This story and its characters are fiction and based on no one outside my head. If any character resembles you or someone you know, I WANT DETAILS, you lucky fucker, preferably with photos! It is, of course, copyrighted by the author with all rights reserved and very, very negotiable. Do not repost without permission Also, keep the cum coming -- Donate to Nifty TODAY at donate.nifty.org/donate.html! I'm an old guy. I know what it was like when you had to BUY porn. Five miles uphill both ways in the snow just to GET to the XXX store. You whippersnapper don't know how good you've got it.
This involves CONSENSUAL BUT COERCIVE SEX between teens and men, along with BDSM elements; if that is illegal for who/where you may be right now, go away! Get thee to a monastery (where you might just find scenes similar to some below). Also, please note that all my stories exist in a world where STDs are neither common nor deadly. Don't be an idiot; use protection. 'To die for' sex should never lead to your actual death.
Feedback from readers is important to me, but if you get off on flaming people, please know that you will HATE the results. I will read your missive and weave you and your comments into the nasty parts of my next story to the point that you cry like a little girl. Bullies get as bullies give.
Patriot UP!
By Bear Pup
The fucking bastards at the travel agency promised me, PROMISED me that this could never happen. Not on their tour, oh no! They guaranteed it. Guarantee THIS, bitch. Fucking bastards.
Everything was going fine. The flight into Lamar, the new city/fort in the valley of the same name, was flawless. Clearances had been obtained from each militia, PrepperZone and Sovereign State within the flight path since the whole of the Yellowstone Territories of the USA were surrounded by the loose and warring factions that made up the American Redoubt.
So, the plan was to fly in and spend two weeks exploring the wonders of nature. Ironically, The Yellowstone Territories of the USA were better preserved as a besieged military territory than ever had been true when the lands were a string of national parks, wildlife preserves and wildernesses in a roughly C-shaped area stretching from Teton and Gros Ventre to Bighorn. VTOL transport was contracted and ready and the itinerary was breathtaking. The YTs were nearly-inaccessible but still one of the greatest sights of the modern world.
For the past seventeen years, a stalemate had ruled at the borders of the Yellowstone Territories. With the exception of bribes -- excuse me, fees -- paid for transit, contact with the survivalists surrounding it were rare. Conflicts were constant on the fringe (pun intended), but we'd experienced some of the most-spectacular places on the continent. The whole group was FLASHing everything to the SociMedi of their choice.
We were coming back from a morning river-raft trip on the Snake River, ending at Alpine Junction. The sixteen of us (fourteen tourists, our tour guide and a medic) strapped into the VTOL and lifted off as normal. We'd seen the erupting thunderheads and thought little of them, but our pilot was less reassuring. "We've got large and unexpected storms due north and to the east." His static-ridden voice echoed in our headsets. "We're gonna swing a bit more westerly than expected, coming in at Targhee Fort." That was the heavily-defended outpost at what had been Grand Targhee Resort. "Nothing to worry about, but keep your harnesses fastened."
I looked over to my right. I happened to be across from the tour guide. She scowled slightly, then pulled out and unfurled her iScroll. As the VTOL banked even further to our left, I watched her eyes get larger. She abruptly unbuckled her harness and literally ran forward to the pilot's station, first whispering, then actually shouting.
The rest of us started to worry when a couple key phrases penetrated the drone of the engines: 'Active Incursion' and 'No Fly Zone'. Worry turned to panic when another word wafted back, 'Patriots'. The pilot, not even needing the microphone to be heard, screamed, "FUCK ME!" and dropped us nearly to the treetops, turning the air blue with his top-of-the-lungs cursing. Most of us were adding our own choice words along with him.
Puke was flying everywhere as the pilot put the VTOL though maneuvers it was never intended to perform. VTOLs are meant for simple, steady, straightforward trips; dips and dives were not part of the plan. We'd cleared the edge of the mountain and could actually see the signal-smoke of the fort when I started to hear a strange... ticking, I guess. Deep, powerful, regular. Tu-tu-tu-tu-tu-tu-tu-tu, getting slightly louder. I belatedly placed the sound -- heavy machine gun -- as it changed to, tu-tu-Tu-Tu-TU-BOOOOOM and the VTOL lurched instantly to the right. The pilot started inventing cuss words then, but like a shutter thrown, everything went silent and black.
STOP: I said it above, but I will say it here. This is a story about coercive sex including sadistic treatment. It is NOT nice or pleasant or happy or healthy. STOP READING if that is not your thing. If you keep reading and write me to complain, I will laugh at you and use you and your letter as the basis of my next evil-mean-bad story. You have been warned. Now back to our regularly-scheduled fuck-fest.
"Patriot Seven Leader, this one's coming around." Everything hurt. I could feel a long, deep gash on my left arm, the side that had been against the window. My left shoulder felt like it was dislocated and both my knees were ablaze with pain. The shocker was that I was, apparently, still alive. "Yep, Big Boy here's gonna make it." The voice was... odd. I realized why when my eyes stopped spinning and started to focus. The speaker had on a complicated helmet and face gear, including a HUD. He was also hard to see, frankly, with his green digital camo against the backdrop of evergreens that carpeted the slope.
A far deeper and somehow bigger voice responded. "Superb, Seven Medic Walsh, simply superb timing. And it's the Big Boy, huh? Excellent, Patriot, excellent." I was, actually, a pretty big guy. Six-six and bearish, I kept fit not at the gym but through my job as an Environment Reconstruction Engineer, specializing in deciduous mountain ecosystems, mainly in the Old Glory states of the north-eastern USA. That entire landscape is either uphill or downhill, and we don't use mechs in the recovering systems so we tote everything with shoulder-power. It also paid like a fucking lottery... if you got it right. My head spun and I thought I might puke as two burly guys hoisted me into a sitting position.
Just before the mountain of a man, Patriot Seven Leader, blocked my view, I got a clear sight of what I'd survived. The VTOL was in pieces, the cabin split open like a gourd and engine parts everywhere. I was surprised by the lack of flames, but also by the number of roughly-six-foot-long plastic bags. Body bags. Lots of them. "Welcome to the Treasure Mountain Redoubt. You able to talk yet?"
Good question. "Grungsh, urg, um, yeah? Wa'er?" the medic aimed a squirt bottle at my mouth and I opened up and drank a long stream of herb-flavored water. "Unnnng, yes, sir. I can talk." I knew better than to either volunteer info or be even vaguely disrespectful. Patriots were some of the worst, with a fierce pack hierarchy and intolerance for, well, everything.
"Good. First we need to classify you." He started ticking off on his fingers, "Stooge, Polly, Zombie, Goblin, Goon. You don't have a BOB or even a fucking EDC, so those five are your choices." BOB was a bug-out-bag, what a person would need to simply survive on his own and EDC was everyday-carry, the minimum a survivalist of any stripe would have attached to his person at all times. I thought furiously.
