Mercenary Nick - Part 2

Start reading at Part 1

 

Day 4

8

After a night of humiliation at the hands of the Guards, I had to face my torturers the next day clad only in underpants. Even they were not my own clothes, for my guards had either destroyed, or taken for souvenirs, every item of clothing that I had on. As a sop to my modesty, they gave me a pair of underpants taken from another prisoner. He had no further need of them, they said and out of spite, they told me his name. It was one of my comrades who had disappeared some 3 months earlier, while on the same mission as myself. I was trained not to react to barbs like this or dwell on the truth of them, but the symbolism of losing the last of my possessions did hit me hard. 

I felt like I had been condemned to extinction.

Having been suspended by my wrists during those long, cruel hours of darkness, it was a perverse pleasure to be taken down and spread-eagled on an X-cross instead. I was still tied up and defenceless, but able to stand on my feet again. It was obvious that this restraint would enable the interrogator to attack all parts of my body, if I continued to deny him the information that he wanted. However, he surprised me by producing, not some ferocious flesh destroyer, but an incongruous, small batten of wood. It looked like it was fresh from a DIY shop, an unwelcome reminder of the normal world that was carrying on outside the walls of my prison, oblivious of my plight. 

The Interrogator complimented me on my physique, running his hands over my abs and acknowledging that I had been well-trained. Then he proceeded to apply his stick to my torso, landing vicious blows on it from all angles. That batten might have been small, but by heavens it stung! As time went by, the cumulative effect of hundreds of blows from it, switching between the flat sides and the sharper edges, generated a fiery furnace of pain all over my body. He beat me with it patiently, conserving his energy, so my agony might last as long as possible.

 

 

9

After a while he stopped, looked at my bruised body and sighed, as if in regret. Then he went to his bench and returned with a second batten. He used them simultaneously to beat both sides of my body. The effect of the wood smacking my abs had dulled by them, but when he switched to my ribs, the pain was excruciating. I'm ashamed to say that I gasped, quite loudly. My torturer smiled, then hit me again. I managed better control of my responses the second time, but it was difficult. My struggle to remain silent was obvious. That made him smile again, for it was a sign, a small one, that I was losing, and he was winning. We both knew that, and I trembled inside. 

Before he left to take his lunch, he signed off with the battens by rasping their rough cut edges across my body like a saw. My bruised skin was repeatedly pricked and punctured by splinters, with many of them breaking off and sticking in me. He was playing a childish game, but left me with widespread soreness that returned every time I stretched to relieve the stress of the prolonged restraint.

After he had gone, to my surprise, the Guards took me down and gave me a small but nourishing meal. I ate it appreciatively, imagining that someone, at least, wanted to keep me alive. But for what? As soon as I had finished, they tied me up again.

 

10

When the torturer returned, the games continued. It was clear he was beginning to enjoy the task of wearing me down, waiting for me to crack. He was relying on time and repeated attacks to persuade me, rather than extreme wounding. This time he took up a wooden paddle with which to torment me. 

I'd experienced the paddle before. It looks slightly comical, but its flat surface produces a wider spread of pain. The holes in it ensure that air making way for its delivery do not impair the impact. It is most effective on large muscle groups and so is widely used for buttock spanking. Naturally, my Trainers hadn't spared me that experience and humiliation, although they claimed to think it beneath them. I wasn't convinced about that after experiencing their efforts, but my torturer seemed to share their view, he made no move to turn me round to feel its sting on my behind. Instead, he applied it to my pecs and thighs, two areas which had largely escaped his attention in the morning.  

Vast new areas of fiery pain erupted to torment me.

 

11

 It was a long, long day and it left me raw, bruised and physically exhausted. My borrowed underpants were sopping wet from profuse perspiration, but thankfully, the relatively low level of brutality had spared me the humiliation of losing all control of my organs. I was glad it was over, but, tomorrow would be another day of torment and before that, I faced another night at the mercy of the Guards.

 

 Day 5

 

 

12

 

My Guards must have lost interest in me that night, for I slept right through. There had been visitors, I could tell, for when I awoke, my underwear was round my ankles and there were deposits on my skin. But I hadn't been treated badly enough to wake me up. Perhaps some other unfortunate soul had claimed the attention of the brutalisers. 

