Gulls squawked and circled the quay where HMS Prince Edward was moored, hoping for scattered morsels as the crew labored to load stores. The ship was preparing to sail on a mission that was kept from all but the most senior officers, but the men were clever enough to figure out that Spain, in some way or another, was to feel the might of Britannia. Midshipman Keith Summers was supervising the working party, as he strutted along the deck, pretending to be the Captain who existed in his long range ambitions. He looked enviously at the seamen who were handling the stores, stripped to the waist in the summer sun.
“Bear a hand, there, sailors,” he chided, as the crew labored. “A long voyage „tis, perhaps; we need all the provisions we can stow.” Most of the crew were a bit on the burly side. Keith wished it were permissible for a junior officer to dispense with his blouse. The finest male torso in all of Devonshire was under his uniform, he mused, and shiny with perspiration it was, longing for the cooling caress of the sea breeze.
But a half mile away, Keith‟s mentor and superior, Lieutenant Jonathan Davis sipped tea with his parents in their garden. The Davis family had lived in this charming port city of Plymouth, in the west of England, for generations. All their men had followed the sea, some in His (then, Her) Majesty‟s service, others along the trade routes to the New World.
“I do hope you will not face an enemy at sea,” Mrs. Davis, the lieutenant‟s mother said. “That Phillip has been rattling Spain‟s sword ever since Mary died.” She referred to Queen Mary, who had preceded her half-sister Elizabeth on the throne, and who had been married to the King of Spain.
Her husband spoke up. “Old Felipe Segundo needs a kick in the …”; he paused looking sheepishly at his frowning wife.
“We‟ll act in the best tradition of the service,” Jonathan assured them. “But I must be returning to oversee the final preparations for sea. I ought to be supervising the lading, actually. My young midshipman is full of energy and ambition, but he does need supervision in major duties.”
“Lovely lad he is,” Mrs. Davis offered, as her son left.
Yes, the lieutenant thought to himself… and with the finest male torso in all of Devonshire.
Ushered into the Royal Presence, Sir Francis Drake bowed, an arm across his chest holding the plumed hat that he fancied, even in uniform.
“Rise, Sir Francis,” Elizabeth said, with a girlish twinkle in her eye.“Your Majesty,” Drake said. “I beg my Queen‟s permission to singe the beard of the King of Spain.” [Future historians would cite that line.]
“With our blessing, indeed,” the queen replied. After a few moments of small talk between Captain Drake and the queen, he spread a chart of his planned operation on a table for her perusal.
“Much of his fleet is fitting out in Cadiz,” he briefed. “I think a night raid, in and out, might be a proper stroke to get his attention.”
“Please be careful,” the queen said, the frivolity gone from her voice. “We can‟t afford to lose our ships, nor our reputation.”
“Britannia will forever rule the waves, my Queen,” Drake assured her, as he gracefully left her presence.
The timbers creaked, the sails luffed, then snapped as they caught the evening breeze. The nimble caravel Prince Edward maneuvered easily as she was set to sea on the evening tide. Captain Blake preferred not to set sail at dusk, but his options were limited by the tides. Plymouth was not a deep water port. It was fortunate, though, that a short transit from the quay found the ship in good water.
As the horizon blurred in the increasing blackness of night, Captain Blake mustered all hands amidships to brief them on their mission. As he reiterated the well known story of Spain‟s aspirations to invade England, Lieutenant Davis heard little. He knew all about the threat, and his attention was fixed upon Midshipman Summers, as a lantern‟s flame sent a flickering luminescence dancing across his handsome, ruddy face. Must be some Nordic stock in his background, Davis thought, as the rising moon augmented the lantern‟s light, and the midshipman‟s flaxen hair was bathed in the warm glow.
Captain Blake was more liberal than most in that he relaxed uniform standards when the vessel was at sea. Hats were required only to protect from the sun when in southern latitudes, and outer blouses could be dispensed with when weather so allowed. The captain saw no sense in the traditional regulations that required officers to be in full uniform at all times. Dressing up to go into a fight made no sense to him.
Midshipman Summers relaxed at the rail, intent upon the Captain‟s words. He had been at sea for nearly two years, and was not far from being offered a Sub- Lieutenant‟s commission, but he had never seen hostile action. This time there was to be a fight, for sure. He fantasized about engaging an enemy at the Lieutenant‟s side, protecting him, earning his respect and comradeship, as together they enhanced the glory of the Royal Navy.
The captain‟s briefing concluded, Davis approached his subordinate, for whom he had a genuine affection, but of course dared not express it.
“I‟ve the morning watch,” he said, offering small talk. “It‟s my favorite watch. I love to see the sunrise, the colorful palette of the sky, the freshness of the day.”
“I wish I might share it with you, sir” Keith replied. “I‟ve the mid, and those hours are not so inspiring.”
Jonathan made a mental note to speak to the First Officer about putting them on the same watch rotation. He‟d like more hours to share with his midshipman.
HMS Prince Edward yawed tenderly in the gentle swell that challenged her helmsman to keep her on station on the flank of Drake‟s small flotilla. West of the Bay of Biscay, they were in open sea, but it was calm and gave a pleasant ride to the crew, as they toiled in the housekeeping duties that are routine aboard any ship.
Lieutenant Davis paced the quarterdeck as Midshipman Summers handled a sextant, shooting a sun line to monitor their position. His loose shirt open almost to the waist, and billowing in the light breeze, Keith was incredibly attractive… at least to Jonathan Davis.
“Captain Blake is lenient with his rules,” Jonathan said, “but I guess I agree that an officer ought not display a naked torso, even when doing so would not be provocative to the observer. But I do envy the men‟s comfort in feeling a refreshing breeze cooling the sweat of their labors.”
Not provocative? Keith thought. There was little that would be more provocative for him, than watching his hero, his handsome lieutenant, shed his garments. He couldn‟t know that the motivation for Jonathan‟s remark was really a lament that midshipmen, too, were considered officers, and the rules of decorum applied to Keith as well. They both turned to gaze out upon the other ships, distant in the loosely scattered formation. Both needed distraction lest their thoughts transfer energy to their breeches.
The days passed quickly, excited as the men were to see combat, to defend their homeland from the ambitions of the Spanish king. Steering well out to sea when passing Portugal, which was also the domain of Philip II, since he had invaded in 1681, Drake passed the latitude of Cadiz before turning northeasterly to approach from the “wrong” direction.
Drake‟s plan was to enter the harbor in single file, about three hours before dawn. That far into the night, the Spanish would have relaxed what little vigil they posted for an attack they considered quite unlikely. It would be a sudden blow, more a raid than an attack really, because the column would reverse course and depart as quickly as they had entered. HMS Prince Edward, because she handled more nimbly than larger ships, was to be the last ship in. Her assignment was to cover the retiring vessels with a barrage against the shore batteries, and then make a smart escape.
A light rain threatened the operation; they could not navigate in unfamiliar waters without visibility. The Admiralty had provided charts of the harbor and its entrance, but one needs to be able to identify structures, to fix one’s position. Fortunately, it stopped shortly after midnight, and by the time Drake was ready to order the raid, there was only a fine mist. Perfect. A partial cover was provided but it was not thick enough to make them blind.
By the time the first shore batteries opened fire, Drake had already made his presence known in the harbor. Taken totally by surprise, which spoke ill of the lookouts, the port presented no opposition to the intruding fleet until three Spanish galleons were afire, they and others dismasted, and the harbor was a cacophony of cannon fire, crackling flames, collapsing hulls and shouting men. The first three ships were brought about smartly and were almost clear of the port when the Spanish gunners finally got the range and began to make hits. Unfortunately for them, most of their artillery was positioned to fire at ships approaching from seaward, and could not be depressed low enough to fire into the harbor.
Drake himself kept his flagship in the center of the line, and when it was its turn to retire, he did so with a very warm feeling that this had indeed been a great night for England. Two of his vessels had been hit but not crippled, and those in the van were well on their way out to safe water. Casualties had been sustained, but loss of life was no more than reasonably expected. Spanish personnel losses were nil except for the few hands kept aboard ship for safety and maintenance.
HMS Prince Edward, its guns elevated to harass the shore batteries, did not participate in the action against the moored Spanish fleet, but concentrated its fire on suppressing the barrage from ashore. In making his escape, Captain Blake sailed dangerously close to shore so as to remain under the field of fire, but just as he made for deep water, a salvo crashed onto the gunwale. Several men, Lieutenant Davis, Midshipman Summers and at least two seamen, were knocked over the side. One of the seamen disappeared underwater, apparently too badly wounded to swim, as the others treaded water and assessed their predicament. Any others who might have survived were not within earshot.
Captain Blake had to make the difficult decision not to attempt a rescue of the men in the water; the ship and the rest of the crew were too valuable to risk, even those of the caliber of the Lieutenant and the promising young Midshipman.
“Do you swim well, lad?” Jonathan asked his protégé. “Can you make shore?” Gasping, thrashing the water, Keith replied, “If… I have to… sir…” With Jonathan’s urging, Keith managed to keep up with him as they made for
the enemy shore. The Lieutenant was the stronger swimmer, but Keith was litheand his sinewy muscles did not tire easily. They body surfed onto a stony beach and took cover as best they could, having no idea what the surroundings were like, here on the coastline outside the harbor. They were exhausted, but dared not lower their guard.