"Sir, I'm L-L-L-L-Larry Coos, sir. I'm not armed and I don't steal, so I'm not a Goon or a Goblin," meaning that I'm neither an opponent/soldier nor a thief, "but I don't know the others, sir?"
"You work for any government or centralized authority?"
"No, sir."
"You in denial that TEOTWAWKI has already happened?"
"No, sir!"
"Excellent! Not a Stooge or a Pollyanna, so you are precisely what we need right now, a Zombie. A dead man walking around who doesn't even know he's dead yet. Perfect. I've got a choice for you, Zombie. We can pack up and leave you here and it's entirely possible that goons will come to look for survivors, and it's even slightly possible that they'll get here without my men killing every last fucking one of them."
From the hive-like activity around me and the precision with which these men moved, I put those options in the 'well then I'm fucked' category.
"So, we can leave you here for rescue. If they get here, grab you and get out -- alive -- within a few hours of sundown, you might even survive. The alternative is to be the... let's say the 'star' of a Patriot event tonight. You will agree fully and unconditionally to cooperate and be used, physically, in a ceremony. Your agreement is carte-blanc; you agree to everything up to but stopping short of your actual death. We do with you what and whatever we choose. Zombie, do you understand the offer?"
"Y-Y-Y-Y-Yes, sir. Um, I'll... I'll live?"
"Assuming your full cooperation, I will guarantee your survival and your deposit at a checkpoint where the Illegal Occupation that has seized Yellowstone will find you. ANY non-compliance voids the deal and you go back to being just another fucking dead man walking. Your choice, Zombie? You need to tell me that you both agree to the terms and consent to whatever treatment we decide upon"
"Yes, s-s-s-s-sir. I agree to terms and, um, uh, consent to whatever you do to me. Um, sir! " If they got me to the Yellowstone Territories, there was little physical damage that couldn't be repaired by the miracle-workers in the Front Range Free State that ran up and down from Denver, and God knew I had the money to cover it.
"Seven Medic Walsh, secure this Zombie. Bag and tag; he's going with us to Seven Base."
"ACK, Patriot Seven Leader. Bag and tag, sir." The medic "ACK"nowledged the order and the two apes shoved something in my mouth. The pair of them got a form-fitting black canvas hood strapped over my head and neck. I could hear the click of locks there, at my ankles and at my wrists.
"Seven Guard Witkowski and Seven Heavy Gun Grover, you're carrying."
Both of them grunted, "ACK, Patriot Seven Leader. Carry Zombie Seven Base, sir."
"Damn if it ain't convenient to have a big ole Zombie drop right out of the sky the same fucking day as the Blood Moon Festival. Providence, Patriots, providence." When the deep-voiced leader said that with such relish, I'd have sobbed if it was physically possible. 'Moon' and 'Festival' didn't worry me, but a Patriot talking gleefully about my situation being providential for an event with 'Blood' in the title? My soul shriveled at the thought.
My life became an interesting and frustrating hell of pain and disconnected sounds for the next three hours. Every shift or movement fired agony through my shoulder, knees or both. It started as a downhill march with manly chatter and braggadocio about taking out the VTOL, then a whistle followed by stunning quiet as the troop of men -- maybe 12? -- moved so stealthily that I could hear individual breaths and soft footfalls.
I was unceremoniously dumped into the bed of a vehicle that groaned under my weight just as I tried to scream through my gag at the pain. It purred with the buzz of an electric vehicle. From the angles and bouncing, it was an ATV version. The motor cut after a long period of movement. I was hoisted again and this time the angle did something so horrible to my shoulder that I might have blacked out for a little while. They walked thirty more minutes before stopping in an utter and eerie silence broken by fake birdcalls.
After perhaps ten minutes of motionless quiet, we moved steeply uphill and there was that indescribable change in the texture of sound that happens when you enter a semi-enclosed space. Finally, that broke open into the sounds of a camp. A fairly-sizeable one at that. The guys carrying me dropped me, with very little regard, off to one side and I wriggled desperately into a position that would lessen the explosion of pain from my knees and shoulder.
"Seven Guard Witkowski," the deep and very satisfied voice of the Leader intoned and I heard a set of keys being thrown, "you have the Zombie. Secure him. Water him as needed. Don't waste rations or potables. He's still a Zombie. "
"ACK, Patriot Seven Leader. Secure and Water Zombie. No wastage, sir."
I tried to scream as he wrenched me back to a painful sitting position. He efficiently and ruthlessly unshackled my hands then pulled them high above me, attaching them to a hook of some kind. The pain was intense as my shoulder was abused still further by the change. He unlocked the hood next and pulled it off, blinding me with the sudden light after so long under the dark covering. I felt him remove the gag and coughed as my vision cleared slowly. I felt something at my lips, wetting them and started to try and sip just as my vision cleared completely. The man had his fatigues open and his dick in my face. I almost retched as I realized the wetness was his urine -- the fucking Patriot bastard was pissing in my face.
I started to struggle and got a resounding, powerful slap. "Listen, you Zombie bitch. You want to drink, this is what you drink. We don't waste potable water on Zombies. Get me?" I was, indeed, nearly desperate with thirst. I squeezed my eyes shut as hard as I could and opened up. The evil fuck wasn't satisfied with just peeing into my open mouth as I swallowed. Oh, no, he pushed all the way in and I could feel the cock thickening in my mouth as I gulped his vile urine. As he got toward the end, he was hard and I choked as he plunged deep, sending the last of his bladder-load right into my throat.
I knew that if I puked, the horror I'd just gone through would be wasted when I spewed his piss with whatever else was in my guts, but it was close. I just managed to stop the heaving as he pulled back. "Not bad, Zombie. You are gonna be fun at the Blood Moon, boy!"
He stepped back and I finally got a look at my captor/tormentor. He was a thick brute of a young man, perhaps mid-twenties, with the feral looks and pumped-up muscles that the movies always gave Patriots. It was surreal, as if he were a caricature come to life. Reddish-brown hair was cropped short, of course, and the fatigues hid his physique, but it was clear he worked out constantly, musculature and toughness being essential badges of honor with these nut-jobs.
He sneered down at me, "When you're thirsty again, tell me. I'll get one of the guys who needs to go come over and help you out." My body was screaming with pain. I felt myself getting woozy and, instead of fighting it, I simply embraced unconsciousness.
A sharp CRACK jolted me awake. My still-sneering guard had smacked the butt of his assault weapon into the tree inches from my ear. "Wakey, wakey, sunshine. Patriot Seven Leader is headed this way. Look sharp, Zombie."
"Ah, he is looking better. Good job Seven Guard Witkowski. Seven Medic Walsh, clean this Zombie up and clean him out. Get him ready for the Blood Moon Festival. He's the guest of honor. Seven Guard Witkowski will assist."
"ACK Patriot Seven Leader. Clean Zombie up and out. Prep for ceremony, sir." Both men chimed in unison.
"Patriot Seven Leader, do you want him neutered or whole, sir? Any other mods, sir?" My blood ran to ice at that. The phrase, 'up to but stopping short of actual death' echoed horribly in my mind. A man -- well, afterwards I guess just 'person' -- could live without his cock and balls and... other things, all of which I was quite fond of and loathe to leave lying around.
