The Heist



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Riddick-97

1. Kidnap 1

1a. 1

1b. 2

1c. 3

2. Attack 4

2a. 4

2b. 4

2c. 5

3. The Voice 6

3a. 6

3b. 6

4. Questions 7

4a. 7

4b. 8

4c. 9

5. Pedro 9

5a. 9

5b. 10

6. Electrifying 11

6a 11

6b. 13

6c. 14

7. Bitten 15

7a. 15

7b. 15

7c. 16

7d. 17

8. Pension plan 17

8a. 17

8b. 19

9. Work-out 20

9a. 20

9b. 21

9c. 21

9d. 22

10. Report 24

10a. 24

10b. 25

10c. 26

10d. 27

11. Extra-curricular 28

11a. 28

11b. 29

11c. 30

11d. 31

12. End-game 32

12a. 32

12b. 33

End 33

1. Kidnap

1a.

“Water! Water! You mother-fucking cock-sucker!”

Weston screamed at the top of his voice. The slot into his darkness had slid closed with a rusty grating noise. Incarcerating him again in the stinking heat that sucked the strength out of his body and left him feeling lost. Outside his sweating hell, Weston heard a cruel laugh. There’d be no water for him.

He had come round again to a strength-sapping pounding in his eyes. His head thudded, a metallic scraping noise grated through his brain. Weston felt he was about to throw up. His eyes automatically screwed together under the thunderous thumping hammering against his forehead. Weston was completely lost. He had not idea where he was, why he seemed to hurt in every crevice of his being. And why he was soaking wet.

Shit, his head hurt! He couldn’t move, Weston felt a rush of panic when he realised nothing would move. He ached everywhere, biting cramps gnawed at every bit of him. He seemed to have been in this cramped black hell for ever. His arms were trapped, his legs crushed up into his chest. And he was in a hell that was roasting him like in the fires of an over-heated oven. He could hardly breathe, the air of this blackness that had eaten him up sizzled in his lungs. His throat burned as he gasped at the air. His nose stung. Repeatedly he tried to move his arms to wipe the sweat that drowned and stung in the sockets of his eyes. But nothing could budge. He must have drifted in and out of this drug-like nightmare a dozen times. And then mercifully the slot above his eyes had rustily scraped open.

Riddick-25xy

For a brief moment, Weston glimpsed light. Then a blistering bright dazzle jabbed into his eyes like a dagger. Instantly, Weston’s eyes closed against the painful glare. He’d seen nothing, found no one above the metal lid just above his head. The glare of the sunlight had his closed eyelids burned. And then his hope crashed when Weston heard the slot scrape closed.

“Water!”

Weston screamed at the blackness that had been the open slot.

“Gimme water!” he pleaded.

Weston didn’t mind how desperate he sounded. He was burning up inside this hell-hole of an oven. He was drowning in his own sweat.

No reply. No response.

“Water, you mother-fucker!”

Weston shrieked with all the force he could muster.

Nothing. Just silence. A searing, roasting silence in this hellish cramp.

Then a thunderous pounding filled his head. Inches above his head. The thudding joined forces with the pain hammering at his forehead. A sound that took on physical force and smacked like vicious punches on the top of his skull. That thumped like knuckled fists inside his brain. Weston crushed his chin into his chest. Just above his head, fists hammered savagely on the metal lid of his tomb. His whole cramped body turned rigid and tense. Shaking. The cramped space that crushed against him became one gut-punching, body-crippling fist. Smashing at his face, like knuckles hammering into the back of his neck. Weston groaned out loud. Then the pounding on the lid just stopped. Weston groaned out his pain, he shuddered through the noise-turned-pain that had seemed to hammer at his body. Grateful that the pounding had stopped. Water denied.

At the extremity of his pain, Weston heard a distant voice. Beyond the searing heat just above his head he heard a laugh.

“Mother-fucker, yourself!”

An evil-sounding malicious laugh that faded away as Weston was left to fry.

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1b.

“Where the hell was Connors?”

Through the pounding in his head, fighting the dizzying weakness in his mind, Weston struggled to piece together what had happened, how he had got there. What he remembered before he came to in this sweltering hole.

“Where the hell was Connors?” That had been his last thought before it had happened. Connors was late again, he was invariably late, the lazy bastard.

Weston had already wasted a reluctant hour in Piet’s bar waiting for his field officer to turn up. He’d drowned the first beer in a few gulps in this infernal heat. Then impatiently he downed another, more slowly this time, morosely watching the other drinkers in this stinking seedy hovel just off the water-front. Knowing he had better things to do than waste his time waiting for Connors. She’d be waiting for him, he could hardly wait. Already the thought was giving a tingle to his groin.

“Where the hell was Connors?”

His only entertainment had been watching Piet sort out a gang of drunken Latin dock-workers. Single-handedly. Piet never needed any help. He was one built guy. A massively mountain of a Dutchman who’d got lost in this god-forsaken piss-hole. Always wore a sweat-stained tank top. Deliberately. His every move in that shirt was a statement. A permanent threat to his “clients”. Tangle with me if you dare! Muscle was stacked on muscle on him. That was something Weston knew about, he openly admired the barman. Sinews rippled on Piet and the drunks left fast. And there was plenty of him. All solid, all muscle. Weston eyed him. In admiration. Weston was big and strong, he’d looked after himself but not like that. Bored with waiting, he wondered about Piet’s past. There was surely a interesting story there. Something very dark and murky. No one came to this god-forsaken hell-hole without good reason. What was Piet hiding from? He didn’t look like that by accident. Piet had worked at that physique. And hard. Long and hard. What the hell was he doing in this rat-hole? Weston would never find out, he knew. No one ever got close to Piet. He hardly spoke.

After the third beer, Weston rose to take a leak. There was only him and Piet left in the bar. And still no sign of Connors. And Weston was wasting his time, she was waiting, he had better things to do.

“Broke”, grunted Piet. “Out back”, his thumb nodded to the back-door.

Riddick 130

Piss outside in the alley was what the gesture meant. Weston stepped out into the humid stinking-hot night. Probably just as well, it smelled better than the john out here. Fractionally. His eyes adjusted slowly to the dark. Weston turned and looked at the darkened sky. Above, heavy broken clouds drifted over a weak moon as Weston fumbled down the steps into the blackness and groped his way round the corner.

“Connors, you bastard”, he thought. “Hurry up!”

He undid the buttons of his filthy work pants and fumbled his dick out. He heaved a sigh of relief as he heard the sound of his piss splatter on the heat-caked earth. Reminding him of what was in store that night.

There’d been a message waiting for him at the end of the day when he eased the beat-up truck back to the warehouse. With a smile, his thumb gently stroked at his leaking dick. Anticipation. The sort of coded message she always left. When it was safe. Her husband was away for the night, the message said. It was too good a chance to be missed. They’d never had the chance before of a long hot fuck. An all-nighter. And in a bed for a change.

“Where the hell was Connors?”

He knew what it was the instant it touched. The unmistakable feel of a gun. Cold and menacing, the barrel pressed against his neck. He stiffened, instinct made him to turn.

“Don’t move! Face front!”

Weston froze open-eyed at the jab of cold metal again his sweat-streaked neck. Didn’t breathe. Only the splash of his now hesitant piss broke the silence.

Riddick 126

“I’ve got no money”, he answered. “I’m as broke as you”.

The barrel jabbed him in the back of the head.

“Shut it!”

Then he cried out in shock. A sharp stab in the bottom of his neck. Deep into muscle. His hand flashed up. And it felt .. what? Plastic? A screwdriver? A needle … a syringe? Then the earth span. Then metal scraped noisily in his ear. Then Weston fell in the dirt. Blacked-out. His piss still leaking down his pants.

1c.

He was on his back, he gradually realised, cramped in a tight concrete box. Bathed in his own reeking sweat. Stinking hot. His head only inches from a metal lid, radiating heat like a furnace. Sweat flooded his eyes but he could barely shake his head to clear the stinging. Cuffs had his hands tight in his back, with every slight move he scraped his bare arms on rough concrete. Weston could barely breathe in this over-heated air. He was being roasted in some kind of concrete box, a metal lid just above his face.

Riddick-25x

His first assignment. Only 3 months in and he’d been captured. Was his cover blown? His mind couldn’t work through the drugged haziness. But what other explanation was there? Why else was he cuffed inside this sweat-box? 3 months under-cover in the South American jungle, posing as another drop-out hiding out in the middle of nowhere. He’d got himself work bumming part-time as a truck-drive for an operation owned by the Cartel. He’d hoped slowly to work himself closer to the action. But look at him now, taken. Jumped, drugged and left sweating in a concrete box. For what? If his cover was blown, why not just waste him? Feed him to the fishes, leave his corpse in the forest. Plenty of wild animals to help hide the evidence. If anyone in this god-forsaken hole ever cared about another corpse. Life here was cheap.

Weston’s breath came hard and laboured. Every intake brought a gasp as burning tissue in his throat roared at more searing hot air. Everything ached. His feet were jammed hard into the other end, his knees bent up over his chest. His upper body screeched with cramps, upper body bent forward squeezed into this concrete coffin, his neck jammed forward into his chest. He stank of his own piss from when they’d jammed that needle into his neck.

Weston knew he should be thinking this through. He should be working out who’d snatched him, what it meant. But he kept passing out, drifting in and out of a sweat-drenched, drugged consciousness. Whatever they’d shot into his neck left him drowsy, the pounding in his head would not go away. And increasingly he was in a state of near-collapse. Dehydrated. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t move. His body drained of any strength. The air was over-heated, stinking hot and full of his own stale breath. This stinking piss-loaded heat was leaching the strength out of him with every pint of his sweat. The beer he’d drunk had been pissed out on himself, he had no choice. And the stench of piss and sweat choked him in that over-heated box.

And still he had no idea who’d snatched him. Or what they wanted with him. That one time, they’d opened the hatch in front of his eyes, they knew he was awake. But they’d not come to get him. Why were they waiting? That hatch opening seemed hours ago. His pleas for water had been met with a mocking laugh. Followed by that hammering that seemed to thud like fists hammering into his brain. And since then nothing, not a sound, not another approach. They were having him sweat it out. They were draining him of strength. And were keeping him waiting. For what? what did they want/ Who were they? What did them mean to do?

2. Attack

2a.

Riddick 124

Things changed in the blinking of an eye. From sweltering overpowering blackness to blistering blinding glare in an instant. Weston gulped in fresh air greedily when the lid flew open. But the light was like a branding iron straight into his eyeballs. Shocked, instinctively, he screwed them tight against the glare. A split second before he’d been out of it, he’d been lost in a shattered stupor. De-hydrated, near-unconscious. He never heard the rusty bolt on the lid scrape back. He’d had no warning before the blistering bright sun blinded him.

Weston cried out sharply with the shock. Eyes screwed tight, he felt a giant force grip the back of his neck and squeeze hard. Teeth clenched together against the crunching pain, he could do nothing against the power that yanked his butt off the deck by hauling him up by his neck. Suddenly, he was thrown over the concrete edge of the box, his feet still dragging inside. Clenching his eyes tight against the punishing glare, gritting his teeth against the crush on his neck, Weston was disoriented. He didn’t feel himself being bent double, his waist scraping over the harsh concrete edge of the box.

A thunderbolt smashed in the back of his neck. Held upside-down over the edge of the box, his attacker hammered a knuckled fist into the back of his neck. Weston jack-knifed upwards with the pain. His shock cry emptied his chest, he thought he’d pass out with the pain. The fingers on his neck dug in, yanked him upwards. And into the path of another fist rammed into the back of his shaved skull. Weston’s cry of shock spewed to the earth, a second sharp yell of pain came ripped from his throat. His attacker grabbed at his belt and hauled him out of the box, throwing Weston roughly in the dirt.

Paralysed by pain, almost blacked out by the two crippling thumps to his neck, Weston lay stunned in the dirt. Groaning, tasting the acid bile burning in his throat. Eyes clenched tight against the glaring light and the blistering pain in his head, he lay groaning and dazed. Till a heel hammered into the middle of his back. Hands defencelessly cuffed in his back, Weston spasmed upright with pain.

Suddenly a heavy weight landed on his butt, a hand gripped at his forehead and twisted him back. Weston tried to open his eyes in surprise but the blistering light blinded him again. Then suddenly there was something across his throat, pulling him back. Something was jammed across his windpipe. Pulling him up backwards. He was being throttled!

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2b.

He watched the attack on Weston from the safety of the shed. It was wise not to risk being seen at this stage. And besides, the heat today was excruciating. Best to stay in out of the heat. The humidity sucked at every pore. Even inside the darkness of this workshop, the temperature underneath the tin roof was gluing the shirt to his back. Out there in the sun, though, where they were working Weston over, it was like a furnace.

Weston had been sent sprawling in the dirt. His sharp cries from the stunning punches to his neck had come winging across the heat towards the shed. The crack in Weston’s pained voice when his attacker’s boot had jabbed him in the middle of Weston’s back raised a smile. It was all going to plan. Weston was now twisted back upwards. Still lying in the dirt on his front, his attacker was straddling Weston’s ass and hauling him up in the air with the club across Weston’s throat. Throttled by a kid’s baseball bat across his windpipe. Blinded by the light, Weston’s face was creased in absolute shock, surprise and agony. It was child’s play. Throttling him was easy-peasy. The whole weight of Weston was forced downwards onto the bat across his throat. Gravity helping, Weston was throttling himself. And panicking. Yeah, all going to plan.

His exhaustion from the box fled in an instant. Though weakened by the sauna-like heat of the box, Weston’s tiredness instantly dissipated. Adrenalin pumped. Weston was being strangled. And there was nothing he could do. His hands were cuffed behind him. His upper body had been hauled up in the air, his throat pressing inescapably into something across his throat. Cutting his air off. His ears rang with the gurgling of a strangled man. His head swirling, light-headed. He was passing out, he was dying.

Panic flared. Not bothering to understand what might be happening to him, Weston’s eyes strained into the glaring light. Then everything went dark again. He had briefly caught sight of hand. Then the light had been extinguished. And still he gurgled like a dying man into the throttling pressure across his neck.

A sound was vaguely familiar. But his head was spinning from the punches to his neck. And he was reeling from the hours of de-hydrating in the box. Panic roared in his head at being throttled. A familiar sound but Weston could not make out what. Panic and exhaustion flooded his body at the same time. Weston had tried to throw open his eyes to understand what was happening to him. But all he saw briefly was a pair of hands. And then darkness again had covered him. Darkness accompanied by a familiar ripping sound.

From the security of the shed, he watched Miguel wrapping duct tape over Weston’s eyes. While Weston was kept back-twisted strangled by the bat. Still the heat from the tin-roof overhead had him wiping sweat from his face but it was nothing to the heat raging through Weston out there in the blistering sun. This hear in trhe shed was cool compared to what Weston was going through.

Weston was beyond thought. He was light-headed, he was fainting he was panicking. He didn’t want to die. The pull of the constriction across his throat had stopped his breathing. Over the thudding of panic in his ears, Weston heard himself gurgling into the thing that was throttling him. The drugs still pounded in his head and dehydration had left him weak. He tried to force himself back up, to pull away from the constriction. But he couldn’t. That thing was strangling him, stopping him from breathing. And the weight of his own body was helping. There was nothing he could do about it. He was going. Noisily, gurgling like a mad dog. He was dying.

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2c.

Duct-tape. That was the sound. Weston had collapsed face-down in the dirt when the constriction across his wind-pipe disappeared.. Despite his gasping, despite the pulse thudding in his ears, he recognise that sound. Duct tape. Recovering from being throttled, writhing on the earth, Weston suddenly – out of nowhere - recognised the mysterious sound. Duct-tape being unwound. Duct tape over the eyes. They wrapped duct-tape round his head, blindfolding. So he’d not recognise them again. They’d duct-tapped his eyes, casting him again into darkness. This time with his eyes open but unseeing. Securely wrapped inside a cocoon of the tape.

So they didn’t want him dead. Not yet. They didn’t want him to recognise them in the future a good sign. That meant …..

“Up!”

The voice barely registered while Weston heaved for breath into the dirt..

“Up on your knees!”

A kick in his side emphasised the order.

“Get up, mother-fucker!”

Another kick encouraged a bewildered Weston to comply. He managed to get a knee up under him. He struggled and managed to creep his knees up under him. But his face still scraped in the dirt, he could find the strength to lift his head.

Suddenly a boot rammed into his ass. A hard kick to the bottom of Weston’s spine. Jarring pain the length of his backbone. Weston cried out in shocked pain. Weston collapsed forward into the dirt. Cursing at the pain in his ass. His face grazed in the gritty earth. His chest splattered with a groan into the dust.

Duct tape covered his eyes but Weston’s cheeks ate earth. His gasping sucked in dried dirt.

“I’ve said it once. Up! On your knees. Faster”. Followed by a sharp kick into his thigh.

The voice rang out like a marine sargent on parade. Habit scrabbled within Weston to struggle to his knees. Weston sat hunched on his knees, every slow breath shaking his body in a rhythm of exhausted pain. A hand clenched at his scalp, pulling his face upright. Yanking his body upright on his knees,.

“Too slow, sargent!”

The voice snapped out.

And a slap exploded on Weston’s cheek. He cried out and fell backwards. Back onto the dry earth. Back on his back, gasping for breath. Sprawling in the dust, struggling to understand.

A steel-capped boot hammered into Weston’s side. His hands helplessly trapped underneath. Taking the kicking.

“Up! Up on your knees! Now! Fast!”

Weston was learning. To save himself from another weakening kicking he scrabbled over onto his side and struggled to his knees. Searching for signs, he lifted his head.

“Better that time, sarge”.

Sarge. He’d said “Sarge”! How the hell ….?

Weston never finished the thought. He never registered the other’s grunt of effort. But he collapsed forward with a yell when the boot hammered into his guts. Shocked, unprepared, Weston bawled. Bile leapt to his throat. He fell forward onto the leg. Not registering in his pain the powerfully muscled leg against his face. Hands pushed on his head and Weston felt groaning into the dirt. Folding forward on his side, nursing the burning ache deep in his guts.

“Better. But still not good enough, sarge!”

The voice drifted soullessly in the air.

“Up!”

The voice bawled like a drill sargent.

“Get the fuck up!”

Weston struggled to comply. Before the kicking started again.

3. The Voice

3a.

He stood back to one side as they hauled Weston, blind-folded and hands cuffed behind, into the workshop. They’d grabbed an arm each and dragged him from the sweltering heat outside into the building, Weston’s feet dragging behind in the dirt. He heard Weston as he passed by groaning from the kicking he’d taken in the guts. He gave the pair of attackers an encouraging nod as they hauled Weston passed into the shed. As Weston was dragged past, Weston gave a long groan hauled out of his back-stretched armpits. With a grunt, Weston’s attackers dropped him by the post.

A boot in the thigh got his attention.

“OK, sarge, let’s try it again. Up!”

Miguel gave him a poke in the ribs as encouragement.

Weston struggled to get his legs up under him and, with effort, got to his knees.

“On your feet this time!”

“What the fuck…!”

A boot slammed into Weston’s hip.

“No one told you to gab!”

Weston shut up. Groaning, he slowly rose to his feet, his head turning as if he sought out who was talking to him.

Weston gasped out in shock. Hell, he couldn’t see anything, couldn’t predict what they were doing. Their every move came as a shock. Hands had suddenly grasped at his shoulders turning him round brusquely. A hand gripped him by the throat and thrust him back. His head cracked against an upright behind, his cuffed hands in his back were squashed against a post. The big hand held him by the throat, pressed Weston’s neck back against an upright.

“What the fuck ….”? he gasped out.

“Shut the fuck up!”

A stinging slap smacked him across the mouth.

Blind under the duct tape, Weston’s eyes were stinging with the sweat that flooded his face.

“We ask the questions!”

His ears rang with the force of the slap. And the big hand kept his neck pressed against the post in his back.

“Get it straight. We ask the questions, you answer, sarge”.

“I’m no sargent”. Weston blurted out.

A hammerblow smashed right through Weston’s guts. A sledgehammer that seemed to smack his backbone into the post. Weston bawled in shock and pain. His stomach nearly emptied. Bile smacked into the back of his throat. Pain threw him forward, choking himself into the hand around his throat.

“That was no question, sarge. You talk to answer a direct question. I ask a question, you give me an answer. Otherwise, you say jack-shit!”

Weston was spluttering into the hand across his throat. His insides burned. He gasped and heaved for breath. He didn’t know who this bastard was but he’d better watch out. Once he got himself free ….!

“Just so’s you’ve got in straight, sarge. I ask a question. You give me a straight answer. OK”?

