Bunker Pulp Fiction Excerpts

Combat Zone

Star Distributors, NM-169

 

“Now, Herr Professor, please!” Fritz said, smiling sweetly. “Just dictate to me the formula!

Professor Dufarge’s lips curled in a contemptuous snarl.

“Neverl” he spat venomously. “I spit on your Reich! I spit on you Nazi cretins! I spit on your satanic Fuhrer! I would rather die!”

“But what about your son? Would you care to see him die” Fritz snarled.

“My…son!” Dufarge faltered, growing deathly pale.

“Yes, Raoul! My men, shall we say, invited him to share your quarters here. We have just brought him in. A very fine looking young man, I am told!”

“You… You swine!” Dufarge qasped.

Fritz threw back his head and laughed, long and hard.

Bunker Pulp Fiction Excerpts

MATA HARLOT

By Gregg Stevens

Phenix Publishers, LTD., 1969

 

He caught a slight movement in the shadows, but before it fully registered, something glanced off the side of his head and his hand never found the light switch. He felt the floor come up and hit him in the face.

Luke shook his head once and was fully conscious. The dull throb was behind his eyes, but he was back in his world: He knew he had been sapped and couldn’t help remembering what the doctor had told him about reporting each time. He was like a prize fighter who can be knocked out only so often, then it starts to affect the brain.

Luke blinked his eyes and was aware that his face was on a pillow with his mouth buried in it. He was spread-eagled face down on a bed with his hands and feet tied securely. The voices came through more clearly now. He didn’t know how long he had been out. The placement of the leather-covered lead kosh had been precise. So he had finally found the pros! These lads knew what they were doing. He couldn’t see, and realized his eyes were taped shut. His mouth and nose were free. Luke shivered, he was soaking wet.

A voice came through more clearly. It was female, and he recognized it.

“He’s almost awake, more water.”

Luke felt the water splash over him and would have gasped if the pillow hadn’t stopped it. All he could do was writhe in the sudden numbing shock of the ice water on his back. He wondered if they had ripped his shirt down the back, or if it was plastered to his skin?

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!”

Bunker Pulp Fiction Excerpts

Big Sur

By C. S. White

Super MR Magazine, Issue 7, 2001

 

Clincher decided it was time to check in on the new subject that the highway patrolman Bobby Reston delivered earlier that evening. Entering the training chamber, the master found a few of the slavers stripped down and knotted around their victim.

They had striped the captive naked, cuffed and drawn his wrists over his head. They shackled and tethered his ankles to the floor, allowing for movement, but preventing his ability to kick at his abusers. Reston had done well. The young man seemed to be about 27 or 28 years old and had striking, raven-black hair falling in sweaty strings across his forehead. He was extraordinarily handsome with sharp features contrasting, pointedly, the round curves of his muscled torso

The slavers enjoyed tormenting the man, welcoming him to the compound with a good dose of outrageous pain and abuse. The captive roared in agony as the slavers, armed with stiff rubber hoses and wet, twisted towels – the bane of high school locker rooms – assailed him. Employed by skillful hands, the simple utensil could inflict considerable discomfort. For a range of pain, they threw in doses of an electrical prod.

As the slavers rained blows over every inch of the tight physique, the man thrashed, jerking about in his chains, desperate to get away from the taunting slavers.

“Fucking faggots!” the man shouted, his face scarlet with rage. “Let me go, cocksuckersl”

The slavers met his fury with laughter and bites from the hoses.

“Ooooh,” taunted Josh, “big talker, huh? Whadya gonna do, musclefuck? Beat us up?” He landed a blow squarely on the man’s nuts.

“Fucker!” the boy shouted, in considerable pain.

Bunker Pulp Fiction Excerpts

Hard Like Uncle

By George Wilson

Wildboys Collection, WB-127, 1976

 

Bob wondered how many young unsuspecting or even willing guys were brought up here to his Uncle’s house and worked over by him and his well-muscled leather friend Spike.

