
Balisa moved closer to the cart for easy access to the front of the box. He flipped the on/off switch and the box started humming. Two small dials lit up, one to either side of the numerical rotary switch. One of the small dials was identified as amperage and the other one calibrated in volts.
“OK, gringo, the box is now active. There is another switch on the front which delivers either a constant level of electricity to all the electrodes, or, in the other position, there is a little computer chip inside which mixes up all the electrodes and amperages and voltages, along with the duration of each shock, so you will have no idea where the next shock is going to, what its strength will be, or how long it will last. That is the main torture program we use. Trust me, it is very effective for a man who is blindfolded. But we begin with a fixed arrangement so we can get your fantastic man meat hard!” he added at the end.
He turned the rotary switch from zero to 1. Mike immediately felt a strong tingle, a sting even, in all the parts of his body which were wired up. The tingling was strongest in his cockhead. It was actually pleasurable and his dick responded like anyone’s dick would. Despite Mike’s intense efforts otherwise, his dick began to get hard. The electrical stimulation was impossible to resist. Even the tingling in his nips and navel was erotically pleasant.
It took a few moments for Mike’s dick to get rock hard. Mike groaned from the waves of pleasure emanating from his crotch. Balisa smiled, turned the rotary switch to four, and flipped the large switch to random.
Mike started to scream as the strong current suddenly surged into his cock and balls.
Chapter 13
Mike Gets Electro’ed
 
Even on the number three setting, the first taste of electro in the genitals is fearful. Mike had never experienced this kind of pain before and the overwhelming force of the current startled him into screaming. He then realized that the pain level, although intense, was not worth screaming about, so he stopped – but he continued to pant heavily as he struggled for control of his brain, of his consciousness. The drug he had been given put an edge to everything, even his own emotions.
As abruptly as it had started, the shocks to his cock and balls stopped. Then Mike recalled that Balisa said he had put the fucking machine on random. His thought was sliced in two by a very painful jolt to his nipples and navel. Mike involuntarily jerked his chest and arms in the straps. His muscles jumped to strained attention, but the tight leathers held him fast to the chair.
Then that jolt stopped. This was followed in a few seconds by a stinging sensation in his navel, quickly joined by a second jolt to his cock, but not his balls. Jesus! Mike thought, this is going to drive me nuts! He could feel the fear build up in his gut: what would be next? For how long? What intensity? The whole enterprise was diabolical.
Balisa’s voice cut through his fervid thoughts: “Ach! Number three is nothing to the gringo muscleman. We go to four!”
The setting of four on the rotary switch crossed the line from a strong hurt to genuine pain. The jolt to his gonies sent Mike to the moon! He screamed as the current tore into his cockhead and pressed his balls like a vice. He redoubled his scream when his nips got shocked along with his cock and balls. “A-a-a-g-g-h-h-h!!” echoed throughout the torture room as Mike writhed on the chair in agony. The box sustained the shocks for a good seven seconds, enough to plunge Mike into horrible pain.
When the current was suddenly cut, he noticed something very odd about his body’s reaction to the pain. Until just now, he was unaware that he had lifted his hips up from the chair seat in some kind of reflex reaction to the genital pain. He realized that was why the belt across his hips had been left slack and not pulled in tight before buckling. The slack provided room for his hips to rise before the belt tensed and prevented further movement. When the current cut off, his hips and ass plopped down back onto the wooden seat.
But even this small movement produced agony in his battered asshole. When his hips went up, they forced the backside of his assmuscle to press hard against the metal electrode. And when his hips dropped down, the metal electrode was thrust back into place up his ass. Mike thought he had to try to resist this movement or his asshole and gut would be shredded by the metal plug.
The next jolt was back to his cock and balls, but also included his nipples. But it was not at four; it felt more like three. That’s when Mike realized that part of the randomness was also in intensity; that the switch setting controlled only the peak level of the current.
He didn’t get time to analyze the situation further. The pain suddenly jumped up to four and he screamed at the additional intensity. Against his best intentions, his hips still jumped up from the jolt to his gonies, and the metal electrode mashed his asshole muscle on the upswing. Then it rammed up his gut when the current cut out.
Mike didn’t hear Balisa announce the increase to current level five. He didn’t have to hear it; he could feel it in his cock and balls, his nipples. Now his ab muscles were being forced-crunched by the intense current in his navel. He could feel his big pec muscles mound up from the current surging into his pec pegs. And still his hips lifted up that deadly, painful few inches off the wooden seat, stretching his hole, digging into the muscle, ramming his gut on the downswing. It felt like he was being fucked by the metal prong, adding humiliation to agony.
Mike’s screams were now full throated and non-stop. The torture room echoed with his agony: “A-a-a-g-g-h-h!! A-a-a-h-h-h!!!” Mike was swimming in a darkened sea of pain, the sounds of his screams echoing also in his head. Even though blind by the eye pads, he imagined being surrounded by redness, blood, torn guts. His emotions swirled in a mix of agony-despair-helplessness-rage.
