This week's "throwback" piece is Camp Alpha by Fledermaus with art by Cavelo. Col. Brad Crawford runs a prisoner of war camp. His specific job is to extract much needed information from captured POWs. He is brutal and effective. The men he interrogates are young, brave and totally at his mercy!

Camp Alpha - Part 1
by Fledermaus
Art by Cavelo
Series: Camp Alpha
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Col. Brad Crawford runs a prisoner of war camp. His specific job is to extract much needed information from captured POWs. He is brutal and effective. The men he interrogates are young, brave and totally at his mercy!

15 July 1976

The sun beat down on the parched earth and glinted off a gun barrel in the watchtower. Outside the tangled barbed wire that formed the compound a barren strip ten feet wide gave way to stunted oaks and juniper All was silent. Even the birds had sought refuge from the midday heat.

Inside the wire the dusty compound was empty except for four silent men.

Three of them knelt in the lull sunlight, their bare backs bronzed by long exposure to the semi-desert sun. Perspiration ran in rivulets down their chests and stained the khaki trousers that hung low on their lean hips. The face of each of the three was set in a tight grimace as the one-inch dowel on which they knelt threatened to separate their knee caps from their legs. The muscles of their torsos twitched as they strained to hold their spines rigid and keep their arms extended straight up above their heads, fighting the weight of the large rock clenched in each uplifted hand.

The fourth man stood behind the three in the slight shade offered by the overhanging roof of a building. His olive green uniform was stained in several areas where perspiration plastered the cloth to his muscular young body He silently wished he could be back in the relative coolness of his barracks, but he kept his gaze steadily trained on the three straining backs before him.

As the center torso began to relax and the arms dropped a few inches beneath the weight of the rocks, the man in green stepped forward, raised his arm, and brought his leather strap down lightly across the youth's back. Only the crack of leather against human flesh and the gasp of surprise and pain from the recipient for the blow disturbed the silence. But all three kneeling figures tensed their muscles and retained their rigid posture.

From the window of his air conditioned office, Lt. Col. Bradford Crawford, U.S. Army Intelligence, watched the silent tableau in the compound. He studied the three kneeling men and again marveled at the infinite variation in the male human body.

The man closest to him was a red-haired giant, his bulging muscles barely straining under their load and his rough, chiseled face set in a fixed stare on some distant point as the sweat dripped from the uplifted chin to the dense, curly russet hair on his chest. The center figure was as small as the redhead was large; a slender, barely pubescent youth, his tangled and matted blond hair hung down over a face contorted in agony and his thin, naked chest heaved as the guard slashed at his back with the strap. The third man was short and stocky and dark. His eyes were tightly closed and his lower lip was trapped between clenched teeth. The olive tint of his skin was apparent even through the weathered tan of his sparsely haired chest.

Brad slowly drew on his cigarette and watched the slender blond. He had almost dropped the rocks; but after a relatively light tap from the guard's strap, he had regained his balance. But he won't last long, Brad thought as he watched the agonized features.

As if to provide instant confirmation, the youth's arms dropped, letting the rocks fall. The other two men stiffened and concentrated on keeping their bodies in control as the green-clothed guard again stepped forward from his shade and poised his strap.

The bulge in Brad's crotch grew slightly as the crack of leather on sunburned skin was followed by the blond youth's scream. Again and again the strap fell and Brad's hand massaged the bulge between his legs as he watched.

He was distracted from the scene in the compound by a knock on his office door. Sgt. Podolski entered and said, "The search team just returned with three more. They're in the receiving shed."

"Tell them I'm on my way," Brad responded. From the courtyard he heard the blond youth scream again as he left his office.

The room was sweltering. The three prisoners were hot and exhausted, the remnants of their U.S. Air Force uniforms hung in tatters from their last few days in the dense brush of the surrounding countryside.

The captain glared at Brad through grimy half-closed eyes and the muscles of his square jaw tightened in defiance. Fragments of dried juniper needles clung to his short-cropped hair and the slice of sun-bronzed chest exposed through a rip in his shirt was as taut as the muscles straining at the cuffs holding his hands behind his back.

"Where'd you find them?" Brad asked the lieutenant who had headed the search team. As the lieutenant described a dense juniper thicket on the side of a distant mountain and explained the circumstance of capture, Brad looked over the copilot and navigator.

The former was a slender youth barely out of flight school. His head hung on his chest and he didn't look at his captors. A large rip on the inside of one of his pant legs revealed a thigh so thickly haired that even Brad was surprised. The navigator was a large black man who's bare ebony chest glistened with sweat even through the grime.

