Story based on Aquadude’s Single Plate Fantasy, Danny “Scarlett” O’Hara.
The Troubles raged in Ireland from the late 1960s to the Good Friday Agreement in 1998. The formal treaty did not stop the violence, however, which continued sporadically although more covertly. Daniel Scarlett O’Hara was born in Belfast five years before the Good Friday Agreement, making him twenty-four today. Friends and relatives encouraged his parents to add the middle name Scarlett when they saw the baby’s flaming red hair. (It should be noted that this name has nothing to do with the American movie.) His parents were loyal members of the banned Provisional Irish Republican Army (IRA) and instilled in young Danny a hatred of all things British.
Danny excelled at athletics in primary grades and joined cross country running and varsity wrestling in what would be our equivalent of high school. He attended university in Dublin, where he continued wrestling. The coach of the wrestling team encouraged him to try power weight lifting, which bulked young Danny’s body into a powerhouse of muscle and moved him up two wrestling weight classes. It was at university, however, that he also joined a political club on campus dedicated to the overthrow of British rule in Northern Ireland. The club was called the Independence for Ireland, or “I Squared” to those on the inside. The group wrote letters to various newspapers, including the Belfast Independent Voice, a holdover publication from the days of The Troubles. They also sponsored visiting speakers to the Dublin campus, although attendance was always sparse. Most of the people in southern Ireland, around Dublin, were indifferent to what Northern Ireland was doing, especially after the violence of the preceding decades. Readers of the Belfast Independent Voice, however, were still strongly stirred up about overthrowing British rule and uniting the whole island as a republic.
Both the British Army and the Belfast Royal Ulster Constabulary (RUC) were involved in the original battles for independence. After the treaty established Northern Ireland as a British Protectorate, the army greatly reduced their presence in the area, leaving most of the on-going peace keeping to the RUC. Monitors within the RUC carefully read the Belfast Independent Voice, noting names and organizations which they would then watch for illegal activities. The I Squared club in Dublin was on their watch list, but, as student group, they were somewhat far down the list in terms of importance.
That status changed abruptly when Danny O’Hara graduated.
Danny’s degree was in political science. It was a natural major considering his political upbringing, but, as many poly sci majors find after graduation, not a good prospect for finding actual paying work. His major stroke of luck – or unluck as some might view it – was an interview at the Belfast Independent Voice. The newspaper was looking for young talent and Danny’s strong political convictions were appealing. They interviewed him for a job on the editorial staff; he would be writing analysis pieces and editorials. Danny was a passable writer, but he was hired more for his strong ideals than his skills. In addition, the editor-in-chief had an eye for hunky young men and immediately took a liking to young Danny.
Danny had flirted with girls all though school, but there was something missing in his sexual encounters with them. From his intense wrestling activities he was used to handling high levels of pain. He liked to dish it out to opponents, of course, relentlessly pursuing a pin, but there was a deeper feeling when he was on the receiving end. He found that he had a very high level for tolerating pain, but something else was activated inside his head – and his crotch. He found the pain sexually stimulating.
Many totally straight wrestlers feel this way and there are ample videos on Youtube featuring wrestlers with hardons. A roaring hard rod is difficult to conceal in a tight singlet. It’s also amusing to watch an aroused wrestler mash the opponent’s face into his bulging crotch.
All these strong feelings on the wrestling mats are reinforced in the locker room and showers. Initiation rites for new team members are often highly sensual in nature, featuring both pain and sexual pleasure – at least for those on the giving end. And then there’s the shower antics, oh my. Many wrestlers engage in submission wrestling just to show how manly they are. In submission wrestling the looser has to allow total sexual subservience to the winner. Often the matches are “no holds barred,” and in the shower afterwards it’s “no holes barred.”
So the link in Danny’s neural wiring was long set up between the pain and sexual pleasure centers in his brain. Many straight young men so wired seek out Dominatrices, essentially leather Women Who enjoy inflicting pain on tied up men. Danny tried that right after he graduated from university, but found the experience lacking. For one thing, most of the Leather Ladies were far too chatty and insisted on never-ending dialog with the vics. Danny preferred to be a strong, silent type. Real men don’t talk under pain; they simply take it. They are permitted to scream.
Because he was convinced he was straight, Danny had to go online for the “right” kind of S&M. He wound up visiting male on male sites because the tortures seemed to be real, far more real than the Femdom stuff. Even a good JO, however, while listening to men scream under the lash, was not as satisfying as his memories of university locker rooms and showers. What to do?
Caught on Camera, Twice
Part of Danny’s job at the newspaper was distributing flyers about upcoming political rallies and various special speaker events. The paper printed up the flyers and Danny and a few other newbies posted them throughout downtown Belfast. North Queen Street and east Antrim were prime loyalist target areas for the anti-British or nationalist postings sponsored by the British Independence Voice with minor assistance from I Squared chapters. That particular Tuesday Danny tacked up three dozen posters announcing a major Irish independence rally for the coming weekend.
He was unaware he was trailed by an innocuous black sedan with two plain-clothes men BUC policemen inside. The passenger had a camera with a long telephoto lens. He took a lot of pictures.
The second major incident took place at the advertised weekend rally. There was a major clash between the nationalist supporters for independence and the pro-British loyalists. The police were on hand, of course, since the chance for violence was ten on a scale of ten. Unfortunately two BUC guys were roughed over by the crowd and required hospitalization. This time hundreds of pictures were taken. By happenstance, Danny was featured in many of them. Subsequent photoanalysis of the debacle sealed his fate and the connection was solidly made: Danny was an IRA terrorist.
“Pick the bastard up,” BUC Sergeant Coyle yelled at his subordinates. “I want his ass in here!”
The bolo went out with Danny’s picture and he was picked up that very day as he left the Belfast Independence Voice offices. The snatch was quick and efficient. The few passersby on the street near the black van chose to ignore what they saw as Danny was cuffed and shoved into the vehicle. Since the officers were wearing police uniforms, everything seemed in order. Ski masks would have been outré and rather silly.
The van laid rubber as it sped off down the Donegal Road. Danny was quickly gagged with a professional ball gag and his head covered in a hemp bag. The opening of the bag was secured around his neck with a cord and his feet were also tied.
He screamed into the gag: “What the fuck is this!? Let me out of here!!” Or at least that’s what it sounded like to the four BUC policemen as the gag garbled his speech. They grinned and laughed as Danny struggled on the floor of the van. To begin the festivities with the new vic, two of the policemen stripped off his jacket and shredded his T-shirt, baring his big chest.
“Whoa!” one of the cops said. “This one’s a big buck!” Then he shouted out to his companions: “Good hunting, lads! We bagged a big one! The Commandant will be very happy!”
The other policemen laughed. They knew their future would include some whiskey, single malt Irish, of course; some harsh interrogation; a lot of screaming from the new buck; and a very good chance they would all get their rocks off up his muscular ass. They changed over the initial handcuffs to leather wrist cuffs. Each cuff had a length of chain hanging from it. The chain ends were secured behind Danny’s back with a large padlock.
The car sped to BUC HQ located in a quite secure section of loyalist Belfast.
“Sir!” the duty officer at the police HQ said into the intercom, “Sir, Car 84 has the suspect and is ten minutes out.”
“Excellent,” the burly BUC station Commandant grunted. “Tell me when they arrive.”
“Sir, yes, Sir!” the voice answered. The staff had been well trained to respond with respect.