Balisa and the three guards massaged their big baskets as they watched Mike writhe in the chair, pulling against the straps with all his strength, mounding the big muscle groups on his shoulders, stomach, and thighs. His skin glistened with sweat in the light from the bright overhead bulb. His chest hair was matted down, his pube hair flat with sweat, streamers of sweat ran over the straps of the face mask. Drool pulsed from his mouth, open wide in a primordial scream.
In a burst of torture-lust, Balisa turned the current switch to six, which very few men can take. Mike’s body started to vibrate and jerk with each intense shock. He looked like a marionette with a madman moving the strings.   His screaming took on a ragged, basal edge. He also started to go hoarse and had extreme trouble gasping for breath between screams. Despite the tight straps, he was swinging his head from side to side. Small droplets of blood oozed from his wrist and bicep straps as he now struggled insanely to escape the torment.
Swimming in the red sea of pain, he lost track of time. His whole universe was the vicious shocks thrust on his body in no pattern at all. The lack of pattern itself was maddening, but that concern was drowned by the intensity of the shocks.
His nipples were taking a beating, conducting current right into his muscular pecs. The current forced them to contract into striated, veined mounds of muscle. The contraction was sudden and overwhelmingly strong and was interfering with his breathing. His navel burned intensely where the clip was attached, but the main pain was from his abs which the current forced into extraordinarily painful super-crunches.
The worst torment was his cock and balls. They were the most sensitive parts being shocked and also had the highest concentration of pain nerves – all of which were screaming their protest. Mike wanted his cock to go limp, but the random surges of lightning into the cockhead kept it rigid. Although he could not see it, he could feel it jutting up from his crotch. The direct shocks made his rock meat and his hips jerk up in a mock sex thrust, trailing the electrode lead from the head. His balls were in a metal vice and the jaws were slowly closing – at least that’s what it felt like. Even in between shocks, there was no relief from the deep ache in his nuts.
The almost continuous reflex hip raising was tearing up his asshole muscle, pulling it, stretching it. Mike could feel body fluids seaping out of his stretched hole, making his ass cheeks and upper thighs slippery on the wood. He also realized he had started to cry from the intensity of the pain and his own helplessness. The tears wetted his eyelids, firmly forced closed behind the thick eyepads.
He was doubting his own sanity and his lower brainstem wanted to black out his consciousness, but the drug cruelly closed off this option. He felt like his grip on reality was slipping and that it was impossible to endure any more pain.
Just as abrupt as the various shocks had been, the torture was suddenly halted. Mike continued to scream reflexively, but slowly ramped down as he realized the torment had stopped. He had to pant heavily to catch up on his breathing, and felt his big pecs and abs slowly relax from their ultimate electro-enforced crampings.
He was stunned when his head exploded with light as the strap mask was removed. He was revulsed when he saw Balisa, Hector, and the two unnamed guards all standing close to the chair and jerking off onto his body.
“Oh, yes, torrocito,” Balisa explained, stroking his own pencil meat, “we have been pleasuring ourselves for the last ten minutes as your magnificent body suffered so valiantly on the chair! We always look forward to this moment of release when we have the chance to add to your humiliation. Oh! Oh!” he suddenly started to yell. “No more talk from me, gringo! Oh! Oh!”
He mashed his meat furiously now, joined by the other three torturers. They were almost synchronized as they came in huge globs and streams of jism, spurting, flinging man juice onto Mike’s chest, stomach, crotch, and thighs. He flinched when some was flung into his eyes, which were still stinging from the tears.
The four narcs continued their orgy until they were spent and Mike was coated in white cream. His face was the picture of agony and humiliation. They began to laugh and shout at Mike’s predicament, as their jism slowly dissolved to clear liquid and started to run down Mike’s chest, joining the bright rivulets of sweat.
Then Mike’s shoulders started to heave sporadically. Despite the strap on his chest, his big chest heaved. He threw his head back, now unrestrained by the strap mask, and simply started to cry.
He sobbed uncontrollably: “Uh! Uh! Uh! Un-un-unh!”   The four barbarian torturers stuffed their limp tools back into their tight pants, and then laughed and goaded him with insults: “Big gringo baby!” “Mike the strong, Mike the puny and weak!” “He does not deserve the name torrocito!”
Mike was sinking into an abyss of helplessness. His crying became quieter, more intensely personal. Black clouds of dark emotions swirled in his head. He could take no more of this. He just could not stand more pain. This last torture was too much. He had to give in.
“I’ll tell you!” he suddenly yelled into their faces. “I’ll fucking tell you what you fucking want to know!” This was followed by more quiet sobbing.
Balisa regained his composure from the orgy he had just led. “Ah, now the gringo torrocito has come to his senses. Very good, torrocito muscle man. Now the pain will stop. Now the torture will end. You are ready to talk!” he triumphed.
The only problem Mike had was now that he had declared his willingness to talk, he still had nothing to tell them! He again visited the well of despair he had been thrust into. He had no choice. He had to give them a name.
