Bunker Pulp Fiction Excerpts

The Brig

By Mason Powell

Alternate Publishing, 1984

 

The room was bare except for a hanging light bulb with a tin cover, and under it a waist-high wooden plank table about six feet long. The door shut behind me with an awful finality.

So this was where the rapes took place, I thought in terror. Then everything changed and the terror got worse. The sergeant reached up to the wall behind the door and took down a thick, black leather razor strop. This was not the room where the rapes took place.

This was the room where the whippings took place.

The sergeant walked slowly to the center of the room and laid the leather strop quietly on the table. Then he walked just as slowly back to where I was standing, and looking at me with that smile of his, loosened his collar.

The room had dark, dingy walls that must have once been painted pale green. Time had made the color uncertain, and in any event, there was not enough light to tell. Just that one bulb that hung over the table, spreading a cone of light down on the table harshly, and leaving the upper part of the room and the walls in gloom. The tin shade on the light bulb was also a cone, but a cone of darkness. It reminded me of the kind of shaded light they used to have in poolrooms.

The sergeant unbuttoned his shirt and started pulling it off.

The table was made of wooden planks, with thick, sturdy legs, braces at the bottom and under the top, and a solid plank for a top. It was about six feet long, and a little wider than a man’s body. I felt my breath coming harder.

The sergeant was stripped to the waist now, and he walked over and stood next to the table, where the light fell on his chest and body but left his face in darkness. I had known that he was well built, but the uniform had covered a great deal. H is chest was broad, and thickly muscled, as were his powerful arms. He had a pelt of dark, curly hair that started at his throat, spread out, and covered his chest and belly all the way down, getting thicker below his navel before it disappeared under his belt.

“Strip!” the sergeant said, “And lay face down on the table!”

The very word – strip! – was now bringing an instant response from me of fear and eagerness to obey. I began taking off my clothes, dropping them on the floor. The sergeant had hung his neatly on the peg that he’d taken the belt from.

“You’ll be spending a lot of time here,” the sergeant said as I peeled my teeshirt over my head. “There are a few rules you’ll have to learn if you’re going to get by. The first is that I don’t mind your screaming, so long as I’m inflicting pain on you, and so long as we’re in this room. I don’t want you whimpering or begging before I start, though! I can’t stand that; and if you start it, I’ll make it worse for you. The second is that I don’t mind you begging and pleading, so long as it’s something I’ve approved of you pleading for. You are not ever to beg for mercy, or for me to stop, you understand?”

“Sir! Yes, Sir!” I said, dropping my dungarees and pushing down my shorts.

“The food we give you,” the sergeant said, “is designed to keep you cleaned out. There’s a medical reason for that. If you have anything much in your guts when I’m whipping you, it might cause real injury. I have no intention of injuring you, only hurting you.”

I walked naked across the room and climbed on the table, lying face down.

“From now on,” the sergeant said, “we won’t do much talking.

Training you with the basics doesn’t require much talk.”

The two corporals came across the room, their boots booming on the wooden floor. They stood by the head of the table, at my sides, and pinned me, each one putting one hand on my shoulder, just in the middle of the shoulder blade, and one hand on my arm, just above the elbow. They pushed down forcefully, so that it hurt. In this position the upper half of my body couldn’t move at all. My arms hung over the sides of the table, and I figured the best thing to do would be to grip the sides of the table against the pain.

It was a long time coming, but I knew that was so I could anticipate it. I became intensely aware of the feeling of my naked, shaven body against the smooth, cool wood of the table top. My chest, my belly, my shaven cock scrunched up under me against my belly, my smooth shaven balls hanging down between my legs and touching the wood.

Then I heard the whir of the strap and the first blow landed hard across my ass.

I didn’t cry out, or even grunt; I just took the stinging pain of it. There was no sense giving the sergeant everything he wanted at the beginning. There was a long time more, then the second blow fell, harder, across my ass.

“I’m giving you the count of ten between lashes,” the sergeant whispered. “To let the pain develop.”

The third blow landed, thwack, across my back. Above the middle, but below where the corporals held me. 1 had been prepared for another blow across my ass, but this one caught me unaware, and 1 grunted with surprise as much as pain.

Whack, across my ass again, now burning with the accumulated pain of three lashes. And I found myself counting, slowly, One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine ..

…Ten. Whack!

On my back again, up high, between the shoulder blades where they had me pinned.

I realized suddenly that the reason he’d told me how much the count was between lashes would be to make me think it out, to let me build up anticipation of the coming blow. Two extra touches to make it worse, the slow welling of the pain and the anguish of anticipation!

Whack!

On my back again, but lower, where the belt hadn’t hit before. Whack!

Across my ass again at a new angle.

Whack! across my ass, two, three, four, five … Ten, Whack! on my back two, three …

And Whack! And Whack! And Whack! And Whack!

1 don’t know how long he beat me, or how many strokes of the black leather razor strop he landed, but finally it was over and the two corporals released my shoulders.

“Get up and get dressed!” the sergeant ordered, and I heard him walking back to where he had hung his clothes.

1 climbed up from the table, my back and ass screaming with the pain, and started to dress. I didn’t know whether I had done any screaming for the sergeant or not. My mind was numb, everything in the world was blotted out by the one reality of the agony of my body.

