When I told you two weeks ago I was having hand surgery, I'd prepared two weeks' worth of postings in advance, thinking (foolishly) that I'd be far enough on the road to recovery to type without effort after that. Not so, alas, which is why today's post comes late…for that matter, comes at all, and with a lot of effort (pause here to feel sorry for me). However, I did reread this very hot story just yesterday, which I'd totally forgotten, so perhaps former readers will, too. It originally appeared in Issue 80 (January, 2001). The photo below was published with that story, though rereading it now, I'm not sure why: it wasn't the soldier who got tied up.—BW
NEW ZEALAND. “The problem is to define the enemy.” The words of my superior officer rang through my brain like the chorus of a popular song on a stuck record. Over and over again I heard those words as I stood with my revolver trained at the prisoner on the floor.
I had volunteered for the UN forces in Bosnia during the break-up of the former Yugoslavia, and found myself in a war where it was difficult to determine who we were sent to protect and who to shoot. Although I'm a professional soldier I became involved with intelligence gathering so we could sort out the political and military f uture of the area, if any, should peace ever come to that sad country. I am trtained in the arts of war and survival , but this is a civil war, and civil wars are different. In civil wars, the warring sides are the same people and so the enemy on either side can usually hide in the crowd among themselves and stay hidden. It was almost impossible to tell the good guy from the bad guy, hell I can only tell a Bosnian Muslim from a Bosnian Serb if his pants are down, and even then it’s not only the Muslims who are cut. The fact is that both sides hated us. We had to be very careful and suspicious of everyone, but there were additional problems. The most dangerous of all the people, were in fact, not the locals but the foreigners. The place was crawling with international do-good organisations like the Red Cross, the UN save-the-whatever fund, Care International and a host of specialised European religious a nd sociel groups all demanding protection and attention.
Almost all of the workers for these establishments were foreign nationals, more than half from English speaking countries who had volunteered for the job. I guess it was considered a big plus if these workers spoke one of the local languages. The trouble with the helpers was that if they did speak the local language it was probably because they were from an ethnic Yugoslav family and these transplanted families had passed on generations of ethnic hatred to their children. Some of these workers had either volunteered or been encouraged by their relations to return to the fatherland and settle a few old scores. My best friend Tommy had just experienced this phenomenon. He was on patrol in a village where the UN had relocated some Serbs to another village for their own safety, when a sniper fired on him. He was crawling around trying to get a shot at the suspect who was hiding in a ditch, when he heard an American voice plead with him not to shoot, saying he was with the red cross. Tommy was relieved that his would-be sniper was only an aid worker, so lowering his gun, he stood up only to be hit in the chest by a bullet fired by the aid worker. Tommy managed to get off one shot before he fell, and killed this prick. The aid worker was in fact a Canadian whose family came from that village and was not happy with what was going on. Tommy survived and is recovering but the rest of us were only more nervous and suspicious of everyone, including those sent to help. We trusted nobody.
I was on my way back to Sarajevo having delivered some equipment to an outpost near the Serb boarder when sniper fire hit the jeep. I ran the car off the road and into a ditch where the front wheels twisted around a rock. The car was stuffed and I was lucky I wasn’t killed. I slid out of the vehicle and looked nervously around. The shot seemed to have come from a clump of trees about a hundreds yards past the ditch and when I peeked over the edge I saw a couple of men run off into the distance. I was about to head off down the road when I noticed a young guy in civilian clothing nearby. Lying flat on the ground. I thought that he could have been my sniper, although I couldn’t see a gun, but I produced mine and told him to put his hands on his head.
He protested that he was no sniper, but I wasn’t buying his story until I knew more. It was getting dark and was about to rain. I marched him to a farmhouse nearby for questioning. The house had been shelled so we took shelter in the barn as heavy rain started to belt down. My prisoner told me his name was Jimmy McCray, he was from New Zealand and worked for Care International. He looked more like an Anglo than a Yugo, so I didn’t shoot him on the spot. l ordered him to remove his jacket. He had a sweatshirt w ith no pockets on under his coat and a pair of climbing pants and shoes. The shoes can give a nasty kick so I ordered him to remove then and then I tied his feet to a pole to secure him.
“The problem is to define the enemy.” Over and over again I heard those words as I stood with my revolver trained at the prisoner on the floor.