Very slowly he mouthed his answer: “It was Tio Carlos, my Uncle Charlie. He put the drugs in our bags. It was him.”
Mike immediately felt the sad bitterness of betrayal. After all his Uncle Charlie had done for him – rescuing him as a young boy, educating him, training him in the business, even planning for Mike to succeed him – after all this, Mike had betrayed him.
Unfortunately for Mike, Senor Sargento Balisa had heard there was some kind of plotting between the import/export cartels, but he did not know the details. No one in the narcotics division knew which particular cartel was moving against Mike’s uncle. The best intel, however, clearly identified Mike’s uncle as possible victim of the foul play, not a player in making it happen. Mike’s answer, desperate as it was, simply did not make sense.
Balisa bent over and put his face near Mike’s ear. Then he said in a low voice: “I am sorry to inform you, torrocito, but that is not the right answer. In your desperation to conceal the truth, you have betrayed your own uncle – forever to your shame. But we know he is not involved with drugs in any way. No, gringo muscle man, you will have to come up with the right answer. Or the pain will return,” he added ominously at the end.
Mike dropped his head against his chest in abject despair. They were all startled when the interrogation room door opened and two imposing figures walked in.
“Senor El Commandante Mendes! Sir!” Balisa said, rapidly standing to attention, as did the other three narc officers. “Sir!” they said in unison.
Commandante Mendes was the senior most officer in narcotics division.   He was an impressive figure, if only for his height and his size. He was a good six feet three, taller than all the officers under him, and he weighed over three hundred and fifty pounds. He was bare-chested and folds of flab hung over his military trousers. The flesh jiggled as he walked over to the electro chair.
He was accompanied by his “body guard,” a young, muscular officer from the army who was on special assignment to Mendes. Everyone knew the young man was nothing but a consort, although more fanciful terms were used by everyone in the building. He was a few years older than Mike, very muscular, but lacking some definition. He also was bare-chested, but wearing tight camo shorts, high black boots, and black gauntlet gloves. Balisa and his assistants never failed to marvel at the young man’s build – and beautiful, sex looks. His father was one of the many Nazi officers who had fled to South America after the war, and the blond hair and blue eyes reflected this stock.
“Has the torrocito confessed yet?” Commandante Mendes demanded.
Balisa spoke up hesitatingly: “Yes, Sir! But the name he gave us was bogus, Sir! He has not truly confessed yet, Sir!”
“Well, good, in a way,” Mendes replied, much to Balisa’s relief. “That means there will be more pain in his future. And we all enjoy that, Sargeant, don’t we?”
“Indeed so, Sir!” Balisa crowed, playing off the positives in Mendes’ statement. “It is my specialty, as you know, Sir!”
“However, it also means that breaking him will take more time, doesn’t it, Sargeant?”
Balisa’s faced dropped at the negative comment. “Even, so, Sir! We are very close!” he added, trying to make amends.
“Well, you know why I am here, Sargent. Take the torrocito over to the table and prepare him for me!” Mendes commanded. “The tapes have made me very horny. Even my body guard could not satisfy me and I have nailed him three times so far today.”
A chorus of “Si, Senor!” rose from Balisa and his three aides. As they began to unstrap Mike from the electro chair, Mendes was already unzipping the fly of his very large pants basket. His “body guard” had dropped to his knees on the floor and was untying El Commandante’s dress shoes – with his teeth.
Chapter 14
Mike Gets Commandante-Fucked
El Commandante Mendes spoke angrily to his “body guard” sex-toy-boi: “Hurry up, you idiot! You should be good at that by now.”
The young Army stud finally finished untying Mendes’ shoes, and shot back to his Master: “Sir, yes, Sir!” He helped Mendes out of his shoes and quickly took off his dress socks. Now Mendes could drop his trousers and briefs, leaving him naked. Four jaws dropped in unison. Even flaccid, his cock was enormous. Balisa, Hector, and the guards had one thought: what a shame it was attached to such a distorted body.
Hector and the two guards had finished unstrapping Mike from the chair. The two guards slowly forced Mike to stand. Mike groaned as the metal ass electrode was pulled from his asshole. The guards had to support Mike as they slowly walked over to the side of the wooden torture table. Hector pushed the cart with the electro-control box on it over to the table, next to Mike. Mike was surprised they left all the electrodes on his body. Then he realized that he was most likely going to get shocked while Mendes fucked him, just as he was racked for El Capitan. As before, he was bent over against the table and then secured to chains to stretch his arms and legs out.
“Change out the ass ‘trode!” Mendes ordered Balisa, as he walked over to where Mike was now bound. He rested his right hand on Mike’s ass cheeks, slowly massaging the lean flesh and running his fingers over the purple welts.
“Si, Senor Commandante,” Balisa replied. “We know to do that, Sir.”