 

As usual, the Guards took me straight from my cell to the interrogation room after I had eaten. This time, however, instead of tying me to the cross or a post, they simply shackled my ankles, tethered my wrists to a dangling chain and left me standing in the middle of the room. I stood like that for about an hour, puzzling over this turn of events. Had something happened? Was my torture ended?

 

These foolish thoughts were immediately extinguished when my tormentor returned to resume his painstaking exploration of my inner reserves. To my horror, he was brandishing a bull-whip which made the reason for the changed restraints perfectly clear - he was going to work all over my body and wanted no obstacles to impair his lashes. The ploy of keeping me waiting had softened me up nicely, for I immediately began to tremble with fear. He gleefully used the stock of the whip to lift my chin and make his usual request, was I going to talk?

 

13

 

It took all my courage to refuse once again. 

Seconds later, the whip fell across my body and all the previous bruises re-erupted.

It was just the start of a slow-paced barrage of lashes that spared no part of my body. 

14

 

Before long, I was on my knees blubbering. 

But I had the strength to refuse to give in and tell them what I knew.

 

15

 

My reward was a barrage of kicking and whiplashes which sent me sprawling. 

I lost consciousness.

 

16

 

I can recall very little of what happened after that. I woke up in a primitive, wooden shack with 3 other prisoners. They nursed me back to some semblance of health, until my captors decided I was fit to work in the quarry, which was just outside our hut. This is the place I now call home.

As soon as I was able, I searched for my missing comrade, the man whose underpants I still wore, but I did not find him, only more strangers, most of whom did not speak my language. As I became better acquainted with my new companions, I was able to join in their secret, nightly intimacies, which were unexpectedly tender and comforting. Necessarily so, because of the patrolling guards who might otherwise hear us. 

In reality, though, my only real bond with them is our experience of the Orange Room, of which none of us ever speak. Whether I broke and talked or kept my silence until they gave up trying, I cannot say. It doesn't matter, because I know for sure that my mission ended in failure. It gives me no comfort to have escaped death when my other comrades may well have perished, for I have still paid a terrible price for my failure.

 

17

It's hard work, breaking the stones and carrying them to the collection point where the lorries come to pick them up. I soon discovered that slackers quickly feel the whip, and that invoked such terrible memories for me that I take care not to provoke the overseers if I can help it.

I think about escaping sometimes, but the fire in my belly has gone out. The fear of more, remorseless punishment has finally quenched my spirit. My comrades seem to feel the same, although none of us talk of our past lives or what we endured to get to here. I am one of the lucky ones, supposedly. 

So I wield my sledgehammer and count the hours 'til the next meal, which is usually quite nourishing and designed to keep us alive and working. The alternative would be starvation rations until we die. 

I'm not sure which is the worse fate of the two. 

 ~

Imagery for this story is from 'Mercenary Nick' at Real Chained Heroes.

The star is 'Robert' flaunting his fabulous physique. 

Go to Part 1

 

Mercenary Nick - Part 1

 Day 1

 

At first, everything went exactly to plan. I travelled to the capital on a normal commercial flight and booked into my hotel without any trouble. Our contacts had arranged a room that overlooked the head-quarters of The Organisation, which I had been sent to penetrate and destroy. 

 

I freshened up with a shower and changed into my combat pants, ready for action that evening, then I took up position at the window and observed the comings and goings. My plan was to wait until midnight and then enter through a service door at the rear, which it had been arranged would be left unlocked for me. 

 

1

 

Night had begun to fall, and the office staff were leaving, but the real work of the Organisation would continue after the exodus, in the so-called 'Orange Rooms' where they would be interrogating suspects, out of sight. Many of our men had gone through those doors and never been seen again. I was about to risk joining them. A cold shiver ran up my spine, but I quickly dismissed the negative thought.