The only response came with Weston heaving his guts up. Another fist had pounded into his abs. Another fist in his guts to underline the words. Solid, hard. Weston throttled himself into the strangling hand, coughing and spluttering. Sweating under the tape.

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3b.

The voice was Hispanic. But it came from the side. But the big hand on his throat and the solid fist that had landed in his guts they were straight in front. So there were two of them, Weston reckoned.

“OK, now we are gonna make you comfortable, sarge”.

It was on the tip of Weston’s tongue to deny that rank. He hadn’t been in the military for ….

Suddenly, Weston panicked. He couldn’t breathe. The hand across his throat pressed back. The force pressed his head back against the post. He couldn’t breathe! A giant hand had his windpipe in its grip. Throttling his crushed windpipe again.

Weston’s head writhed desperately from side-to-side. He was being strangled! A furnace suddenly raged in his head. His pulse pounded in this ears. He couldn’t breathe. The hand across his neck crushed tighter his neck back into the post. Inhuman gurgling sounds spewed from his throat. Every muscle in his body fought against the attack. His head tried to writhe from side-to-side to fend off the hand throttling him. But force pinned his neck hard against the pole behind. A massive inescapable force. And it was cutting off his air.

Suddenly the pressure was gone. The hand throttling his throat let him breathe. Weston gasped in air. Noisily, greedily, he heaved in life-giving breathe into his chest.

And a crippling thud into his guts spewed the air out again. The life that Weston had sucked into his torso was belted out of him. A bellow of pain erupted from his chest. The punch literally blew the life out of him. Every bit of breath in his body was smacked out of his lungs by an upper cut into his guts.

Riddick-40x

Weston yelled out in surprise, shock and pain. A hammerblow that smashed his back into the post. His eyes nearly popped out of his head. His stomach emptied under the hammerblow-force.

And the hand then closed down on his throat again. Tight. Clenching tight. Squeezing the life out of him. The hand crushed his neck into the post again. Cutting off his air. Weston panicked. His brain screamed. He couldn’t breathe!

He watched his captive from the safety of the door.. Half a dozen times they repeated the sequence . Effectively. Throttling Weston, letting him gasp in air. Then punching him the living daylights out of his guts till Weston emptied everything out of his lungs. And then throttling him again. Weston was beside himself. Weak from the box, the knock-out drugs still confusing him, he didn’t know whether he was coming or going. Serve the bastard right! His body had not got enough wind to keep itself going. They gave him no chance to breathe. He was probably fainting from lack of oxygen. So he never noticed when they let him fall forward, coughing, gasping, heaving in air. Miguel quickly unclasped one cuff. Then adroitly he pulled Weston’s arm back over the bar behind the post and snapped the cuff back on again. A final killer-blow into his guts left Weston heaving, spluttering. Unable to think straight. Legs sagging under him. Weston’s bellowing and tortured heaving for air filled the sweltering air in the shed.

4. Questions

4a.

He stood behind now watching intently as they got Weston warmed up. Hard, slow-paced punches to the stomach. Devastating fists smacked unsuspectingly into his defenceless ribs. Slowly administered to put everything into each punch. Weston probably tried to flex and tighten his guts but the combined throttling, blindfold and the pain coming out of nowhere, the punches landing where he could not suspect. They visibly had him reeling. Out of control.

He noticed a flash of steel on Miguel’s hands. He’d not noticed Miguel slip the knuckle rings on. But no matter. Weston was feeling it. The knuckle-dusters were smashing up his insides. Under the duct tape, Weston had no idea where the next attack would land. He flexed his stomach, yet he took it in the ribs. Then the next one he got cripplingly into his unsuspecting abs. He watched as Weston’s chest was rammed back pain into the post behind. Pain ricocheted him off, he collapsed forward, only to jar to a painful stop when the cuffs stopped his forward jerk. The sudden halt tore a pained jolt into his cry. The cuffs on his wrists were drawn back high over a bar behind the pole. Forcing his arms up high behind his back, pushing his shoulders forward and leaving Weston’s belly exposed. Just right for that next knuckle-ring blast into his belly button. Weston’s shoulders exploded forwards, the shocked grunt hit the back of his pain-clenched teeth.

Riddick 42x

He wondered whether Miguel had been into kick- boxing at some point. The accuracy of those knee kicks was unnerving. Without warning, Weston threw himself forward. A knee-kicked rammed itself into weakening battered abs. His shoulders rammed him twisted forward into space as a shout was ripped out of his throat. Weston jarred to a painful stop when the cuffs stopped his forward jerk. Miguel wasn’t particularly tall but he seemed to be able to lift his knee real high and ram it good and solid into Weston’s unsuspecting abs.

He wondered if that first one was a mistake. Perhaps Miguel was tiring, perhaps the effort of lifting his leg so high to smash the wind out of Weston’s guts had tired him out. He genuinely winced that first time when Miguel’s knee cracked into Weston’s balls. The shrill sound of shocked pain from Weston filled the shed. But then another kick landed with unerring accuracy. It was deliberate, Miguel was going for his balls. Pain erupted in Weston’s groin, lightning struck. Miguel’s knee had smashed into Weston’s balls crushing them between Weston’s legs and Miguel’s solid knee. Pain threw Weston’s shoulders forward, his shoulders shook with uncontrollable shudders. Pain and shock twisted Weston in his bonds. Savagely Miguel brutally pushed Weston back up, jamming Weston’s back into the post again. Hands staying on Weston’s shoulders, Miguel’s body leant sideways again and the knee found that sensitive and precious target another time. Devastatingly. Weston howled.

Weston let out a yell. An agonised yell as again his defenceless balls took another battering from a viciously hard knee-kick. Weston cursed and sweated in his pain. The pain in his groin was unbelievable.

“Let’s try this again, sarge”, said the Voice.

Weston blurted out through his pained gasps, “What the fuck is goin’ on? I ain’t no …”

Weston bawled out. Another knee-kick smashed him hard in the balls. Silencing him. A hard crippling blow that thudded his backside into the post behind. At first a cry of shock. Then a devastating pain exploded in his balls. The pain burst out through his taped eyeballs. A high-pitched shocked bawl was agonisingly wrenched from his balls and came smashed out of his throat.

“Fuck!” he screamed.

The hands on his shoulders tightened, he got that momentary warning. Then a thunderbolt hit his balls again. His torso shot forward. His knees collapsed. Pain stabbed him in his shoulders when the post stopped his forward fall. There was nothing he could do, there was no defence. In a far distant place he heard himself groaning. A long broken spluttering of pained groaning at the intense gnawing dullness gnawing in his groin.

“Nobody told you to talk, sarge”.

A smack in the guts backed up the shout.

“Fuck you!”

The curse was out before Weston could stop himself. Sweat poured down his face under the tape. His eyes stung with his own sweat, tears filled the but had nowhere to go. He was angry and frustrated in these impossible bonds.

“You’re not learning, sarge”.

A split second before the pain, Weston had heard the Voice through the fog. Then the hands on his shoulders tightened. That early warning that Weston now knew was a threat. But there was nothing he could do. A sharp crippling knee kick into his crutch rammed his butt up into the post Pain in his balls made him screech.

Weston’s wrists were drawn back up behind the pole, forcing Weston’s shoulders forward and leaving Weston’s belly exposed. Just right for another fist-blast into his belly button. His shoulders exploded forwards, force smacked his back into the post. Another unsuspected shock grunted in the back of his pain-clenched teeth. Weston thought he’d pass out with the shock. And the crippling pain.

4b.

Then again panic erupted. An arm was round his throat. An arm from behind jammed his neck into the post. They were throttling him again! Quickly another knee kick followed. But the arm around his throat pulled him back, he could not jerk forward into the crippling pain in his balls. His throat was trapped in the crook of a hard-muscled arm, his neck trapped back against the post. And again another knee kick came. Weston bawled out his pain. The arm stopped him falling forward, stopped Weston from looking for some elusive relief to the pain exploding in his balls. Again and again, shattering thuds smashed into his balls splitting his bellow of pain in two. The arm on his throat kept him upright, exposing him, making his balls freely available, devastating explosions kept bursting in his crutch. Weston was crying out in agonies. Snot dribbled down his face, the sweat of pain filled his taped eyes, he gave in to the agony clenching at his balls. He hollered, he howled. The hands tightening on his shoulders gave him notice. But there was no defence, the tightening of hands on his shoulders was a kind of warning but each grip hit him like a devastating threat. A split second after the Voice’s hands tightened, the force of a thunderbolt crushed Weston’s balls under the thud of a knee.

Miguel let Weston hang forward this time. Let him groan out his pain from the bashing to his balls. Open-mouthed, Weston’s head rolled. Collapsed forward, Weston hung forward suspended by the cuffs over the bar behind. Hung helplessly forward, his head reeling, drooling saliva from his gaping mouth. Groaning, broken long rasping groaning.

Vaguely, in some other time, in a distant place beyond the crippling agonies burning in his crutch, Weston heard a voice.

“I think perhaps, sarge, you need some help”.

Suddenly Weston went stiff. His gasping froze though he’d been hyper-ventilating. Someone from behind had jammed something in between his teeth. Something metallic was jarred painfully into his gasping mouth and was forced in between his back teeth. Shocked, still sweating in agonies over the burning crippling pain in his balls, Weston cried out. Some kind of inhuman twisted gurgle hit his ears. His own gagged cry of protest. Weston tried to escape the metal bit jammed between his back teeth, scything his head from side to side. But the metal was just rammed in even further painfully jarring his jaws apart. His own voice splurging over the thing that crushed down on his tongue and jammed his back teeth apart.

“As you can’t keep your mouth shut, sarge. In your best interests, we’ll shut it for you”.

Weston just registered the Voice’s message a second before he recognised the tightening on his shoulders. Agonies beyond imagining slashed through his balls. Pain popped out of his eyes, his knees turned to water under him, his whole body collapsed under the excruciating pain. Another thunder-strike in his balls. Sweat filled his eyes. A loud messy cry spat out over the gag between his back teeth.

From behind, he watched the vicious attack. Weston would not know whether he was coming or going. His balls under attack, a metal gag jammed in his mouth. He heard Weston’s uncomprehending cry of shock. He heard Weston start to pant fast. Hyper-ventilating. Noisily, messily, his teeth jammed open by the metal bit across his mouth. Jamming his tongue down, keeping his throat open. Weston was panting rapidly at the shock of a bit across his tongue jamming his mouth open. On top of the burning aches, adding fuel to the agonising pains in his balls.

Two jerky grunts from Weston joined in as the strap was pulled tight behind the head, ramming the bit between Weston’s back teeth, crushing his tongue down and jamming his mouth permanently open. Inhuman slobbering noises dropped from Weston’s mouth. The pain in his balls was transformed by the gag into animal-like snorts as Weston tried to breathe. Strange angry-sounding sounds that greasily dripped like a dribbling animal onto the floor. No one was interested in Weston’s answers anyway. No one wanted to hear anything he had to say. He had nothing to say to them they did not already know. That wasn’t the point. But they still went on with the pretence.

“I’m gonna make this easier for you, Agent Weston”.

Weston’s head was faint with pain. Shock, confusion, pain raced through his head. He barely registered what was being said.

“Yes/ No answers. I ask the question. You nod for a Yes, shake your head for a No. Got it?”

Deep down in the recesses of his pained mind Weston slowly registered the words. Agent Weston. How the shit did they know? No one in this hell-hole knew. He was supposed to be just some kind of bum who had turned up in this stinking jungle and had got himself casual work driving a beat-up truck.

“That is your correct title, isn’t it? Agent Weston?”

Weston just hung forward, the burning in his balls killing him.

“Nod or shake”.

Groaning into the gag, Weston’s mind was reeling with shock. A shout burst like a missile out of his open throat.

“Wrong answer. Shake or nod. Groaning is not an answer”.

The upper cut had jabbed in under Weston’s ribs. The knuckle-ring cut through the unsuspecting abs like a hot knife through butter. Under the mask, Weston’s eyes nearly popped out. He bawled out in shock. The gag jamming open his throat erupted in a messy cry.

“Agent Weston. That is right? Nod or shake”.

Weston shook his head.

The next upper cut smashed up under his ribcage.

“Wrong answer. We know better”.

The shout exploded into the gag. A long pained groan seeped from his throat. Shit! There’d been that split second warning of hands gripping at his shoulders.

“Don’t fuck us around, agent Weston!”

Another knee kick twisted Weston in his bonds. His eyes popped in the pain. How did you prepare for a kick to the balls you could not see coming!

Riddick 97x

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4c.

He’d never taken to the cocky bastard. First assignment out of basic training and he already knew it all. And Weston made no show of pretending respect. Within a week he was letting Connors know he didn’t know what he was doing. Connors knew OK, he knew precisely what was going down. Much more than the swaggering Weston realised. But it was just too inconvenient at precisely this moment to have some over-enthusiastic rookie sticking his noose into Connor’s private dealings. There was the deal of a lifetime about to come right - and without warning some over-enthusiastic rookie like Weston turns up. Macho-man, action-hero Weston, ex-Marine. Connors wasn’t taking the risk. Weston had to be removed from the scene.

[pic]Riddick38x

Connors watched from behind as the two of them let Weston get his breath. Weston hung forward off the post, gasping heavily, his voice laden heavy with the pain in his guts and the burning ache in his balls. Connors didn’t plan Weston any harm. He’d get done over, OK he’d get done over badly, but then he’d be removed for medical care. And by the time the bastard recovered enough, Connors would be gone. Made for life. Then Weston could come back and save the world as much as he wanted, Connors would be enjoying life, all he needed. For the rest of his natural.

Burning with fury under the blindfold, Weston felt he was getting angry. How much more of this was he supposed to take! These bastards shouldn’t think they could get away with this! Who did they think they were! Biting angrily into the bit between his teeth, rage plumed like burning gas in his guts. Behind, his hands clenched into vengeful fists. He’d take these bastards apart. First chance he got. That hand on his throat had been big, the owner massively strong. But Weston had been trained to kill. And Weston had never felt more ready for the chance.

Miguel didn’t care a toss about Weston’s answers. Yes or No. Nod or shake. This was just a game. Beat the crap out of him. Scare him shitless. Get Weston out of harm’s way for a few weeks. Who cared about Weston’s answers? They knew who he was already! He had nothing to say they didn’t already know. That’s why they’d gagged him.

The punch into his ribs was hard. Cripplingly hard. Weston had dropped his guard. Taking time to recover. What a prick! This was no game! The punch woke him up. Weston was shocked at the pain one knuckle-ringed fist could produce. But there was nothing he could do against it. Another metal-loaded thump slammed again into his rib cage. He erupted in a slow pained grunt. Hard. Metallic, the blow felt solid. And painfully hard.

Then, before he could prepare himself, the metallic thump thrust its path up under his rib care. Smashing in through unsuspecting muscle gasping for air. In up under his unprepared muscled stomach. Weston cursed uncontrollably his blindfold.

On and on, shocks took him unawares. Weston yelled into his gag. Again and again. Pain taking him over. Pain slamming into his ribs. Pain thudding up under his ribcage. Pain gouging its agonised path under his waist. All without warning. All without steeling himself against the attack. Pain and confusion held his mind in its grip. Weston had no idea where the next attack would come from.

Metal-knuckled punches slammed into him, he was beyond himself. Knee-kicks found his balls. His body screamed for reprieve, his mind fought against his body’s weakness.

Till suddenly it stopped. Till – in a confused vortex of pained reality – the agonising pummelling gave up. Till Weston was able to give full vent to the pains that were coursing through his abs, till he was free to squirm in excruciating discomfort at the aches gnawing at his battered balls. Till Weston could gratefully hang forward off his twisted arms and groan to the rhythm of his pains..

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5. Pedro

5a.

“…. And in case you think, you’ve only got to get yourself free. And then it’s you against me, ….”

The Voice had come back to the horror of his reality a few seconds before. Weston’s face was drenched under the duct-tape, his eyes stung with the trapped sweat. He felt sick to the pit of his guts. And he hurt like hell. Everywhere. And especially that grinding ache raging in his battered balls. These mother-fuckers wouldn’t get away with it, under the blackness of his tape he promised himself that.

Weston was glistening with sweat from his efforts to break free. Slicking a finger in the grease on Weston’s shoulder, the Voice added,

“… There’s my other friend here to consider. You see, you ought to know there’s more of us. Like my helper behind you. Let’s call him “Pedro”. He doesn’t say much, does Pedro. But he did tell me he’d like the next go at you. Next”.

[pic]

Riddick 46x

Weston’s ears pricked to detect danger behind but the tape and the agonies burning in his balls dulled his senses.

“Unless you’re ready to talk”, the Voice continued. “Are you ready to talk?”

Weston said nothing.

“Remember”.

The voice sounded lie a school-mistress admonishing children. Weston seethed at the tone.

“Nod for a Yes, shake your head for a No”, the Voice coached. Still playing the meaningless game. Who gave a shit whether Weston wanted to talk? He was getting what was coming whatever.

Weston did nothing. Steadfastly his heart thudded in his chest. His gagged mouth felt suddenly dry. He knew already the consequences of not reacting. They were going to start on him again. Unless he talked.

“OK, you’re hurting. Hard to talk, I’spose? So, for this time, I’ll take that for a No”, the Voice mocked.

“So you want another beating?”

Weston swallowed but did nothing.

“Look, it’s simple. Yes or No. Nod or shake your head”, the Voice played with him.

Weston started panting lightly. He sweated buckets.

“I’ll take that as a Yes, then. You want another beating”.

Weston bit down on the gag, breathed in rapidly through his nose. He sounded to himself like a stuck pig snorting.

“But that’s OK. ‘Cos Pedro wants a go at you, anyway. Y’see, our Pedro’s like that. Is it alright if Pedro has his go?”

This is crazy, thought Weston. Why the fuck didn’t he get on with it? They’re toying with me. Getting me worried. Trying to make me panic. He recognised the technique. But the thudding in his chest still told him it was working, he knew. He could feel a tingle of fear prickling in his groin.

“Yes or No?”

Under the tape, salty sweat stung his eyes, his open mouth had gone dry.

“I’ll take that for a Yes, then”, concluded the Voice.

“Over to you, Pedro”

Weston realised he was panting fast, showing his tension,. He took in a deep breath to calm his heart. It came in loud and noisy through the gagged mouth. Like an animal snorting in pain.

5b.

“Just so’s you know. Pedro is stripping off his shirt. And something you should know. He’s a great admirer of the American dream. He spent some time in your country. Working the circuit. But couldn’t break into the mainstream, though”.

The Voice broke off. Weston heard a whistle. A wolf-whistle. A kind of whistle of appreciation.

“Boy, is our friend Pedro cut!”

Weston already knew. To his own cost. He’d felt Pedro’s punches. Pedro had been the one crushing his throat back into the post. Pedro had been the one hammering his fists into Weston’s gut. Weston knew how much Pedro could hurt He also knew he was being worked over mentally. They were deliberately putting the frighteners on him. Successfully.

.

“Sorry, what I meant was Pedro tried breaking into the wrestling circuit. The mainstream wrestling circuit, I mean. But he couldn’t hack it. He had to make a living with the Indie. No-holds-barred, I think he calls it”, the Voice let the message drop.

pb021xy

“Says it gave him a taste. A taste for violence. Something he learned in your wonderful country. Violence. Dishing it out. Bash ‘em till they drop. Learned a lot in your wonderful land of the free, did Pedro”.

Another whistle of appreciation hit Weston’s ears.

“Wow, you should see him. Y’see, Pedro’s one built guy. You can’t see him. Cut like crazy”

Weston remembered, he reckoned he’d already felt him. Caught unawares by crippling uppercuts into his own cut abs.

“P’raps just as well you can’t see Pedro. Might make you shit yourself. You can’t see him, Agent Weston“.

There was a hint of mirth in the voice.

“… But you’re sure gonna feel him”.

Weston felt a hand stroke gently at his cheek. Like a parent comforting a weeping child.

“Dishing it out. Give as hard as you get. That’s what Pedro found out in your US of A. No-holds-barred. Learned a lot about that in those fights, he said. Let ‘em have it before they give it you. Hold nothing back. It’s a hard life on the Indie circuit, he says. But he came out alright. Made loadsa dough. Because he’s got what it takes, has our Pedro. But y’know that already, Weston, don’t ya. Yeah, you’ve guessed. You took it in your guts. Hurt, huh?”

Weston felt a burning there now. Deep in his innards. It made him flush with anger. But he kept his mouth shut. Think with your head, he’d learned. Not with your mouth. Stay in control, that’s what the instructors had said.

“Not that he says much, though. Bit of the strong silent type, is our Pedro. He doesn’t need to talk much, though. He has other ways of getting your attention”.