Balisa picked up a thin electrode and cable from the lower shelf of the cart. The electrode had a small bead at the end and was nothing more than heavy gauge, bare copper wire. About a foot from the end was a long, thin strap. He quickly inserted the bead-end of the wire into Mike’s waiting ass. The bead was small and, after what Mike had been through so far, entered painlessly. Mike was perplexed, however, about what was going to happen to him. He knew more pain and humiliation was coming, but the uncertainly gripped his stomach with the cold knot of fear.
After the wire was inserted a good foot, Balisa bent it down just outside Mike’s hole and strapped the thin belt around Mike’s hips. The belt would ensure the electrode stayed in.
Mendes snapped his fingers and pointed down. His “body guard” immediately came over, knelt down in front of his Master, and began to work on El Commandante’s schlong with his hands and his mouth. His thick shoulder, neck, and arm muscles moved powerfully under his starkly white skin.
Everyone of the narcs marveled at the sight: first, of the handsome young “body guard’s” powerful body, and then at the astounding size of Mendes’ cock as it thickened, lengthened, reddened, hardened up.
“Yes, I am feeling good. Balisa, start the electro on the torrocito!” Mendes ordered.
Balisa jumped at the command, switched the rotary current control knob to three, and flipped the master switch to the constant current setting. Mike tensed in the chains as the strong current crashed through all the electrodes. Everything was still hyper-sensitive from the previous round of torture. His cock and balls particularly ached.
El Commandante needed to hear his intended fuck-target scream before he could get fully erect. Mendes nodded to Balisa, who turned the electricity level up to four. Mike groaned and thrashed as the familiar, horrible pain once again lit up his body. The steady setting was very different from the previous random one. For some bizarre reason it seemed to hurt slightly less, since there were no sudden surges of current. But the pain was still mind-numbing. He started to yell.
“Yes, yes, that is good,” Mendes crooned. “More pain!”
Balisa notched the knob up to five, which was quite intense and plunged Mike into agony. His screams broke through the air of the large room, echoing off the cement walls, ceiling, and floor. Under the constant current assault, Mike’s body started to vibrate as the big muscle groups reacted to the electricity by intensely cramping. Both Mendes and Mike were already covered in sweat. Mike’s back and shoulders gleamed in the bright light. The skin was vivid with purple welts from the whipping the day before.
Mendes’ boi toy was working his Master’s cock furiously now, barely capable of holding the enormous cockhead in his mouth. “Now I want to feel some his pain,” El Commandante said. The boi toy backed off. Mendes’ cockhead emerged glistening with saliva and engorged with blood.
Mendes worked his own meat to full erection, accompanied by Mike screams and violent struggles against the bondage. He placed the outrageously big cockhead into Mike’s ass crack and worked it up and down. Every time he touched the bare wire extending from Mike’s ass, he got a mild shock – but nothing like Mike was enduring. With a large electrode such as an ass plug or long wire, the current is distributed over the area of the metal. This is why a nipple clip or cockhead electrode is so painful, whereas a typical, large ass plug is not. The smaller the area, the steeper the current, the more intense and localized the agony.
Mendes liked to feel the low, diffuse current from the wire as he fucked his victims. The tingle added to his own sensuous pleasure, since it would vary depending on how deep he was plugging the victim’s ass.
As usual, however, he was faced with the problem of getting in. He liked to get the torture victims after their stint in the electro chair. The hip motion and constant battering by the metal ass plug usually stretched out the victim’s asshole much wider than normal, and Mendes needed this extra stretching to breach the assmuscle.
He put his monster cockhead directly against Mike’s hole, while Mike continued to scream and struggle. Mike could barely feel the Invader; his consciousness was consumed by the pain crashing into his cock and balls, nips and navel. Then Mendes began the Big Push In.
It took an enormous shove from Mendes’ hips, but his big cockhead suddenly broke through the token resistance from Mike’s asshole muscle and entered his gut. Mendes leered lustfully at Mike’s muscular back and shoulders, splayed out in front of him, as he began the slow invasion of Mike’s ass.
Centimeter by centimeter the Big One entered Mike’s gut. Between screams Mike could feel the outsized cock filling him up, now overfilling him, now painfully expanding his chute. There seemed to be no end of the expansion within him, pushing other organs out of the way, generating enormous internal pressure.
Then Mendes’ hips touched Mike’s lower ass cheeks and his hairy upper legs brushed against the back of Mike’s thighs. Mendes was groaning with pleasure from the penetration and from the electric tingles inside Mike’s tortured ass. Mike’s screams contributed to his animalistic enjoyment.
The Great Fuck began in earnest. Mendes’ tool was so big that it took a while for him to pull it out and plunge back in. The plunge in forced some body fluids to spurt from Mike’s battered asshole. Mendes’ “body guard” was on the alert for this and wiped up any liquid with a small towel.
Mendes slowly picked up the stroke speed, relishing every nuance of pleasure from Mike’s tight gut, every tingle of pain from the wire. Mike was screaming from the electricity pain and from the horror of the huge humiliation he was being forced to endure.
