NO PARADISE ISLAND

NO PARADISE ISLAND
by Jeff Brennan (Topsail)                                                                       
 
part 1
 
Among the many islands in the vast South Pacific, one was avoided by the seafarers who ventured across the broad seas, exploring the unknown oceans and lands that Europe hadn’t known existed. This island had a reputation that struck fear into the hearts of the bravest mariners. There had been few survivors, but accounts did exist that were passed down through the years, by the descendants of those hapless sailors who had been shipwrecked on Fugahuie Island. This island was inhabited by an aboriginal tribe that became infamous by the retelling of tales of awesome tortures that it inflicted on the unfortunate seamen who were washed ashore from a foundering vessel, or perhaps who unwittingly landed there in search of provisions. Most of what is now known of the Fugahuie tribe was recorded by a Bounty mutineer, as it was told by two of the few who did escape and reached Pitcairn Island.

Some years before, two seamen, Michael Brannigan and Kurt Hanson, had been set adrift from HMS Bountiful as punishment, after being found having soixante-neuf oral sex in the bos’n locker. It was understandable that, after being at sea for several months, young men might be sexually attracted to each other, but it was vital for the maintenance of good order and discipline that overt sex acts not be sanctioned. Usually shirtless when working on deck in the tropical sun, the crew’s torsos took on a cappuccino hue. These two friends had worked side by side, lustfully admiring each other’s supple musculature as they holystoned the deck and polished the brightwork. Their sculpted physiques glistened with sweat, and they savored the masculine musk that accented their sexuality. When the First Mate had “knock off ship’s work” piped that particular day, they had quietly gone down to what they thought was their safe hideaway under the forecastle. In a torrid embrace, they deftly loosened each other’s breeches and wriggled them down, exposing rock hard cocks that pulsed with an insatiable desire. More dominant of the two, Michael eased Kurt onto his back on a faked down mooring line. He knelt awkwardly in the cramped space, then moved onto his side, as Kurt, lying in the opposite direction, rolled toward him. Reaching around their mate’s hips with their free arms, they stroked, pinched, and tenderly slapped each other’s firm ass cheeks as vibrant tongues licked throbbing cockheads. Unable to suppress their wanton urgency, they thrust their quivering ramrods deep into willing throats, tongues massaging, teeth teasing the swollen stiffness that nearly gagged them. Rigid in ecstatic fulfillment, then limp in exhaustion, they lay back in the afterglow of this supreme expression of manhood. Then… the First Mate’s voice…
At that time, the usual penalty for homosexual acts was being sodomized with a red hot iron, but the Bountiful’s captain did not want to make his crew observe this frightening procedure. Also, he hoped that the currents would take Brannigan and Hanson close to this infamous Fugahuie Island so that their capture would be assured. The natives would carry out an equally distasteful punishment. And so the story began.
The banished seamen survived several days afloat on the moisture they obtained from the few fish they were able to catch, but eventually became critically dehydrated. Michael lowered his breeches and moved to urinate over the side of the boat, but Kurt put his hand on Michael’s arm. Michael understood, and he lowered himself over Kurt, and eased his cock into Kurt’s parched throat. The warm liquid was as nectar of the gods as it trickled into him, and he sucked hard for every possible drop. As Kurt returned the favor with his life-sustaining liquid, neither of them sensed any eroticism. They had often drunk each other’s semen with raucous abandon, but their piss was the gift of life in this desperate situation.
Sure enough, as the Captain had hoped, the little skiff eventually was caught in offshore eddies as it neared Fugahuie Island. The men saw themselves surrounded by outriggers manned by evil, garishly painted tribesmen. Immediately upon grounding, the exhausted sailors were grabbed and roughly bound with strands of hemp. Prodded with spears and beaten with bamboo stalks, they were marched into the jungle, and reaching a cluster of thatched huts, were exhibited before a throng of jeering natives. The men didn’t understand what the crowd was shouting, but it didn’t sound friendly. They didn’t know it, but they were going to find out how this island got its name.