I rang Room Service for a snack and while I waited and diverted myself by wondering if it would be brought by a handsome waiter in a cute, tight-fitting outfit. There was time for a little relief before I commenced my mission. Or so I thought. But when I answered the knock on the door, I found four, ugly goons waiting outside. They barged in, seized me and took me down with professional ease. I felt the sharp stab of a needle in my neck and within seconds lost consciousness.

 

Day 2

 

2

When I woke, I was stretched out on a bare table with my wrists handcuffed above my head and my feet shackled together. Above me, an orange light burned. My stomach immediately churned with fear as I realised where I was. Beside me, an interrogator was already waiting, stroking my body appreciatively, like a trainer examining a fine stallion or a butcher selecting his meat. 

His touch was ice-cold and I shuddered. 

 

 

3

Seeing that I was awake, he introduced himself with the strange, polite formality that still persists in that part of the world. He explained that he was searching my body for hidden electronic devices, adding that anything he found embedded beneath my skin would be prised out with his favourite tool - a commonplace screwdriver. He showed it to me, wondering if I might like to direct him to the hiding places and so avoid unnecessary pain.

 

 

4

I had no hidden devices, I was totally alone. But he would expect me to say that, so I stayed silent and tried to prepare myself for indiscriminate butchery. He laughed as if reading my fear and swapped the screwdriver for a brush-like scanner device. It would detect and disrupt any electronics, he said, but as it passed scratchily over my body I was subjected to burning stabs of electricity that seemed to pepper my flesh like shotgun pellets. I'm ashamed to say that I cried out in pain and surprise. 

That seemed to please him.

 

 

5

Then suddenly he stopped and said, “Ah, what have we here?” 

“Nothing!” I gasped through the pain, as he crushed my seared pectoral with his tools. 

He looked at me and nodded, registering my first moment of weakness. Then he proceeded to probe the area with his tools for several minutes, in search of subcutaneous gadgetry that didn't exist. I squirmed in agony, anticipating the crude rupture of my flesh. But he was just playing games with me, eventually he laughed, then put down his tools and left, saying that he would send someone else to examine my inner cavities. 

 

 ~ 

 I can hardly bear to describe what followed. After a long wait stretched out, shivering on the table, a man dressed like a Doctor came to me. He put his hand and various instruments into my mouth to search inside. Then he pulled down my pants and repeated the process between my legs. I could feel him inside me. My ears and eyes and even my penis were probed by his instruments. His searches were both thorough and lengthy, but there was nothing for him to find. Eventually, he left.

 

After he'd gone, it wasn't long before the guards took the opportunity to assess their new prisoner and gloat. Multiple invasive humiliations followed, peppered with slaps and punches, long into the night. I had sampled many such things during my training, but now discovered that even the most determined of my instructors had not to managed to simulate the profound depths of sleazy, violent lust unleashed on me that night. When they finally tired of abusing my unresisting body, they abandoned me to exhaustion. But there was little chance of sleep for me, tightly restrained on the hard table. 

Just the dismal knowledge that I was quite, quite alone.

Day 3

 

 

6

Early the next morning, I was released from the table and taken to another cell, where I was strung up by my wrists. There the guards soused my body with water, cleaning away the residue of their abuse.

A short time later, my original interrogator returned. 

 

He made his intentions clear by knocking me off my feet with a hard punch in the solar plexus before even a word had been spoken. The blow caught me by surprise and I collapsed in great pain. But as I tried to get back on my feet, fearing he would start kicking me, he grabbed my hair and held me down, ridiculing my attempts to stay strong.

 

He said he expected me to stay loyal to my unit, but assured me that eventually I would break and talk. His arrogance re-kindled my resistance, as he knew it would. He told me the higher I rode, the further I would fall - for fall I most certainly would.

 

 

7

The guards hauled me back to my feet using the wrist chains, so I was virtually hanging, standing on tip toe, fully stretched. The interrogator taunted me once again, introducing my torturer, black-clad and armed with a whip. I contemplated spitting in their faces, then thought better of it, only to chide myself for my cowardice. 