Commandant Sullivan broke the connection and thought through the protocol one more time. As soon as the suspect got to HQ, he would inform Scotland Yard on a secure line. Two “special investigators” would be immediately dispatched. The term was a euphemism for professional torturers. Unlike their predecessors in the Inquisition, these guy would travel light. Electro-torture equipment fit into their suitcases quite easily along with a cattle prod, spare batteries, and a bull whip. Only overnight bags were needed since routine interrogations never took more than two days. Their longest was four days and that was five years ago with a very resistant Arab stud. That particular one had endured almost lethal levels of electricity and broke only when knives were taken to his anatomy, beginning with his manhood. All the other victims of their interrogations broke under electro or the whip.
“Sir!” the intercom barked. “Sir, the terrorist is here, Sir!”
“Thank you. Take him down to the cellar, Room Four.”
“Sir, yes, Sir!” came the enthusiastic reply. The policemen knew that Room Four was reserved for intense interrogations as well as highly anticipated sexual humiliations.
Once the police van entered the parking area within the building, the cloth bag was untied and pulled off his head. All the police officers marveled at his flaming red hair, his muscular build, and the crotch bulge in his tight, tan pants. Then the ball gag was unstrapped and unshipped from his mouth.
Danny started to yell and curse his captors: “Let me out of here you Brit buggers! Let me go!”
The duty sergeant who had met the police van when it arrived moved over close to Danny and slapped him across the mouth.
“Shut up, Irish pig!” the man shouted. “This is British soil. We don’t cotton to your type around here!”
Danny was disinclined to protest further. Better to save his energy and beat the bastards at their own game. He then was force-marched through the police building. Heads turned as the other officers and office staff saw the muscular young man pass by. All of them knew he was headed for the basement.
They went down a long staircase deep into the dank basement. They walked along a stone corridor and stopped at a stout wooden door with “Number Four” written in black magic marker. Two officers opened the heavy door and forced Danny into the brightly lit room. The Commandant was already in the room awaiting the prisoner. He had changed from his regular uniform into a menacing medieval outfit: tight black pants, bare chest, and a partial hood covering his face and head much like a skimask. He held a multi-tailed whip. He loved the charade. His outfit was totally unexpected by the various prisoners. He liked it because it threw them off guard and was very intimidating. It also fit the medieval look of Room Four which had two real torches on the walls and a heavily grated window.
“String him up, lads,” the Commandant ordered.
The policemen unlocked the leather wrist cuffs and traded them for heavy, metal cuffs hanging from overhead chains. They stretched Danny’s arms out in a spread eagle fashion.
“Good. Now strip those pants off him and let’s get down to business.”
Hands quickly pulled Danny’s tan pants down and off his legs and then shredded his briefs, freeing his cock and balls. His dick was half-hard from the pains he had felt in the van. He struggled and pulled against the chains, protesting and demanding release. Then he remembered the slap in the face and his resolve to remain silent.
“Would you look at that, lads!” the Commandant grinned. “Nice cock and balls, and his cock is already reacting! Ha! I’ll bet the girls would like this one. Shame all he’s going to get are men!”
The guards joined in the laughter as they all removed their own uniform blouses, hanging them on a series of hooks on one of the stone walls. Danny blushed scarlet at the humiliation of being naked in front of all the Brit buggers. His face matched his flaming red hair as well as his red pubes.
“Sergeant O’Malley,” the Commandant ordered his second in command. “Get another whip and let’s have some fun with this one!”
“Sir, yes, Sir!” the officer replied. He retrieved a whip from a hook on the wall and took up a position on the opposite side of Danny to where the Commandant was standing.
The Commandant moved in closer to Danny. He reached out with his fingers and thumb in a V-shape. Then he palmed the V against Danny’s right pec and pushed the thick muscle up and down. Danny glared at him, defiance in his eyes. The man ran his hands over Danny’s ripped abs, tracing out the valleys between the mounds of muscle.
“Oh, yes,” the Commandant leered at their strong captive. “You’re going to provide a lot of fun while we make you talk!”
“Go to hell!” Danny said quietly, forgetting his resolve. “You’ll get nothing from me!”
“Can you imagine that?” the Commandant said, turning to his men. “We haven’t even asked him anything yet!”
Then he faced back to Danny. “No, we don’t expect you to say anything. At least not yet. We’re just getting started. And the first lesson you’ll learn is pain. We’re very good at administering pain, but we like to do it very slowly. We don’t have a lot of fancy equipment, just some whips. But that’ll be a good beginning. There’s two guys from Scotland Yard on their way here. Should be here late tomorrow. They’re the pros with pain and they have all the latest equipment. You won’t last long once they get at you! But, in the meantime, we’re going to soften you up a bit!”
He slashed the multi-tail across Danny’s ass. The whip tore into Danny’s ass cheeks, creating a harsh swath of red across the white skin.
Danny yelled from the sudden pain: “A-a-g-h! A-a-h-h!” It hurt like hell but wasn’t the agony he had expected.
Then the sergeant on his other side slashed Danny with his whip. This landed high on his back. Danny yelled and pulled violently against the chains. He was totally helpless, like he was in a wrestling hold he couldn’t escape from. His cock responded to the college wrestling wiring and pumped up.
The Commandant had to comment: “Look at that, lads! He’s getting a woodie. I think he likes getting whipped!” The other policemen in the torture room laughed and pointed lewdly to Danny’s cock, now angling up from his crotch. They secretly wished they were as well-endowed as their Irish captive.
The whip had raised painful welts, the sight of which spurred the torture-lust of the Commandant and his sergeant. Nothing was so erotic as red welts on lily-white Irish terrorist skin. The Commandant’s tights revealed his own hardon.
Danny is whipped mercilessly. Not to break the skin, but to sting like hell. He utters not a word. Even his screams are stifled by shear will power, reduced to grunts and sharp breaths as he steels himself to resist his captors. He pulled against the chains, mounding his arm and shoulder muscles. His skin was covered in sweat. Thin rivulets ran down his back and chest and legs. Droplets were flung from his huge hardon as it bobbed with his body movements reacting to the intense pain of the whipping.
After an hour of constant lashes, his ass cheeks glowed cherry red and his back was crisscrossed by wide red welts. There were a few droplets of blood which mixed with sweat and streaked his back with vertical stripes, but the beating was short of a true flesh-shearing flogging.
The Commandant signaled to his subordinate for the whipping to stop. He moved to Danny’s back and ran his finger over the smarting welts, digging his index fingernail into the red ridges. Danny cringed into a spasm of muscular contractions. Every major muscle group of his big body was cramped tight. All the muscular striations were visible as he pulled with all his might against the chains. They held, of course, and all he succeeded in was hurting his wrists even more. The skin under the metal cuffs was already chaffed raw.
The two whippers resumed their stances to either side of the captive O’Hara boy. They resumed their whipping targeting Danny’s big chest and muscular stomach. Blow after blow fell on his big torso turning the white skin bristly red. He almost screamed as the Commandant’s whip hit low on his abs, very close to his angled hardon, but his sex tool was spared a direct blow. It remained hard, however, and now his balls were drawn up tight and aching for some kind of release.
The beating went on and on. Danny dropped into a dream-like trance, immersed in a huge ocean of red pain. He grunted. He yelled a few times. He cramped and mounded all his big muscles again, making them ache from the abuse. There was no escape from the stinging lashes. Again he was in a tight wrestling hold and couldn’t get out. Again his internal pleasure/pain wiring went haywire with extreme stimulation. He was back in university, tied up in the locker room by the wrestling squad, as the team captain worked him over with a strap.
Then the unthinkable happened: his cock started to cum, hands-free, totally aroused from the pleasure/pain of the beating, the re-enactment of his university torments. His dick shot out young man jism several yards in all directions as it bobbed from his crotch. The tormentors were stunned and stopped lashing him with the whips. They watched in amazement as Danny Scarlett O’Hara’s cock shot streamers of cum in all directions as the young man’s hips thrust in a faux fuck motion. Danny yelled out his pleasure at each eruption of cum. Room Four echoed with “Ya! Ya!! Ya!” the punctuation of his joy juice pumping. White cum strings laced the Commandant’s black tights with a few spurts even reaching his burly chest. He stood there with his lower jaw hanging down, open-mouthed in awe of what he was seeing.