In the central clearing of this primitive village, stood two structures made of logs about twelve centimeters in diameter, rising some three meters high. A horizontal log capped the two uprights of each structure, making it appear as a frame. From the crossbar atop one of the frames hung various lengths of fiber, perhaps hemp or sisal. The structures stood opposite each other, about ten meters apart. The ground under them was blackened, as though a fire had burned there, although apparently not recently. A fire pit that did show signs of recent use was in the center of the clearing, midway between the frames. It took little imagination for the captives to comprehend the purpose of these frames. They tried not to visualize what might be done to a man upon the towering contrivances. Looking around at the bizarre tribe, in the shadow of these ominous frameworks, they felt a dead weight in their guts. The natives were going to torture them.
part 2
The men were backed against a vertical post, one on each of the structures, facing each other. The men in the party that had captured them led the gleeful shouts and jeers. A few slaps and punches were the only abuse they suffered, as the dread rose in their guts. Unlike what Michael and Kurt had heard from men who had fought in North America, these savages– as the captives considered them—had, so far, not turned them over to the women to be tortured. It was only the men who seemed to express interest, and whose excitement grew more fervent by the minute. Ominous drumming on makeshift bamboo instruments grew faster and louder, the awkward dancing more frenetic.
A squeaky, feeble blast from a bamboo wind instrument signaled for the frivolity to cease. Drums went silent, a low murmur echoed across the clearing. From the largest hut in the village, an imposing figure emerged. Taller than the others, this impressive man appeared almost regal, as he strode to a position between the bound captives. He wore an elaborate headdress of leafy jungle foliage, and a lei woven of similar greenery hung from his neck. He carried a lance, like a walking stick, that Michael might have called a shillelagh, but Michael had never seen one such as this. It was topped by a skillfully carved representation of a man’s cock. He nodded, his unspoken order understood. The captives were repositioned standing between the uprights, their arms outstretched and pulled tight. Bindings on their wrists were secured to the posts. The leader approached, first Michael, then Kurt, and as he stood in front of each he muttered something completely foreign to them, at the same time thrusting the lance into the man’s crotch. Kurt shuddered when Michael gasped at the sudden assault on his balls, and braced for the same, which quickly followed. The chief, if that were the right title, addressed the gathering in more of the strange tongue. Both captives had the same terrible thought– he was going to shove this hideous wooden cock up their ass! He walked slowly around Kurt, patted him lightly on the cheek, then standing behind him, he reached around him, felt for his balls under his garments, and beat his hips against the sailor’s ass. He approached Michael and repeated the procedure, feigning anal rape. Under the spell of dread, Michael thought that at least, a savage cock wouldn’t be as bad as that fucking gigantic dildo!
The Chief pointed at the sunset, then at the moon as it was rising in the opposite sky. There was a hushed mumble from the men, and all but a few reluctantly retired to their huts. One stoked a fire in the fire pit between the torture frames, and others released their captives from their stretched position and again bound them with back to the posts, rope tying their wrists behind the posts and ankles secured at the base. They left, leaving only two men with spears, apparently standing watch. “As if we were going anywhere,” Kurt thought, dreading the unknown.
The long night was punctuated by occasional furtive abuse by the guards, who didn’t have the will power to ignore the captive seamen. Not daring to invoke the displeasure of the Chief, who had ordered the torture postponed until daylight, they took liberties that would not be obvious after the fact. One guard had a special fondness for abs. He amused himself by frequently stopping in front of the captives to deliver a rapid barrage of fists into their abs. Kurt seemed to take it better than Michael, despite Michael’s apparent tougher torso. After the watch was relieved during the night, another guard stretched the limit by tearing the v-neck of their blouses just a bit, in order to reach into the garment and feel the stiffness of the nipples that crowned their muscular chests. The man stroked their chests, bunching the fabric of their blouses and tugging, trembling with anticipation as he longed to see those chests bared, and burned, lashed, whatever would make the men cry out. He thrust a limber switch into the night fire, tempted, but not quite daring, to drive the smoldering tip into a defenseless nipple. Both of the captives recognized that these preliminary advances did not concentrate on their cocks and balls, nor on their asses. That had been the implication of the threat they had seen from the Chief, but the guards were more interested in chests than they were in cocks. The more of this probing that they endured, the more they were distracted from the reality that at some point after daylight, they were going to be tortured, and the man obviously in charge had focused his attention on the bulges in their breeches and the suppleness of their buttocks.
