In Scene 3, we find James West in the secret lair of mad scientist Dr. Miguelito Loveless who has a plan to dominate the world with his captive's involuntary assistance. But first, Jim wouldn't be a true hero if he didn't struggle at least a bit, now would he?


Wild Wild West: The Night of Forced Hegemony - Scene 3 (Page 1)
by Amalaric
Art by Amalaric
Series: Wild Wild West
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James West lay on the stone floor of the cellar- stark naked, shivering in a puddle of his own cold sweat and bleeding from multiple lacerations- willing himself, mercilessly, not to pass out. Betrayal was a bitter draught to swallow and the wounded secret agent vowed with all the steely strength of his formidable will that someday he would kill Artemus Gordon for what he had done…and it didn’t matter whether the traitor died fast or slow, James West wasn’t that kind of man, but die he most certainly would. That the young secret service agent would eventually escape and that all would somehow, impossibly, be well was a certainty to a mind trained in relentless optimism and boundless faith in his own capabilities. He was James West, confidante of presidents, specimen of physical perfection and extraordinary mental acuity, a well paid public servant with his own private train…how could he not prevail at the end? And then his confidence, born of a slow-dancing opportunism that was part genetic and part the result of decades of assiduous practice, would suddenly waver. Jim would convulse, choking on still-born sobs that filled him with unreasoning shame, as the dreaded name echoed in his mind like a gunshot- Miguelito Loveless…Doctor Miguelito Loveless…Artemus’ cruel parting words, uttered with a sneer as the heavy door to the cellar slammed and was bolted shut plunging Jim into darkness, ticked in his mind inexorably as a doomsday clock; he was the helpless prisoner of a diminutive madman capable of anything…anything at all.


A day and a half later…

The thugs disguised as union soldiers dragged the semi-delirious captive up the stairs and into a glare that assaulted his already bruised senses with renewed violence. Blue eyes squinting against the needle-like pain, James West allowed himself to be passively manhandled into a cavernous utility room where the shit and piss and scabbed blood was scrubbed from his muscular body. He was still young, somewhere in his very late twenties or early thirties by appearance, and the wash, though humiliating and also painful as his penis, testicles, and tight asshole received special attention from a pig-bristle brush, did him a world of good. Beginning at last to feel better, his mind cleared a little but was still groggy and, wincing from the clean sting of multiple wounds and a deep stiffness in his abused muscles, he stood on rubbery legs and offered only token resistance as hairy wrists were bound behind his back. Three of the bogus army regulars served as an escort and, pausing for further orders, casually devoured the naked secret service agent with their eyes. Jim West cut an amazing figure and he easily recognized, and was revolted by, the feral glances levelled in his direction but was also wily enough to calculate ways that the obvious predilection of his ‘escorts’ might be exploited. All well and good in the machinations of his highly trained mind, but reality told another story; West grimaced as one of the thugs groped his arcing pecs, painfully twisting pale nipples before mussing the carpet of wiry bronze hair spanning the contours of his manly chest. That was bad but worse would follow. ‘Why’d you take away my clothes? Let me get dressed…’ It was part reasonably query- West felt awkward standing helpless with his hands tied behind his back stark naked; every inch of his hard, hairy body exposed to the whim of clothed handlers…and part ploy- a feeble attempt to distract the fondler from further exploration, to no avail. His question was ignored and the leering thug groped lower, roughly pawing along the path blazed by the silky treasure trail bisecting Jim’s über-masculine torso, to the patch of thick pubes curling at his groin where he tarried for a while, finally dipping lower to the real prize- James West’s big cock and low-slung heavy balls. West reflexively spread his thickly muscled, oak-like legs to accommodate the invasive hand and ease the painful pressure that was sure to follow even as a slashing riding crop descended- not on his own aching muscles- but on the offending wrist of the faggot handler reaching for the agent’s captive manhood.

The thug yelped pleasantly and snatched his hand away, mere inches from the prize. He stood shaking at attention (as were his two companions), tears in his eyes, rubbing the deep red welt blazing against the pale skin of his offending wrist. A new, but oddly dressed and, from the way he handled his crop, higher ranking minion had entered the room and hissed his disapproval at the behaviour of the escort. ‘Lay your handssssssz off of him, pig!!’ Obviously a foreigner, his accent and syntax were untraceable, which may have explained his strange appearance as well, though West had some other, darker explanations in mind- Dr. Miguelito Loveless, insane…insane place…insane companions…dangerous…insane- ‘He…’ pausing, the strange new minion executed a flourishing pirouette, finishing in a half crouch with a bony finger pointing straight at Jim’s wagging cock, ‘belongsssssz to the Doctor.’ Dressed in a midnight blue, fortunately oversized (since he wore no trousers) evening jacket, half unbuttoned over a smooth bare chest he also sported a black, ‘zoro’ mardi gras mask and matching cardboard top hat tastefully rumpled. His blue eyes glittered through the eyeholes of the mask a shade paler than his coat but without a hint of softness. Turning to the offending thug he grimaced and clicked a snake-like tongue in mock scandal. ‘YOU!’ The long finger swung from Jim’s cock to the tearful attendant, ‘covet the prizoner’sz manhood, knowing who ownzzzs him?’ (His odd accent went in and out of the unfocused half-lisp similar to that of the future Sean Connery). The tone was incredulous, dripping with venom. The terrified escort offered no reply. ‘Very well…’ uttered with consummate, if pensive, insincerity, ‘You knew the rules and chose to disobey. Prepare to pay the price with your own…ah…manhuuuuud. Strip!!’ The thug stood frozen in place, bogus toughness revealed, as with all bullies at the end, to be skin deep…but, speaking of skin… ‘I said strip…NOW!!!!’ The lisping command filled the small room as hideously abrasive as fingernails raked across the surface of a blackboard. Jim West, despite himself, grimaced and followed the example of the unfortunate escort’s two companions; backing against the safety of a wall, leaving the offender alone in the center of the room, a spreading stain damping the navy blue of his uniform almost black at the crotch as he wet himself in fright.

