This manip, and short story, are based on a comment that a member named Cyclone wrote on the thread of Kronmire4’s Weaker Sex story regarding the illustration I made for that piece. He wrote, ‘How about one with a sweaty, lightly-hairy chested Marine, dog-tags and all, having his thick nips punished with clips?’ Well, I reckoned that scenario did it for me (and I’ll tell you, my friend- getting those dog tags manipped on to the captain was a real bitch)!! Besides, I appreciate guys making suggestions (though I can’t always honor the requests) and, mainly, just taking the minute or two it takes to write a comment so folks here who write or ‘draw’ know there is someone out there who is interested in their stuff… Anyway, one thing led to another and I came up with this manip, especially for you Cyclone! Here is how I envision the scenario:
The patrol of advance scouts was surprised deep in the desert, suffering heavy casualties after a brief and heroic resistance, and brought to a remote compound where Captain Steve Morgan and two enlisted grunts were surprised to find, not the expected band of exotic rag heads, but a leering group of renegade Americans and their covert Iranian handlers who looked like they might be itching for information and the sport involved in extracting it. The young marines were confined for a couple of days in a stinking wood stall, left to think about things as they batted at swarming clouds of lazy flies in the dry heat and restlessly tested the old iron bars. Pfc. Tommy Beck, a wiry, smooth chested grunt with bright blue eyes, close cropped reddish hair, and a handsome baby face that embarrassed him in the macho environment of the Corps, immediately attracted unwanted attention from some of the swarthy Iranians. Forced to strip to his briefs, he was pushed around, from one stinking operative to the other, groping a little at his sweaty crotch as the captain and Brian Stanford, the other enlisted man, looked on in helpless sympathetic frustration. Tommy eventually lost the grip and began to carry on, yelling like a little boy, holding shaking hands in front of his sagging shorts and just plain forgetting the stoic code of conduct expected of America’s finest… His tormentors cracked wide grins and muttering something to the effect that he would be ‘good for later’ in their incomprehensible language, roped the scared marine in a sitting position, blind folded with a pole shoved between his arms and legs. Steve Morgan shook his head, fighting a wave of despair that felt like vertigo, pitying Tommy, worried about Brian- standing, shaking, in a corner, staring with wide-eyed fear at a spot on the floor- and wondering when the real fun and games would begin. He didn’t have long to wait.
‘OK, boys- get your butts out into the sunlight!’ It was one of the American traitors, probably a mercenary devoid of any sense of honor and, more so, bereft of a human soul. Whatever the case, an unwelcome light of dangerous anticipation animated his cold gray eyes as the captain and Brian Stanford shuffled from the stall leaving Tommy Beck whimpering softly sitting on his jockey clad ass with his back to the splintery wall. The mercenary was disgusting- an affront to all that a real soldier held sacred- but the site of the foreign interrogator, lightly built with bristly hair and a vaguely intellectual look, caused the marines to briefly hesitate, each understanding that the time had come when the macho fantasy of SERE training would be put to the ultimate test and shortly become a blood red reality.
The two marines were ushered into a wide enclosure, shuffling nervously, each valiantly trying to master his fear as their captors sized them up. Steve Morgan and Brian Stanford couldn’t have provided a more pleasing contrast. Where Brian was fair, with a boyish, all-American face (that had landed him many a babe back in Missouri) and a smooth wrestlers build highlighted by sandy hair and golden skin; Steve’s genes veered toward the Italian ancestry on his mother’s side- lanky frame padded with supple muscle, broad shoulders and narrow waist, long torso peppered with short, wiry dark fur, a rugged yet somehow soulful face dominated by simmering liquid brown eyes under a thatch of jet black hair. He exuded an air of casual self confidence and was well suited to command, inspiring or cajoling as circumstance demanded and correctly assuming that he would be obeyed…and the first order of business in the escalating situation was to buck up Brian Stanford, looking pale under his golden tan, trying desperately to roll back the rising tide of terror. The young enlisted man stood stripped to the waist, head bowed in consternation, heart hammering visibly in the center of his smooth chest, and the captain’s own heart swelled with pride and a far more complex brew of variegated emotion as he whispered words of encouragement; like a much-admired older brother, wanting to put his own strong arm around the private’s broad shoulders and draw him to himself, for protection, yeah, for protection…
‘Strip off your shirt, Captain.’ The terse command, uttered by the interrogator with a half-smile playing on his pale lips, was expected and obeyed with alacrity; Steve Morgan slowly pulled off his tee and dropped it into the dirt. ‘Very nice…’ the foreign operative stared with unmasked appreciation at the glistening torso of the tall, hairy marine, standing with long arms akimbo in the bright light. He nodded to a pair of mercenaries, ‘Move him against the post…that’s right; now secure the prisoner’s wrists.’ Steve was backed against a square iron post and was surprised as his wrists were manacled with no connecting chain. He looked quizzically at a leering mercenary, who, striding forward, pulled a gun and pointed it an inch from the captive’s throbbing temple. ‘Stand still, soldier, while we make you all…ah…uncomfortable.’ He ran a calloused hand over the scandalized stud’s swelling pecs, brushing the soft fur briefly before tracing the treasure trail over Morgan’s hard abs to his flattened belly. With one deft motion, the mercenary unbuttoned the captive’s fatigues and laid the fly open over a curly bush of black pubes, watching with satisfaction as macho fists clenched in impotent fury. ‘Good boy! You know how to obey commands as well as dish them out.’ He motioned to his partner, who produced a short length of chain and thrust his hand beneath Steve’s hot crotch to a steel ring that, until now, had gone un-noticed; attached to the post just below the point of the inverted ‘V’ of the marine’s spread legs. The chain was attached to the ring then run, like the bands of an iron jockstrap, over the tops of Steve’s thighs and attached to the manacles. ‘Excellent!’ The interrogator, watching all the while, nodded approval at the newly immobilized prisoner. He reached out and lightly pinched the aureole of a bronzed nipple and laughed as Steve’s hands reflexively jerked upward, followed by an audible groan as the twin strands of chain pulled taut and strangled his unprotected balls. Steve immediately dropped his hands, stifling the reflex to protect himself against the invasive fondling of his nipples, face reddening with unaccustomed humiliation. ‘Very good,’ the interrogator whispered, ‘you are a fast learner, Captain…but the real test of your will is yet to come.’ Steve remained silent, panting his rage as the other man’s fingers did a leisurely stroll through the wiry bracken on his chest and belly, dipping past the opened fly to luxuriate in the dark patch of pubic hair until, finally (as the captive marine knew they would), reaching lower for a slow stroke down the long shaft of his thick cock. He wanted desperately to raise his hands, but was prevented by the chain wedged up against tight balls silently counseling forbearance.