"Hmm. Not sure. Strip the Zombie, Seven Guard Witkowski." With terrifying efficiency speaking of ample practice, the guard's MTECH knife sliced away my pants, shirt and t-shirt in mere seconds, the knife so sharp even my web belt caused little resistance. He whipped them away leaving me in only my boots. "Hmm. Not bad. The Big Boy Zombie has a lot of fur, which I always kinda like during the ceremony. Leave him intact. Actually, let's make tonight real special. Get some SenzAll from Seven PersIntel Garcia. I want nips, lips, tongue, balls and ass super-sensitive. Other than that, just general prep. Oh wait, he's uncut. SenzAll inside his foreskin and around the back of the glans, too." The man chuckled in a way that did not make me feel better.
"ACK Patrol Seven Leader. SenzAll and intact, sir."
The leader stalked away and the medic looked down then at his partner, "Damn, Witty, this fucker is in for one hell of a night. Even for a Zombie... just, damn! Okay, Witty, get him over to the shower rack. I'll meet you there."
I screamed as he wrenched my arms, but no one even glanced. I was in a place, apparently, where screams were as commonplace as birdsong -- not a comforting thought. Not at all concerned by my wrenched shoulder or my inability to walk due to my knees, 'Witty' dragged me to a slap-dash CeramiSteel hut. Inside were five showerheads, one in each corner and one in the center. He chained my arms to the one in the middle and let me hang. I howled in unspeakable agony that suddenly... vanished. Inadvertently, Witty had popped my shoulder back into place. Now it merely hurt like a motherfucker.
The medic came in as I was catching my breath. "So, Walsh, what's the SOP? I've never prepped a Zombie for a ceremony."
"Simple, really. Clean him inside and out, water him thoroughly, get him packed with SixGel and, for this one, SenzAll the fuck outta him," he said as he stripped off, his back to me. "You'll want to strip for this, Witty. You don't want Zombie Juice on your PASUs." As the guard stripped as well and hung both uniforms outside, the older man went to one of the corner showerheads and pulled the hose from it. I got a quick glimpse of them both as they got ready.
The medic was perhaps forty-five, just starting to get a little salt in his pepper-colored chest hair. He was not ripped, but extremely fit. Compared to dudes I'd seen in locker rooms, he had a nice set of balls and an average-sized prick. My first guess for Witty's age was probably a bit high; instead of mid-twenties, he was likely around twenty-two or so. He bulged with muscles, especially arms and his broad, triangular back, and meaty ass. He had very little hair anywhere other than his head. It was a brighter red tone around his very hefty, uncut cock and his balls were high, tight and very large.
"Hit the center control, Witty," the medic said as he cranked on the steel shower hose he held. I gasped in shock as cool water drenched me, then screamed when I felt the tip of the metal hose shoved forcefully into my asshole. I continued screaming -- more a loud gurgling under the flowing showerhead -- as I felt my belly bloat larger and larger from the water invading my ass. I started sobbing hysterically as wave after wave of cramps punished my body. Suddenly the invader was gone and all that water was gushing uncontrollably out. The rinse-head above me never changed, never got warm or cold, washing my waste away as I sprayed it out.
I managed not to scream when the hose was shoved unceremoniously back in and the process repeated three more times. The worst, though, was the other end. The medic pushed the smooth hose-tip straight to the back of my throat, counted to ten, then pulled back as I puked the water and anything else from my stomach onto the CeramiSteel floor. Three more rinses there as well, but he gave me time to breathe a little between assaults.
I was a wrecked mass of quivering flesh by the time the medic finished with that, and I barely yelped as two stiff brushes on long poles started to vigorously scrub every part of me. A lot of special attention was given to my ass, which continued throughout the shower to leak spurts of the enema water. Finally, the brushes were gone and the hose was used to hit any areas the overhead spray wasn't reaching.
"Okay, Witty. We've got fifteen minutes. Let's get cleaned up while Zombie boy drains the rest of his ass." They proceeded to shower themselves. There was no modesty, real or false, just efficiency. After a while, the ass-dribbling seemed to stop and the medic came over and pushed hard into my gut and I felt a small spurt then nothing. I'd never felt so empty in my life.
"Witty, grab a hobbyhorse." Weird word, I thought. A hobbyhorse was a costume, wasn't it? Something British, I believed.
"In here?"
"Yep. Zombies leak and it's easier to clean up in here." He grabbed a small pack as Witty returned with what looked like a sawhorse with two rails at the top instead of one. "Rack him up."
Witty unhooked me and dragged my flaccid and exhausted body over and laid me across the hobbyhorse. One of the bars was about at my hipbone and the other just below my collarbone. I felt more than heard Witty lock my feet and hands in place. "Stand back, Witty. He may spew at some of this, mainly from realizing what's happing than anything else." The young Patriot retreated at speed to the doorway.
Walsh roughly jabbed something into my ass, far smaller and smoother than the enema hose. I turned my head languidly, only partly aware, as I watched him squeezing what looked for the world like a big caulk gun. Suddenly, I felt everything inside go slippery and it dawned on me, they were pumping lube into my ass, and an alarming amount of it. Why a man would need lube in his ass had only one, horrifying answer.
The medic was right. My guts started desperately heaving at the idea, and rinse-water with a touch of acidic bile came up. Not much, but enough to be repulsive and painful. It took my mind off my ass, though, as he finished and pulled the tube back out. He jabbed a fingerful of something else into my hole and suddenly it felt like my mouth was puckering from the sourness of a lemon, just at the other end of the plumbing. It was a strange but not painful sensation.
"Damn, I hate this shit," the medic mumbled to himself. "I wish Gitmo had never invented it, or burned the fucking recipe at least."
"What's that, Walsh?"
"Nothing. I've got to put on the SenzAll. Do NOT get near this shit, Witty. Trust me on that." I noticed that the medic had on long, thick, kitchen-style rubber gloves. He uncapped a tall bottle with a long applicator, pulling it out. He moved around in front of me and said, "Hold still, Zombie. You do not want me to miss with this stuff." I froze in panic and watched as he smeared the applicator over my lips then pried my mouth open and laved my tongue with it as well. He got the applicator wet again, then moved to the side and do the same to my nipples. From behind, I felt him grab my dick and skin it back, then rub the applicator around and around the inner fold of skin and all over the glans. He proceeded to paint my ball sac and everywhere around and even a bit inside the folds of my asslips.
The medic recapped the bottle, then washed it thoroughly, washed his gloves and turned them inside out before packing them in a zip-back which he also rinsed. Lastly, he washed his hands like a surgeon before an operation. Whatever he'd put on me was something he never, ever wanted to touch. This was not a happy thought.
