Platoon 69 by Jero

 Deep in the Jungle, in an abandoned military outpost, Sergeant Baxter was evaluating his position. He had led his platoon into a trap and now the rebels wanted to find out exactly what his mission had been. 

The muscular soldier had little fear of torture, he and his men had been too well trained to succumb to mere pain. But his interrogator seemed to have something quite different in mind. From an old wooden box on the floor, he had produced a collection of strange devices - brightly coloured balls, shiny tubes and plastic rods. His captor was already fondling a strange pink object in his lap. Baxter's superiors had warned him of the enemy's capacity for fiendish tricks and torments and now he realised that was exactly what faced him now. 

He tested the ropes that secured him to the bedframe. His captor clearly knew his stuff, it would take hours to get free. The frame itself gave not an inch when he tested his strength against it and was obviously bolted to the floor. There would be no easy escape for him this time. But even in his hour of danger he thought about his men hoping they would not suffer with him.

A short distance away Canelli was doing his own calculations. The farm boy from Nebraska was a strong man and had fought his attackers bravely before succumbing to overwhelming numbers. Now they were taking no chances with him. Curious about his exceptional muscularity, they had stripped his uniform from him, leaving him only the minimal dignity of wearing his military jockstrap and his boots. They circled around him touching his body and joking in their own language. 

For a few moments he remained unrestrained and thought about bolting, but the thought of running through the jungle like that, half-naked and with no protection, was daunting. Before he could decide to take the chance his wrists and ankles had been clamped in the loops of a heavy iron bar that forced him to sit and made any movement virtually impossible. They had amused themselves with him a little longer and then left him sitting on the floor, alone in the small room. Already the confined position was making his joints and muscles ache. The sun had risen now and already the cell was heating up. Sweat was trickling down his body but the day, which might be his last, had scarcely begun.

Suarez hadn't even realised it was day yet. Suspended by chains in a dark, airless cell he'd been sweating all through the long, humid night. Picked off at the back of the column he'd been hustled away before his comrades knew he'd gone. They'd stripped off his shirt and used his hairy, muscled torso as a punchbag. He'd told them nothing yet, they hadn't even asked, they were just softening him up. An hour ago they'd left his bruised body hanging, stewing in the suffocating air of his prison. 

But they'd be back. He had no doubt of that.

At that very moment private Scott was was learning the true capabilities of their enemy. When the remnants of the captured platoon had shuffled into the dilapidated camp, they'd quickly picked out  blond construction worker from Chicago as a prime example of enemy manhood, the sort of trophy captive who could be used against the politicians who had sent these men here and their public whose support kept them here. 

When they stripped the gentle giant of his clothes they were not at all disappointed, the humiliation and subjugation of such a fine physique would be all the more painful for the enemy on those distant shores. The rebel's own scientists would be delighted with such a fine specimen. He'd proved a good fighter but already he had shown blind obedience to command by stripping off his uniform as soon as they demanded it. Marched naked through the compound to the research lab he'd offered no resistance as they strapped him to the experimental platform. 

Scott faced his fate with calm bravery. He understood his duty was to resist these men as long as he could. When they took his clothes from him he felt as if he'd lost the protection of the Army. He was surrounded by enemies and when they strapped him down he no longer was able to protect himself. 

They'd left him like that to await the scientist whom he had little doubt had ways and means to test him. As though to underline his isolation and vulnerability the square-jawed guard left with him had idly explored his jock pouch while they waited. His fingers had induced pleasurable sensations in Scott that seemed a mockery of his sense of duty and patriotism.

When the scientist eventually arrived he did not bother with such frivolities but quickly switched on his equipment and as the room filled with humming sounds he sandwiched Scott's head between two massive ear pads and went to his control panel. Within seconds the strong man's mind was filled with confusing, nightmare thoughts and sensations that obliterated fear and rational thoughts alike. 

He remembered no more

Like all his comrades Corporal Hunt had been stripped of his clothes and exposed to the ogling of his captors, their fingers stroking his underpants. They'd been warned to expect that as a technique to break them down and had told him that his hairy, burly physique would be a novelty to them. So he was surprised when they simply clamped heavy manacles on his wrists and just left him like that. 

As the hours went by he could tell that his colleagues were suffering badly. Was his mild treatment just a way of weakening him? They even came and fed him and his guard remarked that the commanding officer wanted him 'well prepared'. This puzzling remark added to Hunt's confusion and he had many hours to ponder it as the day went by and still they made no attempt to coerce or torment him. 

Instead,  as day darkened into night, they returned and washed him from head to foot, making him stand in a small tin bath with soapy water cascading down his body and swilling round his ankles.  He braced himself for the worst, this was all too ritualistic, something was not right. 

Afterwards they led him through the camp and the soldiers sitting around and eating their supper stared strangly, almost as if they knew..... Finally he was taken into a hut that was comfortably furnished. A meal was set on the table and he looked at it hungrily. "Welcome Corporal Hunt" a voice said, "You are every bit as handsome as my men told me". Hunt turned and saw the speaker was clearly an officer. 

"Sir!" Hunt barked, remembering his etiquette and getting a nod in return. 

The Officer invited him to sit at the table, clipping his manacles to the surface so he could eat his food, but do very little else with them. Hunt's stomach stirred uneasily. "We will eat" the Officer said to him "and then you will join me in my bed where I will find out how much your army taught you". Angered by the trickery, Hunt's palms slammed down on the table loudly but the officer just smiled. "Something tells me you will be, shall we say, an interesting subject. Of course, I'm not averse to teaching you myself, if your devotion to bodily enhancement which, if I may say so,  has produced such pleasing results, has caused you to neglect the simpler pleasures of the flesh". 

In the silence that followed, the night sounds of the jungle filtered in through the mosquito net draped over the open window. To Hunt it felt like something was crawling inside his camouflage underwear. The Officer took a bit out of a chicken drumstick and then went on, "If you please me, I will spare you the agony that has befallen your comrades. If you please me and also give me information, I may even spare them too - from from further brutal interrogation at least, but probably not bed duties - not until they are recovered enough to carry them out to my satisfaction, of course."

At that moment, a blood curdling cry came in through the window.

Outside, beyond the perimeter of the camp Sergeant Baxter's interrogation was reaching a climax of sorts. It wasn't his first one that day, during which he had experienced the full range of toys available to his captors and been taught to give them the results they wanted. In the process, his camo pants had been ripped away and his vest shredded into holes. Now, outside in the humid jungle night his interrogation had properly begun with an experienced and uninhibited hand probing him deeply. To prevent any evasion they had strung him between two trees and a heavy weight had been slung from his aching balls. 

Baxter had spilt much that day, but not yet the beans, not yet the full information his interrogators wanted. But they were not unduly concerned, for them the journey was as important as the destination.

~

Art by Jero, see also Abduction Art by Jero for links