Four Tales of Fortitude
One: A Boy's Honour
Refugee children, mostly boys too young to be conscripted to fight in their homeland's brutal civil war have been making their way to this Adriatic seaport for over a year. Relief agencies have moved in to provide basic shelter and some services but there is little for the boys to do. I see a number of them when I go for my afternoon stroll down to the piazza for a drink in one of the sidewalk cafes facing it. As many as a dozen boys hang around by the fountain selling candy, gum and cheap souvenirs, shining shoes and often discretely begging. They also run errands, watch cars and I quickly discover hustle. It is rumored, indeed confidently claimed, that an unusually large number of men, including many foreigners have taken to vacationing in this rather dull and unattractive town because of the refugee children. I can personally vouch for that. The locals seem tolerant as the tourists bring money to the community and probably help keep the boys out of serious trouble. The police are happy as crime is not a problem and they get to extort a few lira from the tourists on the side. And with tourists providing support for boys, and even employing some as live-in 'houseboys', the agency officials whose budget is based on crude numbers find solace in their surplus funding. The local media has failed to develop the necessary outrage to arouse the town's sensibilities. It has however reported that the town's economy has surpassed the forecasts of both the government and banking economists. For this the residents are paying the price of being exposed to the sight of men and boys haggling over acts and prices in public places, indeed it is commonplace, and subsequently going off to enjoy illicit carnal pleasures.
I am not interested in the petty merchandise of the young vendors, but I like boys, and I regularly send one of the more interesting or persistent ones over to the hotel newsstand to buy me a copy of the International Herald or the Telegraph to read. Some, of course, I never see again but those who return with my paper and modest change I treat generously and give other small tasks. A few I entertain at my humble villa. I get to know several of them and with my rudimentary grasp of their Slavic language I become privy to some of their horrendous stories: Boys do come with histories. There is one boy in particular I have taken a liking to, a wiry, tawny haired lad of maybe sixteen called Affir. He has big hazel eyes, a generous, happy mouth and thin wisps of hair decorating his upper lip and sideburns. He likes to joke and has a saucy teasing attitude although he is polite and willingly runs errands. He is a proud streetwise kid and tells me he doesn't like to beg, he wants a job but there isn't much for someone his age who isn't fluent in Italian. His father was a merchant but he lost his family when his village was destroyed by the army. He escaped by walking only at night for many days.
Referring to other boys I ask Affir if he ever goes home with tourists. He looks at me with a hint of contempt, "I do not do Sex." he's emphatic. I'm sure he's had offers. Subsequently I learn that he was raped by a local man. He fought back, he tells me, and acts out how he kicked and punched the man, but the man overpowered him, beat him and he had no choice. "I get revenge, it is my honour. Maybe for sure, I fight him again." and he shows me a small, sharp knife he carries. I asked him if the man was not bigger and stronger, and suggest his plan could be dangerous. "No matter, I will get him, I am not afraid." I am skeptical and perhaps he thinks I'm questioning his courage for he says, "I show you." He takes the knife, flexes his left arm, looks me in the eye and slowly pushes the point into his biceps drawing blood. I'm impressed by this display of masochistic fortitude and ask him how he intends to get even. He tells me he has a friend, a big tough friend who sounds like a local hood, who would beat up the man. His friend however wants 50,000 lira. When I sympathize with his plan Affir asks me if I would lend him the money. I explain that 50,000 lira is a lot of money, even for a tourist like me, and inquire how he would propose to pay me back. He isn't sure and I make him realize that it is unlikely. "But I would do anything you like." Even sex? I query starting to explain I don't mean 'rape'. "No! Anything but sex. "No, no no!"
I think, here is a beautiful, spunky and sexy kid with attitude who is also intelligent and maybe honest, and who needs support, all things I like in boys, and he's saying 'no' to sex but 'yes' to whatever. But what? He's adamant about sex and there are few other transient pleasures one can have with a willing lad. I would love to access his young body even if I can't make love to it, and an idea forms, a far fetched idea and I expect nothing to come of it. I mention how he pricked his muscle and ask him how brave he really is. "Like take hurt?" I nod. He pauses to think, "Fifty thousand lira?" He seems to understand exactly. It is a lot of money, I will have to forgo other pleasures, but I say 'yes' and tell him it would only be short time pain. "No cutting or burning?" I tell him no, and no punching or twisting arms, only pinching, squeezing and a spanking I tell him. But, I warn him, the tortures will be very, very painful. He looks at me thoughtfully, "OK," but then he insists, "but friend come too." I tell him I would have to meet his friend and that he would have to stay outside. All this is new to me although once I had known a boy who occasionally liked to be spanked fairly hard, but I had never come across one willing to be tortured, albeit for a hefty price. Affir is lovely boy, sexy looking with soft clear skin; my fantasies run wild.
I immediately start having second thoughts, it's one thing to have sex with a boy, but to torture one? Even if he's willing? The idea has appeal. I don't just want to overwhelm Affir with pain. I would have to plan it out carefully, draw it out as much as I can and see how close I can take him to his absolute limit again and again. I will have to guide and motivate him through it. I will be more flexible than I will pretend to be. But I figure fifty thousand lira is worth a lot of suffering and I want my money's worth. I will make sure he can back out with dignity and some cash along the way.