That's when I started to notice something. Every breath now made my lips tingle. Every drip of saliva made my tongue sing. The sensitivity was intense, and getting stronger. I realized that my nipples were absolutely ablaze with sensation, and then my cock and balls and ass came alive with furious messages to my brain that something important was happening and they didn't know what. It wasn't pain, it was just overload. I felt every molecule of air that passed by each area that had touched the applicator. I tasted every scent on the air as it hit my tongue.
I vaguely heard Walsh say, "Okay, Seven Guard Witkowski. It'll hit soon. After the first wave, it will plateau for the next roughly twenty hours. Suit up. Guard the door and make sure he doesn't overturn the hobby horse. Otherwise, no one in and the Zombie definitely does not come out. And whatever you do, don't touch the fucking Zombie or let any sweat or spit get on you for the next fifteen minutes. Thirty would be better."
"ACK Seven Medic Walsh. Secure showers. Secure Zombie. Don't touch Zombie, sir."
I sat there, suddenly in a universe consisting of lips, tongue, nipples, cock, balls and ass. I felt myself go rock-hard in an instant as the sensations flooded through me. Every movement, twitch, breath or twinge was like being stroked, licked or teased. Every jet of saliva exploded across my tongue. I started to moan with pleasure, then whine with need as the sensations kept redoubling. I felt my body instinctively start to hunch which pulled my foreskin back and forth across my hypersensitive glans and I cried out, a loud keening of desperate need. I did it again and again and again, unable to stop, starting to grunt with each thrust, each heartbeat.
I felt my cremasters pull my nuts up and in, the final sensation that I could bear. My world shattered as I climaxed, the sound of my howls echoing in the small CeramiSteel room. Every contraction, though, intensified the sensation yet further and I crashed through another orgasm and another until I was a weeping, dry-cumming mass of desperation. The acute phase seemed to pass after only ten or fifteen years of torment. The sensations were still unimaginably intense, but had faded to the point that the feedback loop broke and I sagged, utterly spent, sobbing and tasting my own tears, sweat and jism on my tongue from what had flavored the air.
"Holy fucking hell," I heard the young Witty say with awe and fear in his voice. "God damn! By Cooper and Rawles, that shit is fucking evil." He walked in when he was sure I was done. "You thirsty, Zombie?" To be honest, I wasn't really conscious, but 'thirsty' penetrated and I felt him insert his cock in my mouth and start to piss. The flavor exploded across my senses, both the acrid, ammoniac tastes and the ripe, luscious musk of his crotch-sweat where it had wet his dick. I moaned at the intensity of MAN that flared across my tongue even as I welcomed his piss into my parched throat.
I suckled eagerly, needing to reclaim the moisture that I'd dumped on the CeramiSteel floor, but also greedy for that intense, erotic, masculine flavor. I drank until he was done and, instinctively, kept nursing like a calf at a teat. I could feel him approaching climax and pull back, panting. "Fuck, Zombie, that's one hell of a mouth you got there!"
He zipped up and retreated to the doorway, resuming a guard-rest position. I sagged on the hobby horse, wavering between tears of dread and tears of desire for something I'd never wanted... or maybe just never knew that I needed.
I guess I dozed some for I startled when I heard a new voice, answered quickly by my guard. "Negative, sir. I have specific orders, sir: No one in, no one out, sir." Time had passed because the light had changed.
"Orders from whom, Seven Guard Witkowski?" The voice was low and firm.
"Seven Medic Walsh, sir."
"Was the order specifically for medical reasons, Patriot? Is the Zombie contagious, dangerous to us or in some way medically in danger himself?"
Uncertainty now leaked into the boy's voice, "Um, sir? Not that I know, sir. Seven Medic Walsh prepped the Zombie per Patriot Seven Leader's orders and told me, 'No one in, no one out,' Leader O'Connell, sir."
"Then stand down, Patriot. Unless it is a medical order, I outrank Walsh. I hereby modify your orders, Seven Guard Witkowski: You are to allow me to speak with and perhaps water the Zombie, after which, no one in, none one out."
"ACK Seven PersIntel Leader, allow you access then resume no one in, no one out, sir!" I looked up as he shuffled to the side.
The man who came in was... big. He wasn't fat or some sort of muscle-god, just generally huge. He also had one the meanest faces I'd ever seen. That's when the title permeated. PersIntel -- Personnel Intelligence was Patriot slang for interrogators... torturers with tools and techniques Torquemada never dreamed for. I went stone-still as my heart pumped supercooled blood through my veins.
He stood close and spoke low. I craned my neck up but could barely see his face above me. "Listen, you fucking Zombie and listen close. You are going to do me a favor tonight. The third up to bat will be my son. He's..." his voice went soft, caring, a bizarre tone to come from that face, "not as... merciless as many. Tonight, you have two jobs. You scream like a motherfucker as long as he's with you. I want the agonies of hell, you little bitch, get me?"
"Yes, sir." I noticed my voice was hoarse and also trembling. I could tell he liked that... a lot.
"And your second job is to make him scream with pleasure. Make this the best night of that boy's fucking life. Now, what's your job, Zombie?"
"Scream like he's k-k-k-k-killling me and make him enjoy it? Sir?"
"Good. And let me explain why you'll be doing this favor for me, Zombie." He leaned down so his hot breath was on the back of my neck. "I have it completely within my power to have you painted head to fucking toe with SenzAll, then pricked, poked and flogged without pause for as long as I think it is warranted. I can make damned sure you stay alive for days and days no matter how much you beg for death." He stood, unzipped and pulled out a meaty, gnarled cock. "Now open up. I need to piss and I can tell you need to be watered."
I didn't hesitate and was frankly stunned at my body's response to his taste. His musk was deeper, spicier, utterly and inescapably male, and his piss was strong but not even slightly nasty like the guard's had been. I felt my flaccid cock spring to rock hard and moaned around the urine-stream. I heard the huge man chuckle as he pulled out after a very long, very satisfying release, letting the last of his stream dribble on my chin. With no ceremony at all and not another word, he zipped up and walked out past Witty.
I understood, though, the underlying message. The big man's son lacked the heartless mania of True Patriots. I was to make it seem that he was the most ferocious, merciless creature ever to touch me. I shivered at what that meant, but the idea of ever seeing that tall, brown bottle with the applicator near me again nearly made me scream. I would dance on the gates of hell to avoid SenzAll, whether followed by slow torture or not.
I had dozed again when suddenly the world exploded into light. It had gone full-dark, apparently, and Witty had flicked on the LED rope around the edges of the ceiling. He came in with another gorilla-type, just as young and just as stupid looking. I expected them to uncuff me and take me someplace. That was not, apparently, on the agenda. They threw a tarp (camo color, of course) over me and I felt them lift the hobbyhorse by the legs with me still attached.
I heard the texture of sound change as they got me out of the CeramiSteel shower enclosure, followed by shuffling and moving feet around us with low muttering, the eternal music of men going to a meeting. I could taste the bonfire with my SenzAll'ed tongue, as well as the rich pine, fecund mulch and raw, overpowering man-sweat. They set me down and I could hear the fire to my right and the majority of the crowd to my left and rear.
