Thursday, December 14, 2017

(M/M) In the Marines and Abroad - Part 3 - NEW

A short but critical point in Brad's life. Enjoy.
In the Marines and Abroad - Part 3
There was a dim light and a sense of heat as Brad slowly came too. He found himself hanging against a wall, in chains, in some sort of shabby dungeon. It smelled musty and slightly foul, as if it wasn't cleaned very often.
As he hung there Brad gradually remembered what had happened. He'd been out on a scouting mission, there had been an explosion, and then he'd felt himself being moved, dragged actually, probably by the native militants. And this, apparently, was where he'd been brought to. Now, presumably, he'd have to wait to find out what they were going to do with him. Or to him. And so he waited, at first calmly, but then as he realized that the native militants had no love for Americans, he began to worry, and not only worry for himself, but also for knowing that he might never see Russ again. That singular thought put more dread in him than not knowing, for instance, about what had happened to the rest of his scouting party. Maybe they were elsewhere, but alive, or maybe all dead, but regardless, they weren't his Russ.
Still fully dressed Brad tested the chains that held him, but they were new and strong, and there was no breaking free through shear strength. And so he waiting. About an hour, he estimated, before someone finally came into his cell. It was a man dressed all in black, with a black turban, and long flowing black robes. All Brad could see was the man's face, deeply weathered, and with fierce, cruel ice-blue eyes. Unusual eyes for someone of local descent.
In thickly accented English, the man said, "So you are awake now. Good. I will wait no longer for you to revive. You will now feel the punishment of being an infidel and even worse, an American." And with one quick fluid motion he jerked his knee straight into Brad's nuts. WHAM. Then again. WHAM. Then a third time WHAM. But unlike most men, Brad's unwilling response was to get an erection. It was the first time Brad had ever been embarrassed about being aroused, and by testicle pain at that, but there it was. Brad was getting a boner over being tortured. The lump in his camos was apparent. This seemed to amuse his torturer.
"Interesting, American dog, I see you actually like my methods of male destruction. Very well, let's see how much you enjoy it." The man stepped back and began methodically kicking Brad in the balls with what were rather strong legs, for all that they couldn't be seen by Brad. The pain was significant, but somehow the threat of potential destruction blossomed in Brad's crotch and brain. It was horrible but thrilling. More than likely this man who was kicking him had never seen anyone enjoy testicular pain before, and it wasn't clear if he would take care not to permanently damage his captive.
The more the man kicked him, the more Brad's dick strained its confines. It was mortifying and thrilling at the same time. It was as if Brad's dick really had it's own brain, it's own impulses, it's own destiny, to have it's twin companions beaten to a mush by anyone of the male sex. Apparently the fact this man was the "enemy" was irrelevant. What mattered was their imminent rupture. But, in fact, Brad's captor was more nuanced than Brad had first given him credit for. After about three minutes of solid nut-kicks and a growing pre-cum stain on Brad's crotch the man stopped and assessed Brad, whose body was limp from equal parts pain and pleasure. The man gently, and briefly, grasped Brad's face, turning it side to side,  and after noting Brad's semi-conscious state then pulled out a huge knife from his belt and first cut away Brad's shirt, revealing a ripped white torso, and then used it cut Brad's belt and pants until Brad was in nothing but his boots and his green military issue briefs. Even if his captor wasn't gay, most anyone could appreciate this American Adonis for his shear virility and beauty. The man then grasped Brad's walnuts through the brief's thin material and began to squeeze them. At first gently, as if he were testing ripe fruit (squeeze, release, squeeze, release), but then with more and more concentrated vigor. The man was of indeterminate age but he was still young enough to still have plenty of strength in his fingers and he was normally adept at using them to break the wills of enemy soldiers but in Brad's case, simply made this enemy's penis leak yet more sticky fluid. This intrigued the torturer to no end. 'What is this man's issue?' thought the Arab to himself. He began to twist and pull on the captive's testes while he squeezed them. Just to see what the effect would be. Brad's head thrashed around and he emitted a low moan, but there was a hint of sexual gratification in that moan. Like a stallion mounting his last female before being castrated. Like a virile bull bellowing at having his bollocks crushed at the hands of his most trusted handlers. There was something so basic and primitive about this man's moaning that it made the Arab slightly aroused himself. Much to his own surprise, in fact. He let go of this white-man's nuts and ran his calloused hands over Brad's chest. He tweaked Brad's nipples and squeezed this man's pecs as he might a woman's breasts.
Then slowly, ever so slowly, he cut off the captive's underwear and grabbed Brad's hips, and using them as leverage he began to knee Brad's crotch. At first just once or twice, to gauge their effect to Brad's pulsing member and when he noticed it's impressive length and girth, he made it his personal goal to see if he could deflate the thing from the very source of its pleasure. Pain.
With all the force he could muster, the Arab began to pound Brad's naked puds. Over and over the man's thigh bounced off the two battered bubbles that made Brad a bonnefide man. The two ovals of male flesh were swelling nicely. Nicely enough to fill Brad's scrotum like two turkey eggs and became ever more springy and plump. And had this continued on, it would have meant the inevitable destruction of Brad's balls. But before that could happen there was a disturbance outside Brad's cell. There was a lot of shouting in Arabic, some sporadic gun fire, and then the door to Brad's cell banged open. There stood Russ, his face red with exertion and anger. He took one look at the situation and raised his pistol. With a single shot between the eyes, he killed the Arab insurgent who was brutalizing his lover, and  kicked the body to the wall. He rushed over to hold Brad, gently, and to be there for him, in anyway he could conceive. Brad's mental state, however, was as resilient as his manhood, and he just chuckled.
"Well, now I have two reasons to be happy to see you, Russ," said Brad with relief plain in his voice. "I have a feeling that Arab would have very happily nutted me." Russ's reply to this statement was a vicious kiss to his lover. And he held Brad tightly before replying.
"I dunno, maybe he would have," said Russ, "but I'd much rather do that myself,". With a wink and a smile he said, "These belong to me now, remember?", followed by another, this time more gentle, kiss. Then Russ whispered into Brad's ear "But let's get you dressed before anyone else shows up. I'm not sure how I'd explain this thing," stroking Brad's rigid member with admiration
Brad sighed with disappointment. "OK, then" he said, "What's left of my shirt?"


  1. Dangit, I was hoping for something more gruesome :) but excellent story, as always, Nicholas. Glad to see you back.

  2. Oh nice sweet romantic story again Nicholas, I love that. I thought Russ or Brad kicked or crushed Arab insurgent"s balls way back to out side ;-)
    Great work as usual.


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