Torture training continues on several recruits. Then the officers receive some disturbing news.

Camp Alpha - Part 3 (Page 1)
by Fledermaus
Art by Cavelo
Series: Camp Alpha
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Major Michael Kovaks tried to concentrate on just one thought. "It's almost over. I can hold out. I will hold out. Again and again he repeated these phrases to himself as he tried to close his mind to his present circumstances. He tried to ignore the bright lights that flashed randomly and without rhythm on the psychedelic painted walls and on the big, itching surfaces of his eyeballs under lids taped open. He tried to close his ears to the random screaming noises that pierced his brain. And above all, he tried to close his mind to the threats and demands, and the offers of peace and sleep in exchange for information, that Colonel Crawford and Lt. Silverstein shouted at him.

Brad motioned to Silverstein, who responded by turning a dial. The brightness of the lights increased, as did the pitch of the mind-shivering shrieks coming from the amplifier.

"What is Project Tamandua?" Brad shouted, his mouth inches from Kovak's ears. "Tell us about the operation; then you can sleep."

Mike bit his lips, perspiration oozing from his body; he repeated silently "It's almost over. I can hold out. I will hold out."

Again Brad motioned to Silverstein and as the Lieutenant flipped a switch, the chair began to tilt, shake, and spin wildly.

Mike felt as though his guts were being shoved up into his throat. The erratic lights and sounds and movements combined to confuse all his senses. He felt as though he was being torn to pieces, his mind and entrails exploding into cosmic space. Vomit welled up into his mouth and spilled down his muscular chest, forming a pool in his crotch. Then the lights went out, the noises stopped, and he was floating on cool, smooth breezes.

"Passed out again," Silverstein observed, cutting off the switches and removing his own dark glasses and earplugs. "But he's held up remarkably well."

Brad. glanced through the file on the table. "He sure as hell has. He's been one of our best pupils. He'll need it, though. He's going to Brazil for the CIA, and both the government and the revolutionaries there use techniques that make our little operation look like a fraternity initiation. Let him sleep for a few minutes, then wake him up and take him back to his cell. We'll check him out with honors tonight. Who's next?"

Silverstein consulted his notes, then looked up with a grin. "My favorite prisoner, Hamid Al-Robbae. Why you ever agreed to let that Arab in here I'll never know but I've got to admit there is no one I enjoy working on more.

"I didn't have much choice in the mailer. The Jordanian government talked the CIA into giving a couple of their agents special training, and this one found out about our program and demanded to be included. I'd like nothing better than to break that arrogant bastard. So let's get Kovaks out of here and start on the other one."

Silverstein bent to untie Mike's legs, but the sight of the congealed vomit trapped in the unconscious prisoner's crotch gave him another idea. "Hold on. Let's get the Arab in here to see Kovaks and get him cleaned up."

Brad grinned and ordered the guard at the door to bring in AI-Robbae.

The slender man stepped into the room and stood at attention. Clad only in the uniform pants, too tight and too short, he still managed to look dapper.

"OK, camel jock, are you ready to tell me all about your contacts?"

In response the Arab spat on the floor. He glared at Silverstein. "I will tell you nothing, Jew Pig!"

Brad's open palm slashed back and forth across the slender man's face, then dropped to the waistband of his pants and tugged down. "Drop 'em," he ordered.

Hamid obliged, exposing to his tormentors his slight but well proportioned body.

"On your knees," Silverstein commanded; but the Arab stood rigidly.

Brad planted a heavily booted foot on the small, brown ass and shoved. "The Lieutenant said 'on your knees'!"

As Hamid fell forward onto the rough-hewn floor, Silverstein planted a booted foot in the small of his back. "You got the floor dirty" he said, pointing to the glistening mound of spit. "Clean it up." When his command was ignored he slashed at the Arab's ass with a broad leather strap. "I said 'lick it up,' " he growled, punctuating each word with a crack of leather on flesh. Finally a small pink tongue appeared between the brown lips and licked at the glob of spittle.

Kneeling on the Arab's ass, Brad lashed his thin wrists together; then he passed the end of the rope up around the captive's neck and, drawing the bound arms high up his back, tied them in place. Hamid's eyes and tongue protruded as Brad jerked on the rope, pulling him to his knees. "Now since your tongue's had some practice, start licking those," he ordered, pointing to Kovaks' grimy feet.

Hamid hesitated only long enough to hear Silverstein's strap start into motion. Before it bit into his already burning ass, he had begun lapping at the Polack's toes. As he tongued both feet and then began his way up the hairy legs, Silverstein and Brad let loose a torrent of abuse and insults, ridiculing his stature, his virility his race, and his religion.