Once again Danny’s face flushed deep red from the humiliation of what had just transpired. He knew it was automatic, virtually beyond his control, but he was still mortified and embarrassed. Finally the sex spasm was over. His big cock drooped down and started to soften. Drops of jism glistened in the lights as they dripped from his scarlet cockhead. He could feel a wave of post-sex exhaustion begin to sweep over his body and he almost sagged in the chains in the afterglow of an extremely intense climax.
The Commandant recovered from his amazement and walked in front of Danny.
“Now you have felt our pain,” he said, gazing intensely into Danny’s deep brown eyes. He noticed small streams of tears emerging from the sides of his captive’s eyes. He thought that a good sign of a psychological change in the vic, a resignation to his fate that could be capitalized on.
So he continued: “We have you on film posting flyers for the insurrection rally held last weekend. We also have you at the insurrection in which two of my good men were severely hurt. They had to be hospitalized even! What I want from you is the names of your associates, the ones who organized the rally! You know who they are and you will tell us their names.
Danny Scarlett O’Hara defiantly tells his British captor that he will never give him information about the rebels. He looks the Commandant in the eye and repeats his oath.
The Commandant pauses for a minute. “This time tomorrow you will change your tune, I guarantee you that! We will get the names we need! In the meantime I only want to abuse and humiliate you for my own pleasure,” he replies wickedly.
“Gentlemen,” he commands the guards. “Leave us now! Put your shirts on and go back to your normal duties. Sergeant Coyle and I will resume interrogating the terrorist!”
The policemen quickly complied with his order and left the room, closing the massive wooden door behind them. Only the Commandant and Coyle were left in the room.
The Commandant went behind Danny and moved in directly against his back and ass, grinding his crotch into the young man’s blistered ass cheeks.
“Now we will see how much courage you have left in you, boy!” he said quietly. He lowered the waist of his black tights, releasing his Monster Commandant Cock from its cotton confines. Then he moved the engorged cockhead up and down Danny’s sweaty ass crack, teasing the young man, taunting him with the sure knowledge of what was to come.
“No!” Danny suddenly cried out. “No! Not that! Stop!”
The Commandant smiled and held his Monster in his hand, directing the cockhead to Danny’s quivering asshole. Danny went wild in the chains, trying to escape the invasion. He was again trapped. The evil Commandant reached around Danny’s body and locked his hands solidly against Danny’s lower abs. He slowly increased the pressure in his hips, forcing his cockhead to open Danny’s tight hole muscle. Danny tried to resist, but nobody can keep a determined cockhead out.
Danny cried out in anguish as the Commandant’s Monster slid through his asshole into his gut. He tensed all his muscles in an instinctive almost feral attempt to escape, but the lust-driven police commander plowed on, stroking his piston cock in and out of Danny’s ravaged ass. Danny grunted and almost cried as the man violated his most secret hole in full view of the Sergeant who was egging his superior on with cries of delight. Danny’s moniker Scarlett was again seen on his face and neck as the young man was plunged into the despair of humiliation. It was again unthinkable.
The Commandant prolonged his rape of the young man, slowly moving himself to climax, savoring each grunt, each cry of anguish from his captive muscleman. Then he approached his own climax, slamming his hips against Danny’s beet red ass. He yelled out his pleasure as he pumped load after load of Commandant Cum into the young man’s guts. Danny almost vomited from the violation of his manhood. He desperately tried to escape but the chains held him totally captive and subservient to whatever the Commandant wanted to do. It was abuse and humiliation, indeed. He didn’t know which was worse: the whipping or the rape.
The Commandant hung onto his young man’s body for several minutes but then pulled out. Turning to the Sergeant, he simply said: “Coyle. Your turn.”
Danny went wild in the chain bondage realizing he had to endure yet another violation. Part of his anger was the knowledge that he was powerless to stop it. Again he came close to crying, but finally got control of himself and steeled himself for the humiliation to come.
Coyle got into position and rammed his rod up Danny’s already ravaged ass. He was brutal but blessedly quick. He and Danny yelled at the end, Coyle from pleasure, Danny from deep embarrassment. He again earned his nickname Scarlett as Sergeant Coyle withdrew his dick.
Danny did not know what they would do to him next! He was submerged in confusion and humiliation. The Commandant wanted to continue the abuse so he started to beat Danny on the ass with his open hand, like he was punishing a child. The beating hurt since Danny’s ass skin was already welted from the earlier whipping, and he yelled out from the pain. But there was a something more, a strong current of further humiliation. It was decidedly unmanly to get spanked by another man! This simple discipline was so totally cruel when practiced on an adult.
The Commandant’s spanking left startlingly red handprints, even redder than the background skin. He moved from cheek to cheek, enjoying the sight as Danny’s lean glutes vibrated and wiggled under his administrations. A small stream of jism oozed from Danny’s asshole and ran down the young man’s thick thighs. It was a picture of perfect abuse! So perfect, in fact, that Sergeant Coyle grabbed his cell phone and took several shots of the spanking. The Commandant grinned his pleasure at his subordinate’s initiative.
After the beating and the picture taking, the Commandant called an end to that evening’s festivities. “I need to rest a bit, my boy,” he said to Coyle. “Let’s get some tea and call it quits for tonight.”
“Sir, yes, Sir!” Coyle responded, always eager to agree.
They lowered Danny’s arms from the overhead chains, but recuffed them behind his back.
“Go over to the corner over there,” the Commandant said to his totally spent captive. “There’s a pile of straw over there. You will sleep on that. You can’t escape; the door will be heavily bolted shut.”
Danny dragged himself over to the corner of the room and collapsed onto the thin layer of straw. Coyle was directed to secure Danny’s ankles together, which he did with metal cuffs. With his hands and feet bound in metal, Danny knew there would be no escaping from Room Four.
The two policemen blew out the wall torches and turned off the ceiling lights. Then they left the room, swinging the heavy door back closed. Danny heard metal sounds as some kind of locking device was activated on the outside of the door. The room was in partial darkness without the torch or ceiling lights. A shaft of moonlight shone through the grated window high on the wall above his straw bed. The shaft of light threw the shadows of the hanging ceiling chains onto the stone floor.
Just before he fell asleep he sobbed a little bit, overwhelmed by the hopelessness of his situation and terribly frightened of what the two experts from Scotland Yard might have in store for him on the morrow. More pain, surely, but perhaps of an intensity far beyond what he had felt so far. How much could he take? How much could a young man in the prime of his life endure? Would he be forced to reveal the names of his cohorts? What other sexual perversions would be inflicted on him?
He did eventually fall asleep.
More Softening Up
The Commandant and his trust Sergeant Coyle kicked Danny awake the next morning. He groaned at the pain in his ribs from their boots.
“Stand up, scumbag!” the Commandant ordered, kicking Danny again.
Danny jumped up as fast as he could with his hands and feet cuffed. He almost lost his balance. The minimal peace of sleep was quickly replaced by his dread of what they would be doing to him, how they would cause him more pain. But he also had the deeper fear that today the two torturers from Scotland Yard were due in. What they would do to him was unimaginable at this point, amping up his fear.
“Move over against that post,” the Commandant ordered. He gestured to a heavy wooden post embedded in the stone floor and extending into the ceiling. The post had a set of rings two feet higher than his head with an additional set at the bottom. It was a whipping post.
There was only a short chain between his ankle cuffs, so Danny had to very carefully watch his step as he baby-walked over to the post.
“Chest to post, scumbag!” Coyle cut in.
