Bunker Pulp Fiction Excerpts

Viet Cong Victims (Two Excerpts),  Combat Books CB104…


Excerpt 2

“Get up!”  

Sean felt a cold, hard slap cut across his face. The voice was stern, no longer controlled, but simply held on a loose reign, as if the man no longer considered self restraint a remote necessity. The slap came hard across his face again. “Get up!”

Sean had lain alone in his hut for some time, his bruises and welts untended. He had not been fed, he had not had water, he had not seen the light of day.

He tried to sleep but the hut was thick with heat and the air swarmed, at times, with mosquitoes. He was afraid to sleep, afraid to move, afraid to think.

Then his visitor was back, slapping him again and again across the face. “Get up,” he said, “on your knees. Get up on your knees. Get up!”

That little hand made such a sound against Sean’s flesh. That little man had a terrific capacity for inflicting pain. He knew no end of cruelty.

He slapped Sean again and again, until Sean at last could make his way up to his knees. It was dark in the hut and he could barely even see his captor.

He got to his knees in the hut, and crawled forward, anxious to do as the man bid. His arms were bound behind his back and it was difficult for him to balance himself.

Precariously, he knelt, and crawled forward to the man, and he was slapped again. He fell over on his side to the ground of the hut, and he got a few hard kicks in his side. Continue reading

Bunker Pulp Fiction Excerpts

Viet Cong Victims (Two Excerpts),  Combat Books CB104…


Excerpt 1

Worst of all, perhaps, was the nature of Lao Chi Minh’s attraction to Sean Flynn. It was very much a sexual attraction. Giving himself over to the Viet Minh, and later, to the Viet Cong, and following the ways of Ho Chi Minh, Lao Chi Minh had had to set aside many of his personal faiths and inclinations for the good of his country.

There was no room in his political philosophy for sexual deviance, and yet Lao Chi Minh had long known of himself that he was homosexual..

Since becoming a dedicated communist, however, he had worked hard to suppress certain of his own desires and tendencies.

Now this American was bringing everything once again to the fore. Now this American was making him think thoughts he thought he had crushed.

He was hating this American, and he was liking him very much

Lao Chi Minh considered his options. Lao Chi Minh looked around the circle of men in which he sat, knowing that they would defer to his judgment.

He said, “The American will need to be examined, I feel, in the presence of a single man, to determine how great a threat he is to our security.”

There was no question as to who among them would be able so to interrogate the American. Lao Chi Minh was the only one of them who spoke English.

Sean didn’t have any idea what the six of them had been up to, but he didn’t like the expression on the face of the one who asked him all the questions.

He had looked in that man’s eyes, and not seen the hard indifferent look of the Oriental, which he had seen in many Vietnamese faces, but rather, the look of a man prepared to do him some damage.

It was rather strange, really, the man’s voice was warm, but his eyes were crackling with malice. Sean felt he had every reason to fear both the man’s wrath, and his kindness. Continue reading

Bunker Pulp Fiction Excerpts

Vulcan’s Hammer

by Daniel Da Cruz,    

Signet Book # P3919, 1967


Strong hands grasped his wrist, and another pair took him by the other arm. He felt as if he were floating across the room, and suddenly he was slammed into a hard chair, and his arms pinioned behind him. Handcuffs bit into his wrists. Heavy hands bore down on his shoulders, and he could feel a rope rasp his knuckles as it was tied to the handcuffs and passed around the chair legs, binding his ankles fast. The hands released his shoulders, and a second later a forty-watt bulb glowed by the bedside table. The door to the corridor closed on the backs of the two big men who had trussed him up, and he was alone.

…Ordinarily I would have approached the whole problem from a different perspective, with more subtle means of persua­sion. But since we have only until dawn—some seven or eight hours—before the police find the money, I am obliged to tell you the whole story, so that you will realize that you must tell us where the money is, or else….” He let the phrase hang in the air.

“Well, I don’t know where the money is,” Link said, as if he didn’t expect to be believed.

“I’m sure you don’t,” Moses replied, not believing. “But you will remember. I am not ordinarily a cruel man, but I am prepared to be as cruel as the occasion requires for the sake of five million dollars. If, by four o’clock in the morn­ing, I do not know where the money is, you will be cut slowly into pieces with a saw, having first been subjected to tortures I refuse to think about. I will have this done to you simply because that is what will happen to me should I fail to obtain the money. As you see, our fates are inextricably linked.”

Link began to sweat.

…Link heard a knock on a door down the hall, and then Moses’ voice: “Honey, it’s your father. He’s come home.”