“I think I hear someone,” Keith whispered. Indeed, there were muffled voices, then shouting, not far away.
“Perhaps one of the hands made it to shore,” Jonathan said. “If that’s the commotion, then they know there are Englishmen on shore.” The voices faded, but surely there was no way to avoid eventual capture.
Crouched quietly in the sparse foliage, the men began to shiver in their wet clothing. Jonathan took off his blouse and wrung it out, and found that it felt even more clammy and uncomfortable when he put it back on. It was the first time Keith had seen his Lieutenant shirtless, and he barely suppressed a sigh of admiration. Jonathan picked up on the lad’s reaction, and suggested that they might be less uncomfortable if they clung together so as to share body heat, this being a point made in survival training.
As dawn broke, the fugitives were roughly awakened by musket muzzles poking them in the ribs. They looked up to see two leering Spanish soldiers towering over them.
“Ah, companero, tenemas dos ingleses mas guapo para la camera de tortura!”
Jonathan was not fluent, but had learned some Spanish when the former Queen was married to the King of Spain. He didn’t need a translator to recognize that he was an “inglese” and a camera de tortura was a torture chamber! He had assumed, as he held his young protégé close during the night, that this would be their fate, they having cause great embarrassment to the Spanish king.
They were prodded to their feet and motioned to walk ahead of their captors, who argued as they approached the Castillo, towering over the port. They could not understand all of the argument, but one of the men apparently was anxious to see the prisoners tortured, while the other insisted that it was not their decision to make. An officer would decide what would be done with them. The junior soldier continued to mutter that he wanted them on the bastidor de tortura… the rack.
After they entered the Castillo, the prisoners’ wrists were shackled behind them, and they were taken into a room where an officer questioned them. He spoke excellent English. He first remarked that since they were not in naval uniforms, they must be spies and therefore subject to immediate execution. Lieutenant Davis had not thought of this ramification of dispensing with his outer uniform, for the sake of comfort. The Captain ought to have thought of this, but there was no fixing that now. Speaking for both of them, he told the Spanish officer that they were officers of the Royal Navy… and said no more.
“If you are officers, then,” the Spaniard said, “you must know something about the plans your Admiralty had for this unjustified and unlawful incursion into our port. And,” with a little condescending sneer, he added, “you must know something about future plans… information that I require you to divulge. I am the officer in charge of interrogation, Captain Henrique Sordidez.”
“I am but a junior officer,” Jonathan said. He knew that no information ought to be given, but he was intent on protecting Keith. He added, “And the lad is a Midshipman, ignorant of information such as you imagine.”
During this exchange, the soldiers who had captured them were impatiently looking forward to getting the prisoners in the dungeon. “The lad” was boyishly handsome, but they feared he was too young and tender to provide the erotic pleasure they got from seeing a man endure and resist. If he didn’t know anything, they couldn’t “make him talk”; it would just be an exercise in sadistic punishment with no military purpose. The handsome lieutenant, on the other hand, would provide hours of pleasure. In the humid atmosphere, his still-damp blouse clung to his sculpted chest, accenting the firm pads of muscle upon his torso, and firm, sinewy thighs stood out in his tight breeches. What “manhood” was concealed in those breeches was only implied by the bulge at his crotch, but yes, this was a man who would last a long time.
As they entered the camera de tortura, the Englishmen were shocked to see one of the Prince Edward crewmen stretched on the rack, moaning in pain.
“He knows nothing,” the assigned torturer said to the officer. “He surely would have given us information by now, wretch that he is.”
De la Sordidez spoke to the man on the rack. “Can you identify these two prisoners?”
With a pleading look of remorse as he looked at Jonathan, the man said, “They are Lieutenant Davis and Midshipman Summers, of HMS Prince Edward.”
“So they are naval persons,” the officer said, satisfied. “Spies are used to gather information about us, and are disposed of for their treachery. Enemy officers, though, already possess information, perhaps not about us but about themselves.” He then gave orders that were a crushing disappointment to the soldiers who had brought him these prisoners.
“The midshipman probably has not been apprised of information of value. The Lieutenant, though, I would assume knows more than he admits. It would not be an unpleasant task to extract information from him, but it might be a lengthy process, given his strength and obvious courage. No, a better way to persuade him would be to see if he can bear to watch the torture of his young subordinate.”
After a moment of tension, reality set in, as Jonathan heard the dreadful order, “Put the Midshipman to the rack.”
Two men shoved Jonathan against the stone wall and stretched his arms out, snapping heavy iron shackles onto his wrists. His powerful resistance made it difficult for them to restrain him, but while one held his legs, the other managed to shackle his ankles also, leaving him tightly spread-eagled and unable to do anything other than shout curses at them. “No! No! He’s but a lad, you miserable sons of the devil!” He cringed when he saw them rip Keith’s blouse off, then tear at his breeches and strip him naked.
“So he’s but a lad, say you,” the English-speaking Sordidad said. “He wears the uniform of an English junior officer, does he not?” He indicated to the men to hold Keith up, before they put him on the rack. “A lad does not wear an English officer’s uniform, and,” he reached out and grabbed Keith’s exposed cock, yanking at it and twisting, “a lad doesn’t have one of these!”
“You will all rot in hell,” Jonathan screamed, prompting the officer to tell his men to gag the “whimpering Englishman”, who was choked with rage at seeing the sadistic Spaniard abusing Keith. Through his rage, though, he could not help recognizing that his young protégé was more muscular than he’d visualized, and he was quite well hung.
The officer had the men hold the terrified midshipman facing the rack, as he taunted him with a description of its effectiveness.
“This is a very special rack. It has several attachments that can add to the agony of the prisoner, which I will demonstrate for you as we wait for your lieutenant to spare you further torment.” Then glancing back at Jonathan, he added, “I’ll wait to remove the gag, though, until he has had a sufficient demonstration of our finesse.” Turning back to Keith, he continued, “This is what I call my „persuasion’ rack. It differs from the „execution’ rack only in the extent to which a man’s body is damaged. In some ways, the execution rack is kinder to a prisoner than my persuasion rack. By that I mean, while the execution rack provides for a very slow and extremely agonizing death, the persuasion rack prolongs the torture without its becoming „terminal’; that is, the man’s experience is carefully controlled so that he will be able to appreciate the rack for a very long time.”
With that, he nodded to los torturados, who pushed Keith down onto his back on the rack, and began to affix thick leather straps to his wrists and ankles. He continued his taunts by explaining that the leather manacles would not cut into a man’s veins, as irons might, and cause him to weaken with loss of blood, thereby lessening his consciousness of the torment he was suffering. “We want you to last a long time,” he said. “I want to torture you for a very long time. That is why I gagged your Lieutenant. You are going to be tortured until he tells me all about your Francis Drake’s plans, but he can’t speak until I remove the gag.
click… click… click… Keith’s body stiffened as he was drawn taut on the rack. A burly soldier grinned as he turned the wheel, ever so slowly. click… click… click. Keith’s shoulders began to ache, his abdomen felt intense pressure, his calf and thigh muscles began to feel the strain.
The Captain motioned for them to stop. Keith was panting rapidly, finding it difficult to breathe, his torso stretched so tightly. When the officer nodded, one of the men produced a skein of thinly braided hemp, and began to wind it around the top of Keith’s scrotum. Satisfied that the knot was tight, he pulled it taut and knotted it to a small cleat at the base of the rack. He tugged at the braid, getting a gasp, almost a yelp, from the man on the rack as he felt his balls crushed in their sac by the cord.
The Captain in charge of the torture chamber walked back to where Jonathan was spread-eagled against the wall. He put his arm around Jonathan’s waist, and whispered in his ear, “Yes, your midshipman is quite a handsome young man,” he said, “and with a body befitting of Michelangelo, more powerful that it appeared before he was stripped of his garments. See how his beautiful chest arches high when his body is stretched. See how the sinewy muscles in his thighs stand out, how his immobilized arms are quivering with the tension.”
He reached across Jonathan’s torso and grasped the open neck of his blouse, and with a quick yank, ripped it open, exposing Jonathan’s chest. Moving in front of him, he pushed the fabric aside and almost cooed, “How I would like to see you on that rack, my handsome Lieutenant. But I do believe your foolish English sentimentality is weaker than your own resolve. As I said, I am quite sure that you will tell me what I need to know sooner, if I make you watch your young man being tortured, than if I were to torture you.” His hands stroked Jonathan’s rib cage, then slid onto the broad mounds of his powerful chest, gripping and squeezing. “Oh yes,” he sighed, “yes I want you on the rack too. But now, to the business at hand.” He turned back to his men. “Take his mind off his aching limbs. Beat him. Lash his naked body while you stretch him!”