Shortly after sunrise, a more-or-less musical beat on bamboo shoots of varying length, served as a bugle call for the natives to assemble. The chief appeared, his garlands of foliage now replaced by a crown of seaweed, and a necklace made of miniature carved cocks, similar to the larger one that capped his lance. He spoke in a language that was gibberish to Michael and Kurt, but his words were followed by quick obedience. Michael and Kurt were untied from the posts. Long strands of woven hemp were wound upon their wrists, and the long cordage thrown over the crossbar of the frames. Men tugged at the rope until the captives’ feet barely touched the ground, then knotted it securely it to an upright. What followed was almost a choreographed ballet. Men danced in a circle before each of the strung up captives, slashing at their clothing with knives, but not cutting flesh. Some of them grabbed the fabric and ripped it, others further stripped the shirts from them with their blades. When only tatters hung from their shoulders, and their chest were bare, the helpless captives watched in horror as their tormentors approached with limber switches they had broken off saplings, and lighted in the fire pit. Eagerly, rapidly, the blazing whips lashed their bare chests and their backs. Their feet not bound, they reflexively kicked at their tormentors, who rewarded their audacity with beatings with heavy clubs on their thighs and shoulders. When the lashing had reduced the fiery switches to short twigs, their glowing tips were pressed into vulnerable nipples. The defiance of the hapless sailors was squelched , yet the relentless torture continued. Heated knives were pressed against their shoulder blades, across their broad muscular pecs, onto their inner thighs. Every ounce of spunk was shattered, as their screams reverberated throughout Fugahuie Island. And it was just beginning.
part 3
The tribesmen untied the ropes from the frame and hoisted the captives higher, feet off the ground, before securing them again. They went to work on the men’s breeches, slashing with knives, tearing the fabric, stripping the garments off, so the captives hung by their wrists, clad now only in brief undergarments. More lashing ensued, their backs, their chests, their thighs brutally flogged with knotted rope, bamboo stalks, and thick vines. At another of the Chief’s unintelligible commands, ropes were fastened around their ankles, and their legs were pulled outward, these ropes now secured to the uprights, holding their legs widely spread. The pain of suspension sent spears of agony through their shoulders, their thighs felt as though they were about to snap like a wishbone. Had this been a less intense trial, the captive sailors, hanging nearly naked facing each other, might have drawn strength from a determination not to let the other appear more resolute, but their pride was overshadowed by their agony, and their screams were equally desperate. Not only their pride in their fantasized ability to bear up under torture, but also compassion that each might have felt for the other, was obliterated from their consciousness by the debilitating pain that surged through their immobilized bodies.
The Chief was satisfied that the intensity of the torture was progressing nicely. It was time to make it obscenely ruthless. His captives were hanging in the torture frames, being pushed to the brink of madness, but they had not been stripped naked. The Chief wanted them naked, and he wanted to see them stripped naked in a most sadistic way. He wanted to yank their European cocks. He wanted to beat their European balls. He wanted to hear how loudly they could scream before the strength to scream was drained from their lungs. He would not have those last brief garments, the garments that concealed what had to be magnificent specimens of Western virility, ripped from them. He would burn them off!
Two of the tribesmen approached the fire pit with meter-length bamboo stalks, to the ends of which were wound tightly wrapped clumps of jungle grass. They held them in the fire until the grass was ignited, then waved fiery torches over their heads after they withdrew them from the flames. Other savages danced into the arena wielding long flexible vines. Two of them positioned themselves behind the captive sailors, two others between the suspended men and the fire pit. As the cacophony of the bamboo drums echoed through the jungle, the flexible vines were transformed into bullwhips, and were snapped off the bare torsos of the tortured captives. Chest, back, exposed thighs, and although still covered, their asses felt the fury of the vicious lashes through their thin undergarments. Deftly snapped between outstretched legs, the whiplashes were barely diminished by the fabric as they beat tender balls and groins.
At a signal from the Chief, the whip-wielders retired to the shadows. The chief approached, first Michael, then Kurt, and studied their battered bodies, savored their barely audible groans, their labored breathing. No sound other than a pathetic moan could be forced from their parched throats. The torchbearers dramatically advanced. As each approached his assigned victim, a new terror was struck into the racing hearts of the tormented men. This couldn’t be happening! This was beyond sadism, beyond reason, beyond horror. They were going to be burned alive!
Not quite. They were going to be stripped naked in the Chief’s special way. Held against the loose cotton garments, the flames quickly took hold. From men too far gone to utter a sound, somehow came screams of terror that shook the earth.