We meet next afternoon in the piazza. His friend Jacob is a tall, slender, sensuous looking, dark haired boy a year or so older. After introductions the boys babble animatedly in their own tongue of which I pick up only a few phrases. I am curious about what Affir has told his friend about our arrangement. They are soon anxious to get going. They remain in good spirits on the twenty minute walk up to the small villa I rent on the outskirts. I show the boys around and serve them colas and snacks before asking Jacob to wait outside at the bottom of the steps.
Inside, I brief Affir on the rules; it will last about an hour, he will get 10,000 lira for the first torture and 20,000 for each of the last two. He can quit at any time but can only collect for stages completed. Because it's a lot of money he will have to endure a lot of pain to earn it. He nods and says, “OK.” I tell him I will try to hurt him as much as I can without injuring him. It will be his control over his body and his will against me. I explain that the intense pain will only last a few minutes but some soreness may last a few days and some marks may last over a week. No scars. I inform him in words he understands that it will be his upper body first including his tits, then it will be his lower body including his cock and balls, followed by a heavy strapping. "My balls?" I make sure Affir knows his balls will be painfully tested. I also tell him he is not to cry, scream or struggle while I am torturing him. He agrees, "I be brave, you see." and we solemnly shake hands. He says he's ready, so I tell him to strip. He looks out the window to see if his friend is still there before taking off his shirt, socks and shoes leaving only his long droopy shorts hung low on his hips. I let him keep them on for the time being.
Sitting beside him as he lies back on the bed, hands clasped behind his neck I begin playing with his lean muscled chest and pink nipples which soon erect. I can't be gentle or I'll tickle him. Affir seems puzzled at first but as I gradually increase the pressure of my pinching his expression becomes determined. I then pinch and digging in my thumbnails twist his tiny nipples all the while looking into his determined face. I work on them until they are swollen and inflamed and Affir is struggling to endure the pain. I'm pleased he keeps his hands away and makes no attempt to interfere. Then I suggest he stand and stretch for a few seconds. Facing me I show him the strap I improvised from an old cowhide belt. It has nice heft, sturdy not too floppy and I show him how I want him to stand facing me with his hands held out palms up. Four on each hand I inform him. I know the hard sweeping blows must really hurt but he just winces as each one lands. He takes a good schoolboy's strapping. I contemplate strapping his narrow chest but decide the strap is too heavy, however his own boys belt which I remove from his shorts is ideal when I wrap the buckle end around my hand a few times. I have him thrust out his chest and hold his head high, look proud I tell him, look at me, and then I strap him horizontally across his chest catching his erect nipples. I lash him about a dozen times as we maintain eye contact until a broad band across his chest is brightly marked. He s looks pleased when I tell him he did well. Next I have him push down his shorts to where his pubic hair begins to show and strap him about half as many times across his hard defined abs which doesn't seem to faze him. Taking up the strap again I give him three hard blows on each hand which pain him a great deal.
Back on the bed I start digging my thumbnails into the already inflamed nipples as Affir goes tense. Finally, pinching with most of my strength I stretch and twist his nipples painfully almost lifting off the bed. He grimaces horribly and moans but he doesn't struggle or cry out. I would love to kiss him. After several minutes his tits are bright red, quite swollen, and sticky with sweat, lymph and traces of blood. Affir doesn't look too happy. I give his nipples a final harsh workout scraping them with my thumbnails and leaving them oozing. Finally I swab them with an astringent antiseptic which causes him to gasp. I smile, congratulate him, and tell him he's earned his first installment, ten thousand lira. Without hesitating he says he wants to continue.
We take a short break, Affir examines his swollen oozing nipples, finishes his cola, has a pee and goes to the window to make sure Jacob is still out there. When he removes his shorts so I can torture his cock and balls he makes me promise again that there'll be no sex. He stands legs spread beside the bed and I am pleased to see that he's well into puberty with spurting genitals that will provide more to work with. His handsome sculptured cock is crowned by a garland of still silky reddish hairs which are becoming far too numerous to count. I assume he's not accustomed to having someone else handle his genitals and might freak if I just start tormenting them. I explain to him that I need to examine them first in order to figure out how to torture them. He shudders when I grasp his scrotum and begin manipulating it, gently fingering each fig sized ball feeling its spongy consistency before squeezing them out to the end with the taut skin revealing their contours. I also firmly squeeze his cock to get him used to me handling it. Watching his expression I realize that even these gentle manipulations in themselves may feel very strange and be quite disturbing. I suggest he lie back on the bed and maybe prop himself up with pillows if he wants to watch what I do to his cock. I'd be much more into fondling than tormenting Affir's limp, but lovely slender dick, but that's not part of the deal. I steady his flaccid member and lightly slap it several times. His cock soon becomes erect. "You promised, No sex." he complains. I explain that I'm trying to hurt his cock not make it feel good. "But not hurt much." I start slapping it considerably harder, pinkening it, and ask him if that's better. "It still makes me go hard." I'm sure he's hurting already but leaning over his prone body to gain advantage I give his proud sleek organ two loud wicked slaps, his shrieks leaving no doubt about his suffering. Tiny ruptured blood vessels will give him a pinto cock for a few days but I don't want to badly bruise it so I decide to attack its most sensitive skin, around and including the frenum. I take the delicate membrane between the ends of my thumbnails and scrape them back and forth tearing at the highly erogenous flesh. I see and feel the shock waves of pain convulse him as he struggles to control himself. I pinch, twist and abrade all the more sensitive skin back of the corona and ask him if that feels good. After a few one minute sessions of this excruciating torment which push him to his limit, the flesh is raw and weeping. He looks at me angrily, his expression combining hate, self pity and determination. Well done, I tell him as I stroke his neck and shoulders trying to soothe him but he shakes free of my touch. I tell him he'll have some scabs for a while but he can still jack off if he wants. "Jack off not good." He tells me.