Weston jolted at the hands placed on either shoulder. Big strong hands. Gripping him firmly from behind. Suddenly he realised how much his skin was slick with his own sweat, sweat of fear, sweat of pain. He felt it under those giant hands. He was sweating shit-loads under that tape. His eyelids kept open by the tape, his eyes stung with the salty sweat that poured off his face underneath.

Then he gasped. A bare arm had circled his throat and pulled his head back against the pole. Again! Pedro was throttling him again. He grunted when the arm yanked back, cutting off his air again.

“Learned useful things like choker holds, sleeper holds ….”

The Voice trailed away as blood pounded into Weston’s ears. He heard himself gurgling like a wild dog. His eyes popped under the tape. He tried to control himself. They didn’t plan to kill him off, not yet, he screamed at himself. But instinctively his head shook wildly from side to side, the only movement left to him. Deep down, his mind reasoned with him, they didn’t want him dead. They wanted answers first. But panic shrieked in his head. He was choking. He couldn’t breathe. Blood flooded his head. His whole body went tense. Insane gurgling escaped his throat, saliva dribbled from his gagged mouth. His chest was about to explode.

Then the hold was gone. Just as fast as it had gripped him. Weston was thrown himself forward by his gasps, noisily retching, hungrily heaving life-giving air into his lungs.

Weston heard down like a tunnel a whistle. A kind of admiring whistle. A wolf whistle.

“A pity you can’t see him”, the Voice went on through Weston’s gasping. “Pedro’s quite a sight. Really big. You can feel he is strong. Quite a stud is our Pedro”.

The Voice and “Pedro” exchanged looks. “Pedro” scowled back at Miguel. Pedro was the bartender in the water-front bar, the Dutchman Piet. And Piet didn’t like being mocked even when it was in play like now. He didn’t have much sense of humour, especially when he thought he was being laughed at. Even in fun. And rightly. He was someone people took serious. Piet was Connors’ muscle whenever he met the Cartel. Men feared him, they didn’t laugh at him. Even the Cartel took Connors serious with Piet standing by.

Behind, Weston could hear a slapping. A rhythmic thud, something menacingly hard hitting solid flesh. Drumming. Menacing.

“Of course, you can’t see which of us will be working on you. But you’ll be able to tell. ‘Cos Pedro’s the one that hurts”.

Weston’s anger burst. He cursed this mocking torturer with all the extremities he could muster through gasping for air. He swore furiously into the gag crippling his mouth.

“Sorry, I didn’t catch that”, the Voice sniggered at the insane gargling that drooled over the gag. “Are you saying you are ready to talk? Pedro looks disappointed”.

Weston got a grip on himself after his stupid meaningless outburst. He shut up. He breathed in deep, trying to ready his body for Pedro’s inevitable attack. Pedro hurts, he’d said. So had the Voice. Those knee-kicks had nearly done him in. And Pedro was going to be worse!

“I’ll take that for a No, then”, the Voice answered.

Weston hauled in breath, Breathed slow and deep to control his heart. Behind, he heard the rhythmic thudding.

“Oh, that noise? Wanna know what that is? Pedro’s got a baseball bat. That’s what you can hear. Slapping it into the palm of his hand. He’s planning to use it.”.

Weston froze at the news.

“On you”.

Weston tried to gulp down the fear that leapt to his throat.

“Just a child’s bat, of course. Not full-sized”.

Weston told himself to get a grip.

“Now, whad’ya say. Agent Weston? Ready to talk? Nod for a Yes, shake for a No”

Weston didn’t flinch. But his blood thudded in his ears. The brain screamed at him to wise up and nod.

“… .Or do you want Pedro to put it to use? On you? OK?”

The Voice waited for Weston’s answer. All Weston could hear was his heart racing. And the menacing thud of a baseball bat into Pedro’s giant hand. Building like a crescendo in his head.

The Voice broke the heavy silence, cut through to the thumping in Weston’s ears.

“Over to you Pedro. I think we can take that as a Yes”.

The voice trailed away as the blood thumped in Weston’s ears.

“… If that’s the way you want it ……”

Almost with a sigh of reluctance in his voice, Weston heard the Voice say,

“He’s all yours, then, Pedro”.

6. Electrifying

6a

She was there already, she was always there first. Not that he didn’t want to get out to her in that fisherman’s hut out of town. He was gagging for it. But she always managed to get there first, perhaps she was gagging for him even more than he was. She’d been on his mind all day, there was always a worry that something would go wrong to prevent her from getting there. He’d slipped on a pair of well-worn baggy cut-offs and that dirty sweat-stained tank-top and looked for all the world as if he was going out for a run. God, what a crazy idea in that stinking heat. The natives watched him jogging out of town, the sweating dripping off his shaven head, his top already clinging to him. But they knew these gringos were loco anyway! Anyway, so far the trick had worked. Though the hut where they met to fuck was so out of the way he doubted anyone would come across it by chance.

Sweltering in the heat, gasping through the humid air he was gulping in, his mind was on nothing else but her as he ran through the forests. Even as he tortured himself on his run in this hut, the thought of her sent electric sparks to the tip of his cock. Just as well there was no one was around to see. What the excitement at the thought of their meeting did to him was plain to see even in those baggy shorts.

Thank god, the door was open when he jogged down the track, - her signal it was OK to come. It was always the same trick. But heck, who was he to complain, he was already gagging for it. She was standing hidden beside the door when he entered blinking into the darkness within. Her hand grabbed him around the back of the neck and instantly pulled him to her. Her back was against the wooden wall, her hands on the back of his neck and her lips crushed against his mouth. He dragged his tongue across her bottom lip, pushed it into her mouth enough to extend an invitation. She responded by kissing him with a brutality that made him smile. He understood frenzy for him so well. Her hips pressed forward into his and moaned at the welcome he brought, She’d learned he always arrived ready prepared. Already ready.

She spoke no English, his Spanish was barely adequate but they didn’t need words. Moans of satisfaction growled in her throat as she rubbed herself against his willing groin. Her hands had moved to his ass, fingers in his crack pulling him in to her. Grinding herself on him. He grunted with effort as his tongue fought with hers for supremacy. She always gave in, she always let his tongue enter her mouth. But only because she had better plans. She loved the feel of her hands on his bare skin. While he explored the inside of her mouth with noisily passion and ground his groin into hers, her hands were inside his top, snaking up his sweat-slicked back. Her hands gripped tight over the firm muscle and eased the top up his torso.

Suddenly she was down on her knees, he’d lost her mouth anyway. But her mouth was nuzzling away at the sweated shorts where his bulge was already welcoming her. Her lips teased him, leaving his senses reeling in his shorts as her tongue nibbled at the frenetic strength burning under the cloth. He cursed to himself as he reluctantly felt her mouth leave him and lick up the hard muscle of his stomach, her hands easing his top slowly up his torso. Eventually, he had to give way. Struggling to breath through the pounding in his guts, his eyes closed at the excitement swelling in his shorts, he lifted his arms and he let her strip the top over his head.

Riddick-110

Practised as ever, her lips were on his throat, sucking and nibbling at his throbbing pulse, taking in the lobes of his ears. Making him even wilder down there where it mattered. While her hands were already skilfully untying the draw-string of his shorts. Tempting his eager cock with a slight flick of her fingers. He always knew to tie the string in a single bow, no point in making things complicated. Head back, panting with expectation, Weston arched his back and felt his cock press hard and hopeful against her groin. Her mouth was on her chest, covering him with her hot kisses. Christ, what her old man was missing! The woman was electrifying!

In no time at all, he felt the back of her hands down his front inside of his loosened waistband. And brutally she assaulted his senses. He groaned in barely controllable expectation as her fingertips stroked eagerly over his rigid hard-on. Played with him, she gently flicked it backwards and forwards, her fingers playing his cock like a flute. He could barely take any more. His mouth was back on hers, his tongue inside probing, searching, indicating he wanted more than his tongue inside her. In an instant her hands were in his back, they slipped dexterously inside the waistband of his shorts. He never slipped on anything underneath when “he went for his run”, no point in making complicating things. The feel of her calloused hands sliding over his ass set sparks to excitement to the tip of his bursting cock. Her fingers glided in the sweat of his ass crack, her palms squeezing with eagerness on the solid muscled flesh. Every instinct pressed his hips forward as she peeled the shorts off his ass.

Naked now, a flush of heat billowed from his balls over his whole torso and crashed in his head like surf on the shore. Weston balled his hands together into fists as uncontrollable lust swelled in his groin.

She was always accommodating, she never wore anything underneath when they got together. In a second, he had her skirt up around her waist, her legs were gripping him tight and passionate about the hips while noisily they clung to each other with everything they had. Unerringly he found her straightaway. Slick and hot for him, like her mouth coating him with her saliva. Every inch of him was behind that first slow moaning thrust, every bit of her welcomed him in. She squeezed on him, not in resistance. Letting him feel the electric excitement of her with every inch he gained. His shorts down by his ankles, he whipped her round and took her against the wall. His lips found the throbbing pulse on her neck, her head back against the wall, the moans of her excitement drifting above his head.

It never mattered about coming together. It didn’t matter who came first, - though it was invariably him. This was only the starter. She’d take him three or four times in the hour or two before she had to rush back to be the dutiful wife. Weston had often thought afterwards it was lucky that it didn’t take long to cook fish! So her old man always found something bubbling in the pot when he stumbled back home from the cantina.

The woman was an animal, she pumped electricity. Weston smirked to himself with his face between her legs and working on her hot sticky womanhood. What was her man thinking? To be passing up on something as good as this! Weston had fled down there. He needed the break. With his tongue giving her the time of her life because his cock ached so much, his balls churned for more with her but the tip of his shaft felt over-worked and in need of a break. Did she ever stop? Boy, was she making up for lost time!

Three times already. No sooner had he come and was lying back letting the hot air cool on his even hotter chest than her hands were on the roam again. And the instant she felt she had stoked up some strengthening reaction, she was back on him. He’d never had a woman who took him before. She was an animal! He pumped with life. She was electric.

Weston made the mistake of working his lips slowly up her body. He covered her navel, his mouth went wild when her back arched as he mouthed and kissed at her flat stomach. Privately Weston had to admit she hadn’t got the best body he’d ever had. But did she know how to make up for that!

He crawled up her body until he could place his mouth against hers, feeling her large round breasts heaving against his chest with nipples as hard as smooth pink stones.

He was now licking at her breasts, giving those needy nipples the best he could when suddenly she’d had him over on his back and she’d slid herself skilfully down onto his cock. Weston had to admit, if he had a favourite position, it was on his back with a woman riding him like this. OK, earlier he had driven her wild when he had entered her from behind. She had lost it as his cock slid slowly and hard over her love trigger. But for Weston there was nothing better than a long slow go-for-it with a woman riding his stallion. She’d mounted him, pushing herself onto his erect cock. She began to move on him, greedily raising and lowering herself on him. The sway of her breasts as he rose into her. The full sight of her face as every feature in her face gave in to what she felt. The way she squeezed on him as she lowered herself back down. It just drove Weston wild.

But she was in a hurry tonight. Weston realised that when he was on his back and he could see the light was already fading through the open door. Her thoughts were already on the fish to be cooked in the pot as she rode him. She was going for him like hell. Hands on his chest for support, she rode him like a jockey racing for the finishing line. Already sore, he winced a bit as she contracted and squeezed around him, she was dictating the pace. Pain and pleasure merged. He was pushing wildly inside her, hot she was squeezing and crushing him back. Till she went wild. Till she rammed herself up and down on him, out of control. Till she rode him like a jockey to the line. Making sounds he knew she never intended to make.

He dropped his hands to the tops of her thighs and stroked her gently. He was her gift and he intended to let her use him as she needed, satisfying himself with watching her as she worked up and down on him in her unabashed gluttony. She felt hot and wet around him, a furnace being stoked by the fire in his cock.

He moved his hands to her breasts. She arched her back to feel his touch more intensely. He took her nipples in his eager fingers and rolled them gently but with enough force that an erotic pain mingled with her pleasure. He kept up the pressure, lifted his back off the floor to take those rock-hard nipples in his mouth and suck them even more erect. Riddick could tell that she was lost in her exertions to the point where nothing else existed for her but him. He wanted to thank her for her trust in him by pleasing her as much as he could. He licked her nipples, sucked at them, lathered them till he was rewarded by her moans. Before letting his back drop back to the floor and once more let his hands work her breasts.

Weston felt his own climax building. He should hold back but his innate greed kicked in and he wanted to come. He slammed her onto her back without losing one second of the rhythm she worked so hard to get him going. It was his rhythm now, he took charge.

The incredible depth she offered enveloped him. He pushed hard into her, grateful that she locked her legs around his ass and met his thrusts like a fighting warrior. He heard his own guttural cries mix with hers in the thinning night air and the sound electrified him to the point that he let go and flooded her with his thick stream.

Eyes closed, her whole vision centred on the breathless thrills racing from her groin and flooding the whole of her being. Lost for a moment from the emptiness of her married life. Till she yelled in excitement that he had made her come.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

6b.

Weston slowly drifted back to consciousness. He knew she’d be gone when he woke up. She was always gone when he came round. Back to her pot of boiled fish and a husband returned drunk for the cantina. Tonight, Weston knew he had slept long and hard. There was only darkness around. He was alone, she had gone and outside it was already blackest night. Almost instantly he was aware that it had been an intense session of sex. Not long but extremely intense. My god, had it left him sore! Even three-quarters still in a sex-induced doze, he could tell his equipment had had quite a workout. He really didn’t understand some men. This woman was a tiger, a wild animal, every man’s fantasy. In bed, she worked like electricity on him, he’d never felt more alive. Weston had had his women. He’d known his whores, one-night stands as a marine, other ranks who’d matched his own appetites. But this woman was among the best. She needed to dominate, she took the initiative. But she could also take it when Weston took over and turned the tables on her. But her husband had no interest, it seemed. The man just didn’t know what he was missing.

Just as quickly, he knew he was up for it again, Weston realised in his semi-doze that he was hard. But even in his slumber he knew that was not to be, she’d be gone when he opened his eyes. She was always gone. Back to the stew pot. Back to cover tracks and make sure there was something on the table when that husband of hers stumbled back drunk from the cantina.. Idiot that he was. If only he knew what she was capable of. It hadn’t taken much to find out.

Still, Weston knew in his half-sleep he’d have to satisfy himself with a hand-job or just put up with his hard-on when he surfaced from this drowsiness. She’d be stirring the fish stew by now as Weston slowly drifted back to wakefulness.

Christ, it had been intense. Weston was suddenly aware how he ached down there. Ached so much that he felt like he might have strained himself. Had she gone at him that hard? Aimlessly his barely conscious thoughts drifted around trying to work out why he would be aching down there so much. She always went for him like a wild beast, but had he ever ached like this before?

Weston made to move his arm to nurse his crutch with his hand. Christ, it hurt! What had she done to him.

Still drowsy and half-asleep, his hand drifted off down south to try and nurse that ache. But his arm couldn’t move. In the same second, Weston realised it was not a strain. Something was jammed up into his crutch. Up between his legs, something was digging hard into his groin. He hissed out in pain at this awareness. Something was pressing painfully hard against his balls.

In a flash, Weston was back, wide awake. He realised why he could not move his arms. He knew why in an instant. This was not the fishing hut. He was not caught in some post-coital reverie. In a flash, Weston remembered the sweat box, the chokings, the beatings, the knee-kicks to his balls. He was blindfolded with duct-tape. He was being tortured.

Riddick 37X

The pressure against his balls was unbearable. Weston tried to lift himself up to ease the pain. Then he realised he was already standing on tip-toes. And still something hard was pushing up between his legs. Something inescapable and jammed painfully up into his crutch. He was crushing his balls under his own weight. The bar or whatever was jammed into him was pushing up so high it forced him onto his toes. And the angle of his arms pulled high up behind his back bent him forward so he was pushing his own body weight down onto his groin. He himself was crushing his balls down onto that painful intrusion. Whatever it was.

6c.

Inside his gag, Weston cursed. Sweat filled his eyes under the tape. Inhuman gurglings spluttered out of his gagged mouth. The grinding ache was unbelievable. His balls had taken over a dozen knee-kicks and had painfully swollen. And now they were being crushed by something jammed up between his legs. And his arms forced his body down forwards crunching his pain-bloated balls underneath. Weston’s head shook uncontrollably from side-to-side trying to come to terms with the agonising ache of his body crushing his balls under his own body-weight. Again he tried to rise up on his toes for relief but there was no give.

Pedro’s first punch took him unawares. Weston cried out in shock and surprise. A thud smacking at his ribcage with the ferocity of a thunderclap.. And a split second later, an upper cut rammed itself up under his ribcage. Weston’s initial cry was cut off. Cut short by the sharp fist that lifted him up off his feet.

Weston bawled out in shock. That punch up under his ribcage came with the force of a sledgehammer. That blow blew all the wind from his lungs. In training, Weston had taken many blows. He could hold his own in the ring but the power of those blows had his head in a spin. But then his attacker launched an arsenal of rapid-fire punches directly into his belly button.

Weston’s shocked abs gave way under the onslaught He felt his guts churn as spasms under the thunderous pounding. Fists low down, punches higher up, air hammered out of his lungs. Another sledgehammer rammed a knuckled fist into his ribs, throwing him forward with a jerk. Straight into the path of a left under his belt. The agony of relentless punishment persisted. Weston had no defence. Punches to his ribs, thunder-blows hammered deep into his guts. So fast, so hard, he had no chance to flex. His own solid abs gave way under the shock. They were little defence against this speed, they’d give little defence against this force. Weston roared his pain over the gag. The power beneath those fists was like nothing he had ever known. He was beyond thinking, Weston was beyond reasoning. And his body crumpled under every crippling pain. This Pedro was a monster!

Each fist landed devastatingly accurately on the reddening flesh. Pain and force smashed Weston back against the upright in his back. Then he gave in. Pedro was through. He had hammered his way through any protective wall of strength in Weston’s guts. The force of each fist into Weston’s abs broke through the shocked wall brick-by-brick, muscle-by-muscle. Pedro the body-builder putting every ounce of hard-trained muscle into each and every thwack. Piet the professional torturer landed each blow to maximum effect. With a grunt of triumph Piet laid in another devastating punch. Weston was whipped forward bending double into the fist. Grunts gave way to yells of pain. Weston was beyond controlling his pain now. The target returned to his abs. Each crippling thud was well-timed, every fist was a well-placed punch, every blow forced a cry of blinding pain out of him, his shuddering body wide open to Pedro’s attack. Rapid-fire, each punch pounded blisteringly at Weston’s insides. Unprotected. Battered inside and out. Painful to watch. Agonising to suffer.

An upper cut suddenly smashed into his jaw, smacking the back of Weston’s head into the post. It felt like his head split apart under the explosion. Like a bullet through his brain. Then nothing. Black-out. Blissful unconsciousness.

7. Bitten

7a.

Stretched up on his toes, hauled back from blissful oblivion to a universe of pain scything in his guts and his balls, Weston squirmed in his pummelled abs. As well as that grinding dull ache crunching his punch-bashed balls, he felt maddened by the pain that had come back grindingly alive inside his guts. Quivering with spasm after punished spasm as his innards released their screeching pain.

Then suddenly Weston shrieked.

It was like a rat had jumped up and grabbed at his cock. As if it had sunk razor-sharp teeth into Weston’s pain-fed erection. Its jaws bit down hard and clung on for dear life. In shock, Weston’s shriek collapsed into an inhuman gurgling howl. Agonising rodent teeth were digging deep into his hard cock. His brain exploded in a sickening vortex of shock and pain.

Miguel smirked over Weston’s shoulder at Connors. He was giving Weston a lesson he’d never forget in a hurry. If he came out of this in one piece, this was one memory that would make the cocky rookie shudder for the rest of his life. The bite of a jump lead gnawing at his pain-hard cock. It would take some time for the memory of the bite in his cock to fade. Whatever had been going on in Weston’s head while he was out had got him going. The pressure pushing out against his loose greasy jeans was just too great a temptation for Miguel to resist. Miguel had been wondering where best to attach the metal jaws on the clip. Weston had shown him the answer. That hard bulge in his pants had almost sung like the fabled sirens to the razor-sharp teeth of the clip’s spring-loaded jaws. Miguel forced them open and let them nip tight. The jaws snapped tight with a metallic bite. And Weston jumped. The teeth of the jump lead bit down tight on him, clamped agonisingly onto Weston’s unsuspecting erection. And Weston shrieked.