Coyle reached for Danny’s wrist cuffs, lifted his arms over his head, and clipped the cuffs to one of the overhead rings. Then he bent down and ran a metal clip between a link in the ankle cuff chain and one of the lower rings. Danny was stretched out against the post, his back and ass totally exposed to whatever punishment the pair was going to inflict.
Coyle removed a pair of leather gloves from his pocket and gave them to his superior. The Commandant pulled the thin gloves onto his hands and smacked his right wrist into his left palm several times. The leather on leather sound was unmistakable. Danny was going to be punched.
The Commandant wasted no further time. He landed a one-two combination punch directly to Danny’s mid-back, right over his kidneys. The pain was instant and excruciating. “A-a-g-h!” echoed off the stone in Room Four once again. Then a series of single blows, each spaced out in time, but delivered with devastating force. Danny struggled in the bondage, grinding his chest against the rough wood of the post, grinding his teeth to somehow take the pain without crying out any further.
His plan didn’t work. The pain slowly mounted in his torso as his kidneys were pounded by the punching. He had to scream: “A-a-g-h! A-a-h! No!! Stop!”
The Commandant worked his way up Danny’s back, crunching muscle against ribs. The pain took Danny’s breath away and he gasped for air in between screams. The Commandant was expert at this kind of punishment and the hardon in his black tights attested to his arousal. He loved to punch prisoners, hear them scream, watch their big muscles cramp as they struggled against the post.
Some prisoners in the past tried to knock themselves out by pounding their heads against the wood. Coyle was prepared for this. He had a leather strap to run around the vic’s neck, pulling his head in against the wood and removing that option for blacking out. Danny didn’t try this, but only because he didn’t think of it.
The torment continued. The Commandant was now working over Danny’s lower back and expanded his target areas to the sides, which was incredibly painful. The gasping and screaming continued.
Then nothing. The man had stopped punching him. Danny could hear him breathing heavily. It was almost like a workout in a gym! Coyle handed him a bottle of water, which he gurgled down. Danny was left dry-mouthed from all the screaming and panting.
Coyly unfastened Danny’s wrists from the overhead ring and forced the young lad to turn around with his back to the post. Then he refastened the cuffs, again stretching Danny out. Initially Danny had thought the torment was over but when Coyle recuffed him facing out from the post, that option disappeared and he knew he was in for yet another round.
The Commandant moved in real close to Danny, locking eyes with him. “Once again, young Scarlett, you have the chance to tell me the names of your cohorts involved with that political rally. I don’t want the names of the guys who were there. We already have that from the photographs. I want to know who was behind the rally. Who really is directing this rebellion? You and your friends are the brawn. Who are the brains? Tell me or suffer more.”
Danny said nothing. He ground his teeth to ensure he didn’t make a sound.
“That’s your decision, I see,” the Commandant said quietly. “You are so stupid. You owe these people nothing! Nothing you or they can do will change the politics here. Northern Ireland will remain loyal to the crown forever! In the meantime, however, we will hurt you some more. I told you yesterday we enjoy abusing your body. And we will enjoy humiliating you further when we face fuck you! And then the real pain pros will take over. I guarantee they’ll break you. Nobody can withstand their very advanced techniques. Nobody! You’ll be spilling your guts out in no time, trust me. But, as I said, in the meantime, we will have our fun with you!”
Then he backed off a few more inches and landed a stunning right round house blow directly on Danny’s solar plexus, crushing the front of the muscle with leather-clad force. Danny let out an animal-like bellow as the pain exploded in his gut. This was followed in quick succession with a left hand round house, then a left-right combination, repeated yet again.
Danny was convulsed with pain. He wanted to bend over but couldn’t. He pulled against the cuffs, hurting his wrists. He flexed his thick arm and shoulder muscles, anything to distract him from the roaring pain in his stomach.
Then a series of upper cuts to the tops of his abs, just below the rib cage. Then the monster moved down Danny’s abs, brutalizing the lower stretches of taut muscle. Then hard punches directly to his pecs, reddening the skin and mashing the muscle mass against his own bones.
There was no end to the torment and his screaming. Danny started to feel nauseous in his stomach from the repeated blows. His diaphragm started to go into spasms. The Commandant knew the reaction. It was a prelude to the vic throwing up.
He stopped the punches as Danny’s stomach lurched and quivered. Then he threw up. But he had had nothing to eat from the past day and a half; there was nothing in his stomach but fluid. The gastric juices dribbled out of his mouth as he hung there in agony. He was humiliated when the Commandant and Coyle started to laugh at him. Then he went into the dry heaves. Every move of his internal organs made him ache. His stomach in particular hurt like hell from the pointless heaving. Each spasm was like a knife tearing at his guts. The Commandant increased the torment by pushing his fist strongly into Danny’s quivering abs, forcing the young man back against the whipping post.
“Whew!” the Commandant finally said to his aide. “I need some tea! This has been quite a workout!”
“Sir, you did good, Sir!” the sycophant replied. “Sir, tea would be quite nice right now!”
The two of them left Room Four. There was no need to bolt the door. Danny was left hanging against the wooden whipping post, alone with his fears, his disgust, his total hatred of the men torturing him. He was further depressed when his cock, responding to the bondage and torture, angled up rock hard from his crotch. “Go away!” he yelled at it. It stayed hard.
The Pros Arrive
Danny was alone for several hours. His arms and shoulders were aching badly from the stretched-out position. He tried to stand tall to lessen the strain on his wrist cuffs. That brought a tiny level of relief to his otherwise aching body.
He heard voices in the corridor and then four men walked into the room. One was the Commandant, who had changed into uniform pants without a shirt. The other was Coyle, similarly dressed. The two newcomers wore black slacks and black golf shirts, short-sleeved and collared. Each of them carried a small metallic suitcase.
“Ah, good, Commandant,” one of them said. “I see you have done the usual preliminaries. Did he give you any information?”
“No, Sir, he didn’t,” the Commandant answered. Danny was surprised to hear the “sir” in his address. Clearly they outranked him.
The other man came over to Danny and ran his hands up and down the young man’s chest, noting the heavy red marks from the gut punching. “Hmmm,” he said to his cohort. “Looks like the buck took a lot.”
“Yes, Sir, he did,” the Commandant said. “But the bastard still held his tongue!”
“That’s OK,” the first man said. “That won’t last long.” He also came over and felt out Danny’s chest and abs. Then he reached down and cruelly grabbed Danny’s balls in his hand, pulling them slightly away from his crotch. “These won’t last long, either,” he added, smiling faintly as he looked Danny in the eye.
“I want him moved to the other room, the one with the heavy table,” he continued, looking over at the Commandant.
“Yes, Sir, I know the room you mean. That’s the one you used last time, Sir. Right?”
“Yes, that’s the one,” the man replied. “Please see to it. We’re going upstairs for some tea.”
“Yes, Sir!” the Commandant obsequiously replied.
The two Scotland Yarders walked out of the room. Coyle unclipped Danny’s hands. Danny was overwhelmed with relief as he lowered his arms in front of him. Then Coyle unclipped Danny’s ankle chain. Coyle grabbed Danny’s right arm by the bicep and the Commandant grabbed the other arm. They force marched him, actually dragged him, out of Room Four and into the corridor.
They entered a room which had no marking on the door. This one was also brightly lit, but the three main lights shone directly onto a long, heavy table in the center of the room. They forced Danny to mount up onto the table. While the Commandant held Danny’s feet in his bear grip, Coyle unchained Danny’s wrist cuffs, stretched each arm out towards a corner of the table, and attached stout chains from cuffs to table legs, securing Danny’s wrists in a spread out fashion.