"What information have you gotten from them?" Brad asked the lieutenant. "They refused to give anything other than name, rank and serial number." "Oh," said Brad, addressing the captain, "you're going to pull that Geneva Convention shit! Well this isn't Geneva and you're not here for a convention. You are prisoners of war. I want to know where you were based, where you were headed when your plane was shot down and many other things. You'd best talk now and save yourselves a whole lot of grief"

"We're not telling you anything further," said the captain through clenched teeth.

"Maybe you didn't understand me. You are going to tell. It is just a question of whether you make us work to get it, and, I should add, we enjoy our work."

"I'll bet you do, you sadistic bastard!" The captain spat out. Brad's hand connected with the square jaw and the pilot's head pivoted with the impact. Before he could lunge at his attacker, two of the guards gripped the captain's bound arms and held him firmly as the colonel's hand slashed back and forth against the unshaven face.

With one quick jerk Brad ripped open the pilot's shirt exposing a broad, sparsely haired chest. With a few more tugs, the shirt hung in shreds from where it was trapped between the broad belt and lean waist.

"Take him in there and string him up by his wrists," Brad commanded, motioning towards a door at the rear. "Perhaps a little flogging will improve his manners."

"How about you?" Brad bellowed, turning to the trembling young copilot. "I've nothing to say Sir," mumbled the youth, still staring at the floor.

Brad gripped a handful of sandy hair and jerked the kid's head up. "Look at me when I talk to you!" he snapped. Are you going to answer our questions?

Fear shined in the youth's eyes, but he again managed to mumble, "No, Sir." "Oh God, aren't you a brave one!" Brad said sarcastically Then with a jerk of his hand still buried in the youth's hair, he propelled the slender form towards the sergeant. "Strip him," he commanded, turning towards the navigator.

The black man stood rigidly staring straight into space. Brad repeated his questions but received in response only silence. "I asked you a question!" Brad roared, but still the black man did not move a muscle.

"I think this one's died and is just too stubborn to fall down," he said to Lt. Silverstein as he lit a cigarette. After a few puffs he passed the glowing tip close to the navigator's chest. The smell of singed hair filled the hot room. Fresh perspiration flowed from the black man's brow and his body became more rigid, but he didn't flinch.

Brad singed the wiry hair encircling one firm nipple, then pressed the red ember against the chocolate tit. The black man's eyes closed, his face contorted in pain and he took in a sharp breath but he didn't step back or try to escape the burning cigarette.

Brad smiled in appreciation. "This one's going to be a tough nut to crack," he said to the lieutenant.

Silverstein unfastened the motionless navigator's belt and pushed the pants and shorts down over the lean black hips. Pushing the long, thick cock to one side, he gripped the low-hanging scrotum. "Maybe that's what we'll have to do," he said chuckling. "Crack his nuts!"

Brad watched the navigator's jaw tremble as the lieutenant's grip tightened on the sensitive sac, but otherwise the face and body remained as rigid as an ebony carving.

"Cracking his nuts may be the answer," Brad responded, "but not right now We'll have plenty of time to soften that nigger's hide. Tie him to that post."

"And tie him to this one," Brad said to the sergeant holding the now-naked copilot. As the trembling youth was lashed to the post, Brad laughed and pointed to the small, fear-shriveled cock between the kid's furry legs. "I don't think we have a nut cracker small enough for this one," he called to the lieutenant.

"Christ," said Silverstein, coming up for a closer look. "I'm not sure there are even any nuts there to crack."

"They're there. They're just lost in all that fur. Chaplain, I thought I told you to strip this kid. It looks like you got his shirt off," Brad said, pointing to the completely hairless chest, "but damned if it doesn't look like he's still got his pants on."

"I stripped him, Sir," responded Sgt. Chaplain. "He's just got the furriest damned legs and crotch I've ever seen. But if you want, I'll get my razor and get rid of that hair."

Tears streamed down the bound youth's cheeks as his captors ridiculed and threatened him. He bit his lip to keep from crying aloud.

"We'll get the hair off," Brad responded, "but pulling it out one by one might be more interesting than shaving. First though, I have some business to attend to in the other room," he said as he selected a three-foot whip of braided leather from the assortment of similar instruments hanging on the wall.

Col. Brad Crawford closed the door and stood silently for a few moments admiring the bronzed back stretched taunt before him. The captain hung by his wrists in the center of the small room, his feet spread wide and lashed to rings set in the concrete floor.

Brad circled around in front of his captive and pushed the heavy butt of the whip into the suspended man's crotch. The bulge beneath the tight pants grew as Brad massaged it with the whip handle.

"Damn you, Brad, you know that makes me hot!"

Brad laughed. "Why the hell do you think I'm doing it! I've been wanting to see that big cock hard in front of me for months. How did you get them to send you back here?"

