Please see original story (www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/authoritarian/patriot-up/) for warnings and copyright. Highlights: All fiction. All rights reserved. Includes sex between adult and young-adult men. Much of the sex it coercive. Go away if any of that is against your local rules. Practice safer sex than my characters. Write if you like, but flamers end up in the nasty bits of future stories.
Such as little miss bitch Carlisle who'll you'll meet shortly. <<
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I spun and saw a constellation of small cherry-red pinpricks as I caught a puff of rich, dense pipe-smoke. He moved into the weak moonlight of the doorway and I could just make out his form. He was wearing trousers and blouse, pulling softly on what we'd always called a Seafarer -- a pipe with a little crown of metal to keep the tobacco dry and the ashes safe in the worst of weather. The intense thrill of fear from his sudden statement from the invisibility of darkness and his shadowy outline against the only doorway nearly made me piss out a good portion of what I'd drunk from Bobby's cock a half-hour before. "Walk with me" was NOT a phrase you wanted to hear from a Patriot who might still decide to kill you for a dozen very good, very justified and very Patriotic reasons.
Patriot UP! 4 -- Quiet as the Beaver Moon
By Bear Pup
Red walked out, strong, confident and steady and I followed, none of those things but bravely trying to pretend.
Red, as one would expect of a Captain, didn't turn to me as he spoke. Even if I'd been a Patriot he would never have done so. A subordinate's job is to ensure that he hears what the superior says, whatever it takes. "You have the makings of a Patriot, son, but you need control. That, by God and Providence, you are going to learn tonight." His voice was fierce and flat, terrifying in a way that no shouted word could ever be.
The thought, 'That doesn't sound good,' totally failed to convey the dread that washed through me. When we passed under a marker that meant we were entering PersIntel territory, I felt the meal and the piss in my stomach start to churn. It did not get better when we passed tents, hutments and enclosures from which sounds of serious unhappiness leaked, escaping whatever gags were in use. PersIntel was the punishment arm of the Patriots for the small sliver of misdemeanors that merited something between 'handled within a Team' and 'lethal-and-instantaneous'. Their core job, though, was to gather Personal Intelligence from any non-Patriot that fell into their hands. Think of a highly-scientific, no-rules version of Gitmo where each of the inmates had already been sentenced to death and the only question was how quickly the prisoner's prayers for surcease came true.
We stopped suddenly. "Manager Captain Schoen for PersIntel." Red's voice was simple and not at all loud as he spoke to the closed door of one particular hutment. An almost-needy whimper attended the appearance of a somewhat swarthy man I recognized from the Seventh. It took all I had not to puke.
"Seven PersIntel Garcia, sir. How may I be of assistance, Manager Captain?" This man's specialty was all the wonderful things that could be done to a man's cock, balls, ass and tits. I knew for a fact that he strapped one captured Goon into a breathing machine so the man couldn't pass out from hypoxia as he screamed without inhaling. Garcia spent four straight hours on that guy before he started asking questions. I let my nails dig into my crossed forearms behind my back in an effort not to scream myself.
"I need green-leather gloves, a runner and the use of either Area Two or Seven, if you please, Patriot."
"ACK, Manager Captain. Gloves and runner ready. Seven is free, sir. Carlisle! Provision and accompany Manager Captain Schoen."
"ACK!" A reedy young voice squeaked out, "G-G-Green Gloves! Run For! Yes, sir, PersIntel Garcia, sir!" What popped out of the hutment was what the voice had hinted at. The kid was in his late teens, skinny, chicken-breasted and pale. God only knew how he'd survived to be a full Patriot. He looked like he was about to crap himself and kept shooting terrified glances at Red, whose scowl did not help the kid's composure one iota.
"Also, do you have a Walker free this evening, PersIntel?"
"Yes, sir. Do you want--"
"No. Just the answer to the question, Seven PersIntel Garcia, which you've given." I shivered violently at the look on Garcia's face. There is nothing more chilling that seeing a flash of fear on the face of a professional torturer.
"Of course, sir!"
Red pivoted and walked, me following and the kid scampering to keep up. Red's pace wasn't fast, but it was absolutely steady. The kid was his own worst enemy, taking two steps for every one that was needful. I could tell even from behind that Red was far more than merely unimpressed.
Red marched us past several enclosures and hutments, most of them emitting some sorts of sounds that no man ever wanted to imagine coming from himself. I was closer than I'd been since Blood Moon to losing control of my bladder. We came to a canvas enclosure marked PIA7 and Red stopped. It took a heartbeat for the kid to recognize his cue and untie the 'door' for Red and me to enter.