The Commandant then unfastened Danny’s ankle chains, splayed his legs out towards the other corners of the table, and similarly chained them to the table legs. Danny was spread eagled on the table. The chains were stretched out tight; there was minimal room for any movement.
Fear now built up in Danny’s aching gut, a cold know in his stomach, a wave of dread sweeping over his brain. Well, he told himself, this was going to be it. He had no idea what they were going to do to him, although the man’s earlier comments about his nuts was unnerving. How could he live if he wasn’t a man anymore? What good was a phenomenal physique and flaming red hair going to do if he lost his manhood? Nothing is so unnerving to a man as a direct threat to his manhood, especially to a young man with his whole life still ahead of him.
Prep for a Trip to Hell
Danny stewed on the table for a good hour. He knew, of course, that this was part of the torture, letting him wallow in his fear and dread. Knowing that still hadn’t lessened any of that same fear and dread. He was already sweating profusely even though the room was not overly hot.
Voices in the corridor signaled their return. Danny swallowed loudly as the four men entered the room. The two new guys put their suitcases on the floor and removed several strange objects. Danny couldn’t see directly what they were until they put them onto the table. There were two black, metal boxes with dials and switches on them. One of the men untangled some mains supply cords, stretched them out, and plugged them into a wall receptacle. He switched the receptacle on and the dials on both boxes lit up.
The other man was sorting out various cables. The cables ended in a variety of clips and clamps. The other ends had small plugs. Working slowly and methodically, electrodes were applied to his genitals. A dab of jelly was spread around each area and then the electrodes were applied. Clamps were attached to his testicles and screwed to put tension on the clamp jaws. A strange ring of wire was threaded over Danny’s cockhead. The ring had a loop of wire extending above it. The outer end of the loop was inserted into Danny’s piss slit, while the ring was centered just under his glans. A thin band of Velcro was wrapped around the base of his cock and pulled in tightly.
As each electrode was attached, the other man sorted out the cable and plugged it into a jack on the side of the box. Each jack was labeled but Danny couldn’t read the small words from where he was. Satisfied with the setup for one box, they went to work on the other. This one had pads which had conductive adhesive on one side. They positioned the pads with four on his lower abs and four on his inner thighs, two to a leg. The last set of electrodes were alligator clamps which they clipped onto Danny’s nipples after twisting each of them erect. Danny grunted from the sharp pain as the metal teeth dug into the tender nip flesh.
One of the men noted Danny’s grunts. “We haven’t even begun to work you over, boy,” he said derisively, grinning at Danny.
Then the other man intervened. “Let me explain what’s going to happen,” he began. “You are going to experience electro-torture at its finest. Electricity will be sent to your junk, I mean, your cock and balls. That will hurt unbelievably and you could lose both your balls and your dick like a bar-b-que. The pads on your legs and abs will make the muscles cramp like you’re doing a hundred reps in the gym. And, of course, electricity to your nipples will make your pec muscles cramp and ache. We don’t use those electrodes in older men. There’s always a danger of shorting out their hearts. But young guys like you? Your heart will be the least of your problems! Harry, why don’t you explain how effective this is going to be?”
The other guy continued the preamble: “You’ll scream a lot and struggle and pull against the chains, but in the end, this will break you. It always works! I mean, every man has a limit, a level of pain where his mind just gives up. It says ‘I just can’t take this anymore. All I have to do is name a few names and all this will stop.’ That’s what will happen to you. I guarantee it!” he added with gusto. OK, Danny-boy, let’s get started!”
The first man had a few more comments: “These little boxes control the current to the various electrodes. The control knob has ten settings. We start at number 2. That will make your cock tingle and get hard for us. Then no more tingle. We’ll go up to 4 or 5. That’s genuine pain, my boy, the real thing. Maybe you’ll break then, maybe not. Doesn’t matter. We’ll go to 6 and then 7 if we have to. That’s where even the big guys like you break. We’ve only had to go to 8 twice in ten years. For the record, we don’t use number 9. That fries your junk too quickly. Hey, no fun in that, is there! Number 10 is lethal, which would defeat the whole exercise. No, we’ll cruise between 5 and 7. That’s where you’ll break, somewhere in there.”
Danny listened to this in stony silence. He had heard of electricity to the genitals, but had no idea of how refined the torture could be.
One of the men threw a switch on the box to Danny’s right. There was an immediate tingle to his cock, as they had predicted. It was very sensual, delicious even. The shape of the pulse varied from zero to a mild peak. This alternated with a steady zinging pulse, which was designed to drive men mad with arousal. And it worked its usual magic: Danny’s cock quickly responded and was rock hard, dripping precum even. He moaned from the pleasure radiating from his crotch. It was so warm, so inviting, so sexual.
They let him cruise here for a minute, ensuring his hardon was totally up. Danny did not know it but the lower electrode, the strap around the base of his dick, would ensure his hardon stayed up, despite the pain he was headed for. Then they went to real pain.
Cock and Ball Pain
The man reached over and abruptly turned the control know to the number 5 setting. Danny was almost breathless as the intense pain shot through his cock and balls. Then he screamed. He suddenly pulled against the chains holding him spread eagle on the table; the metal links ground loudly together, barely audible in the background of his wild screaming. His big muscle groups mounded to attention. Veins popped. Striations appeared under his skin from the strain. And he screamed.
They held him in this state for a good half minute, and then changed the pulse shape. This shape started at zero, which remained for a few seconds. Then the current slowly ascended up the hill to an agonizing peak, a full number 5. It held there for a random duration and then suddenly dropped off back to zero. Danny’s level of convulsion followed the pulse shape. He was in a collapsed state at zero, stiffened progressively as the current built up, and then his muscles went into a rictus of contraction at the peak. When the controller stopped the current, he collapsed again like a puppet with the strings suddenly cut.
The torture went on for easily a half hour. All the time parameters were randomized so Danny had no idea of the interval between peaks, the slope of the approach to peak, or, the worst, the duration of the peak. He was now screaming uncontrollably, pulling on the chains like a caged animal. When the current was temporarily zero, he yelled for them to stop: “No!! No-o-o! Stop! I beg you!!” This quickly changed to “A-a-g-h! A-a-h!” when the current peaked. His cock swung back and forth with his body movements, flinging drops of precum in a wide circle. There was a pool of sweat on the table top under his body. His normally bushy, flaming red hair was matted down to his scalp. He had never felt such pain in all his twenty-four years. Plus, the thought that his cock and balls, his basic manhood plumbing, was being cooked by the current increased the fear factor tenfold.
Just as sudden as the initial onslaught, the torture was ended, the controller turned off. Danny was left panting breathlessly, his big chest and ridged abs rising and falling with his efforts to get air.
One of the men moved in close to his head. “That was just the beginning, boy,” he leered at Danny. “We are just getting started. We will give you this one chance to tell us what we want to know. After that, there will be no letup until you break down and finally realize that’s what you have to do to make the pain stop. Before you answer, however, we’re going to give you some time to think about all this. You’ve had a taste of what these little boxes can do. And that was only number 5. Remember, we can take you to 6 and even 7. Each number is about ten times worse than the previous. At least that’s what it feels like. If we have to go there, you won’t be good for very much afterward. Think about that, boy. Who’s going to want a stud with no plumbing! So, we’re going for a tea break. You’ll have some time to think about this whole situation you’re in. Then we’ll talk.”
The four of them left the room, turning out the lights as they left. Danny was now in total darkness, alone with the residual ache in his cock and balls, alone with his fears.
What To Do?
Danny was seriously confounded. He knew his duty to his country and his comrades. The recent tortures had done nothing but increase his hatred for all things British, and his determination to carry on with the rebellion. But the recent tortures, especially the electro, was very disquieting and raised serious questions as to what he could actually endure, how much pain he could really take.