Jonathan struggled violently against his chains, his muffled outcries useless, his fury raging, as the cruel single tail whip raised red stripes across Keith’s chest, his abdomen, his thighs. The pitiful gasps and grunts he’d let out while he was being stretched gave way to desperate shreiks, as the lash snapped mercilessly off his body. His naked form glistened with sweat in the flickering illumination of the torches that illuminated the dungeon.
“Stretch him! Torture him!” The whipping stopped, the ratchet clicked, Keith’s body grew ever more rigid. The braided lace tied around his balls tightened as his body slid ever so slightly on the rack. As his balls fought being drawn away from him, the stress caused his cock to point straight up, as though he had an erection. This brought gleeful jeers from the torturers. In fact, the apparent hard-on was not entirely due to the yank of the cord. Seeing his lieutenant helplessly chained to the wall, his tattered shirt exposing his magnificent chest, Keith felt a longing to caress him, to feel his strength, and he felt that strength surge into his balls, masculinity melding with sexuality. Indeed, seeing his hero so distraught had strengthened his resolve as he was being tortured. With a herculean effort as the next click of the ratchet was heard, Keith called out in a hoarse, strained voice, “It’s all right Sir. Don’t tell the bastards a bloody thing, Sir!” His arrogance was cut off with a piercing scream as one of his keepers lashed his quivering cock with a stiff quirt.
Captain Sordidad raised a hand indicating that the torturers were to pause, and he turned to Jonathan, who was sagging in resignation in his chains. He removed the gag, and was surprised that he did not get another barrage of vituperative verbal abuse from the lieutenant, but Jonathan was just too exhausted, and realized that it was futile to waste any more of his waning energy. He suspected that his captors would eventually torture him, whether or not he eventually “talked” to spare Keith further torment. Once they had the information they wanted, they would be free to amuse themselves at their leisure with their wicked devices.
“Shall I have my men continue?” Sordidad asked, with a sneer. “Your loyal mid- shipman said it is all right with him, you heard him say that he is willing to let his torture continue, but are you going to allow him to make that sacrifice? What he has experienced up to now is not even a hint of the agony these men are capable of inflicting. We are all professionals, and it is particularly gratifying to have an English officer upon whom to practice our skill. Just tell me what plans your Admiralty has for the future, or that young man will be tortured slowly, and most exquisitely.”
His heart breaking at the sight of his protégé‘s suffering, Jonathan spat in the Captain‘s face, in reply.
Furious, Sordidad doubled his fists and pounded them into Jonathan‘s exposed abdomen, knocking the air out of the lieutenant, pummeling him until he hung breathless in his chains. Then he snatched a knotted flogger from one of the men and lashed out, snapping it viciously across Jonathan‘s chest. He dropped the whip, grabbed the shirt he had torn open and ripped it away, leaving only tatters clinging to Jonathan‘s upper arms. He picked up the whip and flung it to one of the men, then said to the other, “You there, get another whip!” He then ordered the two men to flog their prisoners, five lashes for the man on the rack for every one lash laid onto the lieutenant who was chained to the wall.
After every searing lash of the cat across his bare chest, in cadence with another snapping across the lad on the rack, Jonathan was forced to watch four more expertly applied lashes crash upon the naked body of the brave Keith Summers.
“No! You son of the Devil, stop!”
Sordidad held up a hand, the lashings stopped. “Are you ready to tell me what I want to hear?”
“Pincers!” Sordidad said to his assistants. “Let the lad feel the grip of hot pincers on his young chest.” Hot, but not red hot, the men understood, since this was the next step in escalating torture. If it was to be “nice and slow”, the intensity would be increased gradually.
Keiths screams reverberated off the stone walls as first one, then the other pad of pectoral muscle was gripped and twisted in the iron jaw of their evil tool. After tenderizing his pecs with the pincers, the men zealously ran a spiked roller up and down his torso, superficially but painfully pricking his flesh, and terrorizing him with the mental vision of his beautiful body skinless and bloody.
Without further instructions from the captain, the men practiced their monstrous art with ever more devilish techniques, never endangering Keith‘s life (although he didn‘t know they had been so instructed) but taking him from one plateau of agony to the next.
Jonathan tried to avert his eyes from the scene, so repulsive it was to him, but an eerie fascination kept him intent upon his man. He managed to keep silent until he saw the heated pincers being lowered over Keith‘s vulnerable balls. “Noooo!” he shouted. “Stop! Stop this, you sadistic fiends!” Again, Sodidad signaled for the men to pause. “You are ready to tell me what I need to hear?” he asked. “Never. But I beg of you, spare the innocent young man. He knows nothing. If you have to satisfy your sadistic lust, put me on that damnable rack!” “Perhaps you are right,” Sordidad said. “The objective is not to satisfy my sadistic lust, although I do enjoy torturing strong men. And you cannot deny that there are similar devices in the Tower of London, where I am sure you would willingly apply them to my men, were they in your custody.”
The realization that this was true struck Jonathan like a blow to his head.
“No,” Sordidad continued, “my entertainment is not the objective. The objective is to extract information from you.” As he spoke, he unfastened the buckle on Jonathan‘s breeches, and began easing them down over his hips. “I thought you would have complied by now, but even though I know it will take some time, there is plenty of time. Drake will surely not return for a few days at least.”
He cupped his prisoner‘s vulnerable balls in his grip and squeezed slightly, almost gently. “Yes, my handsome lieutenant, torture should be slow. Nice and slow. You will see.”
“Yaaggghh!” Jonathan cried out, as much in surprise as in pain, at a sudden yank on his balls. “Bloody pervert!” Again he spat.
Not revealing his rekindled fury, Sordidad wiped his face with Jonathan‘s ripped shirt, as he increased the pressure of his grip on his testicles. “Nice and slow,” he repeated, softly but with a terrifying edge of sadism. Then he turned back to his men. “Strip him naked! I want the lieutenant on the rack!”
Two more of the fortress guards were summoned, Sordidad wanting to be sure they could handle Lieutenant Davis when they released him from his chains. Turns out, he did not seriously resist, being resigned to taking the midshipman’s place on the rack, and steeling himself to endure what he knew was to come.
Among many thoughts that ran fleetingly through his mind as he was stripped of the rest of his garments, was that Keith was still on the rack; he’d thought they would restrain Keith some other way, as he was about to replace him on the rack. That situation was soon diabolically resolved.
One of the men backed off the drum of the rack, relaxing the tension on Keith’s body, and bringing anguished groans from him, as circulation returned to his limbs and the tension on his muscles eased. It was as though spears were thrust into his shoulders, mallets were beating his thighs, and iron weights crushing his abs.
Jonathan, having been stripped naked, was roughly flung face down on top of Keith. The straps that held Keith’s wrists and ankles were deftly removed, and buckled onto Jonathan, and he was quite unceremoniously stretched out on top of Keith, who was now held in place only by the weight of his lieutenant’s body on top of his own.
click… click… click…
Jonathan felt his body grow taut, as the drum began to turn, and he was further immobilized. There was an audible “squish” as the sweat soaking them was pocketed in the crevices of their physiques. Jonathan didn’t know the term, but in another era this would be called a “mind-fuck”, preparing him for torture while his junior not only had to witness, but with their naked bodies pressed together, he had to actually feel his leader being tortured!
There was an eerie silence in the vast chamber, the Spaniards intent upon the task at hand, and Jonathan calling upon his inner strength as he felt the impact of his plight. Keith was experiencing a mind-fuck of even greater scope; whiplashes and bruises on his ravaged body burned in the sweat upon which Jonathan’s form slid atop him as he was stretched; he was crushed against the unyielding planks of the rack by the 180 pounds of masculine power on top of him; he could not shut out the reality that it was his hero who was crushing him against the rack… and they were both naked… and they were being tortured.
Keith felt Jonathan’s breath against his neck, short gasps as the tension on his restrained body increased. The diameter of the drum was such that, as it turned, the wrists of the man being stretched would be slightly raised, somewhat lessening the pressure upon the rack itself—or upon whatever or whoever was under him. Keith was thus able to move his arms outboard of Jonathan’s. This resulted no in relieffor either, but removed some degree of support of Jonathan’s body, causing the stretch upon his arms to intensify.
The suspenseful silence was finally broken by the captain’s order: “Whip him!”
Jonathan’s body jerked in a reflexive spasm as the cruel whip seared his shoulders. Lash after lash snapped across his back, the drum continued to turn and he was drawn tighter still. Taut though it was, the stinging whiplashes induced reflexive motion to his stretched form, and he “bounced” slightly upon Keith. This motion, coupled with the slippery sweat that soaked them, allowed Keith to spread his legs without realizing it, until Jonathan’s thighs slipped between his own. Trapped now, their balls were crushed between them. A dull wrenching pain shot through them with every uncontrollable reaction to the lash.
Keith tried to reach around Jonathan’s torso, but the lieutenant’s broader chest blocked the slight movement he could manage. “Sir…” he whispered… “sir,” In what was a futile attempt somehow to share his officer’s agony.
“Humiliate him!” Sordidad shouted. “He shows us that he can take a whipping like a man. This Englishman is no man. He’s my slave now. Lay the whip across his English ass!”