 

When the first lash of the whip landed squarely on my back, it was almost a relief. I had been trained for this and knew how to endure it. But my training also told me, from the first blow, that my torturer was using a heavily weighted one. The sheer force of its impact jolted my body. I would have been knocked down if not for the restraints digging into my wrists. I sensed he was an expert with his weapon too, and he proceeded to prove it as he whipped my helpless body with a slow, measured pace. He spaced each blow, allowing none of the searing, penetrating pain to be submerged by over-enthusiastic overlays. Despite my agonised bucking and twisting, he made not a single miss-hit. 

 

Eventually the interrogator, who had been watching my performance closely, signalled the torturer to stop. He asked if I was ready to talk, but it was a formality, we both knew that. There was a long way to go. He simply nodded at my silence and left me hanging to contemplate the raging pain of my ravaged back. I watched the whip man cleaning his weapon as best he could, feeding its suppleness with oil, so it was ready to embrace another body, probably mine again. He looked at me occasionally as he worked, showing neither emotion nor pity. I imagined he was measuring me against all the other men who had danced under his fiery kiss. 

 

Eventually, he carefully wound his whip up and packed it into its bag. He left me, hanging alone in the darkened cell and there I stayed until nightfall was announced by the return of my lecherous guards who silently pawed my weary body and bathed my wounds with their rasping tongues. 

 

~ Continued in Part 2 ~

Targeted

 

 The mystery deepened when Ben complained to the manager. They didn't have a room laundry service, who might have taken his clothes, he said, but he would investigate what the CCTV had picked up. Meanwhile, Ben would have to vacate his room since it was already booked by someone else that night. However, he could stay in the resident's lounge for as long as it took, free of charge. That was just as well, since Ben didn't have money to pay his bill or even a phone to call anyone any more. The hotel had a phone, of course, but who remembers other people's numbers these days? Ben didn't. He just had to wait and see what the Manager came up with. The idea that this might take days rather than hours disturbed him.

It wasn't as though they were comfortable panties either, the lace felt very rough on Ben's nether regions. If he didn't keep still, it rubbed his balls mercilessly. The narrow string up the back did the same thing to his crack, because it was stretched tight by his efforts to keep his junk contained in the tiny pouch at the front. It didn't feel much more comfortable if he stood up and walked around either, and then he knew everyone was looking at him and probably thinking things about him, which he'd rather they didn't. 

 

The Resident's Lounge was surprisingly busy considering it was a bright, sunny day outside. The hotel seemed to have a disproportionate number of ageing gentlemen as residents, many of whom thought slapping his bottom playfully as he passed would cheer him up. When he was out of his seat, he had to keep a vigilant lookout to see if anyone was creeping up behind him.

He hovered around the Manager's Office for a while, hoping for a development. There seemed to be much jollity going on inside, but no news about his missing belongings. He couldn't even go for a walk to pass the time, and no-one offered to lend him clothes to wear, except one old man who offered an unappealing, dirty raincoat. There wasn't any shortage of people wanting to talk to him, of course, he constantly had to shoo away loiterers, but all the attention made him feel worse. He returned to his seat to find it occupied. None of the others were vacant either, although several gentlemen kindly offered him their knee to sit on. He thought it best to decline these offers and found a newspaper to read, leaning with his back to the wall.

As the day wore on, the prospect of spending the night in the lounge loomed larger and larger, and he became increasingly agitated and sought out the manager again, demanding he do something. Eventually the Police were called and one arrived an hour later - in plain clothes, surprisingly. Naturally, they had other priorities on a Friday night, he said. He advised him not to go out after dark. Folks round here don't go in for that sort of thing, he said, nodding at Ben's lacy bulge. Ben flushed with embarrassment. 

 

Ben had no choice but to reconcile himself to spending the night on a settee in the Guest Lounge. The room was still quite crowded with old men, but he found a safe seat and watched TV until 'News at Ten', hoping that when it finished, they would all disappear to bed. But they didn't, there was some sort of discussion going on, quite heated. Eventually, one of them approached him and offered him the chance to take a shower in his room. Ben accepted gratefully, taking the chance to wash out his G-string in the warm, refreshing spray. 