He knew pain from intense gym work and from some of his university antics with the wrestling team, but this was way different. This was genuine torture, not voluntary play acting. It was intense, out of his control, forced upon him, rendering him powerless to act. No, that wasn’t completely true. He could give in and end the torment. This would save his manhood and his sanity, but it would be a betrayal of his countrymen. He would be a traitor.
It was this last thought which finally won. He couldn’t bear living as a traitor. It would dishonor his parents, all his comrades, his whole life. It would also condemn his comrades! OMG, that would be worse than his own dishonor. He would be condemning them to God knows what, maybe even tortures like he had just endured. No! He had to resist!
His resolve was undermined, however, by the on-going question: how much pain can I really take? Could they really break me? If number 5 was so horrible, what would 6 or 7 be, insane? Incomprehensible? Unendurable for any man? Would his junk really be ruined? Would it be “junk” in the real sense of the word after all this?
He had heard of other comrades who were captured by the BUC and tortured. He was told they returned broken men, almost unable to formulate a coherent sentence. Many took to drugs, avoiding all social contacts. Some even committed suicide. Would that be his fate? What would happen to a broken twenty-four year old stud? What good was being a stud if his manhood and life were ruined?
The “resist” thought still won out, but there was a lot of erosion by all these fears. He just wasn’t one hundred percent sure.
His thoughts were interrupted by a blaze of light as the men returned and the three bright lights directly above him flared on.
One of the torturers, perhaps the senior one, leered into Danny’s face. “Decision time, boy,” he said quietly. “What will it be, you give us the names or we give you much more pain?”
Danny decided to say nothing in reply, clearly indicating his choice. The interrogator smiled. “Good choice, boy,” he continued to leer. “We came up here for some entertainment and you’re going to provide it in spades!”
Then he turned to the other three men. “Gentlemen, he’s all wired up and good to go, but I want him flipped over so we have access to his ass. There’s nothing like buggering a boy’s ass while he’s convulsing in agony. The struggling makes his hole all the tighter for a closer fit! Ha! Sounds like a commercial, doesn’t it?”
His associate and Commandant Sullivan laughed heartily, partly at the humor but also partly because of the high rank of the senior torturer. Danny’s wrists and ankles were unchained, but each man held a limb as they flipped him over onto his stomach. His arms and legs were again pulled out, splaying his limbs into a spread eagle. The bondage chains were quickly attached and relocked.
The senior torturer reached out and massaged Danny’s left ass cheek. Then he stuck his index finger into Danny’s ass crack and moved the fingertip up and down. Danny squirmed on the table, now knowing that more humiliation was in store for him, this time in front of a larger audience. His face flushed deep red. The knot of fear congealed in his stomach.
“Look, gents,” Sergeant Coyle said, pointing to Danny’s face. “He’s scarlett again! What a perfect middle name.”
More laughter echoed off the stone walls, plunging Danny deeper into abject despair.
“So, boy,” the torturer continued his monolog. “We’ll start at number 5, just to reacquaint you to the last session, but then we’re going to number 6. Trust me, boy, this one is going to be bad, really bad! Feel free to scream and to break down. Every man has his breaking point,” he added.
He reached for the controller and Danny was surprised to feel the tingle in his cock, rather than excruciating pain. They always start a round of electro with the tingle level, just to ensure the vic’s cock is fully hard and in the best position to be hit with the current. The pulse shape was in the hill mode, starting at zero, building to a peak, and then rapidly dropping off. Against his will Danny’s cock, which was hard to begin with due to the strip electrode strapped to the base, braced to a very strong erection from the electrical stimulation. He again moaned in brief pleasure.
The controller was advanced to number 5, sending Danny into spasms of pain and muscular contractions. This time he could feel current going to his abs and thighs and his nipples were on fire. All this on top of the excruciating pain from his cock and balls as the electricity shot through the tender organs. He screamed and begged them to stop in between screams. Then the current shape was changed to a rapid series of maximal pulses. Danny twitched on the table as each peak sent him into hell.
“Now would be a good time to bugger the lad, gents,” the chief torturer said. He stripped down to his shorts, revealing a large bulge. He climbed up onto the stout table and straddled Danny’s quivering ass. Then he dropped his shorts, releasing his huge hardon. Precum was already dripping and each drop glistened under the bright lights.
He bent down over the poor young man and maneuvered his cockhead against Danny’s asshole. Danny’s body was still twitching from the electrical pulses, his screaming almost continuous except for brief attempts to catch his breath. He could feel the man’s dick begin the invasion of his hole, but that sensation was dwarfed by the pain of the electro-torture.
The man thrust in sharply and Danny’s hole muscle rapidly gave way. The guardian muscle was also pulsing with the stabs of current. The man shouted out his pleasure: “Yes! Yes!” intermixed with Danny’s screams as the game of in and out began. The current shooting through Danny’s lower abs churned his innards and increased the pleasure of the fuck. It caused heightened, new sensations for the fucker, plus there was the thrill of abusing a young muscle buck. Inflicting intense pain on another man was a totally arousing scene for a sadist.
The senior torturer always had a quick climax. The shear overstimulation of the situation was intoxicating. He revved up his thrusting and very shortly dumped a huge load of jism up Danny’s quivering ass. The man then quickly pulled out. His dick was still hard as he dismounted the table and nodded to his associate that it was now his turn.
The second Scotland Yarder shucked all his clothes, mounted the table with a sadistic leer on his face, and fucked Danny’s ass with abandon. Danny continued to scream and struggle, pulling against the chains holding him spread eagle on the table. His thigh muscles and abs were intensely cramped from the electro-stimulation. His pec muscles were twin pools of pain as the current tore into his nipples. The worst pain of all, however, was still his cock and balls. Their sensitivity made the electro particularly painful.
Danny was hardly aware of being fucked by the Commandant and the sergeant. The level 5 torture was agonizing, although he was surprised to find that his mind and resolve still held. He could simply abandon himself to the pain, screaming and struggling, somehow surviving it, almost conquering it.
The torturer then yelled at Danny so he could be heard above the young man’s screaming: “Number 6, boy! Number 6!” He advanced the main control knob one numeral and changed the pulse shape back to the slow hill climb structure, randomizing the time constants for each step.
Danny’s reaction was to go totally wild. His screaming took on an animal edge, a prolonged “G-a-a-h!” All the muscles in his body contracted at once, mounding and cramping, turning his body into a temple of muscle. The level of resolve he thought he had instantly disappeared as he was plunged into a total red ocean of pain. He screamed all the more. His voice became raspy and his breathing erratic. A neural circuit breaker in his head suddenly popped and he passed out.
“God damn it!” the senior torturer yelled. “I hate it when they do that! Pain in the ass!” He switched off the control boxes. Danny’s body went limp on the table, his head to one side. Drool oozed from the lower side of his mouth. A whitish liquid seeped from his ass. What could be seen of his thigh muscles was an angry red, testimony to the extreme torture he had received. His cock, still forced hard, was a red-violet shaft as it protruded down between his legs.
The associate torturer asked Sergeant Coyle to get a bucket of cold water, which the BUC officer quickly attended to. They splashed it over Danny’s big body. He involuntarily shuddered as he was forced back to consciousness. He moaned from the residual pains in his body. His face again flushed deep red as he remembered the sexual abuse he had also been subjected to.
Despair washed over him. He couldn’t suppress the thought that he was at his limit. He was reluctantly admitting to himself that the pain had been so bad, he couldn’t take anymore. It had to stop. Or he would go insane.
“We like to vary up the tortures when we interrogate these guys,” the senior man was explaining to Commandant Sullivan. “My guess is he’s very ready to crack. You can’t imagine the pain at level 6. It destroys most men, but this one might be different. He certainly has taken it so far. Although that is very annoying, I think it’s time to try something different. Then we’ll go to number 7, which I guarantee will shatter his will to resist. He’ll talk then! But, since we do have some time here, I mean, his associates aren’t going anywhere and there’s no immediate threat, I for one want to change up here. Let’s whip him raw!”