Fire quickly consumed the flimsy garments, searing inner thighs, flickering under balls, scorching tender cockheads. An unearthly sizzle was heard for an instant, as one of the men pissed into his smoldering rags, control having surrendered to the monstrous brutality they were being subjected to. Their spread legs exposed their assholes to fingers of flame, pubic hair smoldered, as glowing scraps of cotton fluttered to the ground. Patches of fabric that were damp with sweat clung to their skin, prolonging the effect, becoming as branding irons. An acrid stink fouled the air, charred flesh, human waste, unwashed sweaty bodies contributing to the malodorous scene.
Soon, the captives hung still, voices spent, agony indescribable… but they were alive. Barely so, as their private parts were scorched and blistered, their limbs beyond numb, their wish for death combating their innate will to live. Because the garments had been skimpy, and burned rapidly, the barbaric procedure had been mercifully short, even though it was vicious in its execution, and its effect lingering. The chief was not disappointed in what he saw hanging from their battered bodies. Scorched and somewhat shriveled, their matted bushes nearly consumed, the impressive shafts of tortured manhood fulfilled the chief’s expectations. The larger, more muscular man’s was longer and thicker, but the fair captive’s was more symmetrical, “nicer”, he thought. He regretted not having abused them before they were marred, but his delight in watching them unveiled by fire was the ultimate delight.
Days passed. The women of the village appeared, and nursed the dreadfully ravaged bodies of the sailors. Whatever the source of the medicinal herb and balms that were applied to their wounds, their effects let Michael and Kurt heal remarkably swiftly. Kept naked on beds of soft grass, in the shade of an open gazebo, they were handled gently by their bare-breasted caregivers. A lingering dread haunted them, the dread that perhaps the purpose of their skillful care was to strengthen them for further days of torment for the tribe’s amusement. There would be no point in keeping them alive, were that not the case. Still, hope could not be dismissed if they were to maintain their sanity.
“Perhaps this was a rite of passage,” Kurt suggested, when they were able to communicate rationally. “Perhaps it was an initiation, an acceptance into the                   culture of Fugahuie Island.”
“If that’s the case, we didn’t pass the test,” Michael said. “Look over there by the fire pit.”
Beneath the span of the frames, men were eagerly constructing large, sturdy crosses, in the shape of an X.
part 4
Looking away from the activity on the “playing field”, Kurt and Michael felt that leaden chunk of dread again weighing down their guts. They could not force from their minds, an image of themselves spread-eagled on those crosses, for whatever amusement the Chief might dream up for himself, and for the rest of the tribe.
Prodded with spears, they were marched down the path to the beach, both to relieve themselves, and for therapy in the sea water. A latrine had been dug in a tidal pool where they could shit without contaminating the rest of the beach. For several days, it had been extremely painful to shit because their sphincter muscles had been scorched by the flames. All their wounds felt the sting of salt in the seawater but that pain was a necessary evil to hasten their healing. Now that their fears had been confirmed and preparations were again being made to torture them, the paradox of wishing for the peace of death but wanting to live, haunted them.
Standing waist deep in the water, they embraced, subliminally trying to transfer strength to each other. As the waves kept them shifting weight to keep their balance, they felt a surge of arousal. The few times they had felt the tinge of desire during their convalescence, it had dissipated with the painful swelling of their blistered cocks. Today, the slight irritation was actually pleasure-pain. They instinctively twisted their hips to increase contact as their cocks stood upright, rubbing back and forth. They cupped each others’ ass cheeks, pounding their pelvises together, crushing their raging hard cocks in exquisite torment. Then, one arm around the waist, the other around the neck, they stiffened and hugged more tightly as two vibrating ramrods spurted powerful gushes of man-juice into the South Seas surf.
A staggering Michael then grabbed a giddy Kurt’s softening cock and pulled him into another playful embrace. Their perilous circumstance temporarily blocked from their minds, they pondered trying for a repeat performance, but commotion on the beach interrupted their passion. They turned to see what had their native escorts so excited. It was a sail!