 

When he emerged, the gentleman was already in his double bed, asleep. Ben stole to the door, but to his horror found it was locked. "I wouldn't go back down there" his host advised sagely from the bed, "it's not safe for you". Something in his tone suggested he wasn't just talking about tactile sleepwalkers. "You'll be much safer staying here with me" he said, most emphatically, and his words struck Ben quite forcefully. "Just take my word for it" the man said gravely as he peeled open the cover on the unoccupied side of the bed.

 

Ben stared at him and the bed. But his courage failed him. He looked round for the door key but couldn't see it. He tried the door again, hoping it had changed its mind about being locked. Finally, thinking about the cold, dark lounge downstairs, he looked back at the inviting bed. 

"Come on lad, you must be feeling tired, get into bed", the gentleman said kindly, "I won't eat you".

 

But he did, and that wasn't all he did, but he did it so nicely, it didn't seem to matter to Ben.

The night sped by in the strangest manner. 

 

~

 

For other 'Targets' at mitchmen, click on the post label below

The Lost Patrol

 

01

 A group of dejected, captured soldiers are being led through the jungle.
Their hands are tied behind their backs. Their shirts and boots have been taken from them.

 

 

02

As they march, their captor beats them on the shoulders with a riding crop.  

 

 

03

Deeper and deeper into the forest they trek, urged on by their masked escort's blows.

 

04

Their army comrades and the life they knew are left further and further behind.

 

 

05

Eventually, the cruel guard stops for a rest.

The exhausted men sink down onto the ground.
 

 

06

But there's no respite from punishment for the captives. 

The soldier who asked for the rest receives special attention for his insolence,

 and for lagging behind at the end of the file, as they marched.

 

 

07

His burly comrade protests and is given the same treatment.

The other two lie on the ground, hands tied, looking on helplessly.

 

 

 

08

The guard takes them through the gate, into a farm building which seems to be abandoned.

Inside, he strings them up and begins to brutally interrogate them. 

 

 

09

After many hours questioning and punishment, they are let down.

Hog-tied on the floor, sleep finally brings a merciful respite to the exhausted men. 

 

 

10

But all too soon it's daybreak again.

The sound of suffering wakes them from bad dreams. 

 

 

11

The captives are taken outside and forced to kneel submissively.

They are not alone, other captives can be heard grunting and protesting.

 

12

'The Complainer' is taken away, tied to a yoke, that exposes his back.

His captors lead him past an elegant, swimming pool.

This isn't an old, abandoned farm, but a rich man's villa. 

13

His comrades hear the sound of the whip, but cannot intervene to help him. 

Their feet are tied together so they cannot rise off their knees.

After an hour of kneeling in bondage, their own bodies begin to suffer.

 

 

 

14

Complaining to their captors only hastens their first acquaintance with the flogger.

They are still unaware that they have become a rich man's playthings.

 

 

15

In the days that follow, punishment becomes a familiar routine.

Their captors now seem more interested in tormenting, rather than questioning them.

That and inventing new ways to tie them up. 

 

16

The restraints change, but the pain remains the same.

 

 

17

 

The men get brief periods of rest when others are selected for maltreatment.

But there's a steady stream of fresh tormentors arriving every day.

They never seem to tire of their sport.

 

 

 

18

Seeing other members of their unit, who have also been brought to this terrible place,

makes the men increasingly despair of ever being rescued.  

 

19

Those who manage to escape are brought back in chains.

Only hastily grabbed sleep allows them any relief from the ordeal

 

 

20

 

But all too soon, there's someone else who wants them.

 

 

21

In the midst of endless, frenzied activity.

The men learn the true meaning of loneliness.

 

 ~

 

These splendid images of military bondage have been sent to me by a group of Mexican bodybuilders who are exploring the making of videos with themes of captivity and punishment, rather like the storyettes of Royale Studio in the 50s. They say "we all are straight men but willing to offer attractive scenes to a gay audience". I should add that the grim story line I have used for this montage is mine not theirs. 

 

You can view a trailer at Mission in Jeopardy

More about the group's founder on Instagram @velamusclebuilding

To Serve Is Pleasure

A1

From Curiosity to Submission: 

The Transformation of Fraser

SERVE-625 moved through the city streets with precision, his posture upright and controlled. Beneath the neoprene hoodie and slim athletic joggers he wore, the tight black rubber of his SERVE uniform clung to him like a second skin. Every step reminded him of his purpose, though the faint squeak of his concealed suit was audible only to his own ears.