We take a longer break, Affir is sweating profusely and suffering from his tortures. His cock is quite sore and starting to look ugly. He looks at me full of resentment, perhaps hatred, but after more cola, smoking a cigarette butt he's saved and checking to make sure Jacob is still there he says he's ready to continue. I say, I hope he has no hard feelings and insist we shake hands again. It takes a moment before his face relaxes and he responds. A deal is a deal. I wait and establish eye contact before I grasp his half grown testicles firmly. He regards me with blazing eyes. I give a little squeeze. I find it strange and thrilling to hold them knowing I am about to exploit their magnificent capacity for pain. There is nervous apprehension in his sweet young face as I mention how beautifully sensitive the balls are. I move as if to slap them but stop, pleased that he does not flinch. Then I let him get used to me handling his sac vigorously, manipulating its contents with increasing pressure. After a couple of minutes I can tell he's starting to hurt, feeling that awful deep, dull pain specific to the gonads each time I squeeze his spongy nuts. I continue with increasing pressure and study his anguished face whose contortions I control with my hand. I again press the now tender testes down to the end of the sac and lightly, but most painfully slap them with my other hand. He becomes frantic, trembles, squirms but does not try to struggle free. Maintaining eye contact I slap harder and harder and only stop when his agony suggests he can take no more. But then I give his swollen balls one last vicious smack which leaves him writhing on the floor clutching his groin. Just one more thing I tell him, and I swab his cock and nipples again with the antiseptic which leaves him keening and gasping, tears pouring out of his eyes. It takes a while for the searing pain to diminish. When he finally catches his breath I inform Affir that he's now made 30,000 lira. He looks at me grimly and spurns my attempts to soothe him. He can take it now and leave.
Affir seems uncertain as to whether he wants to continue. He says "You not fair, just because I won't do sex." I explain that I have never given a boy even four thousand lira for sex. I allow him time to think. I do not minimize the pain I intend to inflict and bring out the strap again telling him he will get twenty, and I demonstrate its potency on a pillow beside him. I think he gets the idea. "OK, but only for money, to avenge my honour." I clasp his shoulders and look into his intense eyes, and again we shake hands. To begin I have Affir lie back, legs apart with his hands protecting his genitals. I maintain eye contact with him as I slam four, hard stinging strokes diagonally across each of his boy sized thighs. I have the pleasure of both observing the agony in his face and seeing the bright red weals form on his smooth pale flesh. Affir has his first expressions of doubt. "How much money if I quit now?" Still 30,000 lira I tell him. If he wants more he has to take a dozen on the ass. I only allow him a few seconds before asking him to turn over and place a pillow under his belly to raise his lovely ass, his lovely, pale, fleshy globes that bounce slightly as I pat them. “You said no sex.” He protests. I assure him not quite truthfully that I'm only examining his ass. A dozen, and that will be it I tell him. Soon his muscled mounds blossom with bright, distinct but overlapping welts. He's taking it well so I put all my strength into the last four across the backs of his thighs. I hug the boy and congratulate him on his bravery but he pushes me away and demands to be left alone. He sobs briefly. I tell him the marks will be gone in a few days. When the pain has retreated to a tolerable burning sensation and he's regained his composure I count out his money which he quickly grabs. He carefully dresses and leaves immediately. I watch him awkwardly make his way down the steps to where Jacob is waiting. They embrace briefly before they walk slowly away.
Several days later at the piazza I run into Jacob. I'm not sure what Affir has told him but he too would like 50,000 lira. Despite my liking for him I do not encourage him saying I'll let him know if I change my mind. I can't really afford another 50,000 lira anyway without sacrificing other pleasures. Later Affir, excited and looking very pleased, comes over to my table. He's clearly back to his usual cheerful self. He tells me that the man who raped him had to go the hospital. He demonstrates how he kicked the man in the balls again and again while his friend held him. He thanks me for the money profusely. I ask him how he's feeling after his ordeal. He shrugs, "Only titties still a bit sore." Before he leaves he slyly suggests he visit my cottage again but not for torture this time. “Just spank, only 10,000 lira." I decline for now, saying I can't afford it, but he doesn't try to bargain as I thought. I don't think I want to torture a boy again no matter how willing he is.
Two: Jacob and Vazz
Over the next two weeks I get to know Jacob better. I see him down at the piazza where he sells bootleg, designer brand sun glasses to tourists. I often invite him to join me at my table for a coffee. He is a confident boy with graceful manners and has a sultry beauty flush with the textures of puberty. He is rapidly picking up Italian and I find him easier to talk to than most other boys. An instructor in an agency program set up for refugees tutors him privately in his own home, he tells me. I do not inquire why the instructor has taken such a special interest in him, but I could hazard a guess.