Faster now, more intense. Mendes was moving rapidly up the sex curve since he was so primed. Earlier in the day he had viewed yet again the videos of Mike’s previous tortures while he was plugging his boi toy strapped to a bench.
He started to cry out himself in lust: “Unh! Unh!” mixing with “A-a-a-a-g-g-g-h-h-h!” from Mike. The room reverberated with the sounds of sex and torment, pleasure and pain, Master and slave. It was hard to tell them apart!
“Balisa!” Mendes yelled out. “Hit it! Six! Make him scream more!”
Balisa knew this indicated his superior was closing in on climax. He reached for the control knob and jacked the current up to the number six setting. Mike went wild in the chains. The steady current was tearing into his muscles, cramping them into spasms, burning his genitals. The extra tingle was enough to put Mendes over the top and he started to cum up Mike’s ass.
Wild screams emanated from both of them as Mendes arched into a huge climax and Mike was plunged deeper into agony and torment. They screamed together for a good fifteen, twenty seconds. Then Mendes collapsed onto Mike’s back. That was the signal for Balisa to turn off the electro controller, which he did on cue.
Mendes stopped screaming first. Mike slowly realized his body was no longer being shocked and he ramped down more slowly, the nerve-memory of the pain still intense.
Then silence, except for two men panting heavily, sweating on each other, one in triumph, one in humiliation. Not that it mattered to anyone there, but Mendes’ boi toy had also jerked himself off as he watched his Master butt-fuck Mike into oblivion. The other four, Balisa, Hector, and the two guards, had not dared take their rock hard meats out of their pants for fear of Mendes’ anger.
The panting slowly lessoned in intensity until Mendes finally lifted his chest off Mike’s back. Then he very slowly pulled his monster meat out of Mike’s ass. The cockhead, still enormous but at least not engorged, departed with a plopping sound. Mendes grunted. The boi toy quickly reached out with the towel to dry off his Master’s tool.
Then he handed Mendes his briefs and pants, which El Commandante donned. The boi toy knelt down to put Mendes’ socks and shoes on. He tied the laces with his fingers, this time.
Without saying a single word, El Commandante and the toy left the torture chamber.
Balisa broke the silence: “Put the gringo into the small dirt cell. Cuff his hands behind his back and cuff his ankles. No gag.”
Hector jumped to comply, ordering the guards to release Mike from the chains holding him to the table. They lifted his chest off the wooden table top, which was deeply stained with Mike’s and Mendes’ sweat, as well as droplets of blood. As Mike had struggled and thrashed on the table, the rough wood had torn open a few of the whip welts.
Balisa began to remove the electrodes as the two guards held Mike upright. Mike’s head was resting on his chest. He hissed and then yelled briefly from the stabs of pain as the clips were taken off his nipples and navel. The cockhead electrode came off with no further pain, as did the electrode patches on his big balls. The last items to be removed were the wire up his ass and the strap on his leg. White creamy liquid streamed from his ass as the bead cleared his hole – a souvenir from El Commandante.
Hector got a set of cuffs and ankle chains from the equipment wall and met Mike at the entrance to a small cave set low in the back wall. He cuffed Mike’s hands behind his sweaty back and attached the ankle chain.
“Wait one minute. He will need some help recovering from this last torture,” Balisa said to Hector. Balisa procured something from one of the equipment cabinets and returned to Mike. It was a small syringe with greenish liquid in the barrel. He plunged the needle into Mike’s shoulder and emptied the liquid into Mike’s delt.
Then the guards forced Mike to bend down and shoved him into the cave.
Mike yelled briefly as the dirt floor scraped against his bruises. Then the cave door was closed with a loud bang. There was a metallic sound as some type of pull lock was engaged. It sounded like everyone cleared the interrogation room. Mike was left alone with his thoughts, his memories of the agonies he had just been through, and a new level of humiliation at yet another man-fuck. His asshole throbbed as a reminder and he could feel fluids still leaking past the overly stretched out muscle ring. The cave stunk, in fact, of body fluids, sweat, fear, and humiliation – if the latter even had an odor.
He sobbed quietly in the dark. This simply cannot go on anymore, he thought. This has to stop.
Mike was surprised as he felt the drug go to work. The pain in his body actually seemed to be ebbing. Slowly he drifted off into a drug-induced sleep.
Chapter 15
Mike Gets Rescued?
Mike’s Uncle Charlie was going crazy trying to find out where his nephew was. Senora Aqia was let go immediately after the narc SUV with her and Mike had entered one of the federal buildings. They blindfolded her, took her to a side street in Cerva Navio, not far from Charlie’s hacienda. They helped her out of the van to the sidewalk, and then sped off. She took off her blindfold, squinting in the noon sun. Passersby on the pavement looked at her strangely and then looked away. No one, of course, “saw” the black SUV, nor the men. Such obviously government-related street scenes were invisible to the populace. Nobody even remotely wanted to get involved with black, government SUVs. Senora Aqia wandered a block, quickly got her orientation, and proceeded to walk briskly to the hacienda.