A2

 

The grocery store was crowded, but Fraser navigated it effortlessly and efficiently, picking out what he wanted and ignoring distracting offers. He had lunch to cook for a guest. As he hurriedly exited the store, bag in hand, he collided with a man who was passing by. 

“Sorry about that!” he exclaimed, glancing up. Then recognition lit his face. “Oh, hi Ricky!”

The man was a familiar face from the gym. He nodded and replied coolly,
“Acknowledged. No harm done.”

“Nice hoodie,” Fraser said, his eyes lingering on the material. “What’s it made of?”

There was a slight hesitation before Ricky replied. Almost if he was weighing his response.
“It’s a neoprene rubber composite, Fraser. Durable, comfortable, versatile”.
He sounded more friendly now.

Fraser’s eyes widened. “That’s awesome.” He stroked the material with his fingers. 
“I love it! Where did you get this?”

Ricky nodded knowingly, rubber had that effect on some men.
“It's from a nearby store. It has your size. I *will* take you.”

Fraser had intended to finish his errands quickly and go home, but Ricky spoke with such assertiveness that he didn't hesitate to follow him as he set off towards the store. As they walked, Ricky explained that his rubber clothing was an important part of who he was, almost an ideology, he laughed. It had to do with unity, precision, and purpose.

Fraser chuckled, but his curiosity grew. “You’re really selling it”, he said.

“Wearing it enhances focus and clarity”, Ricky asserted. “You *will* enjoy it.”

Fraser felt convinced that he probably would.

By the time they arrived at the store,  called 'SERVE', he was eager to see more.

A3

The store looked like an ordinary clothes shop outlet from outside, but as they entered, Fraser marvelled at the many racks of rubber and neoprene garments he saw, his senses were assailed by the smell emanating from them. He barely registered the faint, hypnotic hum that filled the air, carrying subliminal whispering.

Fraser was immediately drawn to a display featuring neoprene garments just like Ricky's. “I have to try one of these on”, he said, his voice almost dazed. He grabbed a rubber hoodie and headed for the fitting room. Inside it, hypnotic spirals danced across the walls, accompanied by more of the soft whispers. Fraser’s breathing quickened as he tried the hoodie on and absorbed the atmosphere. But he was disappointed when he looked in the mirror. It didn't look as good on him as it had on Ricky.

When he emerged, the hoodie was forgotten and rejoining Ricky, he pointed to a full-body, rubber suit which was on display. “Can I try that instead?” he asked, his voice unsteady but eager. 
“It won't seem silly, will it?”

Without hesitation, Ricky lifted the bottom of his hoodie, revealing the glistening black surface of his rubber suit underneath. Fraser’s eyes widened, his mouth fell slightly open. “Wow. That’s incredible.”

Ricky nodded. “Affirmative. You *will* find it... transformative.” 

He picked a suit out and accompanied Fraser to the fitting rooms, where the atmosphere and visual effects immediately enveloped the young man's senses once more. He took off all of his street clothes and underwear, dropping them into a basket the store had helpfully provided. Once naked, he was eager to get into the suit, it took some effort, but once it was on, it clung to his form and wearing it felt so right for him. It was all he needed. The glossy surface reflected the transformation he felt, both physical and mental.

A4

 

Minutes later, Fraser stepped back out into the shop, his lean form encased in the gleaming rubber suit. His eyes were wide, his expression one of awe. “This... this feels incredible.” he said, staring at another shopper who nodded back in agreement.

“Rubber binds us together. It is our perfection. We are all part of the Hive. You feel it now, don’t you?”

Fraser nodded, almost hypnotized. “I do. I need this.”

He did not notice the faint clunk behind him, as the basket in the changing room emptied, 
dropping his old clothes through the bottom into an underground bin.

A5

 

Ricky and Fraser left the store together, with Fraser still proudly clad in his new bodysuit.
Ricky took him straight to the nearby SERVE Hive-Hub. 
Inside, he underwent the full initiation process. 
Hypnotic inductions erased his old identity, replacing it with unwavering devotion to the Hive. 