A sound intended to freeze the marrow of everyone other than the most extreme of the Patriots came next. The woods erupted in dozens if not hundreds of drums. A relatively-obscure drum and dance troupe of the twenty-teen years called the Dragon Ritual Drummers had a piece of their music set to scenes from an equally-obscure art-house film. The result was Masters of Chaos, a really impressive drum piece.
It would have passed into obscurity if a certain group of MANkind fanatics intent on recapturing their stolen machismo hadn't arisen and seized on it as the perfect ritual opening of Real Man events. The incestuous membership between those desperate to reclaim their balls and those wanting to remake 'Merica in their twisted image turned the penetrating DUT da-dut da-dut, DUM DUM beat into the Onward Christian Soldiers of the American Redoubt.
After the TAB (Take America Back) attacks a decade later, the ultra-extremist True Patriots and the hyper-extremist Real Patriots had turned it into the war chant. Hearing it meant that you would soon be fighting for your life against people who honestly believed that anyone who wasn't them both needed and deserved to die at all costs. I was now chained to a fucking custom sawhorse, covered in a tarp next to a roaring bonfire and surrounded by DUT da-dut da-dut, DUM DUM, DUT da-dut da-dut, DUM DUM, DUT da-dut da-dut, DUM DUM. I pissed myself without any shame at all then regretted it as the stench of twice-recycled urine assaulted me, concentrated as the tarp acted like an evaporation still.
A horrifyingly loud voice, that of the Leader guy, roared, "PATRIOTS!" and the drumming became an ecstatic tattoo that abruptly went still sixty seconds later. The entire world seemed to hold its breath. His voice boomed but was more modulated now, full of restrained but formidable power. "We stand beneath the Blood Moon that rises into view. Under the Blood Moon lies a Witness who is not one of us." The camo tarp was whipped away, leaving me naked and chilled in the night air. The moon was, indeed, reddish and had just cleared the tree line. "Tell the Witness and the Blood Moon who you are!"
"PATRIOTS!" echoed around me from untold number of male voices.
"Who fought for this land?"
"PATRIOTS!" at each repetition, the refrain got louder, more intense, more... crazed. The faces I could see glistened and eyes glittered in the light from the bonfire.
"Who took this land?"
"PATRIOTS!"
"Who HOLDS this land?"
"PATRIOTS!"
"Who DESERVES this land?"
"PATRIOTS!" The pure ecstasy of that sound, the feral madness and pack-mindlessness made me very, very glad they'd cleaned me out and puckered my hole, and that I had already lost control of my bladder.
"Are there any here who are not Patriots?"
"AYE, Patriot Leader!" It was the rough baritone of the man who had come to me earlier. "We have men who claim the right to be Patriots!"
"PATRIOTS!"
"Have they been blooded?"
"Each has taken the life of an enemy. They claim the right to be Patriots!"
"PATRIOTS!"
"Each has reached the age when they may move from boyhood to manhood?"
"Each has his hair, his man's voice, his scent and his seed. They claim the right to be Patriots!"
"PATRIOTS!"
"Bring them forward." There was some shuffling and five men, mostly young and one barely a teen, moved into the penumbra of firelight. All were wearing long, loose shirts and, apparently, nothing else. The first was a small, whipcord kid with as feral a look as any of the men. In a civilized city, I would have crossed the street to avoid him.
The Leader stepped in front of him and intoned. "What was your name when you walked into the firelight?"
His voice was a high tenor, but not necessarily that of a boy. "I was Erich Madison, Patriot!"
"What do you demand?"
"I demand the right to be one of the Patriots!"
"PATRIOTS!"
The leader reached down and ripped open the shirt and threw it to the side. Buttons (obviously designed to do so) flew and scattered. "Stand before the witness!"
What seemed to be a bony frame was revealed as a heavily-scarred and tightly-muscled body. He had a straggly patch of pubes around a small but serviceable (and fiercely erect) cock, perhaps five inches. My gut churned as I thought of just where that was going to be all too soon. He stood perhaps a foot from me.
"Tell the Witness how you were blooded."
"Six weeks ago, I shot a Goon sniper who threatened Seven Patrol Charlie. It was attested by Seven Gunner Wallace and Seven Gunner Simms."
"Those who attest, speak!"
"WE ATTEST!" rang out two strong voices.
"Witness, do you allow that this boy is blooded? Speak!"
"Y-Y-Y-Y-YES! He, uh, he has b-b-b-b-b-b-been blooded."
A smaller man moved forward with a pail and the Leader dunked his hand deep. "Though this is merely a deer's life-essence, it shows the Blood Moon that you have done your duty and been blooded." He ran his gore-slimed hand from the boy's forehead, down his face and all the way to his abdomen, leaving a ghastly trail of cruor behind.
"Witness! Does he have his man's voice?"
Well, uh, sure, I guess, sorta. "YES! He has his m-m-m-m-man's voice"
"Witness! Does he have his man's hair?"
Frankly, I doubted that his sparse bush qualified, but fuck if I was going to quibble. "YES! He has his m-m-m-m-man's hair."
"Stand forward!"
The kid moved straight into me, ending with my face right in his rank crotch.
"Witness! Does he have a man's scent?"
What the fuck did that even MEAN? Yeah, I could taste his nasty ball-sweat with my hypersensitive tongue even with my mouth firmly closed, but it was more like a rabid animal than a 'man' per se. Apparently, pausing for thought or to form a considered opinion was not part of the program. Some thin, stiff crop THWACKed my SenzAll'ed ball sac and I squealed at the intense and unexpected pain.
"YES! YES! HE, HE has LOTS of man scent!" I blubbered that a bit and was muffled as that fucking brat ground his crotch in my face, but I guess it worked.
"Witness! Prepare to attest that he has his seed." Fuck. Fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck, I thought, until I realized that was precisely what was about to happen.
Someone had set a box of something behind me and he clambered up. A cry in the crowd went out, "Patriot UP!"
Without any real prep or warning, he lunged forward, spearing my ass. I screamed, "JESUS!" at the shocking pain from my sensitized ass and there was raucous laughter all around. What made it worse was the kid had fuck-all for aim. It took three more tries for him to hit the bullseye, each getting me to bellow a curse and strain at the bonds. That was nothing, though, to when he finally figured it out.
Whatever they'd done to pucker me was brutally-effective. I'd seen this kid's cock, hard and rampant. It was basically the size of a whiteboard marker, with a remarkably similar shape. What went up my shit-chute felt like it was the size of a baby's arm. He was thrusting hard and fat. Thank God for the impetuousness and impatience of youth. I grunted and chuffed with each butt-punch which seemed to please the crowd, who shouted encouragement, instructions and manly insults in equal measure.
Perhaps two minutes after he started, he let out a squeal that, even though I certainly would not have mentioned it, sounded a lot like a girl as he started to unload in me. After the first blast, he lowered his voice to a fake profundo set of grunts. With the shit they'd swiped across my asslips, I knew he actually only got about three real spurts; I was so sensitive that I could feel his urethra expand. He pretended to have perhaps six more, though, hunching and grunting with each fake shot. He pulled out and my ass went back to its former puckered-tight status. That did NOT bode well for the evening.