Uncle Charles Peterson questioned her at length, but there was nothing she saw or could remember that was helpful. Everything had happened so quickly. She said the agents identified themselves as from the narcotics division, but the problem was that this division was spread out between three different government buildings, and Mike could be in any one of them.
Senor Peterson developed a plan based on the universal currency of South American governments, a bribe. He would simply have to bribe his way to get Mike released.
The next day Uncle Charlie went to one of the federal buildings housing the Department of Narcotics division. His charm and easy manner got him through the phalanx of guardian secretaries until he reached a low level official. The prospect of a substantial contribution to the working capital of the narcotics division was duly noted, along with the request to locate Michael Peterson, a nordamericano believed to be held by the department.
Two days layer Uncle Charlie was requested to visit an office in another federal building, one oddly not associated with the narcotics division.
“Senor Peterson,” the secretary said. “El Capitan Gomez will see you now.” She indicated Charlie should go through the big doors to the right.
He entered the office and was gestured to sit down by Captain Gomez, under deputy administrator to the assistant sub-director in the federal narcotics division.
“My dear Senor Peterson,” Senor Gomez said in perfect English. “Please sit.”
Charlie sat in the big chair in front of the administrator’s desk.
“You have indicated, Senor, an interest in augmenting the budget of the narcotics division – by a substantial amount, I might add.”
“Si, Senor Gerente,” Charlie responded.
“In return, as I understand your request, you wish to have the release of one Michael Peterson. Is that correct?”
“Most assuredly, Senor Gerente! Michael is my nephew and I would like to have him back in the family. He has done no wrong, and on God’s good graces, he should be released.”
“I have checked into his record within this department. It appears that he is innocent and that some type of ‘mistaken identity” has occurred,’” the bureaucrat intoned.
“I was sure that was the situation – and that the narcotics division would be eager to rectify it,” Charlie said matter of factly, trying to grease the skids for the transaction. Of course, he knew the whole conversation was total bull shit and that the “contribution” he had offered to the government was a simple payoff for Mike’s life. Welcome to Chile. Welcome to Sudamerica.
From the official’s comments, it would appear that Charlie’s plan was going to work. Charlie wrote the substantial check and slipped it to the official. The Official rose from his desk and motioned Charlie to an outer office.
Charlie waited for over an hour in the hot outer office, but he also knew the speed with which the government bureaucrats acted in Sudamerica. Then chided himself, hell, it wasn’t much better back north for that matter!
The official returned and handed Charlie a slip of paper: “You can pick up the young Senor Peterson at this address. He will be there within thirty minutes,” he official said, leaving the outer office and entering his inner, cooler sanctum. No “thank you,” no other comment.
Charlie knew the street and followed the building numbers. The address was a local police station. He entered, announced his purpose, and was directed to sit in one of the line of chairs against a wall. There was very little activity in the station. Nothing happened, in fact, for some fifteen minutes. Charlie saw a black SUV pull up to the station, parking illegally directly in front.
He rose from his chair as the door opened and two narcs entered, holding up Mike between them.
“Mike! Mike!” Charlie shouted, going over to his nephew. Then he realized how awful Mike looked: sunken eyes, puffy cheeks, unshaven for days. He was dressed in jeans and a T.
“What have you done to him!? Charlie demanded of the narcs. Neither said anything. One took a paper from his pocket and handed it to Charlie.
“Please to sign, Senor, attesting you the senior Peterson is and that your nephew this is and that he is released unto your custody,” one of them said, handing Charlie another form.
Charlie quickly scanned it, but he did not read every line. In corrupt Sudamerica you sign nothing without reading it! Then he affixed his signature to the bottom and handed it back to the narc. Usually all government forms are in multiple copies, some with old carbon paper, some with newer NCR. Charlie demanded a copy. The other narc looked annoyed, took the form from his partner, and started to move away from Mike towards a copier against the near wall. Mike started to sag and Charlie hastened to help him stand up.
“Mike, Mike, it’s me. You’re all right now! They can’t hurt you anymore!” Charlie added, reacting to Mike’s debilitated condition.
“Nothing was done to him, Senor, except asking him a few simple questions,” the one narc answered. “We quickly saw we did not have the right person, what you might call ‘mistaken identity.’ You yourself have acknowledged as much by signing the form, Senor.”
“Son of a bitch!” Charlie said, now aware that he did skip a few lines when the read the document. “Son of a bitch!”
The other narc came back with a copy of the form and handed it to Uncle Charlie, who snatched it out of his hand and stuck it in his pocket.
“Now, give me my nephew!” he yelled at the narcs.
They moved Mike forward to the point where Charlie could take up his support. “Are you OK Mike? Did they hurt you?” Charlie asked his dazed nephew.
Mike spoke slowly, his voice hoarse, like he had a cold. “Uncle Charlie, please take me away from these fucking people. Take me away from this fucking city. Take me away from this fucking country. And take me away from this fucking part of the world.”