Though he was still a young man, with shaking, suddenly palsied hands the breathless attendant fiddled the gold buttons of his wool blouse loose over a broad chest glistening with new sweat. He shrugged off the blouse, shivering, uncertainty creasing a handsome face already furrowed by terror, hoping for a reprieve that never came. ‘STRIP!!! All the way!’ The reluctant victim dropped his shirt on the floor from fingers that suddenly seemed paralyzed; summoning every ounce of fast-retreating courage or mechanically obeying a command inexorable in its expectation of obedience…who could tell? He fumbled open the fly of his damp trousers and let them pool for a moment around his ankles before leaning down and, slow as a man condemned to the unspeakable, unlaced his boots, peeled them and a pair of stinking socks off before finally stepping out of the wool trousers. The offending escort stood naked and blushing like a virgin on her wedding night and Jim, backed horrified against a far wall, couldn’t help but notice that the flunky, though a criminal and traitor, was certainly well put together.  Assuming the twitching crop held by the masked freak was meant for back or buttocks, Jim was also just a bit perplexed by the palpable terror that had the muscular stud shaking from head to naked toes and, fairly obviously, near tears. Damn, man- its only a caning, and with a pansy crop much less…like you would have had any number of times as a school boy, that is if you went to a place interested in building decent character… Jim doubted his own conjecture- the guy’s a thug- but still; the man’s obvious fear seemed excessive. Soon enough, the higher ranking minion in mask and top hat would clarify the reason for the thug’s seeming irrational terror…

‘Very gooooood, boy…’ The oily words, deceptively calm and slick as the surface of a clogged pore, did nothing to reassure the victim, shuffling nervously from one bare foot to another. ‘Now…’ as if, indeed, to a schoolboy, ‘Place your handsz firmly behind your head…that’sz right…eggzellent. Szpread your legsz.’ The muscular escort, who seemed to know what was coming, tensed the biceps of arms raised with hands clenched white-knuckled behind his head, but balked for some reason at spreading his legs. The tophatted minion nodded toward each of the escort’s uniformed companions, ‘Pleasze…would you lend a hand?’ And, together, they levered their erstwhile companion’s hairy legs wide. ‘Now, before we begin, I want to impart szome very important advicz.’ He casually ran the flat leather tip between the sweaty cleft of the captive thug’s chest, circling a nipple lazily before drawing back…and snapping the crop down with sudden force across the shaft of the man’s exposed penis. Surprisingly, the thug bit back on the scream that came bubbling up in response to the sudden pain. West, for the moment ignored, observed it all; utterly fascinated by the proceedings. ‘I szee that you know what to eggspekt…’ The enigmatic statement caused Jim to arch a sandy eyebrow. ‘And so…you will endure until permission is granted to passh out. Isz that undersztood?’ ‘Yes…sir…’ gasped through gritted teeth. ‘Delightful! Let usss proczheed then…’ and the masked minion flicked the crop with an elegant twist of his wrist, harder than before, straight up the twin beacons of spread muscular thighs to crash against the exposed dangling  balls of the horrified captive…who, this time, didn’t miss the opportunity to let rip a satisfying shriek of pure, unadulterated agony. Three more strokes followed and Jim, feeling a little queasy, gained a new respect for the tormented thug who, aside from emitting ear splitting shrieks of anguished pain, literally stood his ground- running rivulets of hot sweat, chest heaving, swaying mightily, but nevertheless still standing on trembling spread legs. WHACK. The sickening slap of the crop against the reddened scrotum of the gagging thug marked number five…as he bent at the waist and puked on the concrete floor. ‘Thatz OK…but you muszt sztand.’ The command, ghost-like in its tranquil imperative amazed Jim by actually eliciting a response. Fuck me!! What kind of hold do they have over these men??! And this masked freak is merely one of Loveless’ minions!!!! ‘Ye…s…sir…’ the gasped response was nearly inaudible as the big thug straightened, licked the vomit from his lips, and prepared for more. All in all the poor brute took nine before permission was granted to collapse, which he did gratefully, dark eyes rolling up toward blessed nowhere, rubbery legs at last giving way under the volcanic agony of his abused balls. He crashed to the floor with a ragged sigh, like a great tree felled after much labor, and the vast room which, a moment before, was filled with the cacophony of pain, became eerily silent. ‘That wasz lovely.’ The slender sadist pursed his lips and levelled a pale glance at James West crouched against a far wall. ‘And you, my friend…’ he tried, and failed, to repress a giggle, ‘have an appointment with the doctor.’


Of course, this is where we have a commercial break- maybe extolling the delights of this or that brand of cigarettes or beer- remember, it’s the 60’s! Whatever the case, we don’t have to imagine what James West looks like naked since we have already seen him in all of his hairy splendour…though we left him slouched at a distance against the far wall of the cavernous utility room. Hmmm, what do you think CMers? Want to see the handsome and very naked young secret service agent closer up? Want to see that amazing body tortured, maybe hear Jim groan or even scream with agony like the warm up thug before the commercial break? Hey!! Where the fuck is the much-talked about Dr. Loveless anyway? OK- break’s over, get your asses back from that open refrigerator…


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