Personal Intelligence Area Seven was a canvas circle with no roof other than the towering trees that shielded Patriot Base Alpha from prying satellites and drones. Four of the massive pines stood within the enclosure itself and each was studded with eye-rings embedded about every foot up the inward-facing trunks. Innumerable coils of ropes, cables and lanyards hung from the outward-facing sides. A tiny GlowLED was set near the inside and outside base of each tree, giving the effect of a half-moon's light. A relatively large CeramiSteel cabinet like one might expect in a clinic or surgery center was to one side with four chairs upended on top.
The feature that demanded my horrified attention was not any accoutrement, but the fact that the ground between the trees was swept clean leaving nothing but dirt -- dirt stained darkly by things I'm pretty sure the former residents had desperately wanted to keep inside their bodies. My teeth were clenched so tight in an effort to maintain some semblance of composure that my jaw was beginning to cramp. I was proud, though, that I could meet Red's eye when he turned to me.
The hyper-intimidating small man barked to the youth without looking at him, "Chairs south and east. Carabiner belt, ankles, wrists. Hawsers: two tens attached at ten on northeast and northwest then pully through ten at southeast and southwest. Four two-meters, one each at six-northeast, six-northwest, one-southeast, one-southwest. NOW!"
The kid didn't ACK!nowledge at all, he just vibrated away and quickly pulled two of the chairs off the cabinet, positioning them outside the ring of the trees at what I'd think of as three o'clock and six o'clock. He opened the large CeramiSteel breakfront and I desperately wanted to not see what was in there, but my eyes flicked once away from Red's gaze before coming back. Inside that cabinet was an arsenal of pain.
A few minutes later, the pasty kid nervously asked, "Um, Cap, um, Manager Captain? W-W-W-W-Where did you want the, um, the hawsers?"
Without moving his eyes from mine, Red replied slow-ly and dis-tinct-ly, "Two-meter lengths. Six feet up. Northeast and northwest. One foot up. Southeast and southwest. TEN-meter lengths. Attached at ten feet up. Northeast and northwest. Lopped through. Ten feet up. Southeast and Southwest. Pulley-style. HALT!" The kid had started to scamper away. "Explain your orders!" Red's voice was somewhere in the death-come-calling range. Even I shivered as Red's eyes blazed in the gaze-lock with my own; the kid was undone.
"T-T-T-Two-meter hawsers for arms at s-s-s-six feet and legs as one foot. Um, uh? Six? No! TEN-meter hooked at ten feet, then pulley-style to the other ten-foot and, um, I guess let the ends... dangle?"
"??" It was a growl, and not a nice one.
"Um! Oh! ACK! Um, Captain Manager-- Manager Captain, SIR!
Red simply glared at me as the kid worked. I could read nothing in that face, but now that I was here, the place I'd be tortured and possibly killed, fear washed away in some strange, chemical algebra. I was suddenly not calm but... resigned. There was no point in fear or worry now, we were past the need for either emotion and my body seemed to know it.
"Shall I strip, Manager Captain Schoen? I assume you do not want to ruin this Walking Loot's PASU trousers, sir?" My voice was not as steady and flat as I'd tried to make it, but the fact that I could speak rationally at all got a spark of... something deep within Red's eyes, but his hand came like a snakebite and slapped me.
"You were up-titled to Provision Human Bronco. Pay attention to your superiors, son."
My head rocked hard and the kid froze at the sound before scurrying to complete his tasks. I carefully removed and folded the trousers and looked around for where to put them. "Runner!" The kid literally fell out of the tree he'd started to climb and bolted over, took the clothes without a word and set them inside the breakfront before returning to his work.
I held Red's glowering gaze as calmly and simply as I could. I'd love to explain how fierce and brave and resolute I felt, but that would be complete, pussy-wash bullshit. I was none of those things, but instead just... strangely empty. When the boy finished and vibrated to attention next to Red, the man turned the other way, pointedly ignoring the youth and I figured I might as well follow him.
I stood respectfully back as Red inspected the hawsers. Two were secured at the height of one foot. Another set were secured about my eye level on the opposite tree trunks. Lastly were the ones the boy had needed to climb for. The eyes of the hawsers were secured to the far trunks more than three meters up, hung limply in the center with the other ends pulled through the eyelets at an equal height on the near trees.