Reaching the sitting man's knees, Hamid saw for.the first time the pool of vomit between the big blond-haired thighs. He stopped and stared, fighting the urge to vomit himself.

"Keep going!" Brad commanded.

The slender smooth body began to quiver in a mixture of anger and disgust. Silverstein again lashed at the brown ass but Hamid just continued to stare at the long, limp cock seeming to float in a pool of puke.

Silverstein reached between the Arab's hairless thighs and his fingers encircled his scrotum. He twisted the sac viciously "Lick it up!" he commanded. "Lick it up or I'll twist your goddamn baits off!" he shouted, twisting and squeezing the prisoner's nuts.

Brad pushed the Arab's face down into the stinking puddle, holding him there until he was coughing for breath. When Brad released him, vomit covered his face; partially digested grains of rice stuck to his moustache. "Now lick," said Silverstein, squeezing again his captive's balls.

The Arab's tongue, at last, crept out and began to lick the sticky puke from Kovaks' hairy thighs.

The big blonde was now fully awake, and fully aroused. He watched in silent fascination as the diminutive Arab lapped at the mess in his crotch. Despite himself he felt his cock growing harder as it began to lift up off his lap.

As Hamid licked the last of the vomit from the base of Kovaks' rod, "Now suck that cock!" Brad told the Arab, at the same time freeing the Polack's bound hands.

Again Hamid began to resist, but Silverstein twisted hard on the imprisoned balls and when the Arab opened his mouth to gasp in pain, Kovaks thrust the open mouth down over his now-throbbing rod.

Silverstein continued to knead the Arab's balls between his wiry fingers, but otherwise he and Brad just stood back and watched as Kovaks buried his fingers in Hamid's hair, pumping the Arab's head up and down over his thick cock. At last Mike thrust his hips forward out of the chair, grinding Ham id's face into the hair at the base of his shaft. He held him there as he lay back his head and moaned while load after load shot down the impaled throat.

Hamid struggled to breathe, but the big blonde held him firmly that hot meat completely filling his mouth and throat. His ass burned, his stomach churned from its unwelcome contents and from the incessant torture of his testicles at Silverstein's hands. He fought for air, and as the last wad of cum was pumped down his throat, his world went dark.

Brad pulled the Arab off onto the floor and released Mike from the chair. "Well done, Major Kovaks." Brad extended his hand to the man he had just been torturing. "You are now an honors graduate of Camp Alpha."

Mike gripped the extended hand firmly smiling. "Colonel, right now I'd love to string you up by your nuts for all the hell you've put me through, but I have a feeling I'll appreciate it all some day Maybe I'll even thank you."

For a moment Brad was quite solemn. "I hope you do have to." Mike looked puzzled, so Brad continued. "A good friend of mine was in Brazil last year for the Army When they found his body there wasn't much left of him. The terrorists had literally skinned him alive. Then they'd castrated him and butchered him like a beef before he died. Our course can give you a lot of experience in withstanding mental and physical pain, but nothing is going to help you if they work on you like that. I hope your time here was thoroughly wasted and you never have reason to use it. At least not for the government-sponsored purpose," Brad added with a grin. "Now get over to the infirmary and get cleaned up. They'll check you over and give you tests for the next few days while you prepare your evaluation reports."

"Colonel," Captain Scott called from the door, "the search team is back with the new man. It looks like they gave him a little introduction to Camp Alpha on their own before bringing him in. He's in the receiving room now"

"OK," said Brad, "I'm on my way"

"What about this one?"Silverstein asked, pointing to the still-bound Arab.

"Work on him a little more. Then get that big black stud who came in yesterday We'll give him a workout this afternoon."


The jagged edge of the rock cut into Sean's shoulder. He paused to adjust his load and moaned slightly He was strong but after a night spent in tight bondage, his arms and legs were cramped, so that he still could not carry his loads as well as the other prisoners working around him. With the rock more securely but just as painfully perched on his shoulders, he again began to move toward the dumping ground. But a pebble rolled under his foot and in his struggle to maintain balance, the rock on his shoulders slipped from his grip, crashing into the ground only inches from the booted foot of Sgt. Chaplain.

The sergeant bellowed in rage and Sean felt the sting of the whip across his bare shoulders. "What the shit you trying to do? kill me?"

"No, Sir," Sean responded wearily "I slipped, Sir. I'm sorry."

"You hear that, Sgt. White? He says he's sorry! Well, I think he could be a lot sorrier."