A door squeaked open, and Link heard muffled voices in the hall. He strained against his bonds, but they were unyield­ing, even though he had persuaded Moses to loosen the handcuffs one notch. He could move in his chair, swing his shoulders from side to side, bend his neck, and flex his knees about an inch, but the chair was bolted to the floor and wouldn’t budge. And his captors had added a gag. Continue reading

Bunker Pulp Fiction Excerpts

Turn the Other Sheik

By Troy Conway   Coxeman #24, 1970,

Paperback Library Edition, 64-439


“As you can see, your life is completely at my disposal.”

My head was rapidly clearing now from all the aphrodisiac and incense, and a very cold and logical fury was mounting within me. I started to think back on all the devices that had been used to arouse my sexual interest. Some of the most real and provocative women I’d ever seen used to provoke me into a fling with the royal fag. But I managed to control my anger . . . especially since I was staring down the barrel of a loaded Luger..

“Are you implying, then, dear Rodney, that you might reconsider the value of a relationship with dear little Hakim? You know, I just felt a certain something special about you from the first moment you set foot in my palace. I said to myself, he’s for me—more so than with any other man I’ve ever known! Oh, my darling Rodney, do you believe in love at first sight?”

It was hard to believe this guy really had the hots for me. I wasn’t just another roll in the hay; somebody of the same sex. He had it bad! For a split second, I felt little flattered.

I couldn’t believe that all this was happening to me, and yet I realized that I was probably about to have what would be my first and only opportunity to escape. I stood stark still as he moved closer. Just as though I was going to melt in his arms.

I gritted my teeth and forced a little smile—almost come-hither, if you will. At that, he reached out to put his arms around my neck. It was obvious that he was completely ga ga about me, since he had totally forgotten that just a moment before we were adversaries and I was at gun point.

As his arms just barely began to circle around my neck, I once again let him have my right knee exactly where it should hurt the most—fag or not. This time I was able to create an even greater velocity with my right leg, since I was in a standing position.

Well, it all accomplished what I had hoped it would do at least partially. The, gun flew out of his hand and slammed against the wall. The concussion caused it to fire.

As my new found sweety writhed in pain on the floor, I raced over toward the gun. Unfortunately Hakim and I were not the only two inhabitants who kept such late hours. In less time than it would take to say, “Rod Damon you’ve had it,” I’d had it!

What seemed like an army of giants—huge, head-shaved, bare-chested, arm-bulging, rifle-carrying body­guards—descended from invisible entrances at various points about the room.

There was a brief struggle—about one-tenth of a second. I felt engulfed in a sea of heavy-handed, hostile humanity. Something hit me harder than the other things that were hitting me and I streaked into nothing­ness.

The next thing I remember was groggily awakening with my naked back against the desert sand, my arms spread-eagled on the rack of pain that vengeful Hakim had designed for me.

And in a none too comfortable pose, I might add. There I was flat on my back, spread-eagled like a four pointed star, the four points being my arms and legs, which were tied securely and uncom­fortably to too-distant stakes. In this case the stakes were high. There I lay, my back grinding against the sand, bound by wet, uncured leather thongs. Bindings that were rapidly drying and contracting like extra thick, unsanforized shoe laces in the early morning desert heat. I’d been hot before, but never like this, decked out like some animal hide, face up on the sunny side of a gleaming desert dune. Continue reading

Bunker Pulp Fiction Excerpts

The Initiation of PB 500 (Two Excerpts))

By Kyle Stone,

First Badboy Edition 1993, Masquerade Books, Inc.


Excerpt One

With relief he came back and dropped to the ground in exhaustion. Sweat poured from his body, dampening the fine gold hair on his chest and dripping from his armpits. As he panted on his knees, his hands were again cuffed behind him. The brown-haired man wiped his face and produced a silver bottle with a rubber teat, which he thrust into Micah’s mouth. Incensed, Micah spat it out, pulling away. The man grabbed Micah’s long hair and pulled his head down till his forehead was on the ground. He held there while the other man began to hit him, his open hand making the muscles of Micah’s unprotected ass dance. Micah tried to pull away from the intimate and painful contact, but it was impossible. It went on and on, the sound of the naked hand against his bare flesh loud in the air. The stinging sensation grew and grew, the heat spreading and deepening, making him more conscious of his buttocks than he had ever been before. And in spite of the torment, he knew that the hand belonged to a strong man who had him at his complete mercy, a man who thoroughly enjoyed what he was doing. Although Micah twisted against the blows until he cried out, he was dimly aware, too, of a glimmer of pleasure, sensed through the haze of his pain.