He spun back to me and barked at the kid without glancing, "Razor. Shave oil. Now."
The Runner sprinted to the cabinet and returned, offering the objects to Red. "Crotch, ass-crack, taint and one inch around each nipple. Now."
"M-M-M-Me? Um, sir?"
For the first time since the kid had emerged from Garcia's hutment of nightmares, Red turned the full power of his glare at the young man whose Adam's apple suddenly looked like a yo-yo and whose eyes telegraphed the desperate desire for a ten-second time machine to retrieve those ill-advised words.
This time Red didn't bark, he growled. "You might not be old enough to even have hair, Private," making that last word sound like 'turd' or 'cockroach', "but I assume you have been trained in how to remove it?"
I have never seen anyone so scared. A small wet patch crept down the inside seam of his PASUs as the kid leapt forward and started to splash oil on my nips with furiously-shaking hands. I watched in true fear as the cutthroat razor moved toward me, vibrating enough that the outline of the lethally sharp blade was blurred in the semi-light of the GlowLEDs.
"One NICK on that man's skin and you will regret this night for a Very Long Time, Private." The razor froze for perhaps five seconds before the kid brought his other hand forward to double-steady it. His breathing sounded like someone who had just run a mile to escape wolves only to be confronted by an enraged bear: tiny, separate, panting gasps in a hyperventilating rhythm.
He managed to shave around my nipples without removing them, but there was no way I was letting him near my junk until he'd settled a LOT more. I turned and couched, presenting my ass and taint to his ministrations. When he finished and I stood, it was the oddest sensation. I had always been an extremely hairy guy. I must have been eleven or so the last time silky-smooth butt-cheeks slid across one another. With the lingering oil, it was, at best, a disquieting sensation. Since the kid's breathing had returned to something approaching normal, I turned. I spread my legs wide, giving him complete access to my crotch which he shaved meticulously. He was, in fact, rather good at it, even with his overwhelming terror at Red's presence behind him.
He finished and used a brush, slicked with the same shaving oil, to ensure there were no hairs to be found in any of the targeted areas and stepped back, once again at attention. Red reached down and checked the boy's work carefully, fluffing me slightly in the process. Baby-smooth was not something I'd ever been before. It felt... lessening, somehow, but incredibly sensual.
"Carabiner cuffs and belt. Now." The kid had been smart enough to have them ready and it was a matter of seconds before I had wide leather restraints at ankles, wrists and atop my hips. Red walked me forward and attached me to the loose hawsers by snapping the carabiners onto the ropes. He started to tighten them carefully and gradually, pulling my legs apart and back and my arms up and away. They were still rather loose when he clipped the dangling ones into the belt. In moments I found myself spread-eagle, but with my ass up, out, open and incredibly exposed.
"Go to either FOX or SigInt and get me nine spiders." Fixed Ordinance Explosers, normally called Boom-Booms, blew shit up and Signal Intelligence monitored everything they could. I had no fucking clue what spiders were, but the fact that they didn't stock them in the PersIntel Cabinet of Horrors seemed like a good thing.
"Sir? Um, we have lots of tie-downs and--" The kid was utterly confused, enough so that he was openly questioning a vastly-superior officer's instructions... again.
Red's voice was the sound from the deepest cave of early-man's nightmares. "Nine. Spiders. NOW."
The boy literally squeaked as he departed at extreme speed.
Red came around to my front. "Bronco, this is not about torturing you, but it's gonna hurt, and hurt a lot. But right now, you are a suicidal danger to yourself. You are also a clear and present danger to Bobby and, frankly, to me. If anyone else had heard what happened in that hutment, you would be dogged and Bobby as well, and I'd be stripped of rank for not fragging you on the spot or, more appropriately, delivering your carcass to the tender care of PersIntel for a month's use as a training aid before your begging, crawling corpse got the blessed relief of your own dogging."
He let that sink in for a minute and I watched him move to the cabinet. He returned with a ball gag. "Tonight, you're going to learn control your mouth as well as everything else, but for the first part, you'll need a little assistance." He seemed almost tender as he got me gagged.
The kid returned with a handful of small, shiny... somethings. Red chin-pointed with a grunt, and the boy leapt to stand at attention next to the cabinet. Red held up what looked for the world like its name, a spider. It had eight long, articulated legs, but instead of a body it had some sort of complex attachment-point.