It is several days before he hints at the question of money again. The first time I let it pass but on this occasion I ask why he needs money. He tells me his brother is a member of the Patriotic Liberation Front forces fighting for his people's independence. He needs the money to help the war. "Guns are very expensive." he comments. I sympathize with the independence movement but I am not, I insist, going to help finance it. And as I told him before I can't afford 50,000 lira. "But I do anything, anything! You do what you like." I assume Affir must have told him everything and I notice there's no 'no sex' condition. He apparently does not share Affir's aversion to sex with men. While he does not directly proposition me I let him know that I've heard that boys are lucky if they can get more than two thousand lira for sex with tourists. Jacob doesn't disagree but says he sometimes makes more selling sun glasses. Good for you I tell him. "But sometimes," he says, "it is nice to have extra to buy things." I say nothing and after a moment's reflection he adds with a coy smile, "Maybe you like to talk about things?" I, regretting it later, suggest that he drop by at my cottage for lunch tomorrow. I tell him I'll give him at least two thousand lira and we could talk about more.
I'd decided I didn't want to torture any more boys, but then, Do I want to torture Jacob? I know that's what he's hinting at. He has that tough insolent look about him at times, like right now. While interesting, torturing Affir wasn't all that easy at first, it was too real, but once I got inspired and into it, it was a most thrilling experience. Only his willingness made it possible for me to do what I did. He knew he would suffer. I watched him every second and knew he had to find great personal strength to endure it. I did it, and I've decided once is enough. It's fascinating seeing boys suffer, willing themselves to resist, but however much I enjoy observing it I've lost my nerve to torture. However I could now understand great flogging headmasters of the past getting immense satisfaction from beating spunky boys. To experience a stout boy's mettle as you inflict more pain on him is one thing, but you'd need a particular sense of cruelty to beat blubbing boys. All happens within a rationale, a sophisticated construction that the boys themselves subscribe to. Jacob, an animated cheerful boy, I can tell would be able to suffer magnificently.
When he arrives I greet him warmly with a brief hug and seat him at the small table in the farmhouse kitchen. I offer him a small glass of red wine and suggest he strip before we eat and talk as I enjoy the graceful nudity of boys. Jacob doesn't question my suggestion and casually undresses, folds his clothes, sets them on a chair and poses seductively without intending to. The eye of this beholder is drawn to the delicate aspects of the lean wiry body. I immediately notice a series of small bumpy scars across his left shoulder and breast. He tells he got hit by shards of glass when his house was hit by a shell, and they healed without sutures. They remind me of scarification marks and I find them more decorative than ugly. I closely examine his exquisite, slender, olive skinned body and lightly caress him from his neck to his knees. He responds like a kitten. I give him the two thousand to put away before I serve out the soup and sub style sandwiches I've prepared. While we eat he talks about the war and his family, most of whom fled to the capital for protection. When we are finished I refill our glasses and placing a hand on his arm I ask him what he means by 'anything'. "What you like? Sex, blow job, spank me? I do what you like."
I tell him I find him very sexy, and charming, and that I like him personally but that I can't think of anything I would pay him several thousand lira for. Jacob seems disappointed. “But I am not puto, I am not like some boys." A virgin? I inquire, and tell him virgins are for brides, and that boys should be like doctors, you don't want one with no experience. And so I ask him how much sex he's had, no exclusions, and he admits to only two tourists, both Germans, and a brother he used to suck. He doesn't mention his tutor. I tell him that's not very much. "But one German said I was the best." he protests. I suggest that the German's opinion was probably based on his obvious erotic charms, not any acquired skills he may have. Boys, perhaps fortunately for perverse old men, do not see themselves as erotic that way, they are simply people to each other. However sometimes boys should be aware that they are sex objects of sorts, and quite complexly, to lots of dirty old men their own age and older. He is nevertheless aware of the power of his charms. Noticing my gaze he turns it on.
Jacob looks back at me with deliberate and awesome sexiness tilting his head to the side, lightly fondling himself. I cannot allow him to think he can seduce me. It's not just the money, it's a question of control. I do not discourage him however. Jacob is an artist, his sweetness drips, and it's mostly real. And when I can't take it anymore, and keep my hands to myself, I ask him if I can watch him jerk off while I get off too. That way I rationalize I won't have to pay him extra because we won't really be having sex. He makes himself comfortable on my bed and I lie down beside him. I watch and watch, and he is so watchable. He loves himself uninhibitedly, moaning and writhing as he leisurely works up to his orgasm. I vicariously enjoy his pleasure and adore him. A momentary crush. But I can't tell him that, I'd be like that German. I pay him an extra 1000 anyway and unthinkingly agree to think about his 'request' to earn more. Meanwhile he's aroused again and I attack him with my lips enjoying his energy and essence. I am curious about his request and try to get specific about what he's prepared to do. "Like same Affir... maybe more. And sex me but no fuck." He's aware of AIDS. I ask if that means I can pinch and slap his balls as hard as I want? "You like to pinch my balls? Hit my cock?" His compact, crinkly, blue tinged sac is dangling just a foot away from my eyes. I already know what Jacob's balls feel like to play with, and how he reacts to their gentle fondling although at his age sensation's almost entirely in the cock. I tell him I like playing with his balls but that I have no desire to hurt them or pay money for the privilege. "But you pinch Affir hard, he showed me, balls very big and sore. You do me the same for money." I try to explain to him that that was so Affir could earn his money. He won't do sex for money, so... For that much money it had to be a very painful ordeal, I couldn't make it easy. I do not admit that I had enjoyed torturing the 'willing' boy or that it had made Affir more special for me. "What you like then?" I tell Jacob I have no great desire to torment his lovely young body, although I admit it is always interesting watching a boy's fortitude being tested, especially a beautiful, intelligent and charming boy like himself. I will not torture him, I try to make that clear, but my mind is certainly not resolutely opposed to the possibility of seeing him tortured.