Still hull down on the horizon, the lofty sails of a vessel of significant size loomed in the distance. “A fire!” Kurt exclaimed. “If only we could build a fire!” They watched with desperation as the ship traversed the seascape. It was getting closer, but when its heading was discernible they could see that it would pass the island at some distance. Several other natives had appeared on the beach when word of the sail was passed on. They shrugged, dismissing interest in it, since apparently it was not heading their way. As they turned back to the village, Michael and Kurt were jostled along with them, hearts heavy with frustration, a chance of rescue lost.
Three days later, the Chief brought two other men to examine them. They were probed and manhandled, their involuntary reflexes checked, every inch of their nakedness scrutinized. The regimen of their recovery had toned their muscular bodies to look even better than the impressive physiques they had previously displayed. Observing that the Chief was apparently satisfied that they were ready for more of his sadistic savagery, the lead brick in their chests grew heavier. Pointing first to the darkening sky, he then gestured to the east, nodding eagerly as he drew attention to the torture arena. From what they had picked up observing the tribe’s intonations and signs, the captives realized that, with the rising of the sun and the increasing heat of the day, they were going to be tortured on those awesome crosses.
They were surprised when they were immediately grabbed and led to the open clearing, next to the fire pit. Having been kept naked all this time, there was no need to strip them before they were spread-eagled, staked out on the ground on either side of the fire pit. They were not further molested, as the Chief declared that they were to wait for the morning sun before their ritual began. Thus they spent the night in mind-bending dread of the terror that awaited them. In the moonlight they could contemplate the heavy crosses upon which they were going to be stretched. Immobilized in their bondage, they could not prevent the functions that nature requires, and both their crotches were soaked with their piss. Amused, the two guards stood over them and sneered as they directed the tepid stream of their own piss up and down the length of the miserable staked down men.
The ghastly night passed. They tried to comfort each other as the morning twilight approached, but there was no bravado in their words, only resignation.
It progressed quickly once it began. As they had expected, they were tightly bound, their limbs fitted to the configuration of the crosses. Again, smoldering embers were flicked onto their chests, abs, and thighs. The glowing tips of red hot sticks were thrust into armpits, pressed against nipples, flicked under balls. The savages grew impatient with their gasps and choked sobs. They wanted to hear screams. When cocks were beaten with fiery sticks, they heard screams.
The unfortunate captives sagged in exhaustion as the relentless torture continued. In the red haze of his agony, Michael saw that they had taken Kurt down, and were spread-eagling him again, this time facing the cross. Furiously lashing his back, they brought the cadence of their whips into sync with the beating of the drums. Then more fire, as flaming sprigs and stalks violently ravaged his ass and his legs. Kurt was slowly taken to depths of agony that destroyed his capacity to scream.
As Michael’s bonds were loosened and his weight sagged into the arms of his tormentors, he expected to be strung up again facing the cross, as Kurt had been. Instead, he was turned and his ankles lashed to the upper limbs of the cross, his wrists to the lower, leaving him in a cruciform position upside down. His crotch now totally vulnerable, Michael too, was driven beyond the capacity to scream. Limber switches, bamboo clubs, flaming offshoots lashed his inner thighs and pummeled his balls. His chest was in position for thrusts of needle sharp barbs, his pits for smoldering sticks. The most exquisite skills were focused on his cock.
Kurt could not see what was behind him, but Michael was sufficiently cognitive to   realize, even in his upside down field of vision, the outrage that Kurt was being subjected to. He saw the Chief approaching Kurt’s battered ass with his long carved cock-pole. He nudged it gently into the crevice of Kurt’s ass, not penetrating, but driving him to the brink of insanity with fear. Kurt felt the hard wood slide up and down his ass crack. He reflexively tightened his sphincter as though he could block its obscene invasion. He cringed in terror, expecting the hard wooden cock to be set aflame before it was thrust deep into his ass, but…
Suddenly, the air was pierced with a gunshot.
A landing party, from the ship they had seen, entered the village. The ship had anchored on the opposite side of the island, and the crew was sent ashore to find fresh fruit. They were heavily armed, precluding any resistance from the natives.
Their leader, in helmet and upper body armor, reeled in horror at what he saw. On one side of the clearing a naked man hung limply, upside down, the front of his body scarred with burns and lashes. Opposite him, another man faced the frame that held him, hanging motionless, whimpering muffled sobs.
“What is this? The officer shouted. “Where is this place?” It sure as hell was no Paradise Island. “What is this hideous ritual? Where the fuck are we?”
 
So, Fugahuie Island got its name.

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