"This is a spider, Bronco. It is used to attach absolutely anything to nearly anything else." He moved to the cabinet, splayed the legs of the spider wide, and slid it gently against the CeramiSteel side. Suddenly, it stuck fast. Red pulled hard enough to shift the cabinet, demonstrating its grip. "Outside of nearly-perfect glass, there are few things that a spider can't find defects into which it can sink micron-thick talons into." He did something complicated and the contraption let loose. He came back to stand in front of me, holding one leg close to my eyes.
"You see, each little foot," there was a tiny pad at the end of the leg that seemed... furry? Red's voice was almost meditative as he continued, "has a few hundred tiny, nearly-invisible claws. They automagically find any sort of imperfection in a tree's bark, a rock's face or a Provisional Human's skin." He let the spider come back to a rest position, legs together but not quite touching. He moved it lower and I followed the movement. When I saw where it was headed, though, I snapped my eyes back to Red's and tried to cry out. My entire body arched and attempted to force a scream around the gag as eight sets of 'a few hundred tiny, nearly-invisible claws' bit into my nipple and the surrounding aureole. Each nano-spear appeared to be the exact size of a nerve ending, and each had found its own tiny spot of agony.
I didn't care about manliness or stoicism or anything else. I wailed in pain as my not-quite-immobilized body thrashed to escape. Red might have been speaking, maybe not. The pain did not double, it squared as the other nipple get the same treatment. I was weeping by that point.
Something in my body's response triggered Red who whipped the ball gag out just before I puked out everything my body had and more. The very act of vomiting sent new and horrific shards of pure, distilled pain through my entire body from sixteen pinpoints on my chest. As I finished and tried to suck in a breath, Red had a squeeze bottle to my mouth, rinsing it then getting me to drink. Before I could utter a sound, he'd replaced the ball gag and walked out of my field of vision. I hung there for a minute, sucking in air through my snotty nose and the air-hole in the gag.
Within a couple minutes, the world around me seemed to glow softly, not like dawn but like night-vision. I felt alert, alive, still in brutal pain but now deeply aware of everything. It suddenly clicked from a description Bobby had given me. It was called Sentrie, an alertness drug that prevented sleep and heightened attention during long night watches. I couldn't image why Red thought I'd need that.
"And now for the rest of them."
REST of them?!? That's when a word echoed through my sobbing mind. 'Nine'. Red had said, "Nine. Spiders. NOW." The intensity of the assault on my senses was less, but still significant. My body tried to levitate as the feet of the monstrous spider attached to the very base of my gooch-seam, right where my crack spread. Two more climbed toward my balls, each escalating the discomfort from bad to worse. The one at the middle point of my gooch was bad, but the one right where my sac met the taint nearly sent me into orbit. Between the application of each, Red waited until I had quieted to either silence or, increasingly, mere sobs behind the gag.
I could not hold back the screams, though, as one attached to the center of my ball-sac, and then an agonized wail as one got clipped right where my urethra emerged from the thick skin of the sac and climbed my so-very-not hard cock. Each of the eight splayed legs found part of my sac, seam or shaft, each a million points of blazing pain. Nothing, not even the nipples, compared to when he carefully positioned one to each side of my balls in the exquisitely-tender flesh tween sac and thigh. The first nearly killed me and I wept in relief as the second hit, knowing the pain would rock me over into unconsciousness...
Denied! I felt synapses crackle, spark, fry and die throughout my mind. The protection built through eons of evolution to guard the brain from sensations that could actually damage the circuitry had, through some evil chemical magic, been stripped away by the Sentrie. My mind tried and failed to sort the signals of unendurable pain, and quickly redefined unendurable over and over and over as my body quaked and writhed and shrieked in a state which the word agony was utterly incapable of portraying.
In some strange and alien way, my body suddenly clicked into a new state. Everything, every nerve touched by those indescribable spiders, flooded my spine and mind-core with demands for relief or release, but it was as if I'd found a plateau where I could shunt them off to a place where they could scream at each other, not ignored as much as... postponed by my core self.
I had caught my breath and heard Red sigh deeply, apparently waiting for that.
Over his shoulder, he growled, "Go to Seven PersIntel Garcia and get the Walker and its handler."
The kid was suicidal even by my standards. "B-B-B-But you said, I mean you told PersIntel Gar--"
I had never heard a more-frightening voice that I did in that moment. "Belay that order! Runner: Go NOW to Garcia. Tell him I want the Walker AND the handler AND a guard-sergeant. If you are still here when I finish this sentence or even utter one syllable, you will be..." I didn't know what the kid would have been, because 'finish this sentence' was punctuated with a falling chair and 'syllable' found the entry-canvas falling back into place.