These men had total power over him. He learned never to touch his genitals or anus, never to pee without someone else placing his cock in one of the clear plastic bottles, always to kneel with his knees spread wide apart, so that he was constantly on display for their pleasure. He found that his blond hair was end­lessly fascinating to these large, dark men and they played with it constantly. They found his fair skin and pale pubic hair equally alluring, and constantly touched him, running their hands over his smooth ass and the soft whiteness of his inner thighs. And although his mind rebelled, his body responded. He was often hard after their touch, and the sting of a slap would bring him quickly and humiliatingly erect. Continue reading

Bunker Pulp Fiction Excerpts

The Man-Eater

By Troy Conway   Coxeman #9, 1968,

Paperback Library Edition, 63-005


When I opened my eyes, it was no longer daylight. I felt no pain, nothing. It was like a blissful euphoria when you are lying in bed and feel bodiless and weightless. I could tell a great deal of time had passed because I could see the moon.

I tried to move.

I couldn’t.

I peeked down at myself.

Which is hard to do when you’re lying on your backside.

I was naked, as I expected.

My arms and legs were spread-eagled. I could feel a hard parquet flooring under my skin. A peek had told me that my wrists and ankles were looped with leather thongs, caught up close so there was no room to wriggle much. The thongs were in turn tied about four short iron stakes that came as a feature of the floor. I was pegged out for the sacrifice.

I didn’t shudder or shake because ironically my body felt fine. The Mickey Finn hadn’t left me with a hangover or a buzz the way it should have. Just that damn feeling of bliss and sappy cheerfulness. I had a glow on.

There was no sound save the whisper of a night wind outside, the slapping of a sapling against a window. I knew where I was. Where I had to be. Venusville; the Gothic horror house in the hills. I had to have been under since about three o’clock that day, if it was the same day, when Marguerite had slipped me the business and Miralita had put in an appearance to take charge of the body.

Something had loused up or I wouldn’t have been laid out like this. For the ants, the scarifice, or whatever was on the menu.

I heard the door open behind me and I tensed. Then came a feathery pattering of footfalls, as if a cat were com­ing in. That and another curious sound. A trailing, whis­pering noise such as you hear when something is dragged along the floor.

Venus loomed above me. I jerked against my bonds sub­consciously. I tried to smile. It wasn’t easy.

She wasn’t dressed for company.

She was undressed for terrible games. Continue reading

Bunker Pulp Fiction Excerpts

TORMENTS (Two Excerpts)

by C. S. White

Alternate Publishing, 1998, ISBN 1-891354-00-0


Excerpt 2 – The Roman Empire continued

Day was breaking when the imperial duo had only tended to half the men. Antinous wanted to continue, but was simply too exhausted to do so. Hadrian coaxed him to the door. “We can’ t do it all in one day,” he reasoned. “Besides, these men are your property, to do with as you will. They will be here waiting for you when you return.”

Antinous sighed. “I guess you’ re right.” He turned to go, when he remembered something he meant to do earlier. In his frenzy of exploring his entire gift, he had been taken by a particularly appealing victim. Going to the far end of the chamber, he lifted the sagging head he found there. It was Sergius. “Hadrian, have you seen this beautiful man up close?

Hadrian wandered over to see for himself. “Yes,” he agreed, “this one is very special.” He ran his hand along the long rippled arch of Sergius’ swaying back. “From the look and feel of him, he’ll give us quite a few sessions.”

“Indeed.” Antinous heaved a huge sigh. “Why must we get tired. I’d love to tear into him right this very minute!”

“As would I, my little lion,” chuckled the emperor. “This way, it will give you something to look forward to.”

Antinous nodded, gave one last regretful glance at his future project and returned to the palace for a deserved rest. Continue reading

Bunker Pulp Fiction Excerpts

TORMENTS (Two Excerpts)

by C. S. White

Alternate Publishing, 1998, ISBN 1-891354-00-0


Excerpt 1 – The Roman Empire

Hurrying down the corridor, he recounted the men in the holding cells. Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen… Hadrian had requested twenty men, the best Regulus could find, as a birth­day gift for Antinous, the emperor’ s lover.

Regulus was short one man.

A trumpet tattoo only blocks away sounded the emperor’ s approach, and Regulus’ heart sank. It was all over for him, he thought, when suddenly a movement caught his eye.

In the ranks of the men filing past, a particularly tall head caused him to jerk around for a second glance. The sailor was striking, with a devastating profile, his dark hair trimmed short in the usual manner. A thick neck was supported by shoulders wider and thicker than any of his gladiators. His arm, ropey with dense muscle bent to hold a coil of rigging slung over his shoulder, the bicep balling into a perfectly round mass. A chest Apollo would covet heaved from the man’ s recent exertion, sharply cleaved in the mid­dle and covered in sweat, the two mounds high and creamy as brown ala­baster. The globes hung suspended like boulders above a cliff, forming a deep fold on the underside against the upper belly. The stomach was flat and sectioned, free from a trace of fat, trailing down to the significant groin area, only barely covered by a leather thong.