It was true, it was humiliation, an added dimension to his torture. Jonathan bore up with the biting lash of the whip across his back and shoulders, but as his bare ass felt its fury, he cringed in mental as well as physical torment. He clenched his teeth, grunted, gasped, but did not speak.
In the months that Keith had fantasized about being so close to his hero, he could not have imagined that it would ever happen, certainly not in a torture chamber! His own pain subsiding, his agony turned to heartache, he felt totally useless, unable to do anything to help the man for whom he would give his life. He was able to bend his elbows enough to slip his hands under Jonathan’s stretched biceps. “Sir”, he whispered again, barely breathing the word. Somehow, the compassion of his midshipman further sustained Jonathan’s will to resist.
Keith, practically suffocating with the weight of his lieutenant’s body crushing him, nevertheless luxuriated in the closeness, the weight, the pressure of his hero’s naked body. Every lash that seared Jonathan’s back sent a surge of testosterone through Keith’s young physique, the sense of sharing was so awesome. Even the slight lurch that Jonathan’s restraint permitted when the whip struck him was enough to accent the pressure on their balls, and to let Keith feel the meaty bulk of Jonathan’s cock rub against his own. Damn! They were their enemy’s prisoners… they were being tortured… and he was getting hard! How could that be?
Growing tired of the failure of their efforts to make the English officer talk, the torturers looked to Sordidad for further instructions. Just the threat of “the King Edward treatment” would have him singing, they argued. Sordidad knew, though, that his own ass would be on the rack if he maimed or killed an English officer
without the king’s approval. He assumed that Philip would broker a ransom for one of Drake’s officers. Nothing would please him more than to thrust hot irons into the Englishman’s pits, onto the muscular pads of his chest, under his balls, whatever… but he had to be cautious that the torture did not inflict serious or permanent damage.
He realized that his initial assessment was correct; it would take more to break Lieutenant Davis than he had the patience for, but if he were to increase the intensity of the midshipman’s torture to a more savage level, a horrified lieutenant just might “come to his senses” and spare the lad more agony. It was this thought that motivated the next orders he gave to his men. He would continue to torture them both– this handsome lieutenant was too good a prize to pass up– but he would give the “lad” the greater attention.
An iron bar attached to a pulley was lowered over the men on the rack.
Aboard HMS Prince Edward, Captain Blake watched as the ship’s carpenters repaired the damage that had been done by the shore batteries, as the ship sailed out of Cadiz. He paced the deck with a heavy heart. There was no room for emotion in a man in his position; a captain knew he was taking men to their deaths when he engaged an enemy, but even though he had to suppress his feelings, he could not deny his humanity. Lieutenant Davis was on a fast track to promotion and higher rank, and the young Midshipman Summers had enormous potential. He was eager to learn and had the concentration necessary to excel in his studies, and he had proved himself to be an adept seaman.
The Captain recognized, although he never dwelled on it, that both these men were strikingly handsome, of engaging personality and quite fit. Davis had a commanding demeanor that immediately gained trust and obedience, a presence that turned heads and made people look up to him. Summers seemed to be mature beyond his years, but had not quite outgrown a youthful exuberance that excused whatever shortcoming he might present, although his shortcomings were rare indeed
Having lost these two super-stars of his command, Blake found it difficult to concentrate on the routine of his ship. It they had not been killed outright when they were lost overboard in the attack, surely they would not have survived in the sea, wounded as they must have been. Captain Blake did not dwell on what might be there fate, were they to fall into the hands of Philip’s men. The King of Spain regarded Francis Drake as a pirate, not subject to the rules of combat that civilized nations practiced. A prisoner taken from Drake’s ships, Royal Navy or not, would be subject to being summarily hanged, as was befitting a pirate. But an officer who knew of future plans for raids against the Spanish fleet… surely he would be subjected to the most persuasive methods—and the Spanish were experts—of extracting information from an enemy prisoner. Blake refused to contemplate what might be happening if his men had been taken alive. If he had, his imagination would not have come close to the unthinkable acts that were being inflicted upon his men, in that fortress, in Cadiz.
As the tension on the rack was eased, the prisoners took in short breaths, almost panting, as they tried to regain strength during this respite from the torture.
“Sir,” Keith breathed again, weakly but with compassion, aching with futile desire to help his lieutenant.
“Yuh… hunh…”, Jonathan acknowledged, it being unnecessary to find words, even if he’d had the strength. The slight movement permitted by the slackened restraints let him shift his weight, wriggle as it were, on top of the younger man.
His broad chest rocked on the firm still-developing musculature of his protégé, pressing him harder onto the rack’s timbers.
“Ohh…”, Keith sighed, under the weight of his hero’s magnificent body. He formed the words on his lips, but had neither the strength (nor the impudence) to utter… “Crush me… ahhh…crush me…sir.”
Neither of them was aware of the rattle of chains or the squeaking of pulleys in the background. Keith was aware only of the man who was almost a god to him,
as he savored the masculine aroma of his extended pits, he felt the man’s steel thighs nestled between his spread legs, and… he sensed a quivering thrill through his loins as the man’s thick cock pressed against his own, causing it to swell and stiffen. Was it intentional? Could his hero know what was happening, would he be angry… or worse? The weight, the friction of Jonathan’s manhood on top of him sent shudders of ecstatic arousal through the young midshipman. Unable to enhance the effect by thrusting, pinned down as he was, he stiffened his entire body in response to the escalating ascent to a pinnacle of masculine fulfillment.
He didn’t see the iron bar lowered over the rack, he didn’t hear the order, “Hook him up”, nor even notice that the wrist straps were taken off Jonathan and replaced by shackles attached to the bar that were snapped onto his wrists. He did sense that the weight of Jonathan’s body was lessening, and he held onto his biceps with a subliminal desire that said “stay with me,” as a pulley mechanism began to raise the lieutenant’s body off him. The curvature of Jonathan’s form as he was lifted, suspended by the wrists, pressed his hips more forcefully onto Keith, whose balls felt the added pressure. Dull pain surged into his throbbing cock; the more it hurt, the harder he got! His hands slid off Jonathan’s arms as he was lifted above him.
Keith had to look. He could not help it… and saw that the lieutenant was endowed with the most perfectly formed cock a man could imagine. Not hard, but somewhat swollen, perhaps with defiance, perhaps in response to the unmistakable pressure that Keith’s ramrod had exerted against it.
The iron bar from which Jonathan hung by his wrists, swayed as it was raised higher. As he swung, his ankles still hooked to the rack, his dangling cock beat against Keith’s raging hard-on.
“Ahhhhh, uyaaahhhh. Yugh!” A fountain of milky man-juice spurted onto the hard ridges of the lieutenant’s abs, and dripped onto the totally spent young man whose entire body was vibrating like a tuning fork in spasms of masculine orgasm.
The chamber was silent as the torturers looked on in disbelief. A sly half-smile appeared on the face of one of them. Perhaps the young midshipman did deserve the King Edward treatment!
As the pulley was raising Jonathan by the wrists, off Keith, a messenger entered the chamber to tell Captain Sordidad that the commandant wanted to see him. Sordidad knew that the commandant was going to ask why he had not yet been told what the English officers had to say about their plans. Sordidad had not got to be the chief interrogator because his methods were ineffective. He was unofficially known throughout the fortress as “The Rackmaster”. He not only got what he wanted out of his prisoners, but he also knew how to keep them conscious and aware of their situation, thus making them last, while he practiced the techniques that had earned him his position. If the commandant complained about how long it was taking, he would use the excuse that he thought he had to keep them in reasonably healthy condition, because he assumed they would be valuable for ransom or prisoner exchange, since there were Spanish political prisoners in England that the king would like to have back. Otherwise, he would by now, have etched various blistering designs upon the torso of the man on the rack, with hot irons. He might have had his men beat the prisoners with hot, or simply heavy, iron rods, and if they broke bones, c’est la vie. He would not, though, have permitted the perverse activity in which his torturers were engaged, at that very minute.
Sordidad would not admit that he was intentionally making it “nice and slow” because he immensely enjoyed torturing handsome, muscular men such as these two. A couple of things surprised him, though. He was surprised at how much the feisty young midshipman could take, and he was surprised that the lieutenant made him take it, by not “talking” when he had to watch his young protégé tortured. No matter, unless he was in trouble with the commandant for taking so long to break them, their resistance was a plus for him—it prolonged his amusement!
Fortunately for the Rackmaster, his meeting with the commandant resulted in the latter’s concurrence that he ought to remain cautious that the men were not seriously harmed, and the commandant assured him that he was sure that Sordidad knew how to inflict maximum torment with minimum injury. His reputation was legendary. Both men being satisfied that the situation was well in hand, Sordidad returned to the dungeon. He had not seen Keith’s explosive sexual performance, and he was not going to be happy when he saw what his torturers had been doing with the prisoners.
“He’s gone,” one of the men had said, as the captain followed the Commandant’s messenger out of the chamber. It was at that moment that Keith’s frenetic outburst of orgasmic release echoed off the stone walls of the dungeon. Keith was actually free, his restraints having been taken off when Jonathan was put on the rack on top of him, but he was too weak, totally exhausted, and probably unaware of anything other than the delirious consciousness that he had just got off in a torture chamber! Reality would thunder into him in a couple of minutes, but by then the men would have recovered from their astonishment, and have his wrists and ankles again strapped in bondage on the rack.