I also get to know Vazz, Vasily perhaps, but everyone calls him Vazz. He is not what might be termed a nice person and few boys seem to like him. Affir hates him. He's arrogant, mean and a bully, but he's an interesting boy and that's what counts. Vazz is the terror of the younger children, the preteens who account for about a third of the refugees. He extorts their meager allowances with threats and violence. Once on my way home I saw him twist a youngster's arm until he handed over money he'd hidden in his shoe. However Vazz is very honest with me, an investment on his part I assume, and always brings me the correct change when I send him on an errand. He's not a sleaze at least. I don't find him attractive. His hardened features and attitudes make him seem older than his sixteen years.
He was in the war; Vazz tells me that he once beat an old woman because she wouldn't tell him where her gold was stashed, gold they never found and that may not have existed. This he casually admits but then his situation was difficult, he had to prove himself to older comrades who might have abandoned him to the pursuing army. He likes to talk, he's quite articulate and I find his bizarre stories about the war intriguing, but I have to be careful, ask simple questions, to make sure I understand. And a lot of it is boasting and he embellishes his stories. He seems to know that Affir got some money from me but not how much or why. I tell him it's none of his business and besides people have exaggerated. "He rip you off? Maybe blackmail?" I deny that Jacob ripped me off but avoid an explanation. Vazz still suspects I'm covering up a theft and asks, "You like me beat up Jacob for you?" I'm not interested in Vazz beating up Jacob, but I am interested in the fact that Vazz offered, and I'm suddenly curious about what he would do if he had the opportunity.
I ask him what exactly would he do to Jacob if he had the chance. I propose a fantasy scenario where 'evil' Jacob must be made to suffer extreme pain. I tell Vazz to pretend that he's the king's Grand Torture Master and that it's his duty to torture Jacob as painfully as possible for an hour without seriously injuring him. What would you do? I ask. To make things seem competitive I falsely imply that others are thinking up things too. I have to I explain that he can't just beat up evil Jacob, he has to be painfully tortured instead. I suggest he pretend that Jacob has to appear in court where people would notice if was injured. Vazz seems a bit lost. He's seen prisoners brutally interrogated and killed which isn't much help. I finally give him a long list of suggestions some of which seemed to appeal to him. He does however come up with some ideas of his own for which he 'wins' a T-shirt and five hundred lira.
A plan starts to form, I have a presumably willing top, the hardest to find, and a greedy, desperate bottom candidate. The question is how to put them together, to make it serious and be more interesting, and fun for me. I rather like the idea of one highly motivated boy torturing another. FLASH A Contest! A contest with rules! And a prize, say 60,000 lira for an hour's game. A thousand lira a minute would provide powerful incentive. I can afford it by deferring some purchases. Jacob would earn 1000 for every minute he withstands Vazz's torments. Vazz would win whenever he forces Jacob to struggle, yield or take a time out. I will oversee, referee and improvise rules as needed. Separately I feel out the idea with the boys. Jacob is still eager for money and willing, but he's not happy with the idea of Vazz being his torturer. Vazz is keen; he loves the idea of inflicting pain and making money doing it. A possible career path? I'm a bit concerned about him getting carried away.
On the appointed day Vazz shows up early and is confident he will get most of the money. I show him my improvised strap and a few light alder switches, stingers I call them that he can use to whip Jacob. They will not readily bruise and can be used more liberally than the strap. At my suggestion Vazz takes off his shirt and practises on a cushion becoming quite enthusiastic. When Jacob arrives I explain the rules. There'll be no tying up or restraints but if Jacob pulls away or struggles he loses a minute to Vazz. If he wants to he can stop any particular torment at any time, but he must rest for five minutes, time which counts for Vazz. The same torture can't be repeated sooner than twenty minutes. Depending on the torture Jacob will either stand, sit on an armless chair or lie on the dining table. My kitchen becomes an improvised torture chamber.
While Vazz has often beaten others he's never tortured anyone, especially a determined boy. He's used to punching which I won't allow, it's too bruising. However I decide to let him slap Jacob, but not on the face, and he can only use the switches on areas normally covered by clothes, and the strap is only to be used on Jacob's ass and upper thighs. I tell Jacob he will have to keep his arms folded over his head when he's being whipped so they don't get marked, and he can't move around or he'll be docked a minute. I tell Vazz to allow at least five seconds between each blow. I want my fun to last for a while.