“Be careful, Senores, criticizing the government is not received very well here,” the narc said. He appeared to be the senior of the one who got the copy made.
“Jesus Christ!” Charlie exploded. “Get the hell out of my way!”
The narcs hesitated a fraction of a second; they were bullies, an integral part of South American culture, who always needed to assert their authority. Then they parted and let Charlie and Mike pass.
Charlie somehow got Mike in the car. He weighed a lot, all muscle of course, but he could hardly support himself.
Once in the car, Mike lapsed into a daze. Although he was awake, he wouldn’t talk or react to anything Charlie said. He volunteered nothing and made no answer to any of Charlie’s questions or comments. Charlie became alarmed and made a quick call to his personal physician in Santiago. The doctor agreed to see them immediately and Charlie turned onto the Avenua Neptuno and headed to the professional building in which the doctor had his office suite.
An hour later, the doctor came out of the examining room and beckoned Charlie to come into his personal office.
“Senor Peterson, I have some disconcerting news. It appears your nephew had been severely tortured – although the people doing this to him were most careful to leave no evidence. There is much bruising, dozens of thin marks on his back, chest, and buttocks, but they are so very quickly healing they will be gone within a few days. Even now, however, it is impossible to conclusively prove that the marks were from the torture. I have taken some pictures, but I do not think they will stand up in any court of law, either here or up north.
“He is also severely dehydrated and needs nutrition” he continued. “I have started an intravenous drip which will correct this in a few hours. He should remain here for that time. I assure you I will give him my personal attention. But, there is more.” He added sadly.
Charlie raised his eyebrows in question.
“There seems to be a block in his mind, something I am not trained to treat. He is still in a daze, although he is totally awake. He can follow simple commands, but he refuses to respond to my questions, as he did yours. If I were to guess, I would attribute it to something like Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome. I’m sure you have heard of it, usually seen in soldiers after war, yes?
Charlie nodded his understanding.
“He needs to return to the US as quickly as possible,” the doctor said.
“That is precisely my intention. I already have a private flight out first thing in the morning.”
“Good, good, Senor Peterson,” he replied. Then he took his prescription pad and wrote on it.
“This is a special physician I want you to take Mike to as soon as you can. I know of his great expertise with people like Mike who have been tortured and cannot resolve themselves out of it. Dr. Payne specializes in this type of problem. I know of his success. I am sad to say that I have sent him many such victims over the years.”
“I understand. Thank you for your kindness. You said Mike needs to stay here for a while?” Charlie asked.
“Even so, Senor Peterson. We will slowly rehydrate him and get his blood sugar up. Then we will try light food. This will prepare him for the trip home. There are also some more tests I will conduct, with your permission,” the doctor added.
“Of course, please do whatever you think is needed. I will go to our hacienda and pack for the trip. I will come back for Mike at 6 tonight. Is that a good time?”
“Si, Senor Peterson. I will remain with him until then. Coming here was an excellent move. Mike did need immediate intervention,” the physician added.
Charlie shook hands with the doctor and returned to his truck in the parking lot. He immediately got on his cell and called Dr. Payne’s office number.
The receptionist took all the necessary information and arranged for them to visit the facility in Virginia in two days, a day after their return to the States.
The Chilean doctor returned to Mike’s side. He locked the examination room from the inside with a throw bolt; the door could not be opened from the other side, eliminating any interference from his assistant nurse. He also engaged a small viodecam system, which was hooked up to the monitor in the examining room. He centered the cam on Mike’s body.
The young man had been stripped of his clothes and was lightly strapped to a gurney. He was asleep from the initial sedative the doctor had administered. The doctor ran his hands over Mike’s body. Jesus, the young man was an Adonis! Firm flesh, not the flabby decay of age. Huge endowment, and those balls! He was a young bull. The doctor fondled Mike’s nut-eggs. Perhaps they were still swollen from the tortures, or, perhaps, this was their normal size.
He pretended to himself he was palpating Mike’s nuts to determine if there were any damage. That would be the pretext he would use if he was ever asked – not that he would be. He went to a small, locked cabinet of medicines and opened it with his key, the only key in the office for this particular cabinet. He found the syringe of adrenalin, quickly wiped Mike’s delt with an alcohol swab, and injected the powerful chemical into the sleeping muscleman.
The adrenalin would force all of Mike’s muscles into severe contraction, almost as if Mike were exercising to the point of exhaustion. With the sedative, however, Mike would not wake up; all the muscular contractions would be automatically induced by the adrenalin.
To prepare for the strong muscular action, the doctor tightened up on the gurney straps, which went across Mike’s chest and stomach, and added special wrist restraints. He moved Mike’s legs into examination stirrups, and strapped the ankles and thighs to the stout metal supports. This gave him full access to the young bull’s ass.