The young captain’s scandalized reverie was cut short by the prosaic sound of creaking wheels under a rickety old metal cart. He turned toward the sound and the breath hitched in his broad chest at the site of the generator trailing its gaggle of dark clips and wires like some poisonous jelly fish. Sighing with fear-saturated resignation, Steve steeled himself for the long awaited ordeal.
He could smell his own fear riding shotgun on the slick rivulets of sweat trickling downward to the waistband of his spread trousers. No questions had been asked and Steve suspected that the whole scenario might just be for the bored mercenaries’ enjoyment and the Iranians’ ideological satisfaction. Clenched fists struggled for stationary control against the irrational impulse to pull upward against the biting chain nestled in his crotch and pluck the serrated clamp from his burning right nipple. The young private did what he could to console his commanding officer and lend him a measure of encouragement, glancing up with compassionate hazel eyes under thick blond brows, silently vowing the kind of camaraderie born as much from friendship as respect. The captain took some solace in the other marine’s inner courage and manly beauty, unashamed, at the end, to linger a little on his deep feeling for the young subordinate even as his own dark eyes met his companion’s and then appreciatively traveled the tensed length of Brian’s naked torso; all smooth perfection to his sagging levis and partially revealed jockey shorts. The emotions were clean- swelling, with unlooked for humility, at the proximity of someone who he could lean on when things got rough and- fucking better believe it- who could count on a strong shoulder when his own moment of testing arrived. The dumb ass interrogators thought that making one of the men watch the other’s descent into agony would somehow shame them both. Fuckers! They obviously had never done any time in or around the US Marine Corps. The prim interrogator, vaguely aware of the silent exchange, put an end to it by flicking a switch and Captain Steve Morgan’s mind suddenly lurched to other, more urgent, considerations even as his long, hard and hairy body seemed to light up like fireworks.
There was, of course, some danger of cardiac arrest and nips were not the favored choice for seasoned interrogators wanting coherent answers or, more to the point, a finished conversation through the modern miracle of electricity. Then again, the prisoners were in some ramshackle camp in the middle of nowhere and, besides, no one had yet asked any questions. Steve’s young heart was strong and noble, filled with the idealism of the Corps and pumping the hot blood of an all-American male…and maybe that’s what kept it beating; frantic jackhammer pulse to the explosive counterpoint of surging invisible fire. His broad back arched against the metal post, pelvis thrust forward against straining, unzipped camo fatigues, as the sweat flew from his shuddering body. Steve thrashed against the unforgiving column, hard muscles jumping to the sizzle of the raw voltage. ‘You’ll kill him, motherfuckers!!!!!!!!!!!!!!’ He dimly heard Brian’s outrage through a white haze of pain that surpassed what a man should be able to take…but, then again, the captain had never been wired up before and didn’t really have all that much of a frame of reference. His hands jerked reflexively, tightening the chain at his groin…no, not that, control yourself man …while the cool interrogator nodded approvingly at the mercenary as he backhanded the young enlisted man- cutting off a fresh outburst- but, nevertheless acknowledging Brian’s protest, answered by twisting a knob to increase the output of electricity. Steve screamed; a deep, manly outburst of pure, unreasoned agony tearing forward against the chains that bound his pelvis against the metal stake, losing control and raising his hands in a desperate attempt to reach the clamp; all to no avail, raking his balls in the process, augmented by crushing pressure as his nuts now slammed against the chain sending a wave of fresh, nausea-inducing pain through his already overloaded system. The last thing he saw through a white haze of popping light was the shattered expression on Brian Stanford’s handsome face, tears streaking his handsome face without a shred of self-consciousness or shame.
The captain let out a last bellow and fell silently into the merciful arms of oblivion, passed out cold but still breathing. The interrogator moved forward and, lightly stroking the sweat-slick back of the marine’s bull-like neck whispered, ‘You did well, captain. Next time, ah, perhaps we will try something slightly more creative.’ He then turned toward the young private, shaking like a leaf; a picture of noble pathos and dick-hardening beauty as he struggled with his fear and outrage, concern for his mentor and friend written in the tear tracks that glistened on his tanned face, naked chest and tensed abs heaving with anxiety over the dipping expanse of drooping levis…and smiled. He nodded toward one of the mercenaries, ‘Would you do the honors of stripping off the handsome private’s clothing? Yes, everything…ah, very nice, very nice indeed…’