The mans’ legs were massive and chiseled, breaking into striations as the man entered the darkened doorway and Regulus watched, openmouthed, as the man’ s highly developed buttocks bounced tightly with each step. Regulus grabbed a nearby attendant. “Who is that man?” he hissed, urgently. The little man squinted, at last glimpsing the individual in question. “Oh, that’ s Sergius the Thracian, master,” he answered, with an admiring tone.

“Why have I not seen him before?”

“He’s new, lord. Only in Rome for a month or so.”

Regulus paused only a moment, his knotty problem dissolving before his eyes. “Bring him to me!” he ordered, his voice resuming its accustomed command. Continue reading

Bunker Pulp Fiction Excerpts

The Counterfeit Virgin

By Don Campbell,  Rampant Action Series, ras-1409


The rank air of the hut was harsh with the sounds of labored breathing. Randall was strapped naked to a ten foot plank. His ankles were bound and attached to a ring at one end and his arms, stretched above his head, were tied at the wrist and fastened to the other. The ends of the plank rested on an oil drum and a low camp stool, so that his head was lower than his feet.

Helpless and undignified on his back in this position, he had endured the age-old water torture. It was quite simple and very effective. They had plugged his nostrils with cotton wool and wedged an iron ring into his mouth so that it was jammed open. One of Smollett’s Arab servants had then draped a long strip of thin muslin over the movie man’s disguised face and carefully — almost lovingly — poured water, gallons and gallons of water, into the open mouth through the cloth.

The point of the technique is that the victim, unable to turn his head because of his own bound arms on either side of it, can only get rid of the water by trying to swallow it . . . but before each mouthful is swallowed it is always replaced by another. And in the meantime the victim has to breathe; the laboring lungs heave and try to drag in air, but the attempt only draws in water — and with the water comes the muslin, which is remorselessly sucked into the windpipe. In a very short time the victim, gagging and retching, is half drowned with the water in his lungs and half choked by the cloth.

Initially, the treatment had been ordered by the cavalry officer because Randall, as a supposed pilgrim who had failed to follow the prescribed route, was unable to give a convincing enough account of his movements — and because his Arabic was simply not good enough to support his false identity. He must, therefore, be a spy, and the officer wanted to find out for whom he was spying. They had taken him to a small army post a few miles from the sacked village and gotten to work.

Initially too, Smollett had shown no more interest in him than the casual attention of the born sadist for the sufferer. But, by the time Randall had twice been reduced to a condition of sobbing, vomiting semi-consciousness, the combined effects of tears, mucus, vomit and water had dislodged the wax pads of his disguise and washed away half of the stain on his face and most of the false beard. Continue reading

Bunker Pulp Fiction Excerpts

Peter Thornwell

By Torsten Barring    

Masquerade Books, Inc,  Badboy Series  ISBN 1-56333-149 


Part Two: Chapter Six

The Punishment Room was filled with smoke and men. All of the guards had been summoned to view the new arrival and participate in the administration of his punishment.

Two high-ranking officers were also in the room. Seated behind a table were the Commandant of the military stockade on Saint Brutt’s Island and his guest, Captain Colin Garrett.

In the center of the room, every eye upon him, was the cabin boy the Captain had brought to the island personally to receive official military punish­ment for truancy and desertion.

The handsome, muscular young man was com­pletely naked. He had been made to strip and stand with his feet apart and his hands clasped behind his head. The knowledge that a dozen men were staring at him in the nude caused his long, thick penis to become erect and stand straight up at full attention.
“He is certainly a magnificent specimen of young manhood,” said the Commandant. “So this is Peter Thornwell. Son of Mason Thornwell. He seems a bit on the rough side to be the son of an aristocrat. My, but he’s a well-hung youth! Look—he’s got a hard- on! A big, handsome brute of a man with a huge hard-on!”

The Captain shuffled some papers on the table and attempted to direct the Commandant’s attention to them.

“As you see, here,” said the Captain, “his father has signed all the necessary papers.”

“Indeed. Yes—yes—the young man virtually belongs to you,” said the Commandant, waving the papers aside.

“And he attempted to desert, you say?” “He ran away, sir.”

“But he came back.”

“He considered the consequences and decided to be sensible. I don’t want him to serve a prison term. I want to take him back with me. The Tortugasails in three days.”

“He is yours to do with as you please, Captain. But what exactly do you want us to do to him now that we’ve got him naked?” Continue reading