Jonathan too, was astounded at this puzzling situation, which briefly took his mind off the stinging sweat in the lashes on his back and his ass. The curved position of his suspended body was also making his arched back ache, and his shoulders were stretched by the awkward suspension, as though still on the rack,.
There were just two men remaining in the chamber, the others having been dismissed when they had got Jonathan firmly secured. They knew that they were not allowed to work on their prisoners without an officer’s supervision, but this was an opportunity that was not to be passed up! They had an Englishman on the rack who got off on it! What possibilities this suggested! They wanted to see more of this young man’s sexuality brought out, and perhaps even that sensational officer hanging over him could be prodded to add to their delight!
“Let’s fuck with these guys while the Captain’s not here”!
One began to turn the winch on the rack, drawing Keith’s captive body taut again—not stretched, but immobilizing him. The other lowered the pulley holding Jonathan over him, until his thighs were again between Keith’s, and their cocks barely touching, as Jonathan swayed slightly in suspension. They watched for a spark of arousal as Jonathan’s swinging cock gently rubbed back and forth across Keith’s, but Keith had not yet recovered the strength (nor the inclination) to respond.
“Let’s tie them together,” one of the men suggested, as he looked around for some appropriate rope.
“Get thin rope, or cord, something that will get a good grip.”
“Yes, and won’t slide off when we pull them apart.”
Soon done, a length of rope encircled both their cocks and balls, pressing them together.
Now… a little tension here, my friends.”
As the drum turned and the stretch began again, Keith felt the agonizing tension return, more severe now, since he was already quite “softened up” by the earlier torture. As he was stretched, Jonathan was raised higher above him, and the thin rope gripped their cocks tighter, trapped their balls in its grip, and sent crushing bolts of lightning into them. Gasps turned to moans, moans to groans, and groans erupted in reverberating screams as the prisoners feared for their very manhood. The man tending the pulley began to jerk the rope in his grip, making Jonathan bounce in the air, giving a rhythmic pulse to the stabs of pain the men were enduring.
The torturers soon realized that this action was too extreme to stimulate arousal, even in the most masochistic prisoner, which these men were not. Right now, torturing them was a secondary objective; they wanted them hard! There was no thrill quite like getting a man hard and on the brink of release, then knocking the stiffness out of him with intensified torture. If they couldn’t make the prisoners get each other hard, they would have to do it themselves. Neither of these soldiers was really into sucking cock, but to a military man, the objective is all-important, and if that’s what it took, so be it. But perhaps they wouldn’t have to. Perhaps they could cause these two incredibly beautiful men to get each other hard.
The ingenuity of man in satisfying his sexual needs knows no bounds; it is a motivation, a spur to experiment and innovation, perhaps greater even than that which drove the English and Spanish to explore the seas, circle the globe, and conquer new worlds. The unholy lusts of Sordidad drove him to build a torture chamber, a laboratory for inflicting pain on the bodies of men, without equal in Spain, perhaps in all of Europe. From the darkest satanic depths of his brain, Sordidad had drawn out and brought to cruel reality methods and devices for torturing men hitherto unimagined. And it is in this hellhole, this stone and iron manifestation of a black diseased soul, that Lieutenant Jonathan Davis, 29, and Midshipman Keith Summers, 18, found themselves, captives of the sadistic Spaniard: tortured to reveal the English fleet’s plans of attack against the Spanish Armada, but also– due to their considerable personal beauty and strength–simply to fulfill their captor’s hideous fantasies.
As we rejoin their tale, Sordidad had been called away, leaving the two stalwart seamen in the care–if that is the word–of two of Sordidad’s most depraved and uncouth underlings. Possessing all their master’s sexual sadism, but lacking his refinement and science–for the art of inflicting pain on the male body in the service of extracting information is nothing less–the two guards, Ramon and Rogelio, struck even greater fear in the hearts of the two sailors who now lay weakened, naked, and bound at their mercy. The beautifully muscled young Keith lay stretched and chained on a rack; his commander and hero was stretched above him–his feet bound to the end of the rack near Keith’s, but his arms pulled high and manacled to a trapeze-like iron bar attached to a pulley, his body curving upward. The liquid evidence of the Midshipman’s recent shuddering orgasm still lay on his taut abs, the result of the two victims’ bodies having been pressed together from head to foot as the lash was applied to Davis’ rippling back.
Lustful beasts that they were, Ramon and Rogelio could think of nothing else than how they could amuse themselves by making their prisoners’ cocks yet again erect. Two strong captives with superhuman stamina; a dungeon full of torture devices; an infinite number of ways to induce the exquisite writhing of male muscle and a symphony of male screams of agony–yet their low goal was merely to induce hardons in these magnificent men–like two children sniggering at seeing a bull and a cow mating in a field.
Yet what they had in mind, as well they knew, would in its way prove the worst torture the captives had yet suffered. How humiliating it would be–what emotional anguish coupled with the physical–if these two proud Englishmen were made to publicly pleasure each other in sinful ways? So arrogant, so pretentious, so convinced of their moral superiority to the Spanish–yes, these two would be taken down a peg. The young midshipman’s explosive reaction to his bodily contact with the older sailor proved his desires were far less than pure.
Thickly muscled, olive-skinned, reeking of sweat, unshaven, their shirtless torsos covered with curling black hair, clad in leather breeches and boots, Ramon and Rogelio stood in crude contrast to the two well-groomed, strapping Englishmen. Though at first glance looking like the most common of laborers, their skill in their chosen profession was soon apparent in the way they smoothly maneuvered their captive into place for the next ordeal. Davis was unshackled from the iron bar; his exhausted nude body flopped down again atop that of his protege as Keith’s pool of man-spunk splattered between them. The trapeze was replaced on the overhead pulley with a more elaborate bondage device: an iron frame, a large rectangle to which a prisoner could be attached for those tortures that required having him spread-eagled, horizontal, and face-down toward the dungeon’s stone floor.
Into this position Jonathan was quickly moved. His wrists were stretched wide and shackled to two corners of the frame, his ankles untied from the rack and shackled to the two opposite corners. The pulley creaked, and the lieutenant was pulled groaning into the air, raised to three feet or so above the racked lad. The frame was long enough that the lieutenant’s body could be pulled nearly taut; some sag was inevitable, but the painful stretch brought Jonathan close to parallel with the floor–and with the body of the young sailor racked beneath him. Their positions mirrored each other, one above facing down, one below facing up, as if reflected in a pond.
Staring into each other’s eyes, handsome bodies naked and spread-eagled, the two prisoners shared brief words before the guards’ depraved game–whatever it might be–began. “Sir, whatever happens…” Keith whispered, “know that I would gladly die in this dungeon to preserve our secrets… give my life for you, my hero and master…”
“No, Midshipman, you are the hero… undergoing such agonies as I could not imagine a young man surviving… we must hold out and never break, no matter what tortures these madmen inflict…”
“Yes, sir, anything… anything at all…” (A close listener might have detected as much anticipation as dread in these breathless pleadings… )
Their touching colloquy was sharply interrupted when Ramon reached up and spun around the iron frame. Jonathan’s shackled, suspended body was turned 180 degrees; he no longer looked down into the face of the younger lad, but directly down upon his cock… and suddenly both captives knew what sick sport the guards had planned for them. For Keith, too, was confronted with the sight of his beloved commander’s cock directly above his face, the thick shaft and ballsac dangling down almost as if reaching toward the beautiful midshipman’s waiting mouth…
… and the pulley again creaked, this time lowering Jonathan slowly nearer and nearer Keith’s stretched form. Ramon and Rogelio laughed as the two men approached helplessly. “Never!” Jonathan roared.
“Ha! ha! They know what they will be doing to amuse us! Clever Englishmen!”
“No! please! It’s a sin!”
The guards laughed even louder at this outburst from Keith. “HA! You call it a sin even as your seed lies on your belly? How did that seed get there, boy? Merely the touch of your captain’s body made your cock burst with pleasure!!!”
“You barbarians! We will never commit the act of sodomy!”
The guards’ scorn was redoubled. “British seadogs commit sodomy daily, and then look to Heaven and lie about it! Now you will do for us what you dream of doing to each other!”
The two men were now only inches apart. Keith had but to lift his head a tiny bit to receive Jonathan’s cockhead into his mouth… Desire and fear created a tempest in his head–he knew what the Spanish ruffians were saying was true, and he knew Jonathan knew it too…
Jonathan stared down at Keith’s limp, spent manhood with an equal mix of loathing and undeniable lust… how often had he lay in his bunk at night and fallen asleep thinking of the muscled young lad who looked up to him so? Whose body was so strong, so beautiful, so… dare it be true?… willing?
But no! to perform for these animals–to parade his secret desires for their amusement–never! He would not be humiliated any more than he would betray the military secrets of the British Navy. Even under torture!