Was he friend or enemy? That was the question. I took his jacket and looked inside. There was I.D., which confirmed his name, but that meant nothing. His Care Interna tional I.D. seemed to be in order but after Tommy that was no assurance either. His wallet contained $57.00 in US bills 40 pounds English, 200 German marks and about $5.00 in local money. There was a drivers licence and a New Zealand passport all of which seemed to confirm he was genuine but, then I found a gun, a Yugoslavian pistol which was standard Serb Army issue, and this I did not like. He told me he had found the gun near the road and was keeping it while he hitched his way back to Sarajevo.
I also found a photograph wrapped in a short letter. The letter simply said, “thanks for the great day—George.” The photo was a colour shot of Jimmy and another young man dressed only in jocks standing by the edge of a lake with their arms over each other’s shoulders. I examined the photo carefully. Jimmy had a good body but it was not the body of a military man. The two men in the photo were both good looking and neither looked as though they were of Yugoslavian descent. There was only one way to find out if he had anything to hide and that was to question him, and if I remembered my training there were ways to get him to talk.
I untied Jimmy's feet and told him to stand up. I fastened a rope to his wrists and then throwing the other end over a beam in the barn I hoisted his arms into the air above his head until he stood on the balls of his feet. I made the rope secure. “What are you going to do with me?”
“We are going to play 20 questions,” I said. I had been taught that the threat of torture was always more effective if the victim first had a little taste of what he was going to experience. That way the anticipation of forthcoming pain could be measured by what he had just experienced and the victim could calculate his endurance level. I unbuckled Jimmy’s belt and took off his pants. I removed the belt, doubled it over and bought it hard down on Jimmy’s arse. Jimmy gave a yelp and so I decided that unless I wanted half the neighbourhood in the barn with us I had better gag the sucker first. I tied a rag into his mouth and resumed my task, giving him two more strokes.
I stopped, pulled down the jocks and examined the places where the belt had done its job. His arse was red but there was no blood and the skin was not cut. I removed the gag and asked him if there was anything he wished to say.
“Why are you doing this to me?” he cried. “I’ve told you all I know. All I want to do is get back to Sarajevo and my base.”
“I know,” I said, “I want the same thing but I’m not going with a sniper, so I got a choice. I can shoot you or get shot.”
Jimmy begged and pleaded with me, repeating that he was no sniper but his pleadings were cut short when I replaced the gag and applied the belt three more times. I removed the gag again and asked him if he had anything to add.
“NO!” he cried. “I am not your enemy, believe me, please!" I was about to reapply the gag when he cried, “PLEASE! I’ll do anything you want, but please, no more.”
We tend to tell the truth at the point we believe we are about to die so I undid the rope and let him drop to the floor. I purposely left him untied and removed my revolver.
Grabbing him by the hair, I forced the gun into his open jaw.
“I don’t believe you,” I said. “I think you are a sniper.”
I pulled the hammer back; it gave a loud “click.” At this point Jimmy must have thought he was about to die and he started to cry and shake.
“NO, PLEASE!” he shouted, “I’m innocent, please don’t kill me!”
He grabbed the gun and my arm at the same time, trying to pull it out of his mouth. Now a trained army man or even a trained guerilla fighter would never have tried that. It is stupid and dangerous to pull on a loaded gun when it’s in your mouth and it’s the best way to get yourself killed. I let him believe he had wrestled the gun away from me and tossed it across the floor while I took care of him.
Jimmy was no trained fighter, I had him in an arm lock within seconds and I knew I could do what I liked with him. I wanted the pleasure of wrestling him into a position of submission. Whenever I got the better of him I would relax my grip a little and let him pull free before I got him in another hold. I had his arms over his head and I ripped off his top. I pinned his arms to the floor and let him roll me off him. Time and again he tried to get up and make a run for it, but he was too slow and too clumsy, always falling over something. I had no trouble getting hold of him and dropping him down on the floor.
Our little wrestling match went on for a while. I was enjoying myself far too much to let it stop too soon. Finally he was on his knees when I tackled him around his waist, pulling him back into my crotch. I wound my legs around him and locked them so I had him in a scissor lock and then, grabbing him by the upper arms, I forced both of them back behind him and tied up his wrists with some more rope. He sat, leaning against me, and I slipped my hand over his mouth pulling his head back onto my shoulder.