 

A6

When the process was complete, Fraser emerged as SERVE-632, his body gleaming in polished black rubber, his mind a perfect extension of the Hive’s will. SERVE-625 observed the transformation with communal satisfaction.

“Welcome, SERVE-632,” Ricky said. “You are one with us now. I am SERVE-625”

SERVE-632 bowed his head. “Obedience is pleasure. Pleasure is obedience. I am ready to serve.”

Together, SERVE-625 and SERVE-632 exited the hive-hub, their polished forms glinting in the sunlight. They moved as one, through the city streets, ready to spread the Hive’s perfection further. They walked with precision, their postures upright and controlled. The tight black rubber of their SERVE uniforms clung to them like a second skin. Every step reminded them of their purpose, the faint squeak of their suits audible only to their own ears. 

Another mission complete, 625 reflected, knowing that he had served the Hive well.

~

 I was thrilled when I found this story on tumblr, it's a new twist on the themes I often promote here and a perfect complement to the recently published article, featuring the drone imagery of Hijaden, as well as the longer term, mitchmen theme of enslavement fantasies. I have adapted the text (apologies to the author) to a slightly different perspective, that of the victim, rather than the predator. This is not intended to take anything away from his great story and images. If you like my version, I urge you to go and read his original too, it reads very differently and will fill gaps in my adaptation. In any case, you must visit his serve-625 blog at tumblr which is steeped in the unsettling ideas which form the basis for this tale.

*VISIT* SERVE-632's tumblr blog to find out what SERVE stands for and see more items in this vein

and don't forget to *READ* his, original telling of this story.

Targeted - Collar and Tie

 

Dave and Sam normally spent New Year in front of the TV.

They reckoned it was the best way to enjoy all the fireworks.

But this year they got a surprise, personal invitation to a private party.

It came from 'John', but they could guess which John it was.

The black dress code was a slightly daunting to Sam, 

but Dave, who mixed in classy circles, was perfectly relaxed.

Plus, there was to be a spectacular display at midnight.

So they thought, Why Not?  Enjoy the change. 

Something out of their comfort zone, you might say.

The venue was already busy with guests when they arrived.

They didn't spot John amongst the crowd but  

they were immediately offered free drinks and food,

so they were soon enjoying the party atmosphere.

 

About half past eleven, anticipation and excitement was rising.

Dave and Sam were both feeling distinctly mellow.

Then someone called for silence, he had an announcement to make.

He asked for the Guests of Honour to come to the stage. 

 

Dave and Sam discovered it was they who were the Guests of Honour,

a group of burly men closed in and frog-marched them to the front.

Gazing out at the crowd, they realised they were all dressed in black leather.

But any feeling of being over-dressed was quickly taken away from them.

In fact, all their clothes were taken away from them, by muscular attendants.

They weren't exactly in good shape to resist, but tried their best.

The crowd appreciated their efforts and wild cheering broke out

as they were buckled into wrist suspension bars and their arms hoisted high.

 

In a final dramatic gesture, their attackers removed their underwear.

Sam cursed loudly as his new, Christmas, designer briefs were cut open.  

It was little consolation when they were replaced by soiled jock straps

 donated by audience members in the front row, their pouches still warm.

Thanking the donors, the MC reminded them of the Charity Auction

which would enable them to recover their property (with added interest!)

The front row audibly dissented, convinced that some rich bastard

would inevitably carry off the star prizes to some distant part of the globe.

'Big Ben' was invited to come to the stage to 'officiate' the midnight rites

The Guests of Honour would lead the count-down to the strokes of midnight.

That's 12 strokes each of course, he cackled, to uproarious laughter.

'Black Jack' was summoned to be his assistant and synchronise

Dave just had time to apologise to Sam before Big Ben gagged them both

So that they might bear the ritual strokes safely and with dignity.

Their only consolation was to be in the front row for the 'fireworks'.

But in all honesty, it would probably have been better on the TV at home.

 

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for other captions, click on the 'mitchmods' label below