Joe Palooka and Billy Baxter are hustled down the hallway to a door that leads to the basement. A set of heavy double doors at the bottom of the stairs are guarded by two fully armed soldiers. They turn and open them simultaneously. The interior lighting is somewhat subdued, so when their eyes adjust to the dimness, the Americans look around at the contents of the playroom.
It is spacious and large, running the full length of the plantation house. Looking towards the far wall, the champ and his sparing partner see that it fades into blackness. There are two high-backed cushioned chairs on the right. On the left is a raised platform mounted with a tall wood post.
General Ludwig Hoffman and Colonel Heinrich Richter are comfortably seated in easy chairs, drinking campaign dressed in street attire and smoking Cuba cigars. There are other German troops in uniform standing against the right wall with their arms folded in front of them. Joe and Billy look at each other in a show of bravery and support.
It does not bode well for our heroes!
Two overhead spotlights come to life, bathing the center of the room with bright light. The American athletes blink in the sudden flood of illumination.
They are roughly pushed down on the cushioned chairs, their arms are fastened from behind to the high backs. Their legs are widely spread, exposing their bulging baskets and their muscular chests are pushed forward to their fullest extent, further exposing their hard nipples underneath the stretched thin black fabric.
Once they are secured, the squad of six is dismissed.
“Let us go, you filthy Kraut!” barks Joe with bravado.
“Yeah, you won’t get away with this, you scum!” Billy chimes in.
“Gentlemen please, you are our guests, how could we send you out unarmed in the dangerous jungle in the dark of night?” responds the General, puffing on his cigar. “You must at least stay overnight and avail yourselves of our hospitality.”
“Oh yeah, some hospitality! You rip our clothes off, force us to take enemas and then scrub us raw with your stiff brushes and then hose us down with blasting cold water. What’s next, whips and hot pokers?” challenges Joe.
“Enough of your complaints and futile demands, my friends. Just relax and enjoy what is about to happen. I can assure you that no lasting harm will befall you. We don’t need to torture you to extract information we already know. We just want to allow you the pleasure of an experience that most men have never had, at least most heterosexual men,” the general counsels.
“What, are you gonna’ pull some faggoty stuff on us?” Baxter asks. “Not as if you haven’t done so already,” he adds.
“There is no more time to answer questions, my American friends; we must begin while the evening is still young.”
“Gentlemen, please escort Mr. Baxter to the pole and secure him him tightly.” Dramatically an overhead spotlight clicks on and the platform is bathed in light.
The attending Germans spring into action. Billy is freed from the chair and almost carried, struggling and kicking, over to the upright pole. He is shoved against the wood; his arms are bound together and behind him, then pulled upwards and fastened to a hook in the back.
Once Joe’s buddy is tightly bound, the effect makes him pitch forward, chest held high and legs widely spread to steady his balance. He strains and struggles against the rope to no avail. What little movement he has is reduced to rocking back and forth ever so slightly. He stares ahead, head held high, defiantly, with eyes squinted in anger.
“My, my, doesn’t your buddy look pretty as a Christmas package all wrapped up like that, Herr Palooka?” says the general as he walks around and behind the chair-bound boxer. “Heinrich, he is all yours!”
The colonel mounts the platform. Facing the tightly trussed pole-bound Baxter, he grabs him by the muscular shoulders and gives them a friendly squeeze or two. Invasively Heinrich tests the big biceps and knotted forearms with firm squeezes. He runs his hand sensuously around the broad chest, down and around the curve of the pectorals until he comes to the nipples poking out from the thin cotton fabric. He pinches them gently at first, then he flicks them several times and gives them a few twists.
Billy grimaces in discomfort.
The colonel’s invasive hands move down to the muscular belly that is bared by the wrong-sized tank top. He rubs the firm stomach and gives a few playful slaps on its taut surface.
He even goes so far as to grab the bulging crotch, squeezing its contents and patting it from underneath. Billy is even more agitated when his basket is played with in such a rude fashion. He has never been felt up before and he doesn’t like it one bit.
While all this is going on, the general stands behind Joe’s chair and conducts his own survey of bound boxer’s body. He massages the broad shoulders for a bit and then moves down and across the expanse of the massive chest. The nipples are played with for a time, with pinches, flicks and twists. Joe tries to avoid the intrusive touches, but all he can do is wiggle back and forth and lean forward somewhat.
The champ has never experienced such a violation of his body before and he feels humiliated being toyed with like a cheap hooker.
Meanwhile back to bound Baxter. Heinrich pulls out a sharp hunting knife. The broad blade glints brightly in the spotlight. He brandishes the knife in Billy’s
face then tests its sharpness with his left whetted thumb.
Playfully he sticks the point in the boxer’s bared belly, ever so careful just to prick it. Billy flinches. Much amused, the colonel slaps the muscled bare abdomen several times with the broad side of the blade. The nervous young man jumps with every smacks and screws his eyes shut.
With one slice, the black tank top is slit up the middle. Heinrich slowly pulls the fabric open as if he is opening a black curtain.
He steps back to admire the view. The firmly muscled pectorals are shown dramatically in the spotlight. The smooth chest glistens from drops of sweat generated by Billy’s nervousness. Sweet scarlet nipples poke out as if they were begging to be sucked. The colonel smiles at what he has unveiled.
The tattered shirt is ripped off and flung across the room towards the general. Ludwig walks over to pick up the rag and twirls it around at Heinrich high in the air in triumph.
“Well since your friend is shirtless now, how about you joining him, my rough tough boxing champion? You are used to working bare-chested in your professional career, so what is there to be concerned about? Showing off your muscular chest to all the ogling ladies in the crowd is part of your appeal, is it not? So you shouldn’t mind at all,” taunts the general.
The champ follows his buddy’s example and speaks not a word in reply.
Ludwig reaches in his pocket for a pair of small sharp scissors. Opening and closing them in Joe’s face with mock menace, he rubs the broad side over each pointy nipple poking out of the stretched thin fabric. He then slowly runs the point of the blades from the hollow of the bare neck down to the bottom of the tank top. Pulling the stretched fabric away from the smooth muscled chest, he makes slow slices all the way up to the collar.
Joe wiggles his upper body back and forth in silent protest.
The general grabs both flaps and with a dramatic flair pulls the open as if he is pulling back heavy drapes in a luxurious living room. He raises his arms in exaggerated adulation and puts both hands on his cheeks, shaking his head from side to side.
Joe’s muscled chest looks even more massive bared than when clothed. The conical nipples are meaty and pointy like small traffic cones.
The sliced fabric is pulled off his broad shoulders and down his thickly muscled arms as far as it can go.
As a final act of indignity, Ludwig gives the bulging crotch a gentle squeeze or two, which Joe doesn’t like at all.
Up at the wooden pole, Heinrich pulls out a pair of wooden clothes pins and shows them to Billy. Opening them wide, he releases them, letting them close with a loud snap. Next is a pair metal clips which he moves near the bound man’s nipples and lets them loudly snap shut. The half-naked man flinches at the sound.
All sorts of tit clamps are displayed. There are alligator clips, metal hemostats, and even a snake bite kit.
Baxter looks over the lineup with dread. He know they are going to painfully squeeze and pinch his sensitive nipples. His heavy testicles clench up in his anxiety, as if they are trying to hide from the ordeal that is to come.
This is turning out to be a nightmare at the hands of these perverted Nazis for the helplessly bound American athletes.
To be Continued…………………..