These defiant reveries were interrupted by a shocking sight–both bound men saw Ramon approach with a hideous implement of torture… “You speak so piously of sodomy… we well know what the punishment is for British knaves found guilty of it!” And he brandished the hot iron–a foot of metal drawn from a brazier and now glowing bright red at the end of a long poker–in his captive’s faces. “Ah, but here, you will suffer the opposite fate! Feel the agony of this red-hot iron thrust deep inside you if you do NOT perform as we demand!” The poker’s glow lit the cruel smile on Ramon’s face as he stared at the iron, imagining the hideous screams it would produce if introduced into a helpless prisoner’s rear orifice!
“NOOOOOO!! NO! OH, GOD, PLEASE NO!” At the threat of this unthinkable torture, Jonathan’s demeanor changed in a flash from proud defiance to abject begging… he could not tolerate even the thought of this hideous agony being inflicted either on himself or on the handsome lad for whom he felt such affection….
Keith, for his part, nearly paralyzed with fear, said nothing… but opened his mouth so his lips and tongue could receive Jonathan’s dangling manhood…
Ramon and Rogelio laughed scornfully as the blond young midshipman–eagerly? excitedly? surely not reluctantly?–applied his lips and tongue to his commander’s dangling cockhead. Despite their laughter, the guards’ hairy hands moved down to the growing bulges inside their pants as the naked prisoner stretched on the rack slowly, savoringly fellated the lieutenant stretched above him, spread-eagled to the suspended iron rectangle. “No… please…” Davis whispered helplessly, unable to resist the stiffening of his own manhood due to the racked lad’s skillful mouth–and his own denied desires.
Keith’s own cock was now fully erect, and pointed straight at his face, parallel to his tautly muscled lower abdomen–and out of the reach of the mouth of the sailor hanging painfully overhead. Rogelio took a poker–a cold one–and lifted the rigid shaft so that the swollen purple head slapped against Jonathan’s lips. “Suck it!” he barked.
Jonathan winced and again whispered in anguish, “No….”
Ramon brandished the red-hot iron in Jonathan’s face. “Suck the blond dog’s cock now, or be destroyed from the inside!!!”
Unable to bear the thought of the hot-iron torture–a dread even stronger than his reluctance to admit his desire for his young protege–Jonathan shut his eyes, and trembling, opened his lips to receive Keith’s pulsing, rock-hard manhood…
“ooooohhhhhh… OOOOOHHHHHHHHH…” the teen sailor moaned as he felt his hero’s wet warm mouth on his yardarm.
At last “broken” by the combination of skillful, enthusiastic fellatio on his own rigidifying member and the taste of the young manhood he had dreamed of since Keith joined his crew, Jonathan’s pleasure overcame his fear of sin… The cruel guards laughed as his cock stiffened–and consequently rose out of the reach of the hungry mouth of the midshipman, no matter how hard he stretched to raise his head off the rack to which he was chained. Keith then went to work on his master’s nutsac, dangling just near enough that he could kiss its hairy surface and taste its sweat with the tip of his tongue… His own manly overendowment filled Jonathan’s mouth–which impressed the guards so soon after he had shot his seed on his tight abs. His eyes shut tight–he could almost forget that he was in a torture dungeon, nude, chained, suspended, at the mercy of hideously cruel Spaniards–Jonathan’s mouth rose and sank on the hard, swollen cock, coaxing it to explode yet again….
“WHAT IS THIS?!?!?!?” roared Sordidad as he re-entered the dungeon with a handful of men. “I FORBADE YOU TO TOUCH THESE PRISONERS IN MY ABSENCE!” The perverse lusts of Ramon and Rogelio had overcome their common sense, but now, shocked back into reality, they deeply regretted ignoring the dungeonmaster’s orders–knowing full well how disobedience was repaid… Paralyzed with fear, the two foolhardy guards–their leather trousers open, their cocks embarrassingly aroused, testimony to their disobedience–said nothing in their defense, knowing no argument could assuage Sordidad’s wrath…
Red with fury, Sordidad snapped his fingers, and guards appeared suddenly at the two miscreants’ sides, holding their muscled arms tightly and preventing escape. Ramon and Rogelio trembled as the interrogator stepped forward, his measured words ill-concealing his rage just as their hard cocks ill-concealed their regrettable decision to toy with the British prisoners. “These men belong to ME,” Sordidad growled. “They are MY captives, and only I shall take pleasure from them! How DARE you foolish idiots sport with them against my direct orders!” Again, the two swarthy guards made no defense.
“Especially knowing,” Sordidad continued, “what I am capable of when angered. Apparently you have forgotten. Well, we shall remind you of the price to be paid by those who displease me. STRIP THEM!”
In seconds, the guards holding Roman and Rogelio’s arms tore off their boots and leather pants, and the well-muscled men stood helpless, nude, and vulnerable. Sordidad stroked his beard, considering just what their punishment should be. In a moment, the answer came. “Chain them,” he barked, gesturing to one corner of the dungeon where manacles–two sets, side by side–dangled from an overhead beam over a small platform.
The guards dragged the two victims to the site. Roughly they were forced to kneel on the platform, their backs to Sordidad. Stocks closed over their ankles and locked them into place as their arms were raised and locked into the iron shackles that dangled overhead. So close their sides touched, the two dark, hairy lunks knelt side by side on the platform, wrists pulled high overhead–their entire naked bodies exposed but for the front of their calves on which they knelt. Their fear increased as they realized what it meant to have the soles of their bared feet thus exposed…
Sordidad stood in front of a large cabinet holding a multitude of whips, floggers, crops, and every imaginable device for beating a male body. He selected a sort of cane–a metal rod slender enough to be flexible, wrapped tightly in leather. A few test swishes through the air convinced him it was the correct implement for his needs…
Their arms chained high, pressed side by side, the scent of the sweat of their hairy chests and their wet armpits filling their nostrils, the two guards heard each slow bootstep of their enraged master’s approach. “Oh, how you two disobedient fools will suffer…” Sordidad muttered to himself as he came closer and closer… the steps stopped…. the torturer raised his arm… and after one mighty SWISH!!!! Ramon and Rogelio’s legs exploded in agony, screams torn from their throats, as the evil leather cane came down to strike a hideous blow across four big, stocks-trapped bared soles at once….
The dungeon was filled with the screams and roars of the two swarthy, sweaty guards as the cruel cane came down again and again across the helpless soles of their big thick bare feet. Dangling from their chained wrists, the hairy naked bodies of Ramon and Rogelio thrashed madly in pain, but there was no escape from the torture of their trapped feet. Side by side they struggled and sweated, sobbing, cursing, pleading, their muscled, black-furred bodies dripping, their feet and toes wriggling from the bastinado that sent sheets of fire through their manacled legs–and their cocks were erect despite the agony. Ten, 20, 50 blows rained down from the cruel leather-wrapped cane wielded by Sordidad, shirtless and sweating himself as he applied the torture to his disobedient guards.
Abruptly stopping the foot torture, he startled the chained prisoners by lashing their hairy asses–and Ramon and Rogelio’s screams were redoubled at the shock and at the blistering pain. Over and over he lashed their asses, raising angry red welts as the guards continued to scream and beg for the mercy they knew would not come. Fresh screams as Sordidor laid the cane on their bare backs and shoulders. The guards had been whipped before, of course, but not with the fiery intensity of Sordidor’s mastery of inflicting pain.
The dungeon master grew weary of torture-punishing his captives long before they had gotten what they deserved, so he tossed his cane to another shirtless guard, commanded another to fetch a similar cane, and ordered them to continue the lashing until he gave the word. “Not an inch of their bodies shall be left unwelted,” he commanded. “Cover them with blows of the cane.”
“Mercy, Sir, please! PLEASE!” yelped Rogelio through his sobs, but he knew pleading would be useless. Sordidor ignored him and turned back to his two English captives, still chained atop each other, Keith on the rack, Jonathan dangling spread-eagled above.
“Now, with the evidence of my wrath ringing in your ears, perhaps you will think better of not providing the information I request,” Sordidor said as he pulled up a stool next to the rack. “Also, perhaps your English sense of ‘fair play'”–he sneered the words–“will demand gratitude for the fate I have spared you. For surely no matter how eagerly you pleasured each other’s dangling cocks, those foolish guards would have used that hot iron on you anyway.”
He reached out and stroked the cheek of the young midshipman lying stretched on the rack. “Such crude methods. They are well punished for even thinking of destroying such beauty. No, there are methods of extracting information that enhance, rather than obliterate, the beauty of the masculine body.”
“I’ll never talk, if that’s what you mean…” Keith muttered defiantly even as he lay naked and chained before this cruel torturer.
Sordidor smirked at the captive lad’s bravado. “This rack, for example. It breaks the strongest will even as it shows off male musculature at its finest.” And the interrogation master gestured, the guard manning the wheel turned it slowly, and once again the creaks and groans of the ancient mechanism accompanied the grimaces on the handsome face of the bound young prisoner and the tautening of his rippling muscled body as the sheen of sweat on his skin gleamed in the torchlight.