Red was seething, which was seriously not what I really wanted. I coughed, gently. Red gave me a furious, curious scowl as he pulled out my ball gag. I wet my lips and spoke in a voice hoarse from screaming. I couldn't look at Red no matter how hard I tried. "Permission to speak freely, Manager Capt--"
"Permission granted. What is it Bronco?"
I steadied myself, but I also knew that what I was about to say was both real and important. "Thank, you, Patriot, for doing--"
"Don't dare to thank me, boy." His voice was flat and serious.
"May I continue, Patriot?" He grunted. "Thank you, sir. I actually do mean thank you. I can take the pain and if I can't, I can't protect you and Bo-- Seven Manager O'Stallion. May I beg a boon from the Patriot, sir?" He grunted again, but now with real interest. "My only purpose is to help... him make it, sir. If I, sir, um, if I am a danger to Bo-- Seven Manager O'Stallion?" I finally met Red's burning glare. "Put me down, sir. If you need to do it now, that's fine, Patriot, sir. If this tool is not fit to serve, don't let it weigh down my... weight down the Patriots, sir." I tried and failed to drop my gaze.
His eyes blazed with simple, inchoate rage as he slapped me hard enough to bring tears. "You fucking bastard. With what I just did, am doing? And you ask THAT?" He spat to the side. "Boon granted, you... you..." he spat again, "you incomparable asshole. Now, shut the hell up."
I just stared, frozen, amazed at his incandescent fury. Red's eyes literally glowed in the dim light, flames kindled from a power I'm certain could not be real. "You will not make a sound again this night. Not one. That is your lesson. How to Shut. The Fuck. Up. And what you just asked, you bastard? You knew damned well I couldn't say no and now, you piece of shit, you've put me right in the middle. If you don't shape up, I am the one who destroys Bobby. One fucking word and I swear to Providence that I will feed you your own balls!" I would have been a lot more comfortable if he had yelled or roared. His voice was a flat, raw, visceral snarl.
"You think I don't KNOW what fragging you would do to that boy? Or that I, who've known him his whole fucking life, don't see as much promise in him than YOU, you little tit? Again, one word and I'll gut you regardless of how much it would destroy that boy. By God, Providence and every Hero of This Great Nation, you will learn control tonight; you will learn silence; you will learn your place."
I gawped at him. There was no other word. I couldn't even blink; the furnace in his eyes held me more effectively than any adder ever held a hare. My throat, raw before, was drier than any desertscape of Mars and my body trembled with what I'd done. The pain was there, yes, but nothing compared to the awe in which I was trapped by what Red has said to me.
"In a minute, you are going to feel things that you loathe and love, that will make you want to die, to howl with pain, scream with pleasure, and die again. Nod if you hear me. You will be SILENT," the word erupted from his implacable and steady low-voiced tone like an explosion before returning to the snarl. "Nod if you hear me. You will not make one noise, not one. You will learn to control your body because," here I nearly lost the battle before it started; he'd attached a weight to the spider on my right nipple and the surge of pain ripped through my body. '...because' was the last word I heard for a while. Red add a weight on the left and my vision went deep grey, the Sentrie forcing longed-for, thirsted-for unconsciousness away.
I heard, in some distant universe, the runner return followed by three set of booted footfalls. Red was placing lighter weights on each spider along my taint, reaching near-brain-death when he finished with the two to either side of my sac. I wanted to weep, to pray, to scream, to... as he said, to die. Only when the last of them stilled from the swinging and I could breathe again did Red turn away from me and speak.
"Name?"
"Sir! Five Guard Sergeant Proffitt, Manager Captain Schoen, sir!"
Red growled, "Finally, a fucking Patriot who understands respect and orders. Well, Guard- Sergeant Proffitt, strip this impertinent piece of dogshit. Use your knife so she can explain to the Quartermistress why she needs a new one. March this turd through the entire camp, whole circuit, double-time, then take her to my hutment. From the time you get there until I join you, her hands are not to leave the CeramiSteel and her feet are not to go slower than marching in place. If she does," I heard a slither of leather, "One ass-flick each three-count until she's back to double-time. Don't break the skin." I could hear the question in his voice.
"ACK, Manager Captain! Knife-strip dog turd. Double-time whole loop. Hands on Captain's hutment. Marching or faster. No-blood ass-flick until double-time if it pauses. ACK!"