"Well, I guess I'm just about one of the best pupils you ever put through your training camp. Washington knows that-but I don't think they know why. Anyway I was able to convince them that if this place was really going to function like a true prison camp, you had to have some planted informers. After all, if any of the special forces or secret agency men you process really do get captured, informers are something they will have to put up with.

"But what did they say when you volunteered? Didn't they wonder why you wanted to subject yourself to this place again?"

"It was just my patriotic duty Captain Laurence Willis, super patriot, willing to go through hell all over again for the good of his country! At least that's the line I sold to those stuffed shirts with the stars in Washington. They're all either too straight or too nelly to even imagine that I'd want to come here for a love of something else."

"Yeah, and speaking of 'something else'," said Brad, rubbing a loop of the whip over Larry's taut chest, "I came in here to flog a foul-mouthed pilot. If you're going to be a successful informer, you have to go out of here with some nice red whip marks."

"A!! in the line of duty Sir. As long as before I go out of here, I also get that thick cock bulging in your crotch rammed up my ass."

"Don't give me any conditions, Captain," Brad said as he stepped back and snaked the length of the whip across the suspended man's bare chest. "You let yourself in for this and now you'll take exactly what I decide to give-no more, no less."

Again and again the whip fell. Larry cried out as the tip sliced into a nipple, but both the flogger and the flogged knew the whipping was mild, just enough to leave some marks for the others to see.

Brad removed his victim's belt and pushed the trousers down the muscular legs as far as their spread would allow, thus exposing a rigid, uncircumcised cock that immediately sprang up from the confining cloth and protruded straight out from a thicket of curly crotch hair.

"How in the hell do you expect to give a convincing performance as the tortured captive with that rod on?" Brad asked, tapping the rigid column.

"You know damned well that a lot of the guys get hard-ons when you're working them over-and I bet plenty of them get it for the same reason I do too"

"And what reason is that?" Brad asked, slashing the whip hard across the firm, well-rounded ass.

"Because I like it," said Larry between gasps of pain. "Because I like having you torment and punish me." He screamed as Brad brought the whip down harder than ever against his back, drawing blood. "Fuck me!" Larry pleaded. "Please fuck me. It's been so long since I've had your cock up my ass."

Brad laid one last stroke across the broad back then ripped open his pants and pulled out his long hard cock. The red head dropped in anticipation as it drove towards the crack between the stretched legs.

Larry screamed in pain and pleasure as the long rod entered him and Brad's hands wrapped around his waist to jerk at his cock and balls. Brad pumped his hips and hand simultaneously back and forth into the tight ass and over the hard cock, while his other hand viciously jerked and twisted at his victim's balls.

They came at the same time. Larry's hot load splattered several feet in front of him on the concrete floor as another wad of cum was projected up into his gut.

From the inner room the sound of unintelligible shouts mingled with the crack of leather against human flesh. The young copilot trembled from head to toe and even the big black man showed signs of fright.

They had known when they volunteered that prison training camp was going to be rough, but neither of them had expected the kind of torture that was now going on in the adjacent room. Both wondered it they could take it without cracking. If they cracked, if they gave out the important piece of information that had been fed to them, they knew they would be washed up in special services.

As they heard leather strike flesh, they asked themselves how they would do. And their answers surprised them. The navigator began, for the first time, to consider the possibility that he might break. He might not be able to take it. For the first time, he wondered if the lieutenant's threat to crack his nuts really was just talk. The copilot, however, found his resolve solidifying. If the captain could take the kind of punishment he was now getting, then so could he.

Silverstein and Chaplain watched their two prisoners closely They saw the youth's expression change, and from experience knew that he was gaining a resolve they didn't want him to gain.

Chaplain selected a short whip from the wall and brought it down across the kid's chest lightly but hard enough to sting. "Still think this is a picnic?" he asked. "Now do you know we mean business?" He reached into the furry crotch and grabbed the shriveled scrotum, tugging lightly "We're going to break you!"

The youth pulled at the rope holding his neck firmly against the post and tugged at the bound wrists as the leering sergeant's fingers tightened on his balls. "You're going to tell us everything before we're through," Chaplain continued, "everything from what you were supposed to do next week, to what you had for breakfast last week, to how many times you let the guys at the Academy fuck your fuzzy ass!"

The door to the back room swung open and Brad emerged. Behind him the naked, whip-marked form of the captain hung limp in his bonds.

"Chaplain!" Brad barked. "Get your hands oft that kid's balls. I want the pleasure of working on them myself. Now get all three of these SOB's into solitary cells. We'll interrogate them later!"


1 Comment

  1. 31118azti - March 21, 2019, 9:29 am

    Rather a tame story!

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