His face twisted in agony as the rack stretched his body, Keith gritted his teeth and said nothing… His mentor Jonathan, dangling just overhead for a close-up view of the torture of his young friend, mustered his strength to again mutter, “No… no… “
How beautiful the muscled body of the 17-year-old sailor looks under torture, Sordidad thought to himself… his naked form–bare feet trapped in stocks at one end, wrists manacled and chained at the other–stretched full-length and being pulled excruciatingly tight as he lies helplessly on the rack’s wooden bed… his muscles flexing and writhing as he tries to pull back against the stretch to no avail… beautiful blond head shaking side to side… the face of an angel, jaw set, teeth gritted, twisted in pain… and his powerfully handsome commander suspended just above, forced to witness the lad’s torture up close…
“AAAAHHH…. ” Sordidad’s reveries were interrupted by the cry of pain escaping from the lad’s lips as the wheel clicked one more notch. (At the other end of the dungeon, the torture of Ramon and Rogelio continued–the relentless swish of the cane, the screams of the victims.) Sordidad leaned in and spoke softly in Keith’s ear as his fingertips ran over the chained boy’s muscled, marble-carved chest, blond-furred armpit, thick round bicep. “End this pain, my boy. End it now by telling me your fleet’s battle plans. For you know by now my cruelty knows no bounds, and the methods I have for torturing handsome men are infinite…”
“You bastard… ” muttered the sailor dangling from his chains.
“Never!” sobbed the agonized young man on the rack.
For a moment, Sordidad pondered his next move. Then he spoke. “Ah, my strong, defiant lad. Are you perhaps familiar with a device known as the Iron Maiden?”
“NO! PLEASE!” Jonathan ejaculated as Keith merely grimaced in anguish. The rack’s wheel turned another notch… “AAAAHHHHH…..”
“Oh, I plan nothing so crude for you, my brave lad. Simplistic and brutal, a device that appeals only to the unimaginative. Like those two beasts who even now are reaping the reward of their underdeveloped brains. But the concept… if refined, improved, it has unquestionable possibilities, I thought. The effect of needle-sharp spikes on the male musculature… pressed with exquisite, savored slowness into the flesh of a prisoner… elegant and effective, but only if applied in the right way. Otherwise, a mere bloodbath. No fit ordeal for a magnificent specimen such as you, my boy.”
Keith thrashed on the rack, his pain mental as well as physical. “My version–a vast improvement on the original–I have dubbed the Brass Maiden. And it is this device which will supply your next round of mind-melting pain. Unless you or your commander choose to begin to tell me what I wish to know.”
The Brass Maiden: a notorious torture device rumored to drive men mad with fear merely at the threat of its use. It consists of two brass plates roughly shaped and curved to fit a man’s torso–one to fit a manly chest, the other to fit a muscled back, both wider at the top and narrower at the bottom to mimic the form of a classically muscled V-shaped body. The two plates are mounted on long screws; a wheel can be turned to move the plates closer or farther apart. And of course each is lined with needle-sharp spikes.
Strapping young Midshipman Keith Summers was now taken from the rack, unshackled and dragged to the waiting Maiden. Stout leather thongs were wrapped and tied around his thumbs, and the muscled prisoner was suspended by them from an overhead beam. His legs were spread at a 90-degree angle and tied off to iron rings in the stone floor via thongs similarly wrapped around the big toes of his bare feet.
Then the plates were placed in front and back of his dangling torso, the height adjusted to the precise level of his stretched body. As the guards worked, Sordidad kept up a rapturous soliloquy about the glories of his device: “You can see what an improvement this is over the age-old Iron Maiden,” he gloated. “Not merely a spiked door to be crudely slammed shut on a hapless victim, the two plates can be moved closer to press into a victim front and back, as if between the jaws of some hellish vise. Also, the spiked plates are shaped specifically to fit a male torso–though never before have they had the opportunity to caress a musculature such as yours,” he hissed as he stroked his fingertips and palm over the rippling torso of the dangling prisoner. Sordidad began to turn the wheel. The front plate moved toward Keith’s chest; he could see the mass of spikes approaching very slowly, and assumed that the back plate behind him was also moving forward, slowly, so that they would both touch his skin at the same instant.
“You can see the clockwork precision of my machine,” Sordidad continued, immensely proud of his design. “This wheel turns the screws and moves the plates together in the tiniest gradations, a hair’s-breadth at a time if necessary. The spikes penetrate skin, muscle, and nerve with exquisite slowness. Yet what a world of pain lies between one turn of the wheel and the next! The spikes travel a distance barely visible to the naked eye–and suddenly a shriek of agony rings out!”
“Very ingenious,” Keith said as he dangled, trying not to betray fear in his voice. “But I still won’t talk.”
“You say that now, my defiant boy,” Sordidad said, “when the spikes are still inches from your body.” He turned the wheel; they continued their slow approach. “But what will you say as those long brass needles touch your skin–then begin to press into your flesh from neck to waistline? Ah, then you will change your tune. Then you will give me the information I need about your armada’s plans of attack.”
“Never, you bloodthirsty bastard!” Keith spat, though he could not prevent a wince of pain from flashing across his handsome face; hanging by only his leather-bound thumbs, his full muscled weight bearing down on their joints, was a torture in itself.
(“AAAAAGHHHHHH!!!! NOOOOOO!!!! “DIOS MIO!!!!!!!” PLEASE, CAPITAN! NO MORE!!!!” The guards beating the disobedient Ramon and Rogelio began a fresh assault on the exposed nutsacs of the hairy, swarthy, sweating punishment victims.)
Sordidad turned the wheel teasingly slowly, studying the face of his prisoner. Keith’s jaw remained firm, his glare stalwart, even as the spikes were now but a half-inch from the skin of his back and chest. The brass gleamed in the dungeon’s firelight, as if aglow with the anticipation of piercing the beautiful young captive’s muscle.
“No, Summers, no…. be strong…. “Jonathan’s aching body had been taken down from the chains from which he had dangled horizontally above the rack. He was now chained kneeling on the stone floor with his back to a stout whipping post and his arms pulled tightly behind him–a position with an excellent view of the workings of the Maiden and the beautiful nude body of the young man hanging painfully between the ever-approaching spiked plates…
“I will, Commander… I will not speak…” –another sharp twinge from his tied thumbs–“a word…”
Sordidad stopped turning the wheel. The spike tips were now a scant quarter-inch from Keith’s skin, front and back. A further torture had just occurred to him… With the cruelest of smiles, he retrieved two candles from a nearby table, lit them in the fire of a brazier, and placed them on the dungeon floor, one directly under each of Keith’s soles. His big toes tied tightly to the iron rings, he could not move his bare feet away from the heat of the candle flames that flickered just three inches below. The involuntary wiggling of his toes and writhing of his feet betrayed the torture of the rising heat.
Keith glared at the sadist who would increase his suffering even as he faced the muscle-piercing agony of the Brass Maiden. “You know nothing can break me,” he muttered in steely tones as he hung between the needle-bearing plates. “You know an English sailor will bravely face death rather than submit to a Spanish dog.”
“So you say,” Sordidad smirked. “Yet your arrogant claim is contradicted by a memorable event not a month ago in this very room. An English sailor did indeed submit–thanks to the persuasiveness of red-hot needles in his naked, stocks-trapped feet and the red-hot tongs threatening his manhood. A lad named Damon, as I recall–though we barely became acquainted before he revealed to me the precise location of the Miranda, at which point his utility to me ended. As did he himself, begging for merciful release. Yet armed with his valuable information, my fleet was able to waylay and sink the Miranda, with tragic consequences for the British Navy.”
“BASTARD!!!!! AAAGHHH!!!” Keith thrashed in fury in his bonds–pulling agonizingly on his purpling thumbs and brushing one shoulderblade against a needle in the rear plate, twin twinges of pain.
“Careful, my boy,” Sordidad sneered. “The needles sit too near your body to permit any thrashing outbursts. See how close they are, ready to graze and bite your flesh. Soon they will touch your skin… then penetrate, breaking the surface… then continue on their infernal torturous path through muscle and nerve, seeking bone…. “
“SILENCE!” Sordidad shouted, lashing out and striking the kneeling Captain across the face with his riding crop. “You are trapped! There are but two options: One of you shall reveal your fleet’s plans, or this muscled young captive will perish with such infinite and agonizing slowness as to drive him insane before the spikes finish their lethal work!!!”
“GO TO HELL, YOU FUCKING BASTARD!!! TORTURE ME!!! I WILL NEVER TALK!!!”
Enraged, Sordidad turned the wheel… and at last the brass plates moved together just until the needles touched Keith’s skin…. he felt their cool sharp tips in a hundred spots on his chest, abs, and back… how ingeniously the bastard had designed the placement of the needles so that each one touched his body at the same time and with the same pressure… shorter needles caressing his large outthrust pecs, longer ones now kissing the abs tapering to his waist and the small of his back…
“Talk.” Sordidad’s voice trembled with cold fury.
“Talk.” He touched the wheel, turning it a hundredth of an inch–
“Ah….” The spikes pressed his body, none yet breaking the skin. Just the tiniest increase of pressure.