Red's growl descended to a level I doubted some people could even hear, like the thrum of a deep-diesel. "That, you useless fucking infant, is how you listen, take orders, acknowledge orders and get shit done. Who officiated your Blood Moon, you little pussy? Who let a little fucking girl like YOU wear a Patriot Uniform? Huh? SPEAK!" The last came at a volume that shook the trees.
The youth was openly weeping, voice high like the girl he'd just been demoted to, but the kid answered. "T-T-T-T-Two Patriot Lead-d-d-d-der Hernandez, s-s-s-s-s-sir!"
"Guard Sergeant!"
"SIR?!?"
"Wait until this toddler-cunt finishes soaking the PASUs that she apparently stole from a Patriot before you knife-strip the little bitch. Procced."
"ACK! Manager Captain, SIR!" There was pride in his voice and the sound also shone with glee.
To the accompaniment of girlish whimpers and sobs, Red's voice returned to normal, professional and calm as if nothing previous had even occurred. "Name?"
"Five Medic Lieutenant Bretton, Manager Captain Schoen, Sir!" The voice that spoke clearly wanted to be anywhere else, but also knew that the Patriot using said voice was going to have a Very Bad Night if voice fucked up in any way. The swish of a large knife joined the sobbing behind me, indicating that the sergeant was taking great relish in following Red's orders.
Red walked into my field of vision. After some muttered words from someone behind me, he was followed by a tall, swarthy man who was decidedly nervous, and an average-looking guy (shocking amongst Patriots; no muscle-bulking, no whipcord strength, no feline stealth, no cocky arrogance and, most telling, no hypermasculine scowl -- just an unnatural blankness). I was surprised that Red hadn't asked the second man's name.
As was his custom, Red addressed one subordinate but looked at something else -- me. He pronounced the man's rank as 'L-T', something not common but hardly rare, apparently a reserved habit for men who had been career military before It Hit the Fan. "LT Bretton, explain your Walker to Provisional Human Bronco here."
The tall, olive-complected medic stood at parade rest and spoke as if lecturing. "ACK, Manager Captain, sir! This Walker is believed to have been a Clit," Patriot slang for a member of the Church of the Creator, abbreviated 'CoC' and pronounced 'cock', but that word was seen as too respectful so became 'Clit' in common parlance, "who was deliberately exposed to MRDX." My blood ran cold as an icy stream.
MRDX stripped a person of every vestige of humanity, leaving a shell that did and even felt only that which it was told. Even the original zombies drugged by Voodoo practitioners could at least feed themselves. A Walker could be tortured to death without touching it (gender pronouns being wasted on such former humans) by someone with the right vocal tone and cadence telling it that it was experiencing unbearable pain; it could amputate his own limbs and feel nothing if so instructed; it would continue a task until dying unless told to stop.
"The Walker strolled naked into the perimeter of a Patriot Five heavy-gun bunker and I happened to recognize the symptoms. It appeared to have been told to go in a certain direction and had done so, naked, for at least two days. It was nearly dead from dehydration and lost blood from scratches it never noticed. It responded to my voice and healed nicely, and is now used for a variety of special operations suited to his abilities, including PersIntel work."
The man fell silent and Red stepped forward. "Excellent, LT Bretton. You will now prep the Walker to fuck Provisional Human Bronco here when, how, and for as long as I feel it may be necessary." My blood could not run cold as it was pumping liquid nitrogen already. Red's eyes bored into mine.
"You will prep it to climax when told and not until, and to withdraw when instructed. This is a training session rather than a PersIntel one, LT, and Provisional Human Bronco will be silent throughout. If he is not, I will add SenzAll to one or another of the spiders. Any actual word will result in added weight as well. Any sound, any scream or moan or grunt or puke, and I will renew that SenzAll again... and again... and again, without waiting for the plateau. Am I clear, LT Bretton?" I managed not to scream, to beg, to blubber at the thought of what was about to happen, but it was a near thing.
The medic's voice dripped with awe and a large dose of dread, "ACK, Manager Captain Schoen. Walker will fuck as instructed, sir." His voice dropped to a melodious monotone with a captivating cadence. For the first time, I saw some glint of consciousness in the eyes of the Walker. I couldn't hear the words, but it was clear that the Walker could. His cock went instantly rigid even as his expression remained more than simply blank. His prong was smooth and as average as the previously-human creature who bore it. I watched as it started to drip dogwater, mesmerized.