The other three men quickly added their agreement. The two torturers removed single-tail whips from their small suitcases. The whips were made of black leather with elaborately engraved handles. They were not as long as a full bull whip, but were designed for the torturer to be closer to the victim. There was a brief discussion between the two Scotland Yarders with a final agreement to whip Danny in place, chained to the table, and not at a whipping post. Either option was incredibly painful and had proven its usefulness in past interrogations. Plus, the two sadists very much enjoyed whipping young men. There was something viscerally physical in a whipping. Electro-torture was effective, but not as engaging to a sadist as a direct assault. Yes, the electricity did its wonderful work, but the control boxes were the agents producing the pain, not the torturers themselves. Plus the wounds and welts produced by the whipping were visually impressive – and highly arousing. Some bleeding heightened the scene as it mixed with the vic’s sweat and formed rivulets on white skin. It was indeed visceral.
Nothing was said to Danny as the two interrogators took up their positions on opposite sides of the table. The senior man lashed Danny first. The leather swished through the air, struck his back with a loud splatting noise, and then the quiet of the room was shattered by Danny’s involuntary scream of agony. “A-g-h!” filled the chamber, echoing off the stone walls. Danny’s body muscles again painfully contracted in an instinctive but futile attempt to escape the torment. A severe, red welt puffed up from Danny’s skin, tracing exactly where the whip tail had landed. Danny immediately began to sweat, making his mounded muscles gleam under the bright overheads.
The second blow came from the junior interrogator. It was just as vicious as the first, but displaced several inches down. Danny screamed a second time and tugged against the chains. The second welt sprang up on cue. Then the third lash, then the fourth. Droplets of blood appeared where the welts crisscrossed. Danny was in agony, caught like an animal howling in a bear trap, unable to escape the torment raging from his back.
Then the torturers migrated their whipping down his back, alternating lashing the white skin, peppering it with angry red welts. Now there was more bleeding. The blood was mixing with his sweat running down his sides and then mixing in the small pools of water left over from his earlier cold water drenching. Danny’s sudden jerks as each lash hit his back made the red rivulets change course every few seconds until the sides of his chest were a lacework of red strands. His screaming became raspy; even a young buck can only yell full bore for so long.
Then they switched to brutalizing his ass with their whips. Danny’s screaming jumped up a notch as the leather tore into his glutes. His hips vibrated on the table; his muscles were shaking involuntarily. He felt like he was entering a zombie state: his mind was consumed by pain, his body was reacting instinctively, he screamed and twitched, or, at least, he heard someone screaming but he wasn’t sure who it was.
The whipping stopped. There was hardly a square inch of his back and ass which wasn’t covered with an angry welt. The welts were progressing from bright red to purple. The assistant torturer took a small plastic canister from his suitcase, opened it, and shook white powder up and down Danny’s bruised back and ass cheeks. Danny screamed loudly as the new pain shot through his brain. The powder was raw salt which stung the welts in a horrible fashion.
The senior torturer laughed out loud: “Ha! Just like on the sailing ships of old! We whip the offender and then salt him down!” He rubbed his throbbing hardon – the four of them were still naked – as he gleefully watched Danny writhe in agony on the table. “And now we get another fuck out of him!” he added, jumping up on the table.
“Be careful, sir,” the junior torturer said. “Don’t get salt on your cock.”
“No, I like it that way,” the senior man retorted, rubbing his engorged cockhead up and down Danny’s salty crack. “A little pain makes it better,” he laughed. “It’ll hurt him more, too, when my dick drags in some salt?”
Then he plunged into Danny’s asshole, forcing the sphincter muscle open, and thrusting his salt-laden cock into Danny’s guts. Danny screamed yet again as the embarrassment, humiliation, and pain of the salt-fucking consumed him. “No-o-o-o! Stop! No-o-o” reverberated in the small stone room.
The man didn’t take long to cum. The whipping had totally primed him. He and Danny yelled as another load of torturer jism was shot into the young captive’s ass. This was followed by three more eager fucks, which Danny thought would never end.
Sergeant Coyle distributed small hand towels which the four of them used to wipe down their crotches.
“OK, lads,” the senior man said. “Let’s flip him over for the next round. Number 6 is going to break him!”
Another Round of Torture
“I don’t want him passing out this time!” the man said to his assistant. “Inject him with the mix, then we’ll flip him over.”
The junior torturer removed a plastic container from his suitcase. Inside was a syringe filled with a green-yellow liquid. Without wiping Danny’s skin with alcohol, he emptied the syringe into Danny’s right delt.
“Sir, if I might ask,” Commandant Sullivan said. “What is in the syringe?”
“Oh, it’s a blend of high octant stimulants we discovered can usually stop a man from passing out. Doesn’t work all the time, but we find it helpful,” the torturer answered. “By the time we get done whipping him, all the chemical will be in his blood.”
With that, the four men unchained Danny’s limbs, flipped him over onto his back, and rechained him to the heavy table. Danny groaned and moaned as his tortured back and ass rubbed against the table, but he was powerless to resist with one man holding each limb.
The two torturers resumed their stances to either side of the table and resumed their vicious whipping, lashing Danny across the chest and stomach. They avoided his lower abs and his nipples so the electro-pads would not be disturbed. Everywhere else was fair game.
The two whips did their deadly work on Danny’s chest, streaking the white skin with red welts. Danny had no choice but to scream from the pain; he just couldn’t not scream, the pain was so bad. Every time he jerked from the lash, the pain in his back and ass kicked in as the bruised skin moved against the table top.
This whipping did not last as long as the previous one. They simply wanted to slash his chest and stomach, knowing the pain would not break him. That would be reserved for the next and, they hoped, final round of electro.
Neither torturer said anything as they stopped the whipping and turned both control boxes to the number 5 setting. As expected, Danny reacted like a caged beast, yelling and pulling on the bondage chains.
“Watch this,” the senior torturer said. He and his assistant advanced the control knobs to number 6. Danny went wild! His screaming ripped the air and had an animal edge. All his big muscle groups contracted at once. The BUC officers were amazed to see Danny’s hips and ass lift off the table, making his body into an arch. This was often seen with genital electro-torture and was a testimony to the extraordinary level of pain being inflicted on the vic. Danny’s lower abs and thighs were quivering as the current shot into the muscle, forcing it into insane, painful contractions.
Danny’s mind was now being muddled. Circuit breakers were tripping in his brain but he was still conscious, forced awake by the chemical cocktail. Why couldn’t he pass out?! He could feel his will power dissolving, his determination to resist dropping by the minute, by the second, as the unbearable pain racked his body.
Then he said the words he never thought he could utter: “Stop!! I’ll talk! A-a-g-h! I’ll talk,” he said breathlessly in between violent screams of pin.
This was what the torturers were waiting for, but they did not stop the electricity. They knew that vics often break down initially, but once the pain is stopped, their determination regels. The solution was to continue the torture, sending the vic into a state of hopeless despair.
Danny continued to writhe and scream, begging them to stop the electricity. The torture went on for an additional five minutes, which to the vic seemed like an hour. The objective wasn’t simply to get the vic to talk. They wanted to torture him into oblivion, destroying his will power, rendering him a twitching mass of total despair.
Danny’s mentality slowly edged towards a quasi-madness, a state of blind consciousness. He had been finally reduced to a robot. This was what the torturers wanted.
The control boxes were backed off to number 2, the tingle state, just to remind the vic that he was still fully wired up and the current, the torment, could be reintroduced whenever they wanted.