Jimmy gave up all resistance and I pushed him over onto the floor where he lay on his back with his legs slightly apart. Now it’s a long time since I have seen someone in a nude state, on the floor or anywhere else for that matter, in a totally vulnerable and submissive position and it did something to me. I ran my hands up his legs and to his crotch reaching under the jocks. His belly and arse were soft to touch and I continued to stroke his bare skin, pinching it slightly from time to time. Jimmy’s stomach was still heaving from all the activity earlier on but he seemed to be calming to my touch.
Suddenly there was a crash and I threw myself over Jimmy, slamming my hand over his mouth. I grabbed my gun and peered over my shoulder to the barn door. If Jimmy did have friends he would make a good shield. I took him by the back of the neck and pulled him face down on top of me holding his head to my chest, using my body as a gag and him as a shield. I could hear him sniffle as he tried to breathe and I relaxed my grip slightly. There was another loud bang and I realised it was the shutters hitting the wall in the wind. A third bang loosened the shutters completely and it fell to the ground with a thump.
My relief was complete and as I was trying to regain my composure I looked down at the top of Jimmy’s head which was still firmly in place buried in my chest. Jim had long jet-black hair with soft waves running through it. A curl of hair fell across my chest and when I was looking down it was only an inch from my mouth. I could smell the remnants of shampoo, freshness that I had not experienced in weeks. I put the gun down and started to play with his hair, stroking it slowly. I released my grip on Jim’s neck and pulled him up so his face was close to mine.
I let my lips touch first his cheek then his ear. My tongue touched his ear and then I allowed it to trace out the form of his lips. Jimmy was still tied up and my hand went down to his jock. I pulled the waistband back and grabbed his dick. I got no resistance or even a hint of an objection. I rubbed the organ and it responded. Jimmy just lay there not saying a word or even seeming to care. After a moment I started to pull his jocks down over his thighs, caressing his legs. At this point there could have been no doubt in his mind as to what I had on mine. I may have expected some small look of disapproval or even some resistance but there was none; on the contrary he moved his legs so that they were open to my caresses. I stuffed his jocks into his mouth. Jimmy just lay there and stared at me. I took the abandoned “T” shirt and blindfolded him.
I got back on my feet and undid my own trousers and let them drop to the floor. Jimmy could hear all of this activity, particularly as I was very deliberate in my actions. I tossed my trousers over him and then removed my jocks, throwing them over him also. When I was stripped down, I pulled my clothing off his body and, grabbing his legs and spreading them apart, I knelt between them. I pulled him toward me so that he was slowly hoisted up my thighs until his arse was touching my dick. I inserted my finger into his arse and then lifted his legs over my shoulders and forced myself in. I felt myself growing inside him and I began to move back and forth pushing my dick down further and further into his arse. Jimmy groaned but remained motionless while I pumped away. I felt myself get bigger and bigger. The muffled groaning went on with every thrust of my dick until I exploded inside him. After a moment or two, I withdrew. It felt good. I removed Jimmy’s blindfold. He just looked at me. I reached over and took my gun and pointed it at him.
“Sorry, buddy,” I said, “but I can’t let you go back and blab now, can I?”
“No, wait!” he shouted, “there's no need to do that.”
“No?” I said. “And why not?”
“That photo—of me and George—well, what do you think George is thanking me for? I don’t mind what you did to me, I won’t tell a soul, I promise. But you have to promise to look after me, and then you can do what you like to me.”
The gun was still in my hand but suddenly, as I stood there looking down at this cute guy, I lost any desire I had had to do away with him. I sure hope you are not the enemy, I thought.
I untied Jimmy and reached over, grabbed his hand and ran it over my body. He got a hard on as he caressed me. It was genuine and when he gave me a blowjob he got his own rocks off, with such obvious delight, I knew he wasn’t the enemy.
That was two years ago. I still take him prisoner from time to time to remind us of the good old days when we first met. It’s just as exciting now as it was then, only we do it in our apartment now, and it’s still not easy for him to escape.
Bob, I am a long time fan and just wanted to wish you a speedy recovery. If you are in physical therapy, please make sure you do your home exercises. They help! Take care.
Bob's reply:
Thanks, Marty, for your good wishes. I'm not up to the exercises yet, but will start them as soon as they take off the new cast the doctor put on today, which will be in 3 weeks' time. That's when I start 6 weeks of physical therapy.
Posted by: Marty Oppenheim | April 30, 2012 at 12:10 PM