Red had donned green-leather gloves and moved to the cabinet. I shook like palsy as he extracted the one thing that I feared above anything in the universe, the tall, thin bottle that I knew held SenzAll, the nerve sensitizer that had turned the Blood Moon Festival into one of the greatest horrors that I'd ever known. Only the fact that Red had included puking in the list of sounds that would get the substance applied to my already-screaming tits, taint and balls kept me from retching violently.
I threw my head back like a tetanus victim when Red pried apart my ass-cheeks and the smooth-leather finger of the glove rolled around and around the tender lips of my hole. I let the tears flow as the initial, overpowering sensation of the SenzAll inflamed each and every nerve in my chute.
I watched as the handler and his former human moved behind me and positioned themselves. Red whispered to the handler who intoned to his less-than-slave. I felt the slick knob of the cock rest against my twitching, itching pucker which pulsed and kissed involuntarily as the SenzAll rocked my world.
I steeled myself for what was to come, counting backwards, imagining cave-blackness or staring at the sun, anything to hold strong against--
I screamed, full-throated and without any chance to stop it. At some inaudible signal, Red had caused the Walker to slam into my ass all the way to the base, no prep, no warning, no gradual entrance. Just as suddenly, the cock withdrew completely and Red spoke. "Bronco, I don't think you understand. You WILL learn to control your voice, your body and everything else tonight." The gloved finger was back and the SenzAll redoubled.
When the creature invaded me again, I spent every single credit in my soul, and still lost the battle. It was close, though, and nothing more than a brief, strangled and quickly stifled keen escaped. Red was now standing in front of me, something I finally noticed when my body stopped trying to press the top of my skull into my spine, allowing my face to fall forward enough to see him.
I saw a bit of respect in his eyes. He had obviously expected another full-out scream. "A manful start, son, but still... a sound." I tried, I really did, to not let my eyes beg him to stop. He tipped the tall bottle and wet the forefinger of one green-gloved hand, and brought it slowly to my left tit, dabbing over each of the eight, evil, monstrous feet of the spider in turn.
The blast of pain that ripped from my nipple to my balls like a jagged knife was actually a blessing in a demonic sort of way. The Walker's reentry was just a top-note to the symphony of anguish that the SenzAll was delivering to my tit.
Then that fucker (literally, as he was fucking me methodically) got rhythm. The weights, previously just an insult-to-injury kind of thing, began to swing and bounce in tempo to the sawing torment in my ass, yanking the spiders' merciless grip with every stroke. That got my right tit SenzAll'ed along with the shakingly-horrific one at the point my ball-seam met my cock. This was over the course of a subjective eternity and an objective hour or so.
Red had been speaking to me throughout, a simple litany on the theme of control. The mind rules the body. The mind owns the body. Anything the body sensed, from pain to pleasure, was meaningless if the mind was strong -- strong enough to own, control, enslave the body. What brought my attention back to full, however, was when he leaned in as if imparting a secret -- which, in fact, he was.
"The mind is not just a passenger, son. Why let someone else control what your body does? Every time you let your body move, son, you're letting the body react in ways that increase the pain that your mind has to contain." He stepped back and returned to his litany on control. It took a minute for me to recognize what a gift he'd given me. I clenched my jaws to prevent any thought of sound and pulled hard at the straps, both arms and legs. I tightened my spine and used the tension from my connection points to lock my body into rigidity.
Did it stop the pain? No. The methodical rape of my ass continued unabated and without even a shift in rhythm. The spiders continued to work their torturous magic, seventy-two feet filled with uncountable nerve-penetrating spikes eroding my ability to cope with the universe at every thrust. But the inexorable swing of the weights diminished and nearly stopped, robbing the SenzAll of its magnifying power over the pain.
More importantly, Red's calm, implacable litany began to click as well. I gradually found within me a way to compartmentalize the pain. Oddly, the thing that made me an excellent environmental reconstruction engineer was the key to it. I created mental boxes, as I normally would for interconnected injuries inflicted on a landscape, separate but related in complex webs of interdependencies.
Only now, the contents of those boxes were flaming agonies, carefully teased into distinct sensations: the difference between the grip on the nipple itself and the aureole around it; the SenzAll'ed outer ass-ring versus the tender but unanointed inner one as the cock assaulted each; the subtle difference between the three gooch-spots; the newer pain where I pulled the cuffs tight to lock myself in place. The very act of cataloguing the feelings gave my mind immeasurable power over them. Sorting them away for future consideration, for comparison, for examination made them... things. Objective realities that could be (at least somewhat) divorced from the immediate agony of true sensation.