He stepped back and watched the drug take effect. At first, Mike’s body started to tremble and shake slightly. Some muscles twitched in rapid fire, some contracted and stayed taut. Then a strong sweating reaction occurred, coating Mike instantly in a sheen. The sweating was followed by the main contractions the doctor was waiting for. Mike’s arm muscles all mounded in intense contraction, pulling his wrists strongly against the leather strap restraints. The physician ran his hands lovingly up and down Mike’s biceps, watching the big veins pop out from the exertion, tracing them down to Mike’s forearms, which were also tightly tensed.
Mike’s shoulders and back began to react, mounding his thick delts up, defining the musculature, popping smaller veins out. The doctor cupped his hands against Mike’s delts, feeling the hot, sweaty flesh. With one hand he massaged his mounting hardon under his pants. With the other he massaged the cramped delt muscles, enjoying the steel-like feel of highly developed, young man muscle undergoing maximal contractions. Mike’s neck was cranking up.   His head didn’t move since opposing muscles were both contracting, cancelling each other out. The big jugulars stood out and actually cast shadows on Mike’s skin. Dozens of smaller veins dotted the thick pillar of Mike’s neck. The doctor put his hands around Mike’s neck in a choking position, although he would never think of harming the young man. He panted with lust.
The muscle reaction spread to Mike’s chest, where his meaty pecs gathered up into two sweaty mountains of muscle, striated, veinated, sweating. Even his nipples popped to attention! The physician pawed all over Mike’s pecs, again enjoying the feel of steel beneath thin skin. Mike’s chest hair was matted down, but the doctor could feel the hairs embedded in the sweat. Oh God, he thought to himself, I do love hairy young men!
Next to spasm were Mike’s ripped abs, which sharpened into a six-pack of straining muscle. Sweat accumulated in the low spots between the mounds, and his hair line darkened as it moistened and matted. The physician slid his hands up and down Mike’s belly, delighting in how lean the young man’s waist was compared with most of the overweight patients he had to deal with. His hands moved effortlessly over the sweaty skin, his palms tracing the contours of the sexy, mounded ab muscles.
He skipped to Mike’s legs when his big thighs started to tremble and then strongly contract, straining against the gurney straps holding them in place. Every detail of Mike’s extensive thigh musculature was revealed, show-cased actually, as sweaty cords of muscle fiber tightly constricted into a severe drug-induced cramp.
The last big area to spasm was Mike’s calves. His feet twitched as opposing muscles tried to pull in opposite directions. Had he been awake, the pain would have been agonizing. Even then, the doctor knew there would be residual ache after the drug wore off in half an hour.
The best was saved for last. Having Mike’s legs in the stirrups gave the doctor direct access to Mike’s ass. Mike’s lean glute muscles were also reacting, cramping, mounding, dimpling. Mike’s legs were widely spaced apart, which pulled his ass crack open, exposing his asshole. The drug even affected Mike’s asshole muscle, making it strongly contract. His asshole winked in the bright light.
Mike started to get a half hardon, an unusual reaction to adrenalin, but the physician knew it would not, could not go to rock hard, although Mike’s ponderous balls did pull up in anticipation of the climax that was not to be. The physician was consumed with lust over the incredible specimen he had spread before him, muscles taut to the limit, strapped in for total confinement, ass at the ready.
He couldn’t contain his lust any longer. He unzipped his fly and pulled out his aching dick, now rock hard with young muscle-man lust. He rapidly lined up with Mike’s pulsating asshole, lubed his tool with some spit, and then plunged his rock dick into the young man. Mike moaned slightly at the invasion, but there was otherwise little reaction. After all, Mike was spark out from the sedative.
The doctor very quickly mounted his sex lust curve because he was so primed. He plunged in and out of Mike’s battered hole only a few dozen times, and then climaxed in a muted yell as his own plumbing pumped waves of sex juice into the young muscle man’s gut. Again Mike stirred but did not regain consciousness.
The doctor, now spent, slowly withdrew his dick from Mike’s ass, hoping the videocam had captured every savory moment of his lust fest, his private fuck fest. He wiped his dick with a towel and then zippered himself back up, transforming from sex fiend to calm physician in seconds.
He looked down at Mike’s body, all the muscles still in stark, sweaty relief. “I don’t think you will enjoy what Dr. Payne has in store for you, young man. At least, not at first. All the lads I send him eventually come around, however. You will progress to the point where you live for pain, crave it, need it for sexual release.
“Dr. Payne does run a regular clinic for torture victims and most of them do survive. However, whenever I send him a muscle man such as you, he takes special charge and follows a rather different program. Oh, you will be ‘rehabbed’ from the recent traumas, but not in the direction you think. By the time he is done, you will be 100% masochistic, unable to enjoy life without sessions of intense pain, unable to enjoy sex without crushing punishment and humiliation! Goodbye, my muscular friend. I envy you your new life of pain.”
This is the end of Part 1. Part 2 will begin shortly.

1 thought on “Mike and the Chilean Narcs

  1. really did like the electrotorture section and that chair. to be bound helpless whilst the juice
    is running through ones whole body has to be an experience like no other Thanks. Peter

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