"Witness! Do you attest to his seed?"
"Yes! I felt his seed."
"Taste it to be sure."
Say whu? The little fucktard came back around and shoved his cock straight into my stunned mouth. My overactive taste buds could clearly recognize his spooge even over and above the ass-funk and chemical lube that nearly made me puke all over the kid. I pulled back after seriously considering biting the fucking thing off and hollered, "Yes, I taste his seed!"
"You who came into the firelight as Erich Madison, the Blood Moon has seen that you are a man who has been blooded, and that you are able to perform a man's duties with your body. You will strengthen the Patriots!"
"PATRIOTS!"
"What will your name be as you leave the light of this bonfire?"
"Seven Sniper Madison, Patriot Seven Leader, SIR!"
"We greet Seven Sniper Madison as one of the Patriots!"
"PATRIOTS!" That was followed by cheering and catcalling as the blushing, proud and still-feral kid was dragged into the fold.
The leader went to the next guy in the lineup, a somewhat lanky youth of around twenty, I guessed, maybe a little older.
The Leader stepping in from of him and intoned. "What was your name when you walked into the firelight?"
His voice was an unexpected bass. "I was Jermayle Willison, Patriot!"
"What do you demand?"
"I demand the right to be one of the Patriots!" The shouting then the shirt-ripping proceeded. He had a nice, long, thin cock, uncut and strangely-dark from the midpoint to the wrinkled tip. He was already chubbed and I watched as he grew harder. His body was lanky, but you could clearly see that the cliché of iron pumping Patriots was real.
"Five weeks ago, in defense of Seven North-Forward Bunker, I manned the heavy gun when Marks was clipped by a Goon, sir. I killed six, sir, and wounded more. It was attested by Seven Heavy Gunner Marks and Seven Gunner Smalley, sir."
I allowed that, yes, he'd been blooded. Leader smeared him with blood and I attested that he had a man's voice and hair. When he stepped into my face, I could smell the not-quite-rank aroma of jock-sweat and young funk. "Yes, he has a man's scent!" His cock was now fully railed, and I was relieved to realize that, for all the length, he wasn't that much thicker than his predecessor.
"Patriot UP!"
He mounted me with considerable experience, using the box set up for the short kid to get a unique angle into me. He relished my shriek of pain on entry then plowed me like a field. The guys around were far more bawdy with their suggestions this time, including a few that would have made me blush if a dude wasn't balls-deep in my goddamned ass.
His length and the odd angle had him pounding that place inside me where only a doctor's finger had ever been. It was... right nice. His steady see-saw rhythm was not terribly uncomfortable but I made a show of groaning and whining and complaining about the pain as he finished his business.
His cock also had far less ass-taste than the little fuckwad did and I attested loudly to both his seed and its taste. He left the firelight as Seven Heavy Gunner Willison to the same chant and raucous applause.
Next up was a somewhat meaty youth who bore the unmistakable signs of being the son of the guy who had the power to make me pray for death. The kid, perhaps late teens, had a kind face that was screwed up into what he probably thought was 'serious and manly' but looked a lot more like constipation. His cock hung loose and quite long over a nice but normal-sized set of very, very hairy nuts.
The Leader stepping in from of him and intoned. "What was your name when you walked into the firelight?"
His voice was a nice, rich, low-tenor. "I was Robert O'Connell, Patriot!"
"What do you demand?"
"I demand the right to be one of the Patriots!" He didn't seem at all sure he wanted to 'demand' anything. It was clear he would much prefer to politely request things. The shouting, somewhat haphazard then the shirt-ripping proceeded.
"Two weeks ago, I g-g-g-gutted a Goblin after interrogation was complete. It wu- was attested by Seven PersIntel Garcia, Seven PersIntel O'Connell and Patriot Seven Leader, sir!"
I allowed that, yes, he'd been blooded. Leader smeared him with blood, seeming to use far more than with the previous two guys. This one looked like he'd walked through a charnel house. I attested that he had a man's voice and hair (this time without hesitation on either count). When he stepped into my face, I felt a flush creep up. The scent flowed up my nose and across my hyperactive tongue like warm, masculine honey. His spicy, gentle musk was sensational. I heard him snort in surprise as I licked out to capture more on my electrified tongue. "Yes. Oh, yeah, he very much has a man's scent!"
My wording got lewd chuckle and a few impressed nods. While they did that, I urgently whispered, "Robert! Robert, fuck me like a whore. Use me, kid. I'll give the sound effects so Pappy'll be happy, but fuck me senseless. I want to live past tonight, got me?" He stepped back in surprise but I saw realization and intense disappointment flood his face as his whole upper body blushed crimson; I prayed it would pass as sex-flush instead. Every part of his countenance told me that his overbearing and perpetually-disappointed father had managed to ruin a night that should have been deservedly and unreservedly his.
I saw his face tense and his mouth set. His breathing got shorter and his cock began to rise like a very unhappy snake. If anger at the big dog would get his puppy's engine running, I'd take it. I start to doubt myself as the thing kept growing, both in length and girth.
"Witness! Prepare to attest that he has his seed."
"Patriot UP!" The cry this time was not as strong. The kid, probably due to his pappy's long-expressed disappointment, was not respected, just tolerated.
I heard him contemptuously kick the box the other kids had used aside. He hocked up a wad of spit and I felt every bubble as it hit me dead-center on my SenzAll'ed hole. Another apparently went on his cock. The PersIntel guy's son put his hands on either side of my ass, pulling me open and placed the blunt nose of what, by now, felt like a fucking log right at the star of my puckered as. He leaned in and got a strong hold on my hips. "You wanna be fucked senseless?" he hissed, "You got it, Zombie bitch!"
He didn't jam it in like the other had done. Instead, he pushed inexorably forward as he pulled me back with his hands. Pappy had wanted the agonies of hell? No fucking problem. I wailed like a banshee when he popped past the first ring. As he broached the second, I screamed, begging for him to stop, to go back, to wait, to do anything to stop the pain. Act? Fuck acting! That shit HURT!
I pulled viciously against the restraints, head back and alternating between pleas for mercy, condemnation of the entire fucking universe and intense howls of pain. As the kid got his rhythm, though, I suddenly began to feel... very, very good. I was still screaming, but now between the begging him to stop was the occasional whimper, then groan, then gut-deep, penetrating moan and finally begging for more, harder, deeper. The kid's thick cock was punching again and again right across the love nut that Mr Heavy Gunner Dude had pounded just minutes before.
I heard distant sounds, like cheering and howls of enjoyment. They were meaningless. Every thrust palpated my launch button then plunged just past it to an unbearably-sensitive spot that I never knew I had. I realized that I was hard and leaking, the SenzAll inside my foreskin doing impossible and wondrous things to my cockhead. Right then, the kid reached around my chest as he plundered my ass and grabbed each nipple.