Jacob stands arms overhead in the middle of my kitchen. His slender pale body looks quite statuesque. At my signal to start Vazz takes one of the springy switches and starts whipping Jacob slowly moving around him and leaving dozens of bright red weals on Jacob's shoulders, chest, belly and thighs. Vazz puts all his strength into his task and glances to me as if seeking approval. He intersperses the whipping with slapping which seems more effective. After ten minutes Jacob's torso is dramatically marked by darkening weals and weeping welts but the proud and determined boy is far from yielding. Vazz is frustrated, "I get you good now." He decides to go after Jacob's almost man sized balls. I have Jacob sit on the armless chair with his legs wide apart to give Vazz access to his cock and balls. I tell him that he must keep his legs still or he will forfeit a minute. I only allow Vazz to squeeze, pinch, twist, stretch, and he can use his fingernails but there'll be no slapping or hitting. He starts gingerly, feeling and examining Jacob's genitals, he may only have kicked or punched other boys' there before. Soon getting used to the feel his small hands are vigorously pinch and squeeze the terrified boy's nuts. Jacob is determined and endures the excruciating agony for almost two minutes before he can't keep his legs apart. He must give a minute to Vazz. When his tormentor resumes he is able to hold out less than a minute before he yields. In barely a minute he has to yield again and calls a timeout which means that Vazz wins five minutes but must shift to different tortures for twenty minutes before attacking Jacob's balls again. Vazz taunts his victim who's sobbing lightly but not hurt as bad as he first thinks. Avoiding each other's eyes they take sips from their drinks and Vazz practises menacingly with the strap which he plans to use next. He's allowed two sessions of ten strokes each. I have Jacob bend over the table and hold on to the sides. Vazz takes a big step forward as he swings connecting loudly. The next overeager blow twists and cuts into Jacob's hip. I give him a minute's respite and deduct a stroke from Vazz who quickly understands he must be more careful.
Jacob survives the nine strokes with his composure just intact and manages a few cuss words at Vazz. The eager tormentor reverts to the switches, lashing Jacob front and back, breaking a couple of them and leaving Jacob's backside, belly and chest intricately colored and patterned. The victim remains grimly determined despite the raw patches beginning to form. Not wanting the boy to start bleeding or have scars I suggest, What about his cock? I won't allow cock slapping or whipping. Back on the bed Vazz starts yanking and then twisting the boy's floppy cock using all his awkward strength. This lasts for several minutes with Jacob pulling away twice, costing him a couple of minutes before the agonized, sweating boy, his dick bruised, puffy and inflamed, has to take a time out. Jacob, subdued and quiet, inspects the damage to his abused body while Vazz impatiently waits to resume his assaults. There's less than twenty minutes left. He goes for the balls again. Jacob doesn't want to just give in immediately which would cost him more so he holds out desperately for a minute as Vazz's strong hands work over his already swollen and tender balls. Such delicious agony as the boy softly screams and tears at his hair before yielding again. After the time out Vazz decides to try pinching nipples but has difficulty getting good grips on the teats slippery with sweat and traces of blood. He slaps Jacob's body for a couple of minutes and starts his second session with the strap. He overlays the earlier welts on Jacob's ass and thighs with heavy pounding blows. Blood begins to appear at the end. After dominating the contest he is losing strength and determination. Jacob yields and yields again as he is slapped, yanked and twisted. As soon as time allows Vazz goes for the balls again and then his cock winning almost immediate time outs. Finally with a few minute left Vazz twists Jacob's arm forcing him to floor and getting him to yield again.
I let the exhausted boys rest, offer them large glasses of the local wine and compliment both of them on their efforts. Jacob from his chest to just above his knees is clothed in ugly darkening welts and bruises. He is immersed in his discomfort and pain and barely responds when I tell him he's made 37,000 lira. When he's able to speak I suggest the boys shake hands which they do almost reluctantly. Vazz is pleased with his 23,000 but claims he could do better next time. After he leaves I help Jacob clean up, have him shower and gently apply an antibiotic cream to the worst patches on his ass and chest. I kiss him and perhaps foolishly tell him I am very fond of him. After an hour and a small meal he's in much better spirits and is able to walk without too much discomfort. "I show Vazz, I win most money. How about some day I torture him? I bet I win again." I stroke his head and kiss his cheeks and would dearly love to make love to him. He walks a little stiffly as I accompany him most of the way back to the piazza.
It's three days before I see Jacob vending his wares down at the piazza. Over coffee he proudly tells me he's sent the money to his brother, except for one thousand. "When I join him, maybe next year, I hope never to get captured and really tortured." I ask him how he's feeling. He says he was still uncomfortable the next day and his balls are just a bit sore but the marks are mostly gone. "You like to see?" Back at my cottage my hands, lips and tongue gently soothe and stimulate parts I last saw sorely abused. The faint reminders of his ordeal add to his erotic appeal as we have our sex. No money this time he generously informs me.