With a wide grin on his dark black face, Sgt. White looked at the big redhead's sweat-drenched torso. "I think he needs a new suit."

"Excellent idea," Chaplain responded. "Brademus, you take over here and watch these fuckers. And don't be afraid to lay on the leather if they need it Sgt. White and I are going to outfit this stud in the suit he deserves."

Taking Sean into an interrogation shed, Chaplain ordered him to drop his pants. White went to a chest and opened it, removing several pieces of leather.

When Sean was naked Chaplain ordered him to brace. Then the sergeant rubbed a piece of the leather across the big redhead's thigh. Sean flinched. The leather was unexpectedly rough and prickly Chaplain and White laughed at his response. "What's the matter - not as soft as you'd like?" Chaplain asked. Sean knew better than to answer such a rhetorical question; he just clenched his jaw and remained at attention. "No," Chaplain continued, "it's not very soothing. Oh, the leather's soft enough. But it's from a special breed of pig, a breed with lots of short stiff, prickly hairs. And this Brooks Brothers number is beautifully tailored with those hairs on the inside."

White ordered Sean to hold out his arms and the two sergeants slipped the tunic over his arms and head. As Chaplain had predicted, the soft leather clung tightly to his arms, chest, back and belly; and when the Sergeant had finished lacing up the sides, Sean felt as though thousands of tiny needles were being driven into his skin. Rubber inserts in the shoulders allowed his arms to move freely but these, together with the rubber cuffs and collar, prevented any air circulation. He began to sweat profusely/

They next encased each long leg in a hairskin legging that began at the ankle, then extended up to lace into the tunic. These leggings were then tied together across Sean's ass. Only his head, hands, feet and genitals remained uncovered. Gathering the redhead's cock and balls together, White began to stuff them into a small sac of the same material as the suit.

"Wait a minute," Chaplain exclaimed. "He's not cut. His cockhead won't appreciate the full impact of those pricklers." White skinned back Sean's cock and rubbed the prickly lining of the sac directly against the sensitive red knob.

Sean gasped. "No! Please, Sir."

"Shut up!" Chaplain commanded. Then, handing the black man a thick rubber band: "Here, White, put this around his rod to hold that skin back." White snapped the band tightly around Sean's cock, holding the loose foreskin well back from the bulbous head. Then he stuffed the cock and balls into the small hogskin pouch and pulled the drawstring, tightening the bag around its load.

Chaplain rubbed his hand roughly over the broad, leather-covered chest and smiled in open amusement at the discomfort on his prisoner's face. "White," he said, shifting his torturing caresses to the inside of Sean's thighs, "I don't think he likes our tailoring."

"How about this?" White asked, taking a leather-covered rod from the chest where the hair suit had been.

Sean froze in horror at the sight of the prickly-skinned dildo. "No!" he cried. "Please, no! Please don't shove that thing up me. I'll do anything you want."

"Anything?" White asked. "Will you give us the name of your contact?"

"No," Sean thought to himself. "No, they're not going to break me. I can take it. I can take it. I can take it." His mind's voice screamed the phrase louder and louder, desperately seeking to convince himself as he felt Chaplain rub the bristly rod between the lacings across his ass. "I will take it!"

"Grab your ankles," Chaplain barked. When Sean assumed the position, White pulled the firm cheeks apart, exposing a twitching anus. Chaplain rubbed the hairy dildo against the tender skin surrounding the hole. "Who is your contact?" he asked softly "Tell us who it is, or you'll feel this prickly rod scraping the insides of your gut."

"No," Sean whispered, while silently he cursed himself for being so stubborn.

When the thick bristly rod entered his anus he screamed aloud.

"That's only about two inches up your ass. Talk and I'll take it out. Keep quiet and you'll get five more inches."

Sean locked his jaws to keep from screaming, and Chaplain plunged the torturing rod in to its base.

At White's command Sean stood back up and Chaplain anchored the dildo in place by tying the leather straps attached to it around the prisoner's thighs. The big fake cock felt to Sean like a splintery 4x4 as it stretched his asshole and pressed into his guts.

"Let's get him back to the rocks."

Sean felt like he was in a pressure cooker. When he was stripped to the waist, the sun had been hot enough, but the sweat evaporating from his bronzed torso had cooled him. Now the perspiration ran in rivulets beneath the hair suit, with no way to evaporate. The rasping hairs, and the steam of his own sweat, made every movement agony Each time he lifted or carried a rock, he wanted to scream. At first he tried to scratch at the irritation, but the pressure of his fingers only made the problem worse.