When I next focused on the world outside my personal planet of pain, I found something that nearly shocked me out of that newfound control. Red's face bore what could only be a grim, barely-detectable smile. He had seen, and approved of, my new mastery of my body. He instructed the handler to pull the Walker back and I wanted to weep with relief, but stiffened further. There was no way in hell that this ordeal was over.
I felt something new at my abused and abraded hole. Small, hard, cold. Without ceremony or tenderness, Red pushed something into my chute and I barely remembered to stifle any sound. Whatever it was, though, was tiny compared to the cock, perhaps the thickness of a cigarette, hard and cold and smooth as it wormed inward. I was unable to prevent a gasp when it hit my love-nut hard.
"Don't worry, Bronco. That gasp is fine because this little puppy has the SenzAll which that loss of control earned you anyways." I felt a cool, tingling liquid deep inside as the tube exuded something that enveloped my prostate. My eyes shot open as the sensation and Red's words comingled. The evil prick had just SenzAll'ed my fuck-nut!
"So, Bronco, I'll give you something that no enemy ever will -- fair warning. I'm going to remove these spiders, and they hurt fuck-all more coming off than going on. Not one sound, son. Not one."
The next seventy years of my life, expended in a mere minute or so, found me furiously battling to capture, categorize, and contain explosions of agony as each foot was teased out of my skin, each nerve ablaze with furious, inconsolable complaints. I cannot understand how, not to this day, but I made it through all seventy-two extractions without a single whimper.
Red petted the back of my neck and told me to relax for a minute. I sagged, spent, but retained enough sanity not to weep. I sucked in breath after ragged breath, held it and gushed it out. Through it all, though, not a single molecule of air strummed a vocal cord. I knew that this, too, was a test of the control that Red had spent the last eternity teaching me. Slowly, though, something new began to captivate my world: The SenzAll had turned my already battered prostate, fucked for Providence only knew how long, into a miniature whirlpool of desperate need.
I was so lost in a frantic effort to build new boxes to hold the novel not-pain that flooded me that I didn't hear Red tell the handler to resume the Walker's ministrations. His entry into my ass was bad, but when that cock started to massage my love-nut I nearly lost all control, not only my voice but my body and my soul.
Bobby fucking me was the greatest pleasure I'd ever felt, and that remained true. What flooded through my body was not pleasure, but not pain, either. It was a nuclear furnace melting both and alloying them into something much more terrible. I heard Red speaking to the handler and the Walker's pace increased, then increased again. I furiously focused what little was left of my rational mind on capturing each sensation that suffused my universe and I let every other neuron join the swirling insanity of what the SenzAll and cock were doing to my prostate.
I was brought again to the edge of losing control when the Walker's cadence stuttered and I felt its ball-load blow directly onto my launch button. Red stepped in front of me and I locked his eyes with mine, desperate for anything on which to focus to keep some tiny shard of myself from being lost in the sensations.
I clung to that in silent desperation when Red barked a single word, "Piss." I took a moment for me to realize what he'd done as the handler's voice coaxed the Walker into releasing its bladder. It took a moment before a warm, liquid torrent began to tease and pummel my love nut, swirling and caressing it from every possible angle. At the same time, fierce gaze never leaving mine, Red reached down and began to slide my foreskin across my leaking glans.
His glare was an open challenge and one that I could not avoid. I used it, though, to funnel every bit of my torment, rage and, soon, release into the tunnel of control I still maintained. Without a sound, I let the warm flood in my bowels and Red's gentle-rough treatment of my cockhead combine to launch an eruption the likes of which I'd rarely had. Only that first ass-cum that my Bobby drove out of me compared. I didn't dare to even breathe throughout, though, as I knew that any movement of air in or out of my lungs would be a moan, a scream, a keening explosion of release. I held my half-breath more tightly than any drowning man ever clung to a life ring
The Walker withdrew and without his presence, and with my continuing explosive climax, I could not contain the urine and cum he'd washed into me, all of it erupting in the same rhythm as my own orgasm. Red did smile, then, encouraging me in a loop of pleasure. When I was finally spent, he backed off and instructed the handler to clean me up. I sagged, too far gone to think, sucking in ragged breaths. I prayed to every Patriot god that the not-silent lungsful flooding in an out of me would not condemn me to a repeat, one I was certain I could never survive.
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