They were more sensitive than they had ever been. My girlfriends had always commented on how touchy I was there, and now they were light years beyond that. If he'd pulled or twisted, I would have been a weeping mess in moment. Instead, he teased and stroked them gently in sharp counterpoint to the brutal use he was making of my ass. And, well, that was pretty much it. I screamed in ecstasy and unloaded.
The kid on my back started pile-driving, now really working my nipples like a master. I could tell he had me nearly to the edge again and started to buck back into his thrusts, screaming obscene encouragements to him as he went to town on my recently-virgin hole. I think it was my vocal prods that finally triggered him. I felt him freeze, then plunge and grind his cock in as far it could reach and screamed through his own pulsing climax. He sawed in an out a few more times as he drained his ample nuts and then slowly started to withdraw.
I don't know. Maybe I was possessed by demons or something. I was just sooooooo close to another eruption that I cried and begged him for "just a little more" and "don't take that cock out" and "just fuck me more." I know for a fact that "make me your bitch" made loud and frequent appearances. When I felt his head plop out and a dribble of his seed with it, I sobbed at the loss.
I heard words, then shouts, then a brutal flick to my nuts before I understood the words, "Witness! Do you attest to his seed?"
"Yes! Oh, God, yes! I can st-st-st-st-still feel it!"
"Taste it to be sure." The Leader's voice was a bit odd and uncertain. I felt the slightly softened cock at my lips and suckled like a starving piglet. O'Connell threw his head back and moaned. "P-P-P-P-P-Permission to water the Z-Z-Z-Z-Zombie, sir?" Apparently, he got it.
I felt his cock start to leak, then flow with a rich, thick stream of piss the flavor of sunshine and saltwater. I moaned deep as I sucked him dry then refused to release him. His breath got short and desperate and his voice went up a notch. "P-P-P-P-P-Per.... Permiss.... Permission to, to, to, to, FUCK!" The last word echoed in a suddenly, unnatural silence. His Uhn-Uhn-Uhns were the only sound aside from my moans.
I heard the deep, penetrating voice of the boy's threatening father whisper in awe, "Holy fuck, Bobby."
The leader's voice seemed strained and, when I looked up, his pants were having serious trouble constraining his very large, very leaky cock. "Witness? Um, do you at-t-t-test to the tasting his, uh, seed?"
"Oh, God yes, Patriot Leader! Yes!"
"Y-Y-Y-Y-Y-You who came into the firelight as Robert O'Connell," he got his voice back to the powerful, commanding tone, "the Blood Moon has seen that you are a man who has been blooded, and that you are able to perform a man's duties with your body. You will strengthen the Patriots!"
"PATRIOTS!" The cheer was also ragtag and a bit breathy and strained.
"What will your name be as you leave the light of this bonfire?"
"Seven Manager O'Conn--"
His voice faltered as a chant started to rise. I couldn't make it out at first but could see Robert turn in something like awe as it built. "Stal-yun. Stal-yun. Stal-YUN. Stal-YUN. STALLION! STALLION! STALLION!"
Pappy was beaming in reflected glory and Leader was smiling broadly. He held up his hands for quiet.
In his loudest voice, he intoned, "We greet Seven Manager O'STALLION as one of the Patriots!"
"PATRIOTS!" The shout was loud, lusty and intense, and the recently-Robert was swallowed in a deluge of laughing, cheering arms and dragged away. It took several minutes for the noise to die down.
The fourth guy was, strangely, a young black man. The Patriots were not precisely known to be Equal Opportunity Employers, so he was either something special or his pappy had serious pull in the Patriots. He was tall and lean with a wide chest and rippling muscles and moved in an oddly graceful way. His cock was actually relatively-normal in size, but his balls hung at least three or four inches below his crotch.
"What was your name when you walked into the firelight?"
His voice was a deep-chocolate bass, the kind that Broadway musicals swoon over. "I was the Bravo Papa stalker called Night Wind." Oh, dear sweet fucking Christ. Bravo Papa was the survivalist arm of the recently-reinvigorated Black Panthers. They held a large swath of the Craters of the Moon National Monument, having spent a decade secreting a massive horde of supplies in the desolate and unpaved volcanic wilderness.
The TAB (Take America Back) attacks, largely by White Nationalists of the Trumpeters stripe, was a "trigger condition" and they ended up well-secured and ready when It Hit the Fan. They were already snug in prepared bunkers and defined fields-of-fire, ready for anything The Man (e.g. anyone not a black militant with the right code-phrases) could throw at them. Every time they had been attacked, their scorched earth retaliation wiped out not just the attackers, but ruthlessly scourged every supply base, homestead and outpost that supported the interlopers, resulting in massive swag and booty. That one was now with a Patriots band was, um, 'not a good thing'.
"What do you demand?"
"I demand the right to become one of the Patriots!"
There was some muttering along with the roar of "PATRIOTS" but it was silenced quickly and firmly.
"Tell the Witness how you were blooded."
"Nine nights ago--" Bravo Papa counted nights, which were black, instead of days "--I was cut off from Bravo Papa by Patriot patrols. I brought Ballistic Wampum--" slang for ammo used as barter "--to Seven Patriot Base and bargained for assistance. I was Challenged--" forced to accept an impossible suicide mission "-- and went to The Man's forward reconnaissance base with orders to obtain The Man's current Field Map--" holy fucking Mother of God, a document that shows the layout of defensive perimeters "--and counted coup on six Honkey Muthafuckuhs, returning with their ears and the Field Map."
There were, apparently, men in the group who had not heard, or perhaps had not believed, the story. The muttering was all on the order of, "Well fuck me for a Pollyanna!"
"What do you demand?"
"I demand the right to join you until such time as I can return to the True Path with Bravo Papa and, in the meantime, kill The Man's Honkey Muthafuckas alongside the Patriots!"
"PATRIOTS!"
Yeah, yeah. Blooded, sure. Voice, hell yeah. Hair, check. Scent... I was a little surprised at the intense difference. The man's crotch smelled of clean sweat, deep funk and... coffee.
"Patriot UP!"
When he mounted me, of course I screamed. He wasn't small by any measure and with his Honkey Muthafuckah this and Honkey Muthafuckah that, gentleness was not on the menu. I was fine, though, until he hit his stride.
Did I mention he had freakishly low-hanging balls? Big ones? Loose sac? Well, as he went to town on my ass, it turned out that every fuck-thrust swung them in a large, momentum-building arc and slapped those puppies right the hell into my SenzAll'ed nads. I yelped, yipped, howled and cussed at every thrust, desperate to find a way to protect the unprotectable -- my utterly exposed and right-the-fuck-there testicles.
He kept up a steam of what might have been called trash talk on a playing field, completely overjoyed at the noises I was making. He lasted for-fucking-ever and, when he finally, came, he made it his mission to rabbit fuck me so his balls set up a sort of paddling tattoo on my aching, mauled nuts. I was weeping and retching when he finished and used my mouth to clean himself. I mumbled through the 'felt seed' and 'tasted seed' things and hung there, utterly undone.