Bob assumed that the number was quite large. He was excited at the thought of a lot of sexual traffic in and out of the apartment during the summer. He didn’t think that there would be too many nights where they would be sitting .around without a fucking thing to do. There would probably always be a young muscular stud to work over in whatever way they chose.

Yes, Bob was very happy that he had decided to come and live with his handsome Uncle Jeff for the summer. Things looked like they were all going to work out just great, fucking great indeed!

Jeff grabbed Bob’s arms forcefully and pulled them behind his back. Bob tried to squirm, playing the game at first and then really trying to escape and it was impossible. His Uncle Jeff had wrapped his thickly muscled biceps through his own forearms in kind of a wrestling hold and wedged them between Bob’s back and his own protruding chest. Bob couldn’t move at all. It was as if he had been bound with ropes.

Bunker Pulp Fiction Excerpts

Hitch Hike

By George Wilson

The Blueboy Library #103

 

Rusty might have said something, had he not been tied and gagged. There was a thick leather strap through his mouth, tied securely behind his head. All he could do was moan, at the very most. His hands were securely bound with handcuffs in front of him, and then in turn attached to the chain the Baron held in his hand. He was being led like a dog, to what unspeakable act of aggression, his friend, Tony, could only guess.

Rusty’s head was bowed, in a servant or slave-like fashion. Tony wondered what the Baron had already done to him, what horrible pain he might have inflicted upon him, to subdue his zealous young spirit in this obvious fashion.

The Baron led Rusty over to the huge wooden table. He unclasped his hands from the chain, but kept the cuffs on him. It was then that Tony took the time to notice what Rusty was wearing. Up until then he had been in such a state of shock over the whole fucking affair, he hadn’t been thinking too clearly.

Rusty was naked from the waist up, except for the leather gag which the Baron had placed securely in his mouth, and which was left there to assure total silence and obedience.

Rusty was barefoot, and clad in a pair of tight, black-leather chaps. They gripped his legs like a second skin. The front and back were open, and his huge piece of cock meat hung down between his muscular thighs, in an extremely inviting vision.

His round, rock-hard buns could be clearly seen out of the opening in the back of the chaps. Tony felt his own cock jumping at the sight of his friend in such sexy, and masculine attire.

Then he felt bad that he should be having such thoughts, while his poor friend was so unwillingly in the clutches of such an evil tyrant as the Baron.

Bunker Pulp Fiction Excerpts

Blood Hole

By N. Newman

An Eros Goldstripe Publication, FFS 103, Forty Fiction Series, 1977

 

He was captured on the way to the landing strip. The others got away, but he stayed behind to wipe out the traces of their flight. A Nazi patrol grabbed him and he was taken to one of the big beautiful houses the Nazis had confiscated.

He refused to give any information. His name, his number, his rank. Nothing else. They beat him, mercilessly but he did not give them any of the information they sought. They thought him heroic, actually, he had no information to give them.

He was stripped and his wrists were shackled to a wall in the castle’s dungeon. One day he was awake, expecting more abuse, when the local commandant came into the room. There was a girl with him, a blonde girl, beautiful beyond belief. She had white gloves on her hands and she stepped close and her hands reached out to handle his cock and then his balls. She hurt him and he groaned. She laughed softly and turned to the Nazi general who seemed to be her friend. She smiled and her lips glistened redly, brightly.

“He is well endowed, Carl, dear,” she said.

“And he is very nice looking. What will you do with him?”

“He will be shot,” the general said. “He is a spy, an enemy. That is the way we deal with spies.”

The girl made a cute little face at the general.

“If you loved me, really loved me you would give him to me. I could have such good times with him, and when he fails to amuse me any longer, then you could shoot him.”