Danny started to cry. This was another good sign the torturers looked for. Reducing a man to sobbing like a child signaled that all adult resolve had been eradicated. The pain had wiped it all away. There was no more resolve, only an overwhelming relief, bordering on love, that the pain had at last been stopped.
The assistant torturer quickly brought over his cell phone and switched it to dictation mode. The senior torturer laid his hand on Danny’s sweaty head. “The names, boy. Tell us who you work with,” he said quietly.
Danny continued to cry, but this slowly dried up, leaving him panting on the table. His big chest rose and fell with heavy breathing. Then he started to list names, all the people he knew who were involved in the ongoing resistance movement, all the people he worked with at the paper, all his associates in I Squared, every one of them. He gave the names in a monotone and was surprised that he didn’t feel much remorse. All he felt was relief from the pain and the fear that it could be rekindled in a second. His cock continued to tingle, but he was beyond enjoying the stimulation. He was beyond conventional feeling. The pain had truly shattered his personality.
It took several minutes until the list finally was finished. The senior torturer motioned for his assistant to stop recording. Then he took the phone, retrieved his own phone from the suitcase, and called his office in Scotland Yard. He stood there, still naked, and ran the taped list of names into the phone so his own superiors could immediately begin to take action against the people on the list.
“Now,” the senior torturer said to the other three. “Now there’s one more task, our goodbye fuck!” He put the phones down and massaged his big cock back to life. Then he addressed his junior: “Rechain his legs up. I want that ass up in a good position!”
The other man smiled. “Help me unchain his legs,” he ordered the BUC officers. “Then we’ll rechain them to the top of the table.”
Danny’s legs were unchained from the lower table legs, raised over his head, and rechained with his hands. This rotated his hips up from the table, lifting his ass into position. The welts on the young man’s ass were swollen purple, but the bleeding had stopped when the salt had been applied. His ass cheeks were still crusty with pink salt.
“Sir, I’d like his mouth,” the assistant said. The senior man nodded agreement as he jumped up on the table and prepared for yet another assault on Danny’s ass. The junior guy got a metal frame from his suitcase. It was a dental jaw device which would force Danny’s mouth wide open and prevent him from closing it. The man forced the metal frame into Danny’s mouth. Danny offered no resistance. The strap was buckled in the back and then a side level was pumped until Danny’s jaws were spread wide apart. A notched scale on one side of the frame held it open to a given position.
The assistant then worked his own tool up hard and climbed up on the front of the table, squatting down over Danny’s face. Then he thrust his cock into Danny’s mouth and began the face fuck. His superior had also started to work on Danny’s ass. Despite his despair, Danny’s face again flushed scarlet, his skin almost matching his hair as the final round of abuse and degradation was performed.
Danny offered no resistance whatsoever to the double invasion of his body. He was still in the robot state, still unable to think straight. The two torturers had their climaxes, but this time Danny’s ass and mouth were filled with their loads. He continued to flush red from the abject degradation.
The two torturers quickly withdrew, wiped down their crotches, and got dressed. They removed all the electrodes from Danny’s big body and packed the equipment away in their suitcases. Then the senior man looked over at the Commandant and sergeant. “Have at it, boys. He’s all yours. We’re done with him,” he said as the two of them abruptly started to walk out. “We’ll send our report to your office tomorrow.”
Commandant Sullivan was surprised at the speed of their departure. “Thank you, Sir!” was all he could say, and that to their backs as they walked out into the corridor.
Then he leered at Coyle: “Well, my man, what say we have our fun with the hunk! Heads or tails?” he added, laughing.
Danny’s New Life
After the brutal round of final fucks, Danny’s legs were lowered to the table and rechained, splaying him out again in a spread eagle. The BUC officers then exited the stone torture chamber, leaving Danny in total darkness. Unlike Room Four, this room had no windows at all.
Normally at this point one might say “Danny was left to his thoughts,” but Danny was not thinking very much at this point. He realized he had spilled his guts when he named all his associates, but he was not plunged into guilt over this. A little remorseful, yes, but not a well of despair. Who really cared about all the politics? He didn’t. He was also beyond the disgrace of being ass and face fucked. Slightly embarrassed, yes, but no big deal. His parents and his associates would never know. Even if they did, so what? His body ached; all his muscle groups were still protesting the intense cramping they had been subjected to. That, oddly, did matter.
He slowly realized that pain was the only thing that mattered. His spirit was indeed broken, but a rewiring in his brain was taking place and it was centered around pain. He knew he would do literally anything to avoid the extremes of pain he had just felt. But he also took great solace in his ability to stand up to the pain, at least initially. He survived their number 5, he had taken it like a man. The only reason he broke at number 6 was that number 6 was simply insane. Nobody could take number 6. But he kept returning to the fact that he, Danny Scarlett O’Hara, had taken number 5. It was rough and he screamed a lot, but he did take it. He also took all their cocks. Jism was still oozing from his asshole, he could feel it. And there was a sticky, slightly salty taste in his mouth. His own cock got hard with no assistance from any strap electrode. All the electrodes had been removed.
His obsession with the pain and the inescapable bondage still stretching him out was making him hard. The new wiring associated pain with bondage and sex, not straight boy sex, but what his culture would call perverted sex. And he liked being on the receiving end! The newly reconstructed Danny Scarlett O’Hara was slipping into the role of pain pig and sex slave without his having the right words for it. Out of the ashes of the torture a Phoenix was being born, a sexual compass was changed and now pointed to a new north, and he knew he needed pain to feel truly alive, truly a man, the Man Who Could Take It. And this thought made his cock standup straight from his crotch, aching with pain for its release.
Sullivan and Coyle eventually returned. The Commandant rubbed his hand up and down danny’s chest and abs, relishing the contours of the whip welts. “Well, danny boy,” he said, “Sergeant Coyle and I have discussed your future. You’re not going to be any good for your previous life. If your comrades found out you ratted on them, I expect you wouldn’t be around long. So we’re going to keep you here – for your own protection, of course.”
Then he grabbed danny’s big hardon. “And I think you’re coming around to a new way of life, my boy,” he said, twisting the cock from side to side. “This has happened before with other lads. They can’t go back to their former lives, so we sort of adopt them into the BUC. Don’t worry, you’re not going to be a cop. No, your new role here will be for our pleasure. I could be wrong, but I think you’ll enjoy it, too. All the other lads in the past have!”
Danny did indeed get adopted by the BUC Ulster Station crew, although in addition to the Commandant, Sergeant Coyle, and the other two sergeants at the station, only a select few from the normal police ranks were invited in. He was made to exercise every day to keep his fantastic body fit. He did eat like a king and even had the occasional beer. The “pleasure” the Commandant had referred to earlier was a new life as a pain pig and total sex slave, consistent with danny’s new neural wiring. Sullivan had contacted the junior torturer at Scotland Yard and obtained two of the electro control boxes, which they used liberally on the new danny boy. He spent a lot of time screaming at number 5 and eventually could stand number 6. They never went any higher; the concern was burning out his brains, which nobody wanted.
Most of the names danny had provided proved quite useful in rooting out that particular group of rebels, but there were always more which sprang up. Every few years another strapping young man was identified as a member of the insurrectionists, brought in for horrendous questioning, and converted to pleasure-toys for select BUC personnel. A few were shipped down to Scotland Yard if the torturers took a particular liking to a lad, but most were kept around for two or three years and then auctioned off on the net to some rich Arab or into the new Chinese market. Seems the new wealth in China afforded a select few the luxury of personal slaves. That’s where danny wound up. He never learned Mandarin, although he did pick up some pinyin. Just as English was the global language of regular business, it was also the language of the sex trade business. In addition, there was no such thing as a Mandarin scream, or an English scream. They were all just agonized male screams.