Once he collapsed in sheer exhaustion, thankful that at least the whips were ineffective through the leather suit. But then Chaplain gripped the sac enclosing his cock and ground the stiff wiry hairs into Sean's imprisoned cockhead.

"I'll tell," he cried. "I'll tell!" But before he had a chance to say the name, he passed out.


Podalski looked up from his desk and gazed in bewilderment at the closed door He knew the colonel was alone. He had come in only a few minutes ago, taking the mail into his office to glance over before returning to the interrogation shed.

Again the sound of curses penetrated the door. This was not S.O.P for Colonel Crawford, so Podalski went to the door and opened it just enough to stick his head in. "Is something wrong, Sir?" he asked.

"Damn shit it is!" Brad bellowed. "Get Scott and Silverstein in here, Sergeant."

When the door closed, Brad reread the letter, seething in anger and apprehension. Getting up, he paced the width of his office, mumbling curses against the Army Congress and the world in general.

He answered the light tap on the door and as Captain Scott and Lieutenant Silverstein entered, he tried to calm down. The two officers were puzzled. The Colonel was obviously upset; in his present mood they felt it best to wait for him to speak first.

When Brad felt he could speak without shouting, he told his officers to be seated. "Gentlemen, we are going to have a visitor. I have just received a letter from Washington. At 1900 hours we will be honored with a visit from Senator Clinton Mastigoph . .

"Shit!" Scott spat out the word at the mention of the name.

"But how did he find out..." Silverstein began. "Who told him about us?"

"The letter doesn't say but I can guess. After all, he's chairman of the Senate committee that rules on Army budgets. Some asslicker back at the Pentagon must have told him about us when he put the heat on over the intelligence training budget."

"Isn't he the one responsible for closing down the camps back in the '60's?" Scott asked.

"Yeah, he's the SOB. I thought I'd learned my lesson from that. There was too much publicity then. The mommas got all shook up about the Army 'torturing' their dear sweet boys. And what they did then was only a feeble attempt at recreating prison camps. We're ten times rougher here. If word of our operation leaks out to the press, we'll have all kinds of inspections by politicians, newsmen and little old ladies in tennis shoes. We wouldn't last a month."

"But what can we do?" asked Silverstein.

"First of all," Brad answered, "we're going to lay off the rough stuff while Mastigoph is here. No whips. See that all of the men with fresh welts and other marks wear shirts. If they're in too bad a shape, take them over to the detention sheds on the other side of the mountain until he's gone. Second~we try to get rid of him as soon as possible."

"Shall we tell the prisoners?" Scott asked.

"I don't know Will. What do you think? You're the psychology pro on this team."

"I don't think we should. We could take advantage of the visit and let the grapevine spread the word that it's a Red Cross visit. That's something they'd get under genuine circumstances."

"Not these men. A regular POW camp would get a Red Cross inspection, but all our men are training for intelligence duty No captor is going to let any Red Cross inspector near the interrogation centers they'd use for these guys."

"OK, Colonel, you're right, but I still don't think we should tell them. Sure, they all volunteered to come here; but few expected to get what they're getting. I don't think they could keep quiet about our methods. If we tell them, we're just inviting trouble."

"But surely he's going to want to talk to some of them," Silverstein observed. "Yeah." Brad responded in a tone indicating resignation to defeat. The three of them sat in silence pondering their problem, wondering if they were doomed to see the imminent demise of the program they had worked so hard to build.

Brad thought of the good the program had already done. He had a small but growing file of letters from "graduates" who had been captured in the line of duty and had survived thanks to their experiences at Camp Alpha. He thought of the men here now: of Kovaks who had only hours before successfully completed the program and was going to Brazil; of Larry who. . . Larry! That was the answer.

"I've got it!" he said aloud. "We've just got to be damn certain which prisoners he talks to. Will, get your psychological profiles on all of the men. Let's see which ones we can depend on. Then we'll brief them and make sure our dear Senator talks only to them."

"I don't know" Scott said. "There are several guys we can depend on to say what we want, but how can be keep Mastigoph from talking to the rest?"

"Leave that to me," Brad responded. "Now get going and get busy We don't have much time. Dave, you talk to the sergeants and guards. And get the place cleaned up. Close the main interrogation room and get all the torture equipment out of sight."

The two officers rose to go, but Silverstein turned back from the door. "Oh, Colonel, I almost forgot. I have that new black stud, Johnson, stripped and strapped in the main interrogation room. We were going to work on him this afternoon. Shall I release him?"

"No I need something to work out my anger on and his black hide should just fit the bill." He consulted his watch. "Inform the rest of the staff, and get them busy I'll meet you in interrogation in an hour."


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