Three: Honour Between Cousins
Affir visits me perhaps once a week helping me in the house and small garden and often staying for dinner. I enjoy his light hearted presence and tales about the refugee camp. However despite an earlier vague allusion and my occasional hint he has not expressed any interest in sex. I've left it at that. Once when he has some apparently desperate need for money he practically demands that I do two thousand lira worth of torture to him. I am not in the mood, I found the first time interesting and very satisfying but have no desire to repeat it. Partly to discourage him I ask him what he would like, maybe having his balls slapped and squeezed again? He doesn't seem keen on that idea, "Maybe spank, five hits, that would be fair." I know that five good blows with the strap will barely test him and tell him so. “You want to hurt me more?” He's open to negotiation and when I find he that he really does need the money badly we settle on ten with the strap, a hard bargain I suppose. He casually strips and lies over the table. I briefly contemplate his perfect ass, oh how I'd love to caress it gently, and then I slam hard, more than stinging blows into it, the thwack of leather on flesh delighting my ears and leaving bright red welts on his soft pale skin. He takes it stoically without comment and is quite cheerful minutes later when I served refreshments. and he thanks me for the money. I tell him he's welcome, it was my pleasure, but it's not something I want to encourage.
A couple of weeks later when Affir's sitting at my table in the piazza enjoying some cherry gelato he tells me he has a cousin who is very unhappy in the refugee camp. He seems quite concerned about him. The boy was supposed to be smuggled into Canada where he has relatives but the agent disappeared. His family was rich and he's used to luxury and does not fit in. At camp he has been beaten up and threatened with rape. I ask him if that is common in the camp. "No, but he is what you call 'pretty boy', so other boys think OK." Affir feels very protective. "It is wrong to make sex on young boy like that." The boy, Hamid is fourteen but “looks like girl”. He is a good student, speaks some Italian and doesn't steal. "He make good houseboy for you, very clean and know things." He says he trusts me because I wouldn't make him do sex like some tourists. That is why he chose me. He relates a story about a houseboy for some Austrians at their villa up in the hills who was repeatedly raped and only given a few hundred lira. "Hamid, a good boy, if bad, you spank. Spank OK." I tell him that I do not believe in spanking boys if they are bad, it only makes them worse. "But you like to spank?" I mull the awkward question, I tell him maybe boys who want to be spanked, like himself, but not to punish unwilling boys. "Hamid not like be spanked, his daddy spank him lots." I inform Affir that I don't need and can't afford a houseboy.
Next afternoon at the piazza I look up from my newspaper and see Affir with a neat, formally dressed, smallish younger boy standing beside him. I assume it's Hamid. He is pretty with blond curls and deep set greenish eyes, rather timid the way he looks around and somewhat effeminate, not my kind of boy. Affir formally introduces us and I shake the shy youngster's hand. Affir keeps prompting his cousin, what to do and say, and stressing obedience to bosses. Hamid lacks the hardness of most refugee children and seems to be a bit afraid of his cousin. He doesn't do much talking. I treat them to apple tarts with gelato and we have a pleasant time. Later Affir returns by himself and asks me what I think of his cousin. I find him uninteresting though possibly bright, and try to be noncommittal without being rude. I hear more about Hamid's virtues and how much help he could be. I do not encourage the idea of a houseboy, but then I do not object when Affir says he will bring his cousin up to my cottage next morning. And when he makes me promise there will be no sex I realize he intends to leave the child with me. Such nerve!
They arrive about ten. Affir proceeds to recount his cousin's virtues of intelligence, honesty and personal tidiness, gives the boy a pep talk on diligence and obedience and confides what appear to be last minute instructions to his cousin, and then abruptly heads back to town. I am taken aback, I had assumed we were going to discuss the idea. Well? I show Hamid around my villa including a half used storeroom which he says could be fixed up, for his use I assume. I find a few simple chores in the herb garden for him to do and go back to writing letters. His weeding is so so. At lunch he complains about how hard he worked and how come there's no butter. I'm happy to drop him off at the piazza on my afternoon stroll.
Despite my determination I let Affir's pleas overcome my better judgment. He even says I can spank him, not that I would, but then he's not the kind of boy you would enjoy spanking anyway, I'm sure he'd be a whiny wimp. He practically insists that I spank his cousin for the slightest cause. Becoming protective he tells me not to squeeze balls however. Again I explain I won't spank him as punishment. Then he will spank him for me, Affir insists.
I anticipate difficulties at first while Hamid adapts and learns what I want. He may not do things right but I expect him to try. He also has school to attend which takes up much of his time. I purchase a cot and small wardrobe for him and curtain off a corner of the storeroom to give him a cubicle with some privacy. I also buy him some fashionable shoes and clothes and give him an allowance of 300 lira a day. Hamid keeps his own space which he seldom leaves immaculately tidy, but he is not too keen on helping in the kitchen and garden. At the most he may spend a desultory half hour a day on chores. He is not very reliable and I begin to think he's creating more work for me than he contributes. Partly to test him I propose some major house cleaning for the weekend but come Saturday morning Hamid takes off early 'to see a friend' and doesn't return until dinner, and then complains he doesn't like cilantro in soup. I decide then and there that Hamid must go. I might be more forgiving towards a boy who shared my bed.