He left the firelight as "Seven Scout Night Wind" with an added "Seconded from Bravo Papa" appended.
For reasons that I didn't understand at first, they let me catch my breath. I looked up and let the ice wash through me as I figured it out. The last guy was a short, thick tank of a man. His name had, apparently, been Right Patriot Punisher. I recalled an article in the Washington Post-Times about the destruction of the Right Patriots a few months before. He, sadly, did not look particularly destroyed.
The shirt-ripping was a bit amusing, since it was stretched across his impossibly-wide torso to the point the Leader had the damnedest time getting a good grip. What that uncovered sent my mind into a sort of numbed shock. Well, yeah, I thought. I said 'tank' but I didn't mean he should have a fucking 120mm canon sticking out in front!
Honestly, I had never seen a dick like that. He was hard (I hoped) and it stuck straight forward. It was thick, between a can of Red Bull and a can of Monster. It was also longer even than the Robert kid. I mumbled through the blooding, voice, hair, whatever-the-fuck in a trance, dreading the "attest that he has his seed". I have to say that, shockingly, it was far, far worse than I ever expected.
"Patriot UP!"
I lost consciousness twice as the pain of his thrusts drove me to hypoxia. I came back each time to the horrific scent of an ammonia cap and the screaming pain in my ass. He was like a horse, a robot and a terrier in one: Huge, unfeeling and relentless. What made it so much worse is that it was clear that he didn't fucking care! He was wrecking my ass because they told him to, not for enjoyment or even mild pleasure. I was a... chore, a task, a mission he had to laboriously complete!
When he presented himself to me for tasting and cleaning, I did puke, not from disgust but from pain, exhaustion and horror. He calmly stepped back, wiped himself down and continued as if nothing had happened. I wept in gratitude that the ordeal was over.
Prematurely, as it turned out. The Leader intoned a whole set of rites afterwards of which I heard nothing and cared even less, slowly coming back to life as I lay there, panting. I perked up only when he said what sounded like, "The Blood Moon is satisfied. He is pleased. He shines tonight on TRUE PATRIOTS!" followed by orgasmic shouts. But then he ended with: "Guards to stations. Otherwise, enjoy yourselves, men."
That night, the first I'd ever tasted or felt a man's cock, became a marathon of pain and joy, disgust and rapture, fear and longing. The refrain, "Patriot UP!" was no longer a loud chorus but more a raucous, leering, locker-room boast, a pronouncement of machismo as I got mounted. And fuck if I didn't lose track of the number of UP!s in short order. It was... a lot.
The former Robert was, I admit, special. He came back to me four times. The first with an entourage of those impressed, the second with an entourage of those who were skeptical, then third with his beaming, delighted father who chose to face-fuck me as he watched his son use me as his bitch. But it was the fourth, in the small hours of the night when no men were waiting to use me, that changed my world.
Over perhaps thirty minutes, Robert made sweet love to my body, in large part healing the ravishment and abuse of the preceding hours. It was tender and rough, powerful and gentle, and special, intense and meaningful in ways I never had imagined. He also brought me to a shuddering, shattering climax that I could only whimper through, thanking him over and over.
The man who had threatened to kill me slowly was the one who was there when I swam up from the depths of sleep the next afternoon. He gave me a big mug of water, holding it to my lips and helping me drink draught after draught, then sat back, pondering me.
"I have received an extraordinary request, Zombie. A Patriot currently in extreme favor with the men has asked that you not only be spared, but offered a place here, within Seven Patriot Base itself. Why do you think that is, Zombie?"
I hacked and coughed my voice into submission, but it was still raw. "I'm s-s-s-s-sorry, um, Something-Intel Leader. No. I have no idea. I..."
"Go on."
"I'm just surprised that I woke up, sir. You know, alive? I mean? Sir?"
He laughed heartily. "Dear God, son, you had the promise of Patriot Leader AND you did... well, you did more than I could ever had dreamed, son. Wake up? Yeah, you were gonna wake up. Now, can you imagine who asked for you to get special treatment and why?"
"Can I, well, will I get in trouble or upset you by speaking freely?"
"I personally guarantee that I will not tell another soul what you say, and will not hold it against you personally. Is that good enough?"
"Yessir." I still chose my words with inordinate care. "I would guess that a certain Patriot was grateful that I, uh, provided for his needs in an unexpected way and thinks that I might... might be a valuable addition to the Patriot cause?"
He laughed again, a rich and relaxed sound. "Let's say, for the sake of conversation, that I concede that. Tell me more."
I suddenly realized that I was not bound, not cuffed, not disabled in any way. My shoulder was in a FlexCast and I could see SkeleTemps on each knee.
"Then I'd say that a Patriot decided that I had more worth than a piece of man-flesh, and I think a person who cares so very deeply for him -- who has protected him and worked with him and was disappointed in him -- well, that man was shocked to the fucking core by the ferocious stud he saw last night... and, maybe, that man also thinks there may be something of value in that particular Zombie? In me?"
The interrogator -- let's be honest, the torturer -- looked at me and growled, "If you ever again suggest that I was disappointed in... well, anyone, no matter how much evidence you might have, you will have a very unpleasant and very short life." The blood drained from my face. Then he sighed. "But yes, you are largely correct. How are you at cooking?"
"Um, c-c-c-c-cooking? Cooking like meals? P-P-P-P-Pretty good, I'd say. And I learn fast and, well," my voice softened oddly, "I really liked a certain nameless young man. I wouldn't mind, well, serving... under him?"
He smiled broadly. "Well, you might find it nice to know that the new Seven Manager O'Stallion has requisitioned a cook and man-of-all-work now that he has responsibility for managing the camp itself. We don't currently have such a person in Patriot Seven, and Patriot Seven Leader is... open to the idea of a non-Patriot fill-in. Do you think, well, that you might one day want to be a Patriot yourself?"
I looked into his broad, suddenly-open face. "If Rawles, Cooper, God and Providence suggest it... yes, sir."
"Welcome to the real world, Larry Coos. We may well make a Patriot of you yet."
THANK YOU to the amazing folks who volunteered to beta-read this story, with special shout-outs to Lee, Tom, Thom and, most especially, the guy who shall remain nameless that both asked for and starred in this particular fantasy.
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Active storelines, all at www.nifty.org/nifty/gay... Canvas Hell: 34 chapters .../camping/canvas-hell/ Beaux Thibodaux: 26 chapters .../adult-youth/beaux-thibodaux/ The Heathens: 28 chapters .../historical/the-heathens/ Lake Desolation: 20 chapters .../rural/lake-desolation/ Culberhouse Rules: 11 chapters .../incest/culberhouse-rules/ Raven's Claw: 10 chapters .../authoritarian/ravens-claw/ Ashes & Dust: 4 chapters .../rural/ashes-and-dust/ Maybe Next Time: 4 chapters .../authoritarian/maybe-next-time/