The vicious teeth sank in deep. And the thickness of Weston’s hardness tried to force the spring back open. But savagely the spring was fighting back. Viciously it dug deep and the teeth gnawed heartlessly at him. Weston’s head went back, his gagged spluttering howl dribbled out of his mouth, head rocking in shocked agony from side to side. His terror-struck cock gripped between razor-sharp jaws. Viciously digging their sharp metal teeth into him. Digging in for life. Biting Weston in the cock for all they were worth. With excruciating agony. Miguel had to smirk. The damage there would last for some time. For weeks after, Weston would sob in pain and curse every morning hardness. He’d look away whenever a good-looking girl gave him the eye. Every time he fumbled his dick out of his fly for a piss, the memory of this moment of agony would return. And bring tears of pain to his eye. If he lasted out the night.

Weston’s head was back against the upright, his head rocking wildly from side-to-side at the agonising grip on his cock. The muscles in his shoulders and back-stretched arms had turned rigid with the pain shuddering through his torso. Animal-like noises shouted out of his gagged mouth, - drooling onto his chest like a fatally wounded beast.

Confusion mixed with agony in Weston’s head. One minute he had been drifting out of a dream of an intense session of pleasurable sex, conscious of feeling hard and ready to go again. And the next something unearthly had gripped hold of that same erection and he was shrieking in pain. His cock had never hurt so much. Razor-sharp agony had his precious erection crushed in the grip of biting brutality. He screamed hoarsely like he’d never known before.

“You’ve disappointed us, Agent Weston”.

The voice was out there beyond this unbelievable surge of agonising pain. Weston was barely aware of it. He tried to ignore it, he wanted to concentrate on fighting this pain.

“Thought you’d need some motivation to help us out”.

The Voice. It was the Voice again. Weston suddenly recognised it. That Hispanic who had pounded at his balls. Weston tried to force himself to ignore the agony that bit crushingly into his solid erection. And concentrate at the next onslaught from the Voice.

“What you can feel on your cock is one end of a set of jump leads. And the other end is attached to this terminal by my feet”.

In an instant, Weston’s head was clear. A growing terror pushed the agony in his cock into the background. He could see it in his head despite the duct-tape over his eyes. The giant-sized alligator clip clenching tight into his hard cock. Agony tore into his enforced erection. Pain froze him from stomach to knee. From the agony of metal teeth biting deep into his erect and solid shaft. But, more, terror gripped his whole body from head to toe. More horrifically, worse was promised. Weston saw in his head the cable snaking down near his legs to a battery on the floor. It was as clear as day. As if there was no blindfold. And Weston nearly felt his knees give way at the thought, he felt his legs turn to water. In his head, flashing like a warning light, he saw the battery terminal. He saw the cable attached to his cock snaking down between his legs to the terminal. Wired. . And his agonised cock wired into the part-closed circuit. And next to it, the red terminal, marked with a big “+”. Flashing warning lights at him. Threatening, menacing. Sweat flowed. His pulse raced.

7b.

The pain in his cock was taking him beyond his endurance. Weston did not understand why he had not passed out. It hurt so much. He was panting hard. Over the gag forcing his throat open, rapid uncontrolled pantings pounded messily at the air. His spit drooled over his chin and soaked in his top. His throat felt raw with the terrified pumpings that scraped at his voice-box. He tried to fight that fear he’d seen in his head, he knew he could not afford to give in to that. The thought of electricity zapping him through his cock. Weston felt beyond himself with pain. Pain and fear combined. That searing bite deep into his rigid cock froze his thinking and threw him into a sense of bewildering panic all at the same time. The terror of the Voice closing the circuit. Wiring his bulging cock and closing the circuit. Frying his cock. For a moment, he was lost, he had no control, Weston gripped by a terror-driven agony.

Out of nowhere, he was under attack again. He cried out in shock. Weston thought he’d go faint with the pain. It was unbelievable. An explosion in his stomach. An upper-cut to attract his attention. Beyond human endurance. Over the gag, a screech of inhuman proportions flooded Weston’s world.

“Y’know, you don’t learn too well, Sarge”.

Weston heard the Voice in some distant place, Weston struggled to fit it in round the agony tearing him apart from the pain-centre of his universe in his cock. He tried to focus but was failing. Gagging and gasping for breath. But another upper-cut in under his ribs did the trick. Pain exploded out of his open throat. Shock sent him flying up under the force of a knuckled punch into his stomach. He bawled out a curse, he erupted in a yell of pain. Surprise from the unsuspected punch detonated in a massive explosion in his head. An unearthly sound splattered over the gag when gravity smashed his swollen balls back down on the bar between his legs. Pain threw Weston forward, over onto the searing agony ripping through his groin. Weston lost coherence under this deluge of pain from all directions. His cock tortured by the alligator clip, his swollen balls tortured from the battering, his balls crashing down onto the pole jammed up painfully against his agonised groin. A battery of unintelligible curses broke from the gagged mouth.

A strong hand gripped at Weston’s chin. Then five stinging slaps smashed across his cheek.

“Get a grip, agent Weston!” the Voice snapped.

“What would your instructors say? Straight out of basic training! And already mewling liker a baby!”

Weston briefly registered what he heard. “Straight out of basic training ….” How the hell did they know! Then pain tore with blistering heat into his guts. Unwarned a fist lunged again deep into his unsuspecting stomach. Smashed through trained strong muscle deep inside, thudded into unwary flesh. Smacked his backbone into the post, adding to the myriad attacks of pain on his brain.

Pummelling in through his abs at tender organs and hammering his back into the post. Weston roared in shock over the gag.

“Disappointed. That’s what we are! What have we got? What have you given us? Nada! So you’ve forced us into this. It’s your fault, you see. Let’s see what a few zaps into your balls do for you”.

Head back against the pole behind, pain scything through his balls, Weston’s legs turned to water. Retching and coughing from the punch into his guts that had taken him unawares. Yet still those words managed to send shivers of fear down Weston’s spine. A few zaps into your balls! Terror reached into the pain-filled reflexes of his mind and chilled the pit of his stomach. The jump lead on his erect cock was already attached to the terminal. It needed only two more slick moves! One more to his body, another to the live. Two easy moves and his cock fried.

7c.

Weston could have sworn it couldn’t get worse. He hurt everywhere, he burned, he was dowsed in sweat. He could not think straight for pain and total confusion. But it just had. It got worse.

In one vicious blistering bite. Weston cursed. A long soundless FFUUUUCKKKK that almost tore his head off. It was like that rat had just jumped up and bit at his chest. His upper body shot up, went rigid. Paralysed in a pain-loaded tremor. The rat had clamped its teeth down on the end of Weston’s nub and clung on as if life depended on it. Weston’s head slammed back against the upright. His ears filled with a tormented dribbling gurgling that shot over the gag. The rat’s teeth were clamped for dear life down on his nub, the tip of his nipple was jammed searingly tight between the rodent’s jaws. Like the front teeth of that rat were sunk deep into his pain-meaty nub almost like it was biting it off. Weston’s hands tied up behind were bunched into agony-clenched fists, the muscles along his back-stretched arms had turned to trembling steel.

The long sustained bawl of Weston’s pain filled the shed. The temperature seemed to shoot up with his inhuman yell. Miguel smirked. That nipple pressing hard against the sweat-drenched top had been a temptation too good to miss. He caught Piet’s eye. The sonofabitch rarely showed much emotion but there was a hint of a smile playing across his lips. He was nodding away to himself, he’d remembered something today. The shock from the alligator clip clamped right down on a nub already aroused by pain. Clamped down on a victim who could see nothing, who could anticipate nothing, prepare for nothing. Pain + shock + pain. He’d almost forgotten the formula. Piet remembered that one from the days when he did this kind of thing for a living. In the good old days before disappearing to this shithole.

Sweat drowned Weston’s eyes. He bawled like a wounded animal into that gag. Tears flowed trapped under the tape. The furnace in his chest was scorching his bawling throat from the inside. His head was back turning in a slow agonised circle on a neck rigid with more agonies than he’d ever imagined. His whole body trembled in a continuous sense-overloaded spasm. Snot dribbled from his nose, saliva drooled over the gag. This was beyond human. The terminal stages of BSE. Crippled, drooling, mindless.

And, despite itself, his body was making it worse. The fresh agonies burning up on the end of his nipple were sending flashes of excitement to his cock. His own treacherous body was making things worse, he was hardening up even more under the signals crackling from his chest. Signals that inflamed his already agonised cock, thickening him and hardening him even more. Forcing himself out against those vicious rodent teeth. Like he was impaling himself into those razor teeth clamped on his cock. He was pushing his own pain-rigid flesh harder into the razor-sharp jaws clenched on his shaft. It didn’t come worse that this.

It did.

His face exploded.

“Pull yourself together, Weston!”

The Voice roared into Weston’s face. In his best mock-instructor’s voice, he spat disdain into his “trainee’s” face. Accompanied by a harsh back-handed slap across Weston’s cheek. A back-hander loaded with the knuckle ring.

Force whipped Weston’s head over to one side.

“First time tested. And you’re whimpering like a baby”, the Voice’s hot breath bawled into Weston’s face.

“Thought you were ready to go undercover?”

“Undercover?” Weston barely registered the word in surprise. How they hell did they know …? When another slap across his face unloaded every tear in Weston’s head. His eyes were drowning in his own tears.

“Pull yourself together, motherfucker”.

The Voice’s instructor-bellow smacked another knuckle-ring of contempt across Weston’s face.

He snorted out his pain, he coughed his shock into the gag. The pains were everywhere.

Weston’s roared under the pain that detonate under his ribs. The Voice’s fist had thudded up into his chest. All the wind in his lungs spewed out over the gag. The knuckle-ringed fist had driven an upper-cut up under the ribcage. Pain almost made Weston’s eyes pop out of their sockets. Shock turned his legs to water. He sagged harder onto the bar jammed into his swollen balls. A force exploded in his head. Agony threw his chest forward till the cuffs dug agony into his wrists as he jarred on his arms around the upright.

An iron fist clamped on his jaw and rammed Weston’s head back hard against the upright. Pain detonated in the back of his head, Weston saw stars. His pained wind burst through his open throat in an animal-like bawl under yet another upper-cut into his shocked stomach. The iron fist turned into a claw that dug fingernails into Weston’s jawbone so hard he thought it would break.

“Shut it. NOW!”

The Voice’s breath flooded Weston’s face.

“NNOWW!”

The iron fingers dug at the end of the metal gag almost cutting his face in two.

“And if you do ….”

The Voice was now whispering into Weston’s ear. Now soft, purring and luring, gentle and tempting.

“If Agent Weston can do this for me ……”

Weston flinched at the touch of the Voice’s fingers stroking up the length of his pain-solid cock. His mind was racing, confusion was everywhere. His eyes nearly popped out of his head at the feel of a man’s finger and thumb gently stroking up and down his rat-bitten shaft. Agonisingly clenched in the razor-sharp jaws of the clamp.

“If Agent Weston can show me what he’s made of ….”

The finger slapped hard on the clamp digging into his cock. Twisting it, wrenching razor-teeth into the pain-hard flesh. Weston gave a sharp yell of shock. He didn’t know where to put himself, where the next shock was coming from.

“If, Weston, you can show me he’s a man…..”

The steel-grip on Weston’s jaw released.

“…. Then I’ll take off this clamp”.

Weston’s heart leapt.

“The one of your cock. Now, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” tempted the Voice

Weston had given in before he knew it. He regretted it the moment he nodded. But he nodded like fury. A split-second later, he knew he shouldn’t have. He’d given the Voice his victory. But he couldn’t help it. He did want that. He did want that clip gone. Like nothing else in the world.

Miguel had never had his hand on a grown man’s cock before. He dug his fingernails into the solid heat between his fingers and thumb. He suddenly realised it wasn’t such a bad feeling, - once you used to the idea. The sense of power from controlling a fully-grown man like Weston by his dick, - well it was an unusual sensation. But the fear bulging in Weston’s shoulders told Miguel it wasn’t so bad after all. Strongly muscled, shoulders tense and thick with pain. Control. In charge. A sense of power that sent a tingle to Miguel’s own cock. Not an unpleasant sensation he realised as his fingertips clenched hard into Weston’s hard, pain-solid dick. He gave a twitch on his own hardening sense of power. He wondered briefly what that said about himself. But ignored the thought. The feeling was just too good to question.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

7d.

Weston came alive with a loud roar. He’d taken shit for seeming hours. He’d had enough. He felt with a rush of excitement the clamp biting into his dick being released. A wash of relief waited in tense anticipation for the moment when that agonising bite stopped. But then he screamed. Agony roared echoing off the tin ceiling and bounced off the hot metal walls. He tried to pull on his arms but he was still held back by the heavy metal of the cuffs. As he bucked and twisted, trying to get free, he felt as if every nerve in his body was being pricked by tiny hot needles.

When the clamp come off his swollen dick, Weston could not control himself. He just yelled. His body went rigid. His shoulders jammed themselves into the upright. He shot upwards as if trying to flee the blistering pain that tore through the tops of his legs. Weston bit down hard on the metal jammed between his jaws. In search of pain, any other pain. Pain he could inflict on himself rather than have others do it. Pain drowned and stung his eyes. But there was no escape. An unbelievable biting ache had taken possession of his cock.

“Sorry. Forgot to warn you. When the clamp comes off, it hurts like hell”, sneered the Voice somewhere in Weston’s head.

Weston swore out loud. He didn’t need to be told. A universe of pain had hold of him by his cock. And he screamed.

“Get a grip, Agent Weston!”

The Voice bawled in his face after the knuckle ring smacked into his jaw bone. Inhuman splutterings splattered over the gag as his head smashed into the pole behind. Weston’s eyes popped in the ocean of stinging tears.

“Are you a man or what?”

Weston knew he was a fucking man. That was just where it hurt. Hurt like he’d never known.

After a while the agony in his cock abated a bit. Though it had seemed like hours of uncontrolled torture. Weston hung breathless and gasping. He could feel trickles of sweat running down the back of his neck and soaking into his top. He forced himself to come to his senses and stood perfectly still. In his heart of hearts, he knew logically the best way to get out of any situation like this was to stay calm and think. It was just that he had been beyond himself to think like that. Under that intense torture and confusion, he’d lost himself. His brain screamed back at him, stay in control. Think!

He could tell, even through the blindfold that covered his eyes that the room he was in was very hot. His thoughts kept returning to his capture in the hope of finding some explanation of where he was and who had snatched him. After a while Weston decided that it really didn't matter right then how he got here, just that he was. He needed to concentrate on getting out of this alive. If he could just see, he thought, he could assess the situation much better.

8. Pension plan

8a.

“So here’s what we’re gonna do for you, Agent Weston. Gonna do you a favour. Give you some thinking time”.

The pain that was gnawing at the tip of his nipple kept flashing unwelcome flashes to the tip of Weston’s cock. He had a hard-on he might have dreamed of, but it raged like blinding fury in his pants. Yeah, maybe the agonising crippling pain when the claws had been yanked off his cock had abated a bit. It was still agony. He couldn’t help cursing the treachery of his own body working against him, siding with the Voice. He was still hard, he could not deflate. That fucking grip on his tit!

“I’ve just clamped that clip on the bar you’re sitting on. The clamp I kindly removed from your cock”.

Weston’s mind was so geared up to threat that his brain was already there, working on this one. The metal bar rammed up against his balls, making him stand on tiptoe, no escaping the pressure. And the Voice had the alligator clip clamped on it. And ….?

The Voice filled in the gap.

“And the one at the other end … The clamp at the end of the lead … …. That’s in my hand”.

He hesitated for the effect. Weston screamed with rage in his head at the smirk in his tone.

“ Only got to bend down. … And just a light tap. .. Here.”

Shit! Weston knew they were fucking with his head. But he couldn’t stop his body from going taut and that word “Here”.

“ The lightest of taps. .. To this red terminal here. .. On the battery here … aannd ……”.

Weston got the picture.

“PPOOWW!!!”

Weston got it loud and clear.

“So we’re gonna let you have a little think. What’s it worth? What price d’you put on that little bit of flesh between your legs? Your choice, mister. Up to you. Be the big brave Agent Weston. Defend democracy. Swear allegiance to the flag - and all that shit. Decide for that. And I bend down. And tap this little red terminal. Here. Maybe even keep it on a little longer. Touching the + sign …..”.

The Voice laid in a pause for dramatic effect.

“ And. Agent … Weston … fffrrriiiieeeesssss”.

There was jokey mockery in the Voice’s tone. Weston did not share the joke.

“Weston’s balls fry! What’s it worth? What are they worth? So have a little think. We’re not inhuman”.

Even Connors had to shake his head in a smile at that after the beating Weston had had.

“C’mon”, the Voice’s tone oiled in sympathy and understand, “We’re all men here. We know how much that little bit of flesh means. So we’re giving you the chance. Save it, live to fuck another day. Think about it, sit on it”.

The Voice sniggered at his joke.

“Look, we’re gonna get a beer. Feel like one? I bet. Stinking hot in here. We’ll get one in for you. Cheers!”

Weston would have given the earth for a cold beer right now. But he had more important things to save for now!

“Think about it. Seriously”, the Voice sounded off.

“Your choice!”

If he was ruthlessly honest, Connors would have to admit it was partly envy. Yes, envy did have a part of play. Maybe even a lot. Weston was new. He was full of new muscular enthusiasm. Just as Connors once had been. But then Weston had not been forgotten in this god-forsaken sweat-hole. And left to rot here by the Agency for ten years. No way was he going to see anything interesting. They’d left him here rotting for years, no hope of advancement, no way out. While others better connected, with more friends in D.C. While frat-boys went networking with their ivy-league buddies. Less able but they knew how to make their mark. While he sweated it out in some South American armpit of a place. Connors had no well-heeled friends in high places to arrange some politically useful place for him to be.

Or a way to make any money. Where was the American dream for him in this asshole of the earth? So that’s what he’d done. He’d made his own way. The American dream. Wasn’t that what it was all about? Make your own good fortune. The only chance he had of making it was with the Cartel. Not in working for the Agency. What did they care about his future? Did they give a fuck about his well-being?

And then this asshole had turned up. Full of manly enthusiasm to make his mark. Fuck that. This sonuvabitch was more than a risk! Put all Connor’s pension plan in jeopardy.

A fact which Weston still had to realise. And a reason Weston just had to disappear for a while.

[pic]

Riddick-41x

And well, yeah, .. then there was that age difference. Yes, if this was confession time, Connors envied Weston these fifteen years. His body was still firm, he didn’t need any effort to pull. For Connors, anno domini had been at work. Weston still had the body. He had the presence. He exuded pure muscle and manly virility. Somehow, even in these sweat-stinking work clothes, he put it out, it seemed to seep out of him. He could still pull the women. And did. Even looking like that.

He’d barely been there a week and he’d lined up with that woman. Connors had to put up with the whores he paid to get his rocks off. Not Weston, no not muscle-boy Weston. In that sweat-stained top that seemed to pull them in. Barely a week and a woman was prepared to put herself and reputation on the line. Risk her all in this place to get her handful on that bulge inside his pants. Deliberately, it seemed, Weston wore that tank top. To show himself off. And it got right up Connor’s nose. Sticking that firm sweating Marine-hardened firmness right up his nose. Showing off thick powerful shoulders, let the women get an eyeful of his arms. Yeah, envy played a big part.

It was worse when that tank-top occasionally had come off, too. Weston had kept himself in shape since the Marines. Probably all his life, judging by those abs. He must have tortured them every day of his life. That stomach was in just the kind of shape that women loved to drool over, fondle, stroke. Lick. And keep on going. Downwards. Connors had seen it in his mind a dozen times. Weston stuck it right up his nose. In no time the sonuvabitch had found himself a married woman willing to risk everything in this Catholic country where women knew their place. Willing to take risks to lick her tongue over Weston’s enviable eight-pack. And then unstoppably move down lower too.

Connors got a grip on his wild imaginings. OK, God knew how Connors envied Weston those fifteen years’ difference! But that just gave this day’s hot sweaty work an extra thrill. Basically, Weston was a risk. Between him and the pension plan - no choice. Right now Weston had to disappear from the scene for a few days. Soon Connors would have the money. Wads of it. All he needed. Made for life. And who needed the body when you had the cash instead? With the money they came running by themselves! You didn’t have to go looking.

And - Connors gave a mock smirk of sympathy at Weston groaning and squirming in his fears - so regretfully, after this night, well, maybe Weston might struggle to get it up again. But what the hell! Serve the bastard right. Wrong place, wrong time. Right bastard. That’s life.

8b.