The next day at the piazza I inform Affir of my decision. He pleads for his cousin, saying he will talk to him and make him understand. Affir returns with me, talks to Hamid and despite my protests, slaps him around until he's bawling and makes him formally apologize to me. I agree to do nothing until the coming weekend. Subsequently I notice only perfunctory improvement in the boy's performance and none in his attitude. Affir arrives early on Saturday while his cousin is still in bed. I explain to him why I am dissatisfied and show him some of Hamid's shoddy work. Affir agrees and then demands, "Where your strap?" I tell him not to bother, I've already decided to let him go. Affir however is insistent, "I spank him for you." I try to argue but he wakes up his cousin and tells the groggy child he's to be beaten, and yanks the covers off. I tell him it's up to Hamid, if he agrees to be spanked I'll give him another chance but I don't want him to be forced. The boy hates the camp and is scared to go back there, and he definitely doesn't want to be spanked. I leave the cubicle and start cleaning the kitchen. Five minutes later they come in and Affir tells me that Hamid agrees to be spanked, a dozen smacks. This seems a lot for the small boy, but maybe he needs a heavy dose. It's more than what I last gave Affir but I won't interfere.
I hand him the strap and he orders his cousin to lie over the kitchen table with his feet just touching the floor. Affir winds up to belt the small rounded rump but at the last moment Hamid twists aside and the strap slams loudly on the table top. This happens three times with the terrified boy promising each time he won't do it again. At Affir's insistence I agree to hold the boy down. I really don't approve of terrified boys being restrained and spanked, but if I have to make an exception, this lazy little wimp is it. And I don't want Affir to lose face. I hook Hamid's feet behind the end leg brace and press down on his back and shoulders so he can barely move. The child shrieks when the first blow lands and continues to struggle and howl loudly as Affir grimly continues to beat him with all his strength. Even so the child's being a real crybaby, another reason to be rid of him I think. It's little fun for anybody. I hear his breathing become irregular and can feel his sweat sticky body beneath me convulsing with each blow. He's taking a severe beating. His shrieks become almost hysterical. After eight blows his soft buttocks are emblazoned with angry red raised welts and he's gasping between sobs. I suggest a brief time out to let the boy settle down. Affir sarcastically berates his cousin for his lack of fortitude. But Hamid is not so beaten and consumed by self pity that he cannot angrily blurt, "I bet you cry if spanked this hard?" I tell him that Affir's no wimp, he could take it, no problem. Hamid looks at me puzzled.
The overlapping blows have left a couple of small oozing cuts and Affir, on my suggestion, has his cousin turn over and sit back on the bed so he can spank his thighs. I sit behind Hamid and hold him around his shoulders with my face next to his and protect his diminutive genitals with my other hand. Affir again puts all his strength into the last four blows and while Hamid shudders and squeals when the blow lands but he's not hysterical any more. Hamid cries for several minutes loudly complaining that it was worst spanking he'd ever had. He has however survived. Affir smugly says he hopes the boy has learnt a lesson and, if I understood his words, teases him about being a crybaby. “You miss your daddy's gentle spankings?”
When Hamid has calmed down I suggest that we all take it easy and have some refreshments. Affir appears pleased with himself and says, "I come each Saturday and spank him good, OK? You like that?" I tell him I hope it won't be necessary. Aside from punishment maybe, Hamid is not worth spanking. It's wasted on wimps like him. I'd like to tell him that. Anyway I ask Hamid if he thinks the spanking was good for him, sort of a consumer's report. He's obviously scared of spankings but he doesn't know what to say. I tell him that if he wants to stay with me that he must not only do a better job of his chores but that he must not act like a cry baby when he's spanked. Hamid promises to be good. I ask him if he promises not to cry and struggle when he's spanked. He says he'll try. He has a week to prove himself.
I am surprised how diligent Hamid becomes. Sunday he undertakes a grand clean up on his own washing walls and windows and finally the kitchen floor. I am impressed. Then he takes over all of the kitchen work except for cooking allowing me more time for other things. He cleans up the yard, something long overdue, and lovingly tends my herb and flower garden. And he's much more pleasant and sociable not spending all his time in his cubicle. I'm ready to rethink my opposition to spanking as punishment. It seems to work.
And then on Thursday evening when I'm entertaining Bene, a boy from the piazza in my bed, Hamid knocks and brings in a bottle of wine and glasses, and three cigarettes for us. Hamid's heard me say that good sex was one of the few times when smoking is justified, and he knew I had no tobacco. I gratefully thank him, room service or what? The cigarettes are so thoughtful, he must have bought them himself. But Hamid hangs around and pours himself a drink. And then, as I was beginning to suspect, he pleads, "Can I stay?... Maybe look?"
I've promised Affir repeatedly that there'd be no sex, but what about just watching? Hamid may just be curious and letting him have a look may be the best way to deal with the situation. Demystify things and he'll go on to something else. But then I worry that my young friend Berne beside me might be embarrassed and I turn to him. "Oh we let boys more young watch, very good, they like to see first before do." Bene introduces himself and motions Hamid to sit at the far end of the bed.
Having Hamid looking on adds to my thrill, and I believe Bene's, as we put on a performance advertising the joys and beauty of sex to our solo audience. We are both unusually aroused and lusty. Then Hamid asks if he can join us and again I have to think of my promise to his cousin, I can't allow it. But before I think to act Hamid starts undoing his shorts and Bene pulls them down and welcomes him to our bed. "Some boys very quick to learn." Bene informs me. I will however confine my sexual activity to Bene and not