They marched me back to my cell and I sank down on my cot, face down, and cried myself to sleep.

The next day there was a change in my routine and I figured out at once the reason for it.

When I finished the shower, the sergeant ordered me about face, parade rest, and started the scalding water on my front. After I was sufficiently burned on the balls and cock, he ordered the about face, parade rest with my back to the shower, so that the burning I got on my back would be fresher for the blows to come.

He didn’t do the bit with the corporals fingering their cocks, or him playing with my ass with his billy club; he just had me dress and marched me straight to the room with the wooden table. Then it was: “Strip! And lie face down on the table. “-And the corporals pinned my shoulders, and then the belt was whirring through the air, and Whack! The strop landed across my back and I screamed.

The scalding water, and the whipping of the day before, had done a good job of tenderizing me and making the pain more intense.

As the blows fell, one after another, always with that slow count of ten between them, my mind tried to find a way out of the pain and the panic. As my ass and then my back took lash after lash, I found myself struggling helplessly against the force of the corporal’s hands on my shoulders and arms. I found to my dismay that I was trying to count the lashes, to think about anything but the awful pain.

…Eight, nine, ten, Whack!

Was that ten lashes?

…Eight, nine, ten, Whack! across my ass.

Eleven?

I wasn’t so much struggling as squirming, and I knew that it didn’t make any difference and that, if anything, seeing my naked ass squirming as the black leather strop came down on it probably pleased the sergeant more than if I’d held still.

I tried not to scream, but it wasn’t any good. The pain was just too awful. And then it was over.

“Get dressed!” the sergeant ordered quietly, and he got dressed, and I got dressed, and they marched me back to my cell.

As I lay face down on my cot crying and moaning, I realized that he hadn’t said anything at all to me the whole time, except to give me direct orders. A new fear rose up in me. He’d said the day before that I would spend a lot of time in the room with the wooden table.

I realized that something of what had been holding me together {as much as I had held) was the fact that each new day brought new horrors. Though that thought was the first step to fear, it was also the prospect that things would change; probably for the worst, but they would change, and that was something, however bleak, to look forward to. Suppose things stopped changing? Suppose this were it? Suppose every day from now on was going to be just like this one?

The next day seemed to bear out the worst of my fears. They came and got me; I showered, they scalded my balls and then my incredibly tender ass and back; and then they took me to the room with the wooden table.

“Strip! And lay face down on the table!” the sergeant said, and then the whipping began.

But something new was added, and something happened inside me, and it was worse than I could have feared. On the previous day my insane and agonized mind had counted something like twenty strokes of the strop, give or take a few missed in agony, Now twenty came and went, and still the whipping went on!

Twenty-three lashes.

Whack!

Twenty-four lashes.

Whack!

I began screaming in earnest now, not merely at each lash, but constantly as the blows rained down.

Whack!

Thirty-five.

Whack!

Thirty-six.

Eight, nine, ten …

Thirty-nine!

That part of my mind that counted the lashes continued to do so long after the pain prevented me from really thinking. But another part of my mind became slowly aware that as the pain reached a stage beyond which my body could not tolerate it, my balls drew up slowly and my cock got harder and harder. When the whipping stopped; there were only two things in my mind: I had taken sixty lashes, and my cock was hard as a rock!

“Get up and get dressed!” the sergeant said, but I didn’t move. I still don’t know whether it was because I couldn’t move with so much pain or because I dare not move for fear they would see my erection.

Abrutely, The two corporals pulled me up and yanked me to my feet.

“Parade rest!” the sergeant barked, and even moving that much was torture as I fell into the posture, obeying, confused, my hard cock sticking up in front of my shaven belly.

The sergeant walked over, his bare, hairy chest dripping with sweat. He wiped his forehead with his hairy forearm and hung the black razor strop around his neck. Then he folded his arms across his chest, spread his legs apart just like my parade rest stance, and smiled broadly, his even white teeth gleaming in the dimness.

“Look at that, boys!” the sergeant said. “Quite a nice, hard dork for a faggot!”

There was so much Marine contempt in his voice that if I’d been capable of feeling anything, I would have crumbled. But I was beyond blushing. All the blood that could reach the surface of my skin was suffused through the agony of my back and my ass. I was beyond any kind of humiliation. The two corporals, who had been standing at formal attention, relaxed their posture now and began to laugh at me quietly.

The sergeant reached out with his billy club and gave my hard cock a playful bat. It sprang back to attention with even greater rigidity.

“Get dressed!” the sergeant said.

They let me take a long time to dress, and the march back to my cell was slow. When the door closed behind me, I stood still for a long time, unable to walk because of the pain and shaking with such an amount of fear that everything else was blotted out.

At least I was able to get to my bed, take off the clothes that now were as painful as a coating of napalm, and lie face down in the hope of sleep.

But I couldn’t sleep. I hurt too much and I was too afraid. I knew that if I slept I would be awakened to another nightmare day. Finally, long, long after they had delivered me, my breakfast was slid under the door, and my mind and body, both exhausted, were shocked by the tin dishes rattling, and I went over the edge, into unconsciousness.

__________________________

 

Leave a Reply.

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s