Another touch. “Aaahhhh….” Keith’s torso felt the needle tips more strongly.
“Hold out, lad….” Another touch.
“AAAAhhhh….” The first twinges of pain, all over his chest and back, from the encroaching spikes….
“Talk, damn you.” Another touch. Keith could barely even see the wheel turn–but could feel a definite increase of sensation, now approaching pain, from the brass needles…
Another turn. “AAAAhhhhh…” A gasp of pain as a spike broke the skin of his left pec muscle. So thin was the needle, though, that it pierced his skin without (yet) a drop of blood…
More painful, and distracting from the torture of the spikes, were the candles underneath his bare feet, the small flickering flames creating a buildup of heat in the same spots in his immobilized soles… Involuntarily Keith winced and flexed his body–pressing the needles a hair’s-breadth further into his muscled chest…
“Ah, you are now fully realizing the torture of the Maiden. You cannot move. Unless you remain utterly still, you will only succeed in pressing the spikes deeper into your body. Even the slightest motion–” here Sordidor reached up and tapped Keith’s shoulder with his crop–“increases the penetration.” Keith winced as his chest was nudged forward into the needles…
__________”You can’t break me,” Keith muttered through the grimace of pain on his beautiful boyish face. “No matter how you torture me with your infernal—AAAAAGHHHHH…”
Sordidor had given the wheel a sharp turn. Sudden pain shot through Keith’s body as the spikes pressed in front and back, a hundred sharp stabs in his hard muscle…. “AAAGHHHHH!! OH, GOD!!!” Another turn. The Maiden now had Keith grasped in her jaws, his torso trapped by the spikes, unable to move even if he wanted to… each needle had found its entry point, and there remained nothing but the relentless but agonizingly slow drive of each needle into his muscled flesh… deeper…. deeper…. the pain increasing exponentially with each infinitesimal fraction of an inch….
Another turn. “AAAAAAGGGHHHHH!!!! AAAAHHHH!!! PLEASE!!!!!”
“Speak or die, lad. Die in agony in the Maiden’s embrace.”
“AAAAAAAGHHHHH!!!! NO!!!!!” Every needle had now broken Keith’s smooth tanned skin.
“AAAAAAAAAAAGHHHHHH!!!!” The brass plates pressed closer.
Lieutenant Davis could was horrified to see that Midshipman Summers was being tortured to death, and he could do nothing about it. The anguished expression on his face showed that his heart ached inside his magnificent chest, as he saw the last chance to save his loyal protege being lost. No man had ever had a more wrenching conflict between loyalty to the crown and loyalty to a friend.
Suddenly…“STOP! Stop everything you are doing, right now! What the fuck is going on here?” It was the voice of Quincy Taranto, movie mogul and well known producer, head of Brennan studio.
“Hey, Quince, didn’t expect to see you on the set”, the surprised director said.
“Obviously! Now get that fucking contraption off Matt and tell me what this is all about. I just had my first look at some of the rough footage.”
“You approved when we decided that this picture would raise the bar on the appeal of masculine strength and resolve. There is a huge audience out there that gets prurient gratification when they see a man dealing defiantly with torture. And Matt and Henry both wanted to do this. They wanted this experience to enhance their own self respect.”
“What a batch of bullshit! We agreed when we went over the script that we would push the envelope on realism, but you are fucking with major studio assets here. Henry and Matt are two of our biggest box office draws. From what I’ve seen, kiss the R goodbye. Shit, Ben, not only won’t we get even an NC-17 rating, this crap wouldn’t sell on a disc in the sleaziest porn shop.”
“I’m sure that in post production, we can soften the impact of the torture scenes, and the active sex can be made a lot less overt. This is still going to be a hard hitting sequence that will appeal to the critical 18-to-39 male audience, and I’m sure, to a lot of men well beyond 39,” the director asserted. “Not only that, but I have a plan to recycle much of the footage that we know has to be cut, into an edited version that will blow away the diehards throughout the BDSM community. For that, the only rating you need is the number of erections a film can inspire.”
“We can talk about that later,” Taranto said. We have too much time and money invested in this project to dump it now, so you have me over a barrel. I want to personally approve every frame of the modified movie, and I want an explanation of where you got the authority to use the studio’s resources to make a porn video.”
“Don’t forget that I am a major investor in the film,” Ben countered. “The dummy corporation that distributes my hard core videos appropriately reimburses Brennan Studio for use of its facilities, and both Henry and Matt signed a separate contract. They wanted to play the torture scenes of the lieutenant and the midshipman for this spin-off video for their own pleasure as much as I wanted it for its commercial value.”
“So we’ll talk about that later. Right now, get on with finishing the movie I thought we were making. And incidentally, how are you going to handle the conclusion that the script calls for? You have to let the midshipman die, as it is written, or Davis won’t have the impetus to become suddenly super-powerful and overwhelm this whole sadistic crew.”
“Jonathan will think he died under the spiked vest torture, and then go into a rampage and clean out the place. The mainstream version of the movie will end with Sordidad being transported to England as a prisoner, and tortured in the Tower of London. On the way to England, Jonathan cradles Keith’s body and weeps. As he hugs his boy, the body suddenly feels warmer, and Keith realizes that his affection has turned death away. The BDSM version will go a step further; when Jonathan hugs him, Keith starts to get hard. The fadeout has them getting it on in the Tower while Sordidad screams on the rack.”
“I find it hard to believe that major stars would risk their popular appeal by letting themselves be seen in xxx-rated sex scenes. The tabloids will have a fucking orgasm right in the supermarket checkout lanes. This better not have backlash that hurts Brennan Studio.”
“Brennan himself is on board here. He wants this film for his private collection.”
“So, as I said get on with it. And if this blows up in our face, I’ll be a real Sordidad and you will be the sorriest wretch who ever got seriously racked.”
The stressed out producer having left in befuddled confusion, the director turned back to the task at hand. The next scene in sequence was to be the eruption of Jonathan’s fury, and his overcoming the Spaniards in the dungeon. This would require the service of several stunt men who had not yet arrived, so Ben called a break in the filming. He and his stars settled at a table in the commissary tent, for refreshments and for a quiet talk.
“I’m afraid the cat is out of the bag concerning your relationship,” he said to Henry and Matt.
“Quince has been around this town long enough to know that there is no such thing as a secret,” Henry said. “It has been an open secret for more than a year that Matt is my ‘boy’.”
“I have never been confronted with it, but I am sure it’s known to the people who matter,” Matt put in. “Fortunately, the people who matter don’t seem to care.”
“That’s fortunate, but when it becomes common knowledge, it is going to affect your popularity with the public, and that costs money, and like any other, it is money that drives this industry,” Ben cautioned. “Perhaps if you would tell me more about why this film was so important to you, I might be able to dodge some of the press.”
Henry sighed. “Well,” he began, “we are more than– I hate the term lovers, because it’s not really the case– but we have a dom and sub relationship.
We have the most enviable set-up in the Valley, for dungeon games and BDSM activity. It’s not gay sex, it is the masculine sport of bondage and resistance.”
“But don’t stick the term ‘submissive’ on me,” Matt insisted. “I love it when Henry chains me up for this masculine sport, but it’s a sharing, it isn’t the slave thing.”
“He’s right, Ben. You can’t say there is anything really submissive about agreeing to be tortured,” Henry asserted. “The point is, I like to get it myself once in a while. There’s no more effective way to boost your self-confidence than proving that you can deal with being tortured. But I can’t let Matt do it to me. That would spoil the images we have of each other. I want him to see me take it, but I can’t let him do it. So making this film together, with its sensational torture scenes, we have been able to share this passion in a more impersonal way.”
“This experience has filled a desire, even a need, that I had,” Matt added. “Being able to see my man, my hero, enduring these tortures– and they weren’t faked by a long shot– has reinforced the bond we have. Now everything he does to me will remind me that he has been there, and I want to take it not just from him, but for him.”
Ben was pensive for a moment, trying, but not succeeding, to understand. Then, “You said it isn’t gay sex, but I have never seen harder cocks or more explosive orgasms than what we have here on film. It’s obviously a powerful sexual experience.”
“The arousal is not in the getting, but in the taking. It is a turn-on to have your masculinity challenged and to meet that challenge, and it is a turn-on to see a real man take it like a man. When you experience both at the same time…”
“That’s a double whammy,” Matt finished Henry’s explanation.
“Ready for the prisoner revolt, sir” a stagehand announced. So they all got back to work.
The intense physical stress of Jonathan and his stunt double’s taking on the whole
Spanish garrison, left no energy to continue filming that day. It was then the next morning, which would be the last day of shooting, that the set was rearranged; the torture chamber of this Castillo being transformed into the torture chamber in the Tower of London. The actor playing Sordidad, a veteran of several sword-and-sandal films, looked magnificent on the rack, stretched tight, clad only in a shredded undergarment.
“Places,” Ben called; “Action”. The drum on the rack squeaked, the powerful chest of the handsome actor arched high, his anguished screams echoed throughout the Tower, as the two sailors embraced and licked and caressed each others’ badges of honor, the welts and stripes that made them feel like real men..