Bunker Pulp Fiction Excerpts

Confessions of a Naked Piano Player (Two Excerpts)

by Torsten Barring

Badboy Edition 626-X, Masquerade Books, Inc., 1998

 

Excerpt One

Narration: Then, with two guards on either side of me, I was escorted along to a stairwell and down into the dismal depths of the Interrogation Room, where Major Strauss waited, seated at his desk with his retinue of soldiers and sycophants surrounding him. The two guards placed me in the middle, opposite the desk, while the others arranged themselves around the room. I tried not to look at the wooden torture frame that stood menacingly—dominating the room—waiting for me. I cast surreptitious glances at the soldiers in the room. All of them were stroking the boners in their pants—caressing their rigid lengths idly. I looked at all their groins and noted they all had their hands in their pockets, playing with their excited dicks as they looked me over—undressing me with their eyes. They could hardly wait! Strauss addressed me in English. His speech betrayed not a trace of German accent. Like my father, he had been educated at Oxford.

Strauss: Frightened, are you not? You try to hide it, but I can tell. You have good reason to be afraid. You have certain information I want and I mean to get it. For a start, I want to know your squadron strength.

McKenzie My name is McKenzie, Rory, Squadron Leader, Serial Number 1649821.

Strauss: Ah, but I already know that. I want to know your squadron strength.

McKenzie: My name is McKenzie, Rory,—

Strauss: Ach—SCHWEIN!

Narration: His face turned purple with rage as he cursed in German and slashed his riding crop down on the table surface. While all the men, including myself, were fully dressed, still there was an aura of sexuality in the room that transcended the dress. Putting on as manful a show of courage as I could, I completed the statement he had inter­rupted.

McKenzie: —Squadron Leader, Serial Number 1649821.

Strauss: You poor fool. Is it possible you are not aware of what awaits you if you do not cooperate?

Bunker Pulp Fiction Excerpts

Chant #2, Silent Killer (3 Excerpts)

by David Cross (George C. Chesbro)

Jove Publishing, 1986,   ISBN-10: 0515086010

 

Excerpt One

“Probably here,” Patreaux said, putting the tip of his index finger beneath a tiny dot in the Pacific, just off the coast of Chile.

“What’s there?”

“It’s all supposition, Chant. Rumor.”

“What do you think is on that island, Gerard?”

Now Patreaux turned. His face was slightly ashen, and his mouth was set in a firm line. “The name of the island in Spanish means ‘Place of Winds.’ We call it Torture Island. If our information is correct, there’s a kind of torture insti­tute out there.”

“A torture institute?”

The Swiss nodded. “Yes—by which I mean a facility devoted to the refining and improvement of techniques and tools for torture. Just what the world needs. There are gov­ernments, and even some private organizations, who’ll pay a lot of money for that kind of information and training. It’s run by a prince of a man named Dr. Richard Krowl; he’s an American who was thrown out of medical school for conducting unauthorized experiments.”

“What kind of experiments?”

Bunker Pulp Fiction Excerpts

Body Smasher (Two Excerpts)     –by Jan Stacy

Zebra Books, Kensington Publishing Corp, 1989

Excerpt One

Harrison was starting to feel pretty smug about the whole situation, and wondering why this intelligence stuff was cut out to be such a tough business, when he suddenly heard a sound in the darkened door frame to the right. As he turned around, raising his arms to defend himself, something hard slammed into the back of his head. And as mean little stars danced all around in front of his eyes taunting him not to fall down, another waterfall of pain slammed into his skull, and then another. Then he was sliding down a pit into darkness as black as the heart of midnight

––––––––––––––

“Love this watch,” a voice was saying as Harrison’s brain came from out of an ocean of black into a swamp of gray. Shadowy figures marched around in front of him. For a few moments he didn’t know who, let alone where, he was.

Harrison’s eyes twitched like mating butterflies as he struggled to open them. Finally they seemed to open about a half inch.

“Ah, our guest is awakening,” a tall thin white- haired man said, walking over until he loomed right over Harrison, who looked up at him with a throbbing skull. He put his hands together and smiled down benignly at Harrison with the look that Norman Bates gave Janet Leigh just before he turned into Psycho.

Harrison tried to move and discovered that he was lashed down with 1/4-inch steel cable hand and foot to a long wooden table of some kind. He struggled hard, suddenly losing control and wanting like a trapped animal to escape. But the steel binds were strong enough to lift a ton. He wasn’t about to snap them.