Connors watched the cocky asshole struggle against his restraints. Futile. Weston must know by now it was pointless. But he just couldn’t stop himself. Weston would just have to keep alive the hope that there was some way out of this. He was that sort. The struggles of a desperate man, Connors smirked to himself. Desperate not to have his balls zapped by a firestorm of electricity smashing through his crutch.

Blast, why hadn’t he thought of that one! Connors was almost tempted, though, to teach Rookie that lesson. He was almost tempted to let the cocky bastard get the zap in the balls he deserved. Serve him right for making Connors feel old. He almost wish he’d thought of it. Wired up to a truck battery and a blistering zap straight into Weston’s prize possessions.

Except there was no battery! Connors hadn’t thought of that. Pity that! But …. A touch of regret tickled in Connor’s mind. Na, it was all talk. No truck battery in sight. Except in Weston’s imagination. Connors hadn’t meant him any real harm. But thinking about it, … Tempting! That truck battery was helluva temptation, though. His SUV was not far …..Na, stick to the plan.

There was no truck battery. Only Weston didn’t know that. No, in his head, the battery was mega. Weston could see himself wired up to the truck battery as clear as day. One clamp on his nipple sending him crazy with pain, the other attached, he thought, to the negative on some monstrous battery. Another clamped to the metal bar crunched up into his balls. And just waiting for the last clip to close the circuit. Shit, why hadn’t he thought of that, cursed Connors with a smile. The s-o-b deserved as much! Teach the bastard where to stick his dick. Nope, no battery. But boy, was Weston working on the idea for himself! Boy, was he in a sweat under that tape. Could see those cables clear as day in Weston’s mind. No, best stick to plan, Connors sighed himself. Beat him senseless, scare Weston shitless. Then get his ass shipped him out for medical care. Ship Weston out stateside while a more lucrative shipment went out too. The big one. The one Weston’s snooping nose might have sniffed out. Then, smirked Connors to himself, he himself could disappear. Made for life.

Weston tried to stop panting so hard. He given quite a few knocks in his time. Taken a few too. But that ball-bashing from the Voice had been off the scale. His balls ached and felt red-hot with fire. And despite that agony, he was full hard in his pants. Rigid and hard. And he was sitting on his pain-swollen balls crushing then underneath. Christ, no wonder he was beside himself. Irregular breaths twisted noisily through the gag. Blinding obvious proof of his fears. The fears that were wired into his cock. And were keeping it up. Weston needed to get a grip, he kept telling himself . No point in showing them he was scared, he ordered himself. Besides, what was there to think about? The choice between getting his rocks off again and saving the world? No contest. Weston had convinced himself. In a fight-out between saving his balls and Uncle Sam, it was every man for himself. Weston did not know what Uncle Sam paid out in compensation. But there was no re-compensation in the world that could pay back the price of never getting it up again. Uncle Sam did not pay enough for Weston to shell out that price!

Yet something still gnawed away at his conscience. This treacherous thought clashed with much of what he thought he’d always believed in. Loyalty to the flag. That sorta thing. Hard to put into words. But, y’know, ….All that stuff. Yes, spilling the beans, giving these mother-fuckers what they wanted, … it still grated. It went against the grain. But heck! What vital information did he hold anyway? What did he know about the Agency’s operation in this sweating shithole? He was bottom of the food-chain. If they wanted what he knew, he could write it on the back of a stamp. If that saved him. If that got him out of this hole. Well, they could have it. All he knew was that he and Connors were down here working blind. More than that, he didn’t know himself. And that Connors was a useless piece of shit anyway. He’d happily tell them that.

He could smell himself. He reeked of the sweat of torture. He’d pissed himself in that sweat box and he stank. Heavy and musky in his pits, acid and burning in his groin. His cock rock hard, vulnerable, throbbing with his fears. He tried to clear his thoughts, shook his head and felt sweat fly off his shaven skull. The conflict between saving his balls and his loyalty to the code burned inside. And besides, …. A sudden chill trickled down his sweating back. Silence was his best protection, Weston knew that once he blurted out the little he knew, that was the end of it. He’d be no longer of use. He’d be thrown in some backwater, weighted down, cayman fodder. He had to keep the mystery going. He had to keep them thinking he had something useful to tell. Just to stay alive. And that meant - taking more of this shit.

Suddenly, as if in mockery of his dilemma, the pain in his crutch got unbearable. All of a sudden the bar jammed up against his balls got unendurable. Uselessly, he tried to relieve the pressure, he rose onto his toes, he stretched up his body upright to find some reprieve. But the grinding ache persisted. The gnawing ache of intensive pressure digging up into his crutch, crushing his knee-bashed balls, waiting for them to zap his swollen nuts. Shit, what were they waiting for? He shuddered, fuck, what the hell was he saying? He didn’t know what he wanted. He didn’t know what to think. How much more of this was he supposed to take? What did he owe Uncle Sam, after all? Evil doubts invaded his mind. Disloyalty. Betrayal. Save his best bud between his legs, help him fight another day. Weston’s mind writhed with his body. Squirming in mental torment, thrashing in hell.

9. Work-out

9a.

As the guys came silently back inside from their beers, Connors gave them a knowing nod. Weston, unaware of their return, was still struggling in futile hope of escape from his bonds. Groaning out in frustration at his failures, - though deep-down he must know he’d never get himself free. They’d had a few beers in the hut next door while Weston was left to “think about his options”. Connors knew it wouldn’t have been much of a party. Piet never said much. Too fixed on what he was doing. And even if Weston had had any thoughts, they really weren’t interested. Not interested at all in what he had to say. What did he have they didn’t already know? Anyway, that wasn’t the idea. Weston was gonna get it, no matter what he hoped. That was the plan.

Weston was angry and pissed off. Hissing in air messily over the gag, writhing in his stomach to relieve some of the pain from that gut-punching. Fighting with his helpless frustration, suppressing a growing sense of desperation. Struggling to get some of that pressure off his aching balls. He’d had about enough as he was gonna take. Weston didn’t take this kinda thing lying down. He was a fighter, he fought dirty. In the cage, he fought like a snarling cat. No refinement, no sophistication. In there, brutal, lay into them, lay them out. Get outta there. Nothing as good for getting a lay as women watching him fight and catch the sound of his calloused fist smacking into rock-solid abs. His sweat slapping into an opponent’s body. Tanned, sweat-drenched. Got ‘em hot. Queuing up for the taking. He’d think a way out of these cuffs. Then he’d take these bastards down. He’d trick them into thinking he’d talk and …..

The thunderclap struck.

Piet’s opening move was savage. Brutal. It came without warning. He’d crept back into the humid furnace of Weston’s tin shed, bottle still in hand and eyed Weston’s squirming against the cuffs. Pained sweat hung alluringly on Weston like glue. The drenched black top clung to him tight showing off every curve. His strugglings seemed to get Piet like a magnet. Pain + shock + pain.

Piet quietly put down his beer bottle, silently stole forwards and released his fists. No warning, no holding back. Enjoying the feel. Every bit of power in that heavy muscled shoulder hammered a surprise attack on Weston’s unsuspecting abs. The first thump thwacked Weston’s back into the post. But he hadn’t got out his shocked cry when Piet’s other fist thudded in. A sudden sharp retch flooded his throat. Piet turned Weston’s abs into a punchbag. Piet gave himself an workout. A gruelling vicious workout.

Weston was drunk with pain. He felt intoxicated with the burning acid of vomit and the flames of agony. His guts were raw pain. His abs were strong, he’d always trained them hard. But he’d been caught off-guard, the shock gave him no chance. He had doubled up under the power of Piet’s first savage punch. Shock and force rammed his back into the post. And the speed of the attacks gave him no chance. Before he could tense in defence, a deluge of hammer-blows smacked into shocked flesh. Instantly his gym-trained abs seemed in shock, the power of those fists smashing through everything in their path. Weston shuddered at the iron fists penetrating, demolishing his sensitive insides.

His brain screamed at him, brace, brace. Brace for the next blow. But before he could flex, a jackhammer smacked him right through, right into his backbone. Like an axe cutting through his belly. A devastating force of rapid-fire punches hit home. Smashing up his precious insides. It hurt like a hole burned through his stomach, his innards screamed like hell. The next uppercut smacked a cutting shard of bile up Weston’s throat. Weston gagged, he forgot how to breathe.

[pic]

Workout 9a

Piet smacked him with a combination of muscle power to the lower abs. The blows were fast, solid, unrelenting. His whole body weight fuelling every fist. Weston’s increasingly unstoppable grunts let Piet know. The abs were collapsing. Heavy punches to the solar plexus, the reflex cutting off Weston’s breathing.

His guts were ablaze, Weston’s mind roared like a deafening inferno. In front of his eyes under the tape, his tears swam in a red haze of pain. Rapid-fire punches, left and right, hammered through his disabled defences. The urge to throw up was intense but there was no chance of that either. He gagged for breath, he retched, pulverised in the power of these hammer-like punches. Weston jerked under every crippling blow, thudded by fists fully loaded with mean devastating force. Short sudden cries of sharp-shooting pain. Another fist exploded deep inside his guts like a lightning strike. His eyes popped outwards with a punch that crippled his blazing guts.

In/ out, in/ out. winding him, giving him no idea where the next blow was going to land, Piet varied his attack. Hammering in below the belt, pummelling into the crimson mid-section. Knuckled fists up high under the ribs. Killer blows into the centre where there was less strength. Brutal force and determination behind every blow. The flesh under that top inflamed bright red as if a fire roared inside Weston’s belly.

Weston grunted like a stuck pig with every punch. Inhuman animal-like sounds crippled by his gag. He spat into the gag, he spluttered, spit exploded obscenely on the air. He fought to gasp for air after each crippling blow, - like a drowning fish. Blow after devastating blow sank deep into his navel. His muscles faltered, his resolve was totally so smashed. He was a side of beef hanging off a hook being butchered. Surprise and crippling force were destroying his gym-trained abs till they offered no protection. Depleted of strength, no resistance left.

It was the upper cut that finished Weston off. After an eternity of thunderous punches tearing up Weston’s pulverised guts, Piet gave a moment’s hesitation. The hammering stopped. Relief threw Weston’s torso forward in a shocked cry. His head jammed hard forwards at the sudden stop. And Piet’s upper cut took him. Smack on the side of his jaw. A clenched fist powered from the big muscled arm that had been drawn, coiled, back. And released. Let rip like a broken spring. And with all the power of those sweat-heaving shoulders, Piet drove in with a crack into Weston’s jaw. A brutal knuckled fist knocked Weston’s head back up. His skull smashed back into the post behind. A single loud shout and Weston collapsed forward. He saw stars, he saw millions of stars. He felt pain. His head exploded. He felt nothing. His head rocketed down. Lifeless. Punched into oblivion by a torrent of murderous blows. Head bent, torso collapsed, sagging over battered abs. His whole weight crushing down on his balls, kept upright by the bar crunched up into his knee-battered balls. Out-cold. Mercifully out-cold.

Unlike Miguel, Piet never bothered to look to Connors for approval. He was the expert, he knew what was needed, this is what he did, no need to look for praise. Straightaway he set about getting Weston ready. Moving him on. Next and final round. Weston was out cold, the vicious upper-cut had done the trick. Time to move him on. On and up. Up to the next level, moving his suffering on. Pain + shock + pain. Onwards and upwards, through on to the devastating final round.

Piet and Miguel released him from the post. Simply undoing the cuffs letting Weston unconscious hit the hard dirt. Almost effortlessly Piet seemed to pick the big man up and hung him in the middle of the room. Like handling a doll, Piet manhandled the big grown man, his hands now re-cuffed in front, arms raised. With barely a grunt of effort it seemed Piet had Weston suspended lifeless from an overhead chain. For Piet’s final round. Now available from all sides. Front and back. Now for Weston, the fun would really start.

9b.

It seemed to take some time for Weston to realise they’d changed his position, Connors noticed. That hammering had smashed up his head as well as his guts when he blacked out. Slowly, he was drifting back to his here-and-now. Through the red-hazed fog from his beating, Weston seemed to be becoming aware of the strain in his shoulders. When unconscious, his collapsed knees had put a strain on this battered abs and the knee-kicked groin. Weston groaned away to himself as his body took in these pains and the instinct to shift the hurt started pushing him back upright, trying to put some strength back into his legs.

Suddenly, Weston cried out in shock. Miguel had given him a welcoming slap back to consciousness. The next back-hander into his cheek had Weston cursing gibberish into the gag. He whooshed out air painfully when a punch slammed a shock into his pulverised guts.

“Ready to talk?”

There was no thinking left in him. He hurt everywhere. His guts were on fire, his head pounded from that crack on the jaw. He couldn’t think straight, ready to talk? About what?

“That’s a No, then.

Panic seized Weston. Raw panic. Fear of more. More of the same. His throat was red-raw. In the blackness under the tape, his vision swam in a swirl of yellow-red pain.

“You’re one stubborn son-of-a-bitch, Weston” the Voice sighed.

Suddenly Weston’s situation punched its way back through the haze. Threat penetrated the pain. Weston was barely breathing, dread clutching at his throat. Every nerve pricked. Listening in agony, anticipating in dread.

“OK”, the Voice said resigned. “You’ve decided you want more, then?”

Weston froze. He’d decided nothing. But he could do nothing. He could say nothing. He was back, face-to-face with his horrors. Swirling in confusion and pain. Back from that haven of blessed unconsciousness to horrifying terror in a few blistering seconds. Time ticked slowly, the Voice let it, the thought was going through Weston’s head. More of the same. For him, every second that passed heralded only greater pain.

“Pedro has a few ideas for you. Might help you change your mind”.

Weston’s senses were now on full alert again. That Pedro. Again. More of the same. His heart beat loudly in his chest. Instinctively his hearing searched for any sounds. But with the tape over his ears, everything was muffled. So everything that happened came unexpected. Hardly daring to breathe, every nerve on its guard. Listening. For the smallest sound. A warning. Every sense, every nerve pricked for warning sounds. Time almost stopped still. His pulse thudded deafening in Weston’s ears.

Weston suddenly shivered at the arms that unexpectedly enclosed his chest from behind, giant hands pressed on his stomach. The arms felt hard against his ribs even though they were at rest, the bare chest pressed hot and sweaty against his back was solid with dense muscle. The body Weston felt on his fear-tense back matched the power of the punches it had dished out. Pedro.

The fingers on his stomach turned in, finger tips pressed straight into the skin. Then, from the back Pedro gave a pair of straight-fingered jabs into Weston’s punch-weakened stomach. Hard biceps turning to steel against his ribs were Weston’s only warning. Weston gasped painfully into his gag, more in shock. Iron fingers tips jabbed hard into his pulverised abs. He jerked, as much with fright as pain. For Weston Pedro’s every move came laden with feared anticipation. Weston was rigid, barely daring to breathe, flexing hard in his stomach. Pedro gave a quick snigger into Weston’s ear. Then punched five more solid jabs into Weston’s aching guts. Not meant to hurt, just to make him sweat.

In his head, Weston cursed in anger at Pedro’s mocking sneer in his ear but he kept stumm. Like this, he knew better than to provoke. Then he turned to ice. He froze at the feeling of Pedro’s fingertips roaming further down, moving down lower. Stroking over his belly. Taking hold of his belt. Undoing the buckle.

9c.

Connor had silently stolen down the shed to watch from the front by now. He knew of Piet’s background, what he used to do for a living, suspected what Piet’s mind was capable of. And he had the body to back it up. But Connor’s had never watched him at work before. He saw Weston’s body go stiff when Piet’s hands started undoing his belt. He stood arms out of the way uselessly raised over his head, blindfolded, gagged. And that black top clung to him in his sweat, a second skin over etched muscle. But not a patch on Piet.

Stiff, then suddenly Weston was squirming and wriggling to shake off the hands. Connors smirked quietly to himself. His mind would be working overtime as to why Piet should be undoing his pants. But Piet’s thick-muscled arms just squeezed. He joined his huge hands in front and straight-armed crushed his arms together. A classic body-builder pose. Weston let out long unrelenting groan as his ribs were clenched in a body-builder’s bear-hug. A long sustained crush that had Weston growling in pained anger into his gag. With a tight snap of the arms Piet jabbed his elbows cripplingly hard into Weston’s rib. A messy cry burst pain out of Weston’s gag. Piet returned to deftly pulling Weston’s belt out of the loops. Weston was now panting fast, his chest heaving. His head again began scything from side to side, wriggling to escape, squirming against Piet’s unmoveable chest. He cursed long and hard as Piet from behind tore open the buttons and pushed the pants down to Weston’s knees.

Weston was panting and sweating hard. A fresh layer of effort was dribbling down his neck and soaking into his tank top, a trickle of nervous sweat dribbled off his shaven head. Weston exploded when Piet’s hand snaked around from behind and lingered just inside the waistband of his shorts. He writhed, he shouted, he struggled to escape. His head went back and smacked into Piet’s nose.

In response, without a sound or murmur of protest, Piet’s free hand dropped to Weston’s package. Piet had big hands. Big strong hands that squeezed and crushed the fight out of Weston’s busted balls. A loud pained cry spluttered messily out of Weston’s throat. The hand squeeze again and Weston spat a sharp burst of agony-anger into the air. Connors watched Piet’s grip move, tighten and turn, fingers twisting and crunching. Connors looked at Miguel and grinned, pursing his lips in mock pain. Saw the giant hand flex rolling the pain-swollen nuts painfully against each other.

Connors watched Weston bend at the hips pulling back desperate to escape the crippling of his knee-bashed balls. Connors sniggered, wondering if he could then feel Piet hot and stiff against his ass. Piet was enjoying himself enough.

Piet kept the hand on Weston’s rudder while the other hand slipped again inside Weston’s shorts and went to work. Threatening, controlling. Weston trembled at the thumb sliding down the skin putting stretch on his cockhead. Immobilised by the threat of that hand poised to squeeze. Tamed yet mortified by the feel of a torturer’s hand stroking at his cock. He’d already started hardening again with tension at the threat of Piet’s physical power pressed against his back. Then a prickle of fear had shuddered at the tip of his shaft at being stripped of his pants. His head burst with a flash of panic. Hardening up now even more with the intimidation of being mauled like this. It never took him long.

Piet was scraping a sharp fingernail bitingly over the sensitive spot of his hardening cock. Weston fought to stifle a whimper of fear, took his embarrassment and transformed it into anger. He struggled with the disabling intimidation at being forced to get hard. By a torturer’s hand.

And he was desperately trying hard to suppress his thoughts as to where this was all going. Shit, he didn’t know what he felt. Shame, fear, anger. A mass of bewildering emotions churning in his balls. Pumping in his veins. Hopeless, powerless, angry. Fucking busting with rage. Knowing no way could he stop this happening.

[pic]

workout 9c

Weston exploded into wild struggles with a cry. The big strong hand had slid down his sweat-slick belly and fingers circled in his pubic hair, worked away at his root. He squirmed, he uttered meaningless objections His head went back and again he tried to smack his head into Pedro’s nose. In response, the hand settled again on his tightening package. A big hand. A pacifying hand. A big strong hand that just rested there. But intimidating. Taming Weston’s outburst. Weston froze again. Just a squeeze at the thin cotton of his shorts and the hand would crush the balls out of Weston’s fight.

Shit, his head was all over the place. Weston didn’t know what to do. He shuddered just at the thought of that hand squeezing him there. They still ached like fury from that ball-kicking earlier. They burned like swollen tennis balls. These mother-fuckers weren’t gonna get away with this. He kill ‘em! He didn’t know what to do with himself. Thoughts raced around in his hand, a confused tumble of powerless emotions pounded in his ears. Blistering anger and the disabling fear of more pain. Weston moaned, almost pleading, almost whimpering. In fear of that hand. In fear of his turmoil. Buffeted by a tumult of conflicting thoughts and emotions.

A sharp burst of agony from Weston spat into the air, Pedro had squeezed. For no reason, he’d been behaving himself. Standing rock-still, almost quivering with tension. Then Pedro squeezed him. Just because …. Noisy pained spluttering burst over the gag at the fingers crunching on him. Anger transformed into pain. Fear took on form. A heat-wave washed through his chest and flooded his brain. A sharp cry spat out when his swollen nuts were crushed. In his ear he heard Pedro snigger. Weston’s curse split his brain in two. The sonuvabitch was enjoying this. Weston could feel own Pedro’s hot steel rod pressing through the sweat-damp cotton into his ass. Weston was sweating profusely at the pain. He was panting out his fears of that boner jabbed in his back. Pushing his hips back, he tried to escape the crush of the hand. Only to come into contact with a rock-hard cock jammed hot against his ass. Trapped between a hand and a hard place.

9d.

Weston gasped out in shock. Weston’s pants were already down passed his knees and now both of Pedro’s hands were inside his shorts playing around with his stiffening cock. Mauling him between fingers and thumbs, toying with him. Pulling back on the skin, stretching him. Exposing his head. Weston was uncut and extra-sensitive down there. And that ball-bashing had made even the thought of movement in his shorts hell. Tears of panic and anger were flooding his eyes, trapped stingingly under the tape. No man had ever done this to him before, lots of women. But the shame of having a man doing this. Against his will! Just for the fun of it. No, not fun, there was no fun. This playing with him was mixed with that threat of torture. And his own utter powerlessness to hit back made his blood boil. A burning push against his ass from behind and a moan down his ear from Piet’s pleasure had Weston trembling with anger and fright. Shit, all that was keeping him hard. Fear of the pain Pedro could inflict, tension at what else he might do. Memories of that gut-punching, shame at his weakness, anger at this mauling of his cock - SHIT, he didn’t know what to think! All the sensations came tumbling over each other. His whole body was a swarm of buzzing confusion. He knew he needed to get charge of himself. But he just didn’t know how.

OK, try this for size, Weston. He remembered something from training. Maybe by focussing on one thing at a time. Stop feeling embarrassed at being forced to go hard. He couldn’t stop that. Couldn’t do anything about that.

But before he could do anything, suddenly he spiralled out of control again. Both Piet’s hands were pressing down the waistband of Weston’s shorts and stripping them down his sides. “Da—da!” the Voice sounded a mocking fanfare as Weston’s thickening erection bounced back up into sight. Weston’s hands clenched into fists. If he could get his hands on that cocksucker! With two hard slaps onto his battered abs – and a deep mocking snigger - , Pedro released the hug around Weston’s waist. Weston heard himself panting noisily over the gag, for a moment relieved to be free of Pedro’s grip. But his blood was boiling with anger, his face under the tape covered with fear and sweat. Pedro’s body was no longer hugged against his own. But the impression of that hard hotness pressed against his own ass still burned in Weston’s mind. He gulped down his panic at the thought.

That fucking Pedro was getting off on this. So where did that lead? Weston shivered. In his mind, he could see Pedro in front scrutinising his threat-induced hardness. Leering. Watching it still thickening . Against Weston’s will. Giving Pedro thoughts. Then, with another tremor, he shuddered at the thought of big Pedro leering at his naked ass. Why did they need him stripped? That thought kept haunting him. And it just kept getting worse… When he could only come up with one answer. Why else would they need him buck-ass naked?

As if Pedro had heard his fears, a giant hand slicked slowly over Weston’s bare ass. Weston cursed back, shook, in anger and fright, at the hand tracing its path slowly over his sweating backside. Taunting him. Putting the shits up him. In fury, he snarled more spluttered curses into the gag. Uselessly he wriggled to escape. In angered shock, he clenched his cheeks tight together when a finger flicked up inside his ass crack. And a snigger mocked him down his ear.

Suddenly Weston called out. Another shock. A hand from behind had tugged at his shirt. In one quick yanking move, with one loud ripping sound, Pedro had Weston’s shirt torn down from top to bottom. Weston shivered in fear and annoyance as he felt Pedro’s hands spread the cloth away and slide his huge palms seductively over Weston’s back. Hot and clammy, slicking easily in the grease-sweat of Weston’s fear-stricken back. Weston froze, barely daring to breathe. Pedro was up-close. Suddenly Weston jerked at the touch of a mouth against his ear. A mock kiss!

A snigger. A laugh.

A knife easily cut the shoulder straps, the shirt falling away. Naked. Totally naked now. Then Weston froze. Pedro’s hands were on his shoulders. Then a hot solid chest eased into Weston’s bare back. The fires between them ignited when a move slid Pedro’s hips against Weston’s bare ass. A deep manly groan broke alongside Weston’s ears when that burning stiffness tenting Pedro’s pants pressed into Weston’s naked ass. Sweat flowed down Weston’s back.

With a hard gulp in his throat, Weston saw himself in his mind’s eye. His pants down by his feet, his shorts around his knees. Otherwise naked. And a terror-induced hard-on jutted out in front. With his torturers leering on. And getting ideas!

Why else would they strip him naked? An evil voice kept mocking in his head. C’mon, why else but the obvious? Weston’s mind was in over-drive. He refused to countenance the obvious. No, that could not be. No, it was gonna be more treatment for his nuts? Bare-assed so they could work on his balls. Shit, he had no idea what to think! That treacherous voice kept coming back at him. Get real, Weston. Balls or ass? Who are you kidding? He felt that impression burning into his backside. He gulped down his fears at the press of Pedro’s torturer-driven hardness against his ass. And a deep throaty moan. Surely not! Not that!

Then the vicious voice inside his head answered, Why not? Have they stopped at anything so far? They’ve done whatever they’d wanted. And what can you do about it?

With a frantic leap of hope, he remembered again the alligator clip biting into his hard-on. Perhaps they were now going to clamp it back on, steely teeth clenching agony into his now naked hard-on. That was it! That nearly had you crippled, Weston. Drove you out of your mind! But better than rape, he snapped back. Surely? Weston kept telling himself to get in control. Whatever was coming, he could not stop it. He had to get a hold on himself. Be strong to meet it. But another sudden rush of fear blasted in his head. Pedro had just licked a tongue up the back of his neck. Weston’s mind was all over the place.

If he was going to get back in charge, to fight them off, first he had to fight his own fears, he told himself. Silence that fucking voice in his head, for a start. But, above all, desperately he willed that hard-on down. Without that he could cope. Thoughts came rushing in a tumble. He just couldn’t think straight. More punishment was coming, he had to take it. He had to keep strong. His mind was everywhere. He wasn’t going to talk. Not to these sonuvabitches! Not now. Not any more. He knew what he ought to be doing to survive. Battle away to reach for some semblance of calm. But – that evil voice in his head taunted him – it’s a calm you don’t possess. But go for it anyway, Weston shouted back at himself. Training told him, work away at the frayed control he was losing over his emotions. Get it back. His life depended on it.

But over and over the same haunting thoughts came rushing round. The same fears, the same dread. Shit but this boner was a distraction. Fuck this hard-on!. It had a will of its own. Forget it, Weston, he shouted back at himself! He had taken this much, he’d take the rest. He’d give this sonuvabitch murder when he got free! But you’re not free yet, Weston! That fucking voice! You’re gonna have to take this! No choice! Shit! If he could only get rid of this hard-on!

For Piet, the target was indeed Weston’s ass. The naked sweat-shining globes that hung inviting before him. But not like that. He wasn’t like that. He bent down and picked up Weston’s belt and held it in his hand. As he bent forward, he felt his own stiffness dig into his stomach and unselfconsciously he stuck his hand down his waistband to give himself a quick adjustment. Weston’s thick “man-sized belt” of stiff leather hung in his hand. He doubled it over holding the buckle in his hand. And his eyes went to Weston’s solid muscled ass. Naked. Bare-ass, inviting.

Piet knew the value of rape on a man like Weston. Used to coming first, always the winner. But then having every bit of control wrenched from him by rape. Crippling that smug self-assurance. He’d done it before. But Piet, ever the professional, he’d decided rape didn’t fit the picture, not today. Commandingly his eyes shot to Connors. And told him Piet was taking over, assuming control. This was his domain, Piet was here in charge. Connors had set out the plan, Piet’s job was to sort out the details. And deliver the goods. This was his specialism, Weston would get it. Weston would get it like he’d never imagined in all his training.

SERE training Weston had once boasted. Well, SERE this, bro! He’d know pain like he’d never imagined. Scare Weston shitless, that was Connor’s orders. Connors would have Weston delivered on a plate. Put Weston out of action, off the scene. Unashamedly Piet slipped his hand inside his own waistband and again nudged himself into position. Then, his eyes fixed on Weston’s bare butt, Piet launched a strong-muscled swing of the belt.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

10. Report

10a.

For Connors, there was a bitter-sweet irony in the thought. The man who would “find” tonight Weston was the man who was beating him senseless with Weston’s own belt. He’d be found by the man who had just adroitly squeezed Weston’s balls, crushed him breathless in a bear hug. When Piet closed up the bar tonight, he’d “trip over” Weston in the dark out back. Weston, whose ass Piet was now strapping with relentless determination and unmitigated force. Lashing biting stripes across Weston’s screaming ass and making him howl. Naked, comatose, that’s how Piet would find him tonight. Behind the bar. When Piet took out the trash. Connors sniggered to himself at the thought. Piet taking out the trash would trip over more trash. Weston, buck-ass naked. Obviously been professionally worked-over.

Connors would get on to the Agency immediately, Weston’s cover had somehow been blown. He needed urgent medical attention. The Cartel had snatched him. He was in a critical condition, Connor’s emergency message would say, a case for intensive care, need to have him shipped out stateside. Immediately. Maybe life-and-death. His internal organs were in a terrible state, according to the local medic. Acute concern for his balls, too. He’d had a going-over second-to-none.

Connors would report that, in a brief moment of lucidity, Weston had recovered and mumbled it was definitely the Cartel. Getting him to the US for medical care would speed up recovery, definitely save some vitals that local doctors here in the jungle would miss. And, Connors would suggest, having Weston in its care, the Agency would speed up his de-briefing too. They’d find out quicker what went wrong. Weston might have info. Whatever Weston had to reveal about his capture might be just the kind of the break-through they needed down here.

Email:

Urgent assistance required.

Request immediate transportation Stateside.

Agent Weston savagely beaten. Claims snatched by Cartel and tortured.

Suspect severe internal injury. Genitalia too.

Emergency medical treatment in US essential.

Email ended.

From what Connors had gleaned through Weston’s injuries, - he would emphasise in his emergency message - the Cartel had grabbed him, tortured him. Brutally. Weston had come out of his delirium briefly and had assured Connors that he’d given nothing away. But nothing could be certain. He was beyond himself, the injuries very severe. He’d taken a real battering. Who knows what he gave away under those conditions? He could have jeopardised the whole operation. Weston had no idea even how he got out and escaped. He was beside himself. Rapid de-briefing was vital. The Agency needed to ship him out instantly. His medical conditional was critical. Really critical.

Connors cast a glance at Piet laying into Weston’s ass with his own belt swinging snarling in his hand. The cocky rookie covered in the sweat of fear and pain, with his pants round his ankles and his shorts slipped down past his knees. Well, truth to tell, for Weston at the moment, his condition wasn’t critical, not yet. But by the time, Piet was finished with him, it would be. And shipping Weston out of the way would leave things clear. Long enough for that imminent deal to go through. The one Connors had been working on for months.

For a second the attack had faltered. Yet still Weston was sweating hard, unaware of the short break. Still he writhed, groaning and burning, to shake off the burning fires in his backside. Stomach heaving, instinct hissingly sucked in air through the gag to cope. Fresh layers of glistening terror had formed on his bare chest, a stream of sweat flowed down between his glowing defined abs. He’d been stripped naked, frighteningly vulnerable, horribly exposed. Those strappings on his naked ass had stung like hell. Dribble drooled uncontrolled and animal-like from his gagged mouth down the deep furrow of his smooth heaving chest. Flames hotter than the fiercest blaze roared from the centre of his being up to the tips of his fingers, down to the agony in his toes. His ass was on fire, he was drowning inside the tape. He hurt. Like fucking hell. And he burned with blistering rage.

Frantically, Weston fought to clear his head, desperate to see things straight. “Pedro” – in all the months down here he’d never seen a Latino that could back up a force like that. Not one who could summon up that kinda hurt. Weston was ashamed of these messy gagging noises he could not stop making. His pride was numbed by those yells he’d howled. He’d kill these mother-fuckers for that. No way was he gonna give them what they asked. He’d see them dead first. Yet he knew that was macho bravado. He hung here useless, legs given up, every sinew taut, every nerve-ending buzzing but his senses hazy. Waiting. In dread.

So Pedro hadn’t raped him. But was this any better? He was a human blowtorch. Slumped helpless off the bonds overhead. In fear of the next growl of that strap. In dread of the unfettered force from male muscle wielding that savage whip. Hands clenched tight in heart-stopping anticipation. Breathing hard, tense. And all the time blind, all the time on-edge, not knowing where the next surprise pain was coming from.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

10b.

“Pedro’s” fumbling in his shorts earlier had got Weston infuriatingly hard. Not something he relished in this company. When he was disconcertingly “unveiled” and his shorts were pushed down to his thighs to the sounds of the Voice’s mock fanfare, Weston had tried to fight against his anger. Anger swamped his ability to think. Weston was aware that he wasn’t thinking straight. Dangerously so. But he needed to think straight. He was responding, he was reacting to their moves, not seizing the initiative, not thinking his own way out of this. And even worse, he feared he was failing to contain his fears. Being stripped naked like this got his anxieties working. He knew he had nothing to be ashamed of down there, women had always been satisfied. Besides, it was what you did with it, not how big! He had no embarrassment at showering with the guys, he had a body many envied, he’d caught the looks. And his equipment down there. Well, manfully lathered up with soap and hanging proud, it could put others to shame.

But these weren’t women, this wasn’t the locker room. He’d been stripped naked to his cock. By men who were doing him over. By torturers. By men he couldn’t see. He had no way of second-guessing by their glances what they intended or what was coming next. Why had he been stripped? The uncertainty already had his being in a mind-crushing grip.. How much more could he take? Was it his balls that were in for it again? Or was his ass in for more of a whipping? Or … Or…. Oh shit, he swore at himself, stop avoiding the word! Was this cocksucker Pedro gonna rape him?

This was no locker room display of prowess. These were men who were only out to torture him. Hurt him. In each and every way. Only interested in one thing. His pain. What for, he still had no idea.

And still that fucking hard-on raged. He’d have thought after all that pain burning in his backside he’d have gone down. Buck-ass naked, his shorts pushed down round his knees, burning alive. But tension kept sending shudders of anxiety sizzling down his spine right to his crutch. Being exposed like this, vulnerable to a pair of unseen torturers. It had flashes of electricity sparking up his cock. With only one result. He was still throwing his torturers a bone.

For the dozenth time, he ordered himself to get a grip. These doubts and uncertainties just kept weakening his strength-of-mind. That was what was keeping him hard. Almost as if his anxieties were bringing things on. Yeah, shit, he hurt. Hell, he could see no way out of this. But there were people out there. He’d not turned up for work. Connors would have missed him last night. He’d’ve asked at Piet’s bar if Weston had been in. Weston had no idea of the time but it was stinking hot in here, so it was well into the day. He’d been missing for hours. Someone would be having thoughts. He’d be missed. Even a useless sonuvabitch like Connors would start to think. These panic attacks that Weston kept having – that was the slippery slope into helplessness. He kept telling himself, he had to stay strong.

The next whooshing growl was so loud Weston jumped before the pain exploded. Then the force of the blow tearing into his naked ass jammed his teeth into the metal bit in his mouth. More tears flooded his eyes. Weston flashed into one burst of sweat. Shit, that stung! And how! Every pore in his body gushed open, he poured sweat. Count! He screamed at himself. Count! Concentrate on something else. Not just the pain. Count!

Before the cry was out, again the threat of whistling leather split the air in two. Weston’s thick manly belt cut through the air and landed with a hundred tongues of fire. On his hot naked ass. He couldn’t hold back the howl. Fresh agony laid cruelly on top of already burning welts.

And again it landed. This time harder. This time the stinging felt even sharper. This time making Weston yelled out in shock. Count! THREEEEEEE! The fires of hell whooshed like a jet of burning gas across Weston’s pain-stiff ass, incinerating it, scorching him, destroying any hope of standing up to this. Weston yelled, Weston shrieked. The pain cutting across his backside was like an acetylene torch slicing him in two. Another hiss of burning gas tore through him. FUCKIN’ FOUR! The pain cracked like a shot-gun in his ears, discordant bells peeled grating in his head. A scream of torment burst twisted over his gag. But the next salvo of agony was already ripping through his ass. FRIGGIN’ HELL! Weston grabbed at the overhead rope as if pulling away to escape. He was sweating bullets. Cursing the hard-on he jerked heavy in his front.

In that moment, in an brief moment of clarity in this incendiary of rage, Weston swore. Faster than thought. He swore he’d take these bastards apart. When the moment came, when he broke free, he’d RIP THEIR THROATS OUT. The yell burst meaningless through the gag. That Pedro was a mountain of strength but the fury of that fire in his ass would make Weston take him apart. The roar tore at the raw layers in Weston’s throat. LIMB FROM LIMB.

And then Weston shrieked. A pain-injected screech that set fire to his throat. It was like someone had turned a red-hot hose of flame on his ass. EEEEIIIGHT!!!! A stream of liquid fire. Noisily like a stuck pig he screeched in air, sucking in messily over the metal bit jamming open his jaws. Weston promised himself. He’d live through this. He’d beat this pain. Then he’d get them back. Beat the shit out of these bastards!

AAAGGHH! But it was all too much! Too inhuman. He screeched, another sweep of the acetylene torch. Frenzied with pain, drenched in hot sweat, his teeth clenched on the gag, inflicting pain on himself, desperate to ignore the firestorm raging on his ass. A salvo of pain-blistering whippings scorched at his ass. Turning flesh into a burning sea. Pain clenched his hands into furious fists above his head.

But terrifying confusion thundered in his groin. That throbbing hard-on demanded attention. Now! Oh no! Not that too! He was going to blow. Weston swore. HE WAS GOING TO KILL THESE MOTHER-FUCKERS. First chance he got. But now. SHIT!! He was gonna blow! He froze with terror at the thought. Cumming like this. And then he screamed uncontrollably at another biting slash of hard thick leather. He bucked upright at the pain that slashed into his sweat-wet ass. Another jolt on his boner lost him control. Liquid fire swallowed up pain-hard flesh.

Weston was burning up from the intense pain in his ass. He couldn’t remember ever feeling like this. He couldn’t think, he couldn’t control. He was sinking. His cock had a life of its own. He jerked, he twisted. It bounced, it swung. His head was reeling in that piercing heat. He tried to think about anything else. Anything but that threat in his crutch. Think of the heat that was swallowing him alive. He could scarcely draw breath. His body was awash with the sweat of his pain. There was no more pain possible. He writhed. HELLL! Another sting of the belting to his ass. His jarring had left his wrists chaffed and red-raw. He could feel sweat coursing down his naked flanks, saliva was dripping out of his gag on to his burning chest. SHIT!! He yelled out. Another stinging lash to his ass that flashed straight to the tip of his cock.. Nearly sending him over the top. He was still desperate to hold on. That couldn’t be. Not in front of these cock-suckers. Cumming like this for these bastards. THAT WASN’T GONNA BE. The idea weakened him. As much as the furnace that incinerated his ass.

He could not believe the ache in his cock. His thoughts kept racing back there. Despite the intense pain in his backside, he threw the heaviest hard-on. Crippling him with every jolt. Why didn’t it go down! A hard-on that was about to burst. Twisting under the lash, slapping around. Heavy and hard. After all that agony, after all those cries, yet still it wouldn’t go down. He could feel with every pain-twisted jerk, his cock raging. Burning, solid and hard in his front. THIS IS UNREAL! His pain-solid shaft jarred and swung under the force of the strap. About to burst. It ached. It ached like hell. As if he had been carrying that hard-on for days.

ABOUT TO BLOW! On top of the burning torment in his backside. That crippling weight slapping around. Jacking him off. He needed to cum. But not like this. He wouldn’t do it! Weston yelled into his gag and bit on it hard through the pain. Focussing on the pain clenched between his jaws. Forcing some control over his body. Fists clenched against the threat of cum spraying over the floor.

Another blistering slash tore through his ass. A plume of red-hot steam exploded in his enraged guts. How much more of this shit did he have to take!. I’LL GET YOU, MOTHERFUCKER! He didn’t know where to focus. Cock, ass, jaws, temper. Fear clenched his fists to get control. Sparks of electricity flashed at his cockhead, he went rigid fighting the need to cum. If that happened, these bastards would pay. If it was the last thing he did. He swore it, he swore it a thousand times.

If only to come out of this with that last shred of dignity. HE WASN’T GONNA CUM! His whole being fought against this threat. His raging hard-on bounced ponderously, slapped around like weighted down. With every jerk, with each and every throb, jerking him perilously closer. Another biting lash tore through him, ripped away control. Had him terrifyingly tottering on the edge. Each crippling swing of the strap swung him menacingly closer. Perilously close to cumming. He jolted under the heat of the lash, his cock jerked wildly, threatened to blow. It had never felt heavier, it had never ached like this. No pleasure, pure torture. And it throbbed like he was about to go. OH SHIIITT! Of all the things in the world, not that! That was the last thing he was gonna give these cock-suckers. Another stinging firestorm cut through his ass. Losing it. In shame, in terror. WESTON HOWLED.

10c.

It was something he learned early when he started on this professional career. Before Piet had had to lie low in this shithole at the end of the world.

Keep piling it on. Never let your victim find a level where he thought he could cope. Keep piling it on, keep upping it. Weston was burning up with his ass on fire from the whipping he’d had. And before Weston managed to find some place he thought he could live with, before Weston got round to the idea he could cope with that fire in his ass, Piet knew to up it. Send Weston flying. Up the next level. Where he couldn’t.

Heavy-duty clips often did the trick. Snapped on the nipple. The initial painful bite. But then the long weakening grinding ache. Piet always used brand-new clips. Just to make sure that there was no give in the spring. Just to make sure those metal teeth snapped on good and hard. Cripplingly hard. Sharp edges biting into pain-firm flesh. Nerve-overloaded nubs crushed between biting jaws. Setting the nerves there on fire. And sending Weston’s pain levels through the roof.

Out of the blue, Weston erupted in another shocked shout. A cry gasped over a pain-hoarse throat and coming twisted tortured out of a slobbering mouth. Shittttt, did it get worse! Just when the beatings had stopped, just when he thought there was no more pain, just when he thought he might hold on to himself, agony bit back. Driving him to the edge. Agony mocked his sense of relief.

Instantly his brain burst into flames. Exploded in a firestorm of pure white-hot heat. In the flash, his head throbbed with a deafening buzz. In a blistering white-light flash, his head was reeling. Bile flooded his throat. Something again bit hard into his nipple. Like sharp rodent-like teeth it cut through into the pain-hardened nub. It was like crippling agonies had bitten off his teat. Weston bellowed. Pain sliced over his red-raw throat and broke free in a bawl of incontrollable pain. A heavy alligator clip bit like fury into the nerve-filled nub and gravity was tearing the teat agonisingly downwards. Tearing him off. Weston was rigid with pain, his torso shook with uncontrollable jerky spasms. Weston’s head flew wildly from side-to-side. A loud agonised howl spewed out of his pain-clenched throat. And it was all slicing down to the end of his dick!

Piet watched closely, Weston’s head scythed wildly from side to side. His hands were clenched into fists of pain, every muscle in his arms turned to trembling steel. Pain rammed Weston’s chin hard down on his sweat-drenched chest. A long agonised bellow tore out of the twisted mouth prised open by his pain-flooded gag. Always on the lookout for that chance to up Weston to the next level, Piet’s eyes had spotted the torture-readied nubs inviting the vicious teeth of pain. The drumming on Weston’s ass had turned the nub into a solid button of quivering inviting flesh. A silver-dollar of manflesh vulnerably susceptible to the metal jaws in his hand. Piet squeezed on the handles. He let it go, snapped it on. With a lurch to his own solid groin, Piet welcomed Weston’s screech.

His ass was on fire, his back still poured sweat. His dick was about to bust. Now Weston was shaken rigid by the unexpected bite into his chest. His throat sickeningly filled with acid. He couldn’t stop himself. Shocked, he screamed. Beyond himself. His torso shuddered with shock. His nipple was gnawed in the brutal jaws of the most excruciating agonies. He gasped out loud, needing air, craving air to cope with torment. He felt shocks of electricity spasm at the end of his blistering cock. He didn’t care if he couldn’t hang on much more. He mother-fucking didn’t care!!! The pain in his chest was so intense, it didn’t matter if he blew a load. His balls churned like a firestorm, his cock boiled at flashes bursting from the pain biting his chest.

“Strange this connection between tit and cock!” the Voice mocked.

Somewhere beyond the living hell that was swallowing up his body, Weston heard the question,

“Have you noticed?”

Bewildered agony could not stop himself from nodding. Weston knew what it would do. He’d had women who’d been into tit-work too. He’d known fingers working on his tits. And where the signals went. But what was happening now! And such agony! Reeling confusion! His whole body shuddered with shock, confusion and unexpected pain. And this gnawing ache was pushing him beyond control. He was beyond himself. Weston was about to cum. He didn’t give a shit! He was beyond caring. The pain!

Noisy, messy gurgles seeped into Weston’s throat over the gag. Weakened and beyond control, his training still screamed at him to cope. Teeth biting on the gag, finger nails digging into palms, fighting the pain on his nub. Sharp metal teeth savagely sinking into pain-loaded flesh. His own teeth jammed into the metal bit. Fighting back. Burning pain crushing at his nipple. Hanging heavy off his nub, making him cum. Shit, no! Tipping him over the edge. Hanging weightily, almost ripping off his pain-shuddering teat. His helpless torso trembling to the hum of body-crippling pains.

Weston tried desperately, he ordered himself to get back in charge. He was screaming at himself. He knew he had to. But he was swamped with the assault of pains that attacked his brain from all parts of his body. Burning alive in his ass. Pain in his nubs making him harden down below. About to shoot a load. With them watching. Christ! With them watching! Tortured by unknown attackers, unseen attackers coming at him when he least knew. For what? For fuckin’ what!

Already drained of strength in the sweat box. He’d been gut-punched, his innards mercilessly pounded by people he could not see. His balls sang like fury from knee-bashings. His crutch was agonisingly solid, blazing on fire, aching with need. He’d been stripped naked, undressed as prelim for this barrage of ass torture. His cock hard, ready, about to burst. What was this all about!

Weston had his head thrown back and was yelling. A rush of heat engulfed Weston’s body. The other nipple had got it too. Another clamp biting on his other nub. Gnawing. Biting his teat off. A rage suddenly clenched him in its powerful grip. This bastard would die. Weston had been trained to kill. This bastard had just clamped something on his other nipple! If Weston had to take a crowbar to him, this bastard would pay. Weston bawled into the gag. By Christ, it hurt! Weston had never felt pain like this, he’d never know fury like this. He’d never known pain like this! He had never felt so strong the need to take a man apart. This mother-fucker would die.

There was no holding back. Sweating to the point of heat stroke. Sweat cascaded down his front in sheets. He screamed out his agony and emptied his chest. A scream that lasted till his breath wouldn’t come. Pain flooded in to fill the space. A giant man-scream hit the roof. A heavy-throated scream of pure pain flooded his veins instead of blood.

And for what? What did they want?

Sweat was pouring down his face under the tape. His heart was racing, the pulse pounding thunderously in his ear cutting out other sounds.

Is this what he’d meant when he signed up for Uncle Sam?

10d.

Connors watched Weston. Suffering at the limit of his endurance by the look of him. He’d seemed beyond himself with relief when Piet had snapped off the vicious biting jaws of the clamps from off his chest again. Weston must have soared over the top. Piet had kept the clips on just long enough to get him racing again. To focus his mind’s attention. The clips had sent all the necessary signals racing to his balls. Re-centring his concentration on his cock. In readiness for what was coming next. It had worked, Weston went into overdrive. The clips on his nipples had his head sawing from side-to-side, like he was going mad with pain. Then Piet whipped the clips off again. Weston heaved an involuntary sigh of relief over the gag. Piet had got Weston’s balls alert. Weston soared with relief. But it had lasted barely a second. Piet’s first knee-kick smashed straight in.

Piet had really gone into the attack. Not like Miguel’s. Savage, brutal, ruthless. Numerous body-crunching knee-kicks up into Weston’s hard-on. Blow after blow of mind-screeching thuds. After a salvo of ball-bashings Weston was now bent forward at the hip as far as the rope let him. Piet held back a second, taking in the effect. Let Weston let rip the pain trapped in his chest. Weston howled and slobbered into his gag, crying, sobbing, yet releasing none of the searing agony. The seething torment that crippled the tops of his legs from those blistering knee-kicks. The countless knee-punches that had found his bonered crutch. Of course, he couldn’t ease the pain. There could be no relief, Piet made sure of that. Piet was strong, Piet was ruthless. Weston hung forward, his whole torso racked with torment, inhuman groans dripping out of his gaping mouth. Weston could press his thighs together in defence as much as he liked. Piet’s knee was going to break through. Thighs like Piet’s would always break through.

For his report, it wouldn’t be hard for Connors to come up with the details of Weston done-over by the Cartel. He was watching as the inhumanity happened before his eyes. Connors had listened to Weston shrieking, he heard him now bellowing miserably, in physical torment and mental despair. For now the brutal torture had stopped. The sweat-laden shed dripped Weston’s horrors off the tin roof. Connors just had to fill in the boxes in his report by telling what he had seen.

This time there’d been no glances of mock sympathy for Weston shared between Connors and Miguel. Piet’s ball-bashing had been brutal, evil. Pure malicious evil. Vicious relentless savagery smashed into a crutch-throwing a boner. Not a laughing matter for any man to watch. Connors had been witness to sexual annihilation, he doubted Weston would ever get it up again. He didn’t like the cocky bastard. But nevertheless….!

Both he and Miguel shuddered at the thought, both sure of the damage Piet’s relentless knee-bashing had caused. Permanent. No laughing matter, - even if Connors’ strategy was going to plan.

Piet had got into his stride. He had gone too far. But when he was like this, there was no stopping him. Connors knew there was no point in ordering him enough was enough. Telling him Weston did not need to take any more. That this was already enough.

Connors knew Piet would not listen. Weston’s shrieks were inhuman. They just turned Piet on. He’d tried twisting off the rope to defend himself. Jerking and evading to escape the horror pounding him between the legs. But that had made him a challenge, a moving target. Piet had taken hold of Weston’s sweat-slick arms above his head for support and had kept on ball-bashing home. Bulls-eye every time. Bulls-eye straight into Weston’s screeching nuts. Weston’s knees had given in, he just hung. Connors watched his backside jerk under the powerhouse of every body-crippling kick. His whole body lifted on the pivot in his balls, jolted under Piet’s ramrod of a knee. Bawling. Screeching. Collapsed, his head slammed helplessly into Piet’s chest, his yell part-smothered in the hard pecs of Piet’s solid muscle. Weston’s cry of pain, sobbed, despairing, broken.

Connors had watched. Somewhat surprised at the touch of disdain he felt for Piet’s brutality. This wasn’t really necessary. This was not what he had planned. Connors almost felt a touch of pity for the cocky Marine. He was so far out of it. He was too far out of it to realise he’d probably never get it up again. Piet had gone over-the-top. Connors was certain, Weston was going through a living hell. He was solid pain, his universe centred under a sledgehammer that repeatedly slammed into his balls. Weston would never recover the damage, Connors was sure.

And Connors doubted Piet was finished yet. When Piet was in the mood like this, there was no stopping him. Piet would be like a bear with a sore head if Connors tried. And Weston would only get it worse. Weston would have to keep taking it till Piet tired. But a man like Piet never tired. Not physically, at least. Weston’s only hope was that Piet would get bored with slamming his knee into Weston’s pain-swollen balls and come up with some other move.

Weston had been screaming at the top of his voice for him to stop. Why the fuck wasn’t this bastard listening? The pain in his balls was unbelievable. Another sledgehammer smashed at his crippled balls. All of him felt crippled. Devastated by body-crippling pain. An earthquake tore through his guts. Dynamite exploded in his nuts. Weston couldn’t hold back his screams. It hurt all too much. For a brief moment, the agonising punishment might stop. For a brief second Weston’s ears would fill with only the damaged bawl of his hoarse agonised sobbing. Weston could vaguely feel the giant hands locked around the back of each elbow, watching him, waiting, judging the moment for the next kicking to start. Weston hung in absolute misery, suffered in scorching terrorised agony. Waiting in absolute horror for that tell-tale tightening in the grip on his arms. And another body-blistering explosion in his balls.

Weston had pleaded, he’d begged for the man to stop. Why the shit wasn’t this dick-beater listening? Weston had heard himself as clear as day in his head. Pleading, begging. He’d been in bar-room brawls. He’d taken a few to the groin. Till he turned the tables, laid his opponent flat. But this agony was devastating. The pain was beyond belief, the fear was just as bad. He hung paralysed by pain, he hung paralysed by terror between the kickings. Terror that it would start again. Terror at what this meant. Permanent damage. Damage to his best bud. Lasting. This was not what he’d signed up for. Uncle Sam did not pay him enough for this.

Weston had screamed, he’d hollered he’d tell them everything. But the butthead was not listening. He was getting off on this. Weston remembered that hot iron pressed against his arse. He had pleaded, he’d heard himself pleading. Clear as day. He had beseeched the dick-ass to stop. He’d begged and bawled into his gag. Clear as day in his head, Weston had promised them anything, he’d tell them anything they wanted to know. Just leave him with something intact.

But the ball-bashing just went on and on. Never-ending the agonies. The agonies just never stopped. All his strength ebbed out of his crutch. Like his strength was bleeding from his groin. With each kick, the cocksucker was crushing the life out of him. Weston moaned desperately to himself. He’d lost the will to resist. Weston was sucked dry. Of his strength. Of his determination. His life-force knee-battered out of his crutch.

11. Extra-curricular

11a.

Connors hadn’t really planned it like this. When he sketched out the cover story, he had included Weston taking it in the balls. But not like this. Piet was into it, really into this, he’d gone further than planned. But Connors knew he dared not interfere. Piet was re-living his glory days, the times when he used to do this for a living. This was what Piet was, this was what he did. At least before he’d had to disappear and hide away in this asshole of the earth. And he missed the good old days. Weston was giving Piet the chance to live again. Wrong place, the wrong time.

Piet would be like a bear with a sore head if Connors did not let him have him his head. And Weston would get it even worse. Perhaps even the worst. Connors did not want Weston taken-out, that was not part of the plan. Weston probably thought they were gonna kill him. In his panic-driven mind. No, Connors just wanted him out of the way, shipped off-stage for urgent medical attention. But Connors dared not risk intervening with what was going on. Piet would take it out on Weston if he did, making things even worse.

Truth to tell, Connors was a bit wary of Piet. He sensed he was a bit unpredictable. The quiet menacing type, a touch of the suppressed manic. Like this, hammering another knee brutally into Weston’s defenceless shrieking groin. Piet looked as if he could easily turn. Driven. Obsessed by this return to the life of his glory days. Perhaps he came across so threatening because Piet said so little, gave nothing of himself. The strong silent type. Mega-strong. Connors feared Weston would only take the brunt if Connors did call a halt. Weston might even finish up dead. And that was not part of Connor’s plans, he needed Weston alive.

Piet was tired. Not physically. He was tired of being this close up, with the bastard collapsed on his chest and drooling his spit down Piet’s front. With a shove of his hand on Weston’s forehead, he jarred the head backwards in a painful whiplash and let the bastard sag on his ropes with a groan. He was good, Piet knew he was the best. He’d always done it well, he took pride in getting a result. This was what he’d always done before he’d had to hide away in this sweat-filled backwater. It was a job, simply a job. What he was built for. The way he made his living. And he was the best. Good to be back in the saddle. He got results. And that was what Connors was paying him for. Connors had made the plans, Piet was carrying them out. But he was proud of what he did, how he did it. He always gave 110%, he offered nothing less. He knew the rookie was pleading for him to stop, he could understand the desperation in the voice despite the gag. But that was what the gag was for. So Piet didn’t have to hear.

Time to move him on. On and up. Next level up.

Piet had walked back behind Weston. He bent down and picked up Weston’s belt off the floor again and eyed the naked ass he’d already turned into a flaring mass of scarlet blotches. He stood there waiting, listening to Weston’s signals, judging the right moment. Piet fancied laying into Weston with the belt again. He’d always felt there was something intensely pleasing about the crack of leather on taut human flesh. He’d give Weston it with the belt again. On and on till Weston nearly passed out. Patiently he watched, Piet had all the time in the world. Weston was going nowhere. He was suffering all the fires of hell in his ass and crutch. He could hardly stand, swaying like a drunk off the rope. Groaning and slobbering into the gag.

Piet crossed his arms over his thick-muscled chest. Lost in himself, just him and Weston left in the world. His hand stroked at a heavy-muscled chest wiping at the sweat on the skin. Listening for the tell-tale signals from his victim, absent-mindledly squeezing hard on his own erect nipple as if he could share in some of Weston’s pain. He then slipped a hand into his armpit and raised a finger to his nose and breathed in slow and deep, relishing the sweet smell of his own hard-working sweat. And from his other hand there still dangled the prospect of Weston’s own belt. A strong muscled threat hanging against his own gym-trained thigh. A man-sized belt of thick brutal leather. Piet’s eyes travelled over to the burning naked ass sweating before him. Strong-muscled, rich globes of flesh, deeply dimpled. Red and fiery with the vicious stripes Piet had left behind. His eyes stroked like fingertips over the sweated fiery welts, wet, slick painfully wide stripes. Piet watched. And Piet waited. Till his victim seemed to relax a little, ready to be taken to the next level up. Piet’s gift of pain. Till Piet saw Weston was hanging a tiny more coping . Not expecting to surge up his next level of pain.

And then Piet raised the belt again.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

11b.

A few days after Weston had been flown out stateside for medical care, Connors planned another email. He felt awkward about bringing this to the agency’s attention, he’d report. But he felt duty-bound to file another account in case his first report might have been mis-leading.

Investigations into Weston’s story about being snatched by the Cartel had come up with another explanation, Connors would file. The Agency ought to be aware of an alternative story doing the rounds when the doctors declared Weston was OK for his de-briefing. Rumours were going around that it wasn’t the Cartel that had done him over. Weston had been messing with a local woman. A married woman. Talk in the local bars was that the husband had caught Weston in the act. In his own bed. Things had got out of hand. His brothers had helped out and they had “done their duty”. They’d done what any man here would have done. Well, actually word was, things got carried away. They gave Weston a thorough going-over, dished out quite a bashing. Gave it him in the balls. It’s what they were like in this part of the world. Gave it him there so’s Weston would never do it again. Well, this is Latin America. They’re a bit eye-for-an-eye down here.

Connors had imagined this scene a hundred times. Alone in his bed, secretly resenting that Weston was probably out there getting laid, Connors had thoroughly worked over this cover story in his head. Over and over, infinite small variations, getting Weston’s injuries here in the tin shed and those in the cover story to nicely coincide. His hand wandering down in his loneliness and stroking himself at the thought. Clouding the issue for the Agency. Getting one over on Weston like this. The idea never failed to get Connors going.

The husband had been suspecting for some time, Connors’ report would let on, the neighbours had noticed her going off. And neighbours talked. They watched her returning to her duties in the kitchen looking flustered and flushed, - always whenever the husband was away fishing. The word had got to him in the cantina. Showed him up before his compadres. Sniggering behind his back. After all, this was small town Latin America. What else had they got to keep them entertained? The husband got his brothers together, two other friends joined in. They got tanked up. And then they stormed the house. Fully armed.

The husband and friends caught them in the act, in his own bed. The story went, Weston gave them lip. Far from making a run for it, stark naked he stood up on the bed and let his mouth rip. So the five of them fought Weston down, hauled him off the bed and gave him hell. You don’t mess with married women down here, but Weston was green, still wet behind the ears. He gave them lip, they gave him hell.

But they were fishermen. They didn’t really know what they were into. It was just their macho pride that drove their fists. Weston had insulted every code they lived by. Including showing no regret. He’d made the husband a laughing stock and didn’t give a fuck! But they were inexperienced peasants, Weston by contrast was a tough Marine. Used to hard treatment. Used to taking hard knocks. Weston once claimed he’d had SERE training. He gave back as hard as he got. Harder. Terrified by Weston’s fearsome retaliation, fear flooded their veins and they laid into him. Undaunted the ex-Marine took them on. Fists flew, punches landed. A seasoned fighter took on raw amateurs who’d never thrown a punch in their lives. 6 infuriated but naïve fishermen.

But they had come armed. With clubs and metal pipe. Latin temper thudded into his back, smashed into his ribs. A metal pipe caught him across his neck, dazed him, threw Weston down on one knee. Once they got him down, their frenzy refused to stop. Fearful of his recovery. They pressed their advantage. Their feet kicked him in the guts, a lucky knee to the chin hammered him to the floor. Fear and fury could not stop, their boots stomped into his back. Frenzied with terror, drunk on tequila, they gave Weston a kicking from hell. Till he gave up the struggle and passed out.

[pic]

extra 11b

Uncertain of what they had taken on and yet determined to make the gringo pay, they bound his wrists. Pumped up with their frenzy and egged on by his mouth, they dragged him naked and unconscious out back to the chicken house where they hung him from the rafters off a rope.

In Latin America, - Connors would humbly report - you don’t mess with a husband’s pride. And if you do, you show some remorse. Another mistake Weston made. He didn’t. When he came round, arms strung above his head, no defence, Weston still laid into them with his tongue. Told them the wife wouldn’t go wandering if the husband knew what to do with it. He took a slapping across the mouth to shut him up. But more and more, Weston mouthed off. Spitting out the blood, he piled it on. More and more stuff like that. If he sounded offensive, frankly Weston didn’t give a shit.

In a frenzied reprisal, they laid into him again, good and proper. Egged on by him. Fists ripping into his front, a baseball bat smashing the life out of his guts. Latin temper, wounded Hispanic testosterone flying. But would the fucker stop? Weston - gasping through his pain - he just gave them back more mouth. He cursed them back, taunted them over their limp dicks. They had his hands tied above his head, there was nothing he could do. But would he let it go? He gave them lip. Said a wife needed a real man. No sign of remorse.

The husband’s younger brother got really carried away. He started slapping Weston in the face. Screamed at him to shut his mother-fucking mouth. To make him shut up. Red in the face, infuriated, teenager hormones all over the place, the kid slapped Weston around. In typical Weston-style unthinking retaliation kicked in, Weston hauled on the rope binding his arms to the rafters. He hauled on the rope and cracked his feet into the kid’s mouth. Smashing out two front teeth. There, take that, mother-fucker, Weston screamed. See if I give a damn!

The husband went wild. He picked up Weston’s’ own belt and gave him hell. A frenzy of blood-rage stinging into Weston’s arse. They all took turns, slashing Weston’s own belt to him. When the husband tired, his next brother took up the reins. A never-ending blood-lust to shut Weston’s mouth. Sharp screeching pains tore through Weston’s arse. And so on. The sound of Weston’s own cries shot to him through a haze of pain. But they’d keep it up till he sang of his remorse. They weren’t gonna stop till he begged. He didn’t. Weston’s ass was on fire, his back was ablaze. But he wasn’t gonna say sorry.

Connors would report, …. “Or so the story went in the cantinas”.

It was a cry like treading on a dog’s paw. Weston spewed a high-pitched yelp over the gag. His spit splattered into the air, his saliva dribble down onto his sleek bare front. Weston’s whole body lifted in sudden shock. Then at full stretch, his torso trembled as if electrocuted. And a long pained yell poured out onto the air.

Suddenly, without warning, another sharp slash tore across Weston’s backside. A stinging punishing slash that shot his body in the air. Pain popped out of his eyeballs under the mask. Like someone had slashed a sabre across his ass. Slicing a deep cut into his pain-tightened ass. Emptying his lungs of wind. After an eternity, the pain abated enough for Weston to gasp in air. Messy noisy slobberings as desperately he hauled in breath over the gag. At which sound another sabre cut ripped evilly across his bare muscled ass. A long rasping scream as the whip-lashed muscle of his ass felt torn open by the razor-sharp cut of a blade. In agonised shock, Weston’s shrieks hit the ceiling of the tin shed.

“In case you’re wondering ….”

The Voice hovered at some distant horizon of Weston’s universe.

“It’s your belt Pedro’s using. There’s a certain irony in using your own belt on you. Don’t you think?,” smirked the Voice. “Bet it hurts!”

Weston didn’t give a damn. Of course, it friggin’ hurt. The body-crippling pain cross Weston’s ass had turned into a furnace. Someone had turned that acetylene torch back on and striped it across his screeching back. He heard again the whoosh of the flame. Weston heard the threatening sound of the belt cutting though the air. Pedro’s strength wielding a thick leather belt! Fear of pain turned Weston to stone. His breathing stopped, his heart stood still. Then the firestorm hit. A screeching blistering flash of lightning tearing across his bare shoulders. Weston shrieked, he nearly passed out.

11c.

Weston yelped. His back felt it had been hit by a heat-seeking missile. He detonated upwards at the burst of fiery explosive across his shoulders. Erupted into a raging inferno. Exhausted by pain and torture, Mother-fucking hell, he screeched into his gag.

Was there ever such pain! Worse than he could ever have imagined. Without thinking, he instinctively twisted savagely under the fire of shock. Pedro’s strapping onslaught across Weston’s broad shoulders was merciless. He was slicing thick red welts into the pain-shuddering flesh like he was leaving behind his calling card. A belt that had soaked up Weston’s own sweat for weeks had gone hard, the edges blunt. The power behind the swing was ruthless, the sting took Weston’s breath away. The gag forcing open his throat made Weston’s every forced pain-yell erupt on the hot sweated air. Like a stuck pig. Like an injured cow. Was there no end!

Pedro lashed away pitilessly into Weston’s back. Slowly. At a slow deliberate pace that let every smarting blow sizzle and fry. Scorch him to the max. Body-breaking thuds, mind-blowing stings. Squeezing every ounce of pain out of every shrieking nerve. Wringing every drop of Weston’s burning sweat out of every pain-crazed pore. Wrenching fresh cries out of fiery red welts. Weston’s muscles bulged, uselessly fighting to wrench himself free. Pumped up with the searing-hot pain that crackled with thunderbolts through his flesh.

His torso was lathered with sweat. Like a racehorse finishing its race. But Weston was still far from the line. His head jerked back under the force of another blow, his sweat-drenched chest cracked as his rasping throat grabbed for air.

Again Pedro threw all his muscled strength into the next blow. Weston snapped upright with the excruciating pain, a scream of pain smashing through the gag. The sweat-blunted leather worked like sandpaper over crimson-flayed skin. Scraping pain out of every drowning pore, grinding torture through agonised layers under the skin. The pain-scarred welts across his lathered back formed a mass of fiery angled ridges. Weston was sweating worse than a pig, shattered, he gasped out loud heaving in animal-like bellows for air.

Weston was a living pillar of fire. Burning alive with pain. Out from the searing aches in his knee-stomped balls, flames roared. Up to the blazing agonies of his whip-lashed shoulders, a firestorm raged. Weston roared like a plume of burning gas. He was an agonised tower of incandescent heat, a pillar of fire that was his own body. Searing heat that was burning him alive. On the inside, on the outside. Beyond thought, beyond sense. His flesh consumed in the red-hot heat of the furnace that was his ravaged flesh.

Word was, Connors would add in his report, that Weston had got the brothers crazy with his macho defiance. You just didn’t do that in this part of the world, Connors would add. Not when you’ve been caught in the act. Giving it to a man’s wife. Even after the husband and his brothers had worked over Weston’s ass with his own belt, he still showed no signs of remorse. The blistering pain of the belting had been unbearable. Weston barely caught breath, he could barely yell. But as soon as it was over, Weston was at them again. Even after five men had overwhelmed him and torn into his back with a belting of his life, Weston hung from the rafters in the chicken house sweating in defiance. Biting back the sobs, he screamed abuse at them, regretting nothing. Mocking the husband’s performance in bed. Screaming that Weston was in no way sorry for the shame he had brought them.

And so the men just got carried away. What more could they do? They couldn’t let the gringo get away with it. It was a matter of honour. Their neighbours expected it. Their compadres in the cantina would ask questions. The brothers had already strung his naked ass up from the rafters and whipped him till he screamed. Whipped him with his own belt. What more could they do? The bastard would not shut it. Or give in. There was nothing for it.

They kept on punching him in the guts to make him say sorry. That’s all they wanted to hear. It was all a matter of face. They had to make him sorry, make sure he’d never do it again. Their sense of honour demanded it. Their neighbours expected it. And he wouldn’t, the over-cocky bastard. Too stubborn. He wouldn’t show remorse. The husband only wanted to hold his head high again before his mates.

There was nothing for it. Weston brought it on himself. It turned into a feeding-frenzy, the brothers eager for his blood, - or so Connors was informed. It was a matter of honour. Pride. Weston was showing them he just did not give a fuck. Not one sign of remorse. So they had to make him.

They just got carried away. They went for him like any Latin would. With a man caught in the act with his wife. Naked in his own bed. No respect. When the obstinate cocksucker wouldn’t say he was sorry, they were gonna make him. When the bastard made it clear he’d do it again, he had to be stopped.

They did the obvious, they went for his balls. So he’d not do it again. Held his legs spread and gave it him where he’d hurt. Where he’d learn regret. Time and time again, taking turns. Couldn’t stop themselves. Determined to hear him say sorry. Determined to hear him beg. Determined the gringo would never do it again.

They cut him down and went for him on the floor. Their boots stomped on him. Fury powered their kicks dozens of times at his crutch. Enraged by his refusal to shout out his regrets. Infuriated that he would not beg. Determined to make him regret. They simply got carried away.

[pic]

extra 11c

When Weston passed out, when his body could take no more - belt-lashed across the back, knee-crushed in the balls, - when the frenzy of the moment passed, a stillness hung heavy in the chicken-shed. A cold realisation settled on their sweating heads. The men got frightened, - or so Connor would report. They realised what they had done. They’d got carried away. The police would come for them. Gone too far. Finish up in jail.

They loaded Weston in a beat-up pick-up and dumped him in the dark round the back of the bar where they knew the gringo drank. Where the barman Piet went out to empty the trash and he found Weston half-dead. Word was, the men had all disappeared. Fled in their boats, gone fishing. No one knew where. Gone ever since Piet had found Weston’s recrimination-tortured body.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

11d.

Connors decided he didn’t need to watch this. This whole thing was getting a bit out-of-hand. Piet was certainly getting carried away. Connors hadn’t actually planned it like this, not so much mindless brutality. He wanted Weston sorted, put out of the way with a convincing story and let things take their course. And he’d used Piet because …. well, because Piet knew about such things. Connors just wanted Weston sorted. But he did need him alive. Yeah, Piet knew what to do but Piet was having the time of his life. Getting off on this.

You could tell that by looking at Piet in his pants. But Connors knew better than to interfere, that it was better - for Weston - not to get Piet riled. And Connors did need Weston alive to have him shipped back to the States while business down here got sorted. Weston might not be in much of a state. But best not to get Piet riled.

Connors leaned against the upright of the door and stared out into the vicious glare of the sun. The heat out there was intense, the stinking humidity glued Connors’ shirt to his back. But nothing like the heat that enveloped Weston’s naked torso. He was dripping from head-to-toe. Rivers of sweat poured down his sleek chest. Staring out, Connors almost winced, shocked at another blood-curdling cry from behind, convulsed and twisted over the gag.

Then Connors began to see the irony, he smirked away to himself. Serve him right! It was what the cocksucker deserved. The stubborn bastard was just getting what was coming to him! Weston just had to be the hard man, didn’t he?. He just had to prove himself, he had to show what he was made of. Couldn’t give in, like any normal guy. Well here, hard-man, meet Piet.

It was typical of the sonofabitch. He didn’t know when he was beat. He hung off the overhead rope, completely collapsed, his knees given in. With every swish of the strap into his back, his body snapped, an animal-like bawl plumed like fiery gas into the air. But would the bastard give in? Just black-out, Connors had implored in his head. Give up the ghost, for Pete’s sake! Piet would stop then. But no, not Weston. Didn’t know when he was beat! So Piet was still laying into his back on full power. He knew no quarter, every swing carried the full force of his body-builder weight. Every sting of hard leather on red-scorched flesh rang with Weston’s howl of pain. And it would go on like this. Like a duel. Weston “taking it like a man”. And Piet beating the crap out of him. Piet regaining his former glory. Piet would give it him till pain brought Weston to his senses. Till he could take no more and his body saw the light and blacked-out. Weston thought he was tough. Pity for him, Weston was tough, he could take a lot. Unlucky for Weston, though, Piet was tougher. A lot.

The blunt edge of the strap hit on burning flesh like razored wire. An animal-like bawl spluttered out Weston’s gagged mouth. With the ferocity of a puma’s roar. His torso froze. Every muscle paralysed with unbearable pain. Then the shudders set in. Judders that started small in the back and then rapidly, uncontrollably, shook the whole body with indescribable pain. Till another razor-lash caught him again across the centre of his back. Cut across the judders. Crashed them to a pain-paralyzed stop. Weston’s whole body shot upright. He went stiff with the pain, the sting of his own belt plunged him to the depths of agony. His head back, his bellow echoed off the roof of the tin shed. The intensity of the pain was unbearable. Weston dropped, his legs gave way. His pain-filled body jolted down. Till the overhead rope jabbed daggers into his shoulder joints. His wrists and shoulders wrenched in their sockets by the sudden stop. Weston cried out. A dismal despair-soaked sob.

Piet picked up the pace. Fore-handed, back-handed, the thick leather belt screeched across Weston’s sweat-streaming back. Force drove him jerking to the right. Pain slashed him agonising to the left. Piet drove him on, seemingly tireless. Weston twisted and jerked in the yellow-red haze of hell that was his only world. Writhing off the overhead rope in an unrelenting inferno of indescribable pain.

Pain pulsed through his veins. Barely aware of anything but overwhelming anguish, agony roared through Weston’s body as if lava flowed through his arteries instead of blood. Flashes of dizzying pain and nausea ate up his insides. His whole innards burned him up with devastating roaring flames. His muscular sunburnt back was a criss-cross of ugly violent stripes, sweat burnished on his tanned skin like molten gold.

He was delirious. Incoherent, barely conscious except for that over-powering sense of crippling pain. In his head glared a blinding white light of agony that throbbed and ached. Burned his eyes out. Cauterised his brain. That pulsed evilly to every thudding heart beat. That made him feel sick to the pit of his stomach.

And Piet was in his stride. Re-living his glory days when he did this for a living and got a kick out of it. A bigger kick than working a bar in this stinking shit-house of the world with a load of Latin drunks. Weston was giving him back some self-respect. The two were made for each other. Perfectly matched. A challenge. Weston proving he couldn’t be beat. Piet getting back his pride. But for Piet, there was only gonna be one winner. And it was Weston’s back that was paying the price.

For a brief second, Piet examined his handiwork. Nodded. And then Piet’s arm muscles tore loose again. Weston burst out in a blood-curdling scream.

+ + + + + + + + + + + +

12. End-game

12a.

Connors would hedge his second report with some caution. There was no way he could verify if Weston’s story that he had been tortured by the Cartel and his cover blown. Nor could he prove the contradictory rumours from the cantinas were false. And he certainly wouldn’t want to suggest that Weston’s Cartel story was just a cover-up …... Covering up, perhaps, some extra-curricular activity that had come back to haunt him. So maybe, Connors would suggest, it was worth keeping an open mind at Weston’s de-briefing. Especially as he was so inexperienced in the field.

Whatever the conclusion, Connors respectfully reported, Weston might be unsuitable to be returned to duty at this posting. And maybe some kind of cultural-sensitivity training might be considered.

The noises changed, Connors turned round. Under each searing cut of the bet into Weston’s back, muscle danced. In a rippled jolt, Weston’s marbled chest spasmed under muscular torture and flexed in a sharp spam. His now lifeless dick flopped in time to the music of hell, ravaging pain had robbed him of his arrogant hard-on. At his wrists the flesh had been torn red-raw by the blooded rope.

But Piet wasn’t finished with him, he was still ripping the belt into his back. Jolting Weston in his pain with a non-stop barbarity that spoke of mindless determination and tireless strength. Weston hung jerking like electrified animal meat. He was nearly out-of-it. His legs had given way, his feet trailed behind. The strength in his packed belly lay stretched and flat.

But Piet laid into him relentlessly. Another massive grunt of effort from him tore the leather bitingly across the middle of Weston’s back. The carcase again bucked under devastating force. A final animal-like bellow now spat at the air, the shell that had been Weston’s vital body exploded forward. And then it just dropped and hung. Fell with a final grunt of consciousness. Weston hung inert, a mere husk of his former stubborn self, shrivelled into an agonised hell. The stubborn bastard’s body had finally admitted it. He was beat, unconscious.

Connors watched from the doorway at the change of sound. Weston hung lifeless off the overhead rope, his legs collapsed, the whole muscled torso stretched and straining. Even after Weston’s bawling had stopped, Piet still laid another half-dozen lashes into him. As if unwilling to stop. As if going through a warm-down. Weston’s torso just swung groaning under the force of the impact. Dead-meat. Lifeless.

Workman-like, Piet was already going at the rope with a knife, sawing away at the thick rope. Weston’s inert body sweat-shimmering in the light. Naked sweat flowed off him in sheets. The skin on his hairless chest, though not even touched by the belt, burned with a ferocious glow of red pain. Suddenly the rope gave and Weston collapsed face down on the dirt. For the sake of it, Piet lashed out with his boot. A harsh pointless kick powered by a solid domineering thigh into Weston’s inert side. For the sake of it. To the tune of Weston’s unconscious grunt. Clearly Piet enjoyed the sound. He lifted his boot and jammed another heel thudding hard into Weston’s lifeless back. For the fun of it.

12b.

In a few hours Piet would “comes across” Weston dumped round the back of his bar and get on the phone straight to Connors. Connors’ emergency email would have Weston shipped out in no time. Safely out of the way. Everything back to Plan A.

Nevertheless, Connors gave a slight wince at the sight of Weston’s back. Piet had certainly done the job. He’d given Weston the works. Not much blood. But a mass of evil welts laid viciously on top of crimson tortured flesh. Strong muscled lats were gnarled and twisted into wide blotched weals of pain. His ass too, blistering agony had painted it in fiery red ridges. When Weston came round, he’d screech in pain with every move.

Piet’s boot got Weston over on his back. His sweated front covered in red dust, grimacing with the pain of the move, - even though Weston was out, that much was plain, he wouldn’t sleep on his back for some time. Before Piet got too carried away with more damage, Connors held his hand out.

With a “Here!”, he caught Piet’s attention. “Finish the job”.

Piet had pumped himself with enough steroids in the past to know his way around needles. In a second, Piet had found a pain-bloated vein and shot the phial into Weston. To keep him out for a few hours. Then numerous more small shots in several places, most in the upper thigh when they’d normally not be seen. Let the bastard explain that away, thought Connors. Let Weston bluster away the drugs the medics would find in his blood-stream when they examined him stateside. And let the cocky motor-mouth account for the mysterious pin-cushion dotting his leg. Evidence of a suspicious habit the agent needed to explain.

That would buy enough time. In a few days, Connors’ deal would be done. By the time, the medics had got Weston in any state to talk, Connors would be made for life. By the time Weston was blithering, denying stories about being done over by the fisherman whose wife he’d been poking, things down here would be sorted. By the time Weston was jabbering out his confusion about drug abuse, Connors would be banking his rewards. By the time the Agency summoned Connors to testify at Weston’s disciplinary hearing, Connors would be long gone. Beyond the reach of extradition. Enjoying new-found luxury in his beach-side penthouse. Courtesy of the Cartel, courtesy of Weston’s hide.

With his boot Piet kicked Weston’s leg out. Slid it further apart, to open his muscled legs wide. Connors’ scenario had called for the fishermen to make sure Weston did not do it again. So Piet provided that evidence. Ever the professional. He raised his heel over Weston’s groin. And stomped. Out for the count, Weston’s body knew how to react. A metal-cleated heel made its mark. Jack-knifing the blacked-out body into the air. An unconscious bawl of horror flooded the hot air. Another fisherman’s boot had left its mark.

[pic]

relief 12b

Connor shook his head at Piet’s gratuitous violence. He gave Weston’s tortured dirt-streaked torso flesh another look. His dick had jerked over to the side, the impressive erection he’d taunted Connors with now was wilted and gone. His balls horribly bloated and turning blue-black. That dick that had got him into trouble “with the fisherman and his wife”. Shrivelled atop a swollen pair of pain-bloated nuts. Courtesy of Piet’s ferocious ball-bashing. Connors nodded to himself sagely. Probably never get it up again, by the look of it.

Bruised and battered, lashed and ass-strapped, dust was glued to Weston’s body with the sweat of his pain. Piet bent down over him and, with seemingly incredible ease and a small grunt, Piet hefted Weston over his shoulder. Miguel had gone for the truck already, Connors saw Weston’s naked ass approaching. His nemesis “Pedro” taking him outside “to face the heat”. Awkward questions about his habit. Disciplinary hearing. Order of the boot.

Weston’s head was dropped lifeless into the middle of Pedro’s back. The bare ass crimson-red, ablaze, slumped over Pedro’s shoulder. Vicious thick welts criss-crossed the once hard-muscled flesh. Evil stripes of fiery-scarlet on his belt-strapped ass. Out into the heat, back to the bar, to be found by Piet, shipped out, questioned, career in tatters. But gone. Problem solved. Out of sight, out of mind.

For a bare second the sight of his punished ass swaying off Piet’s shoulder peppered a tinge of sympathy in a small corner of Connors’ mind. Then he simply smirked to himself with a shake of his head. Stubborn motherfucker. His own doing. Just had to be the hard-nut. Couldn’t give in. Thought he was tough. Not a man who’d ever learn, was Weston. Wrong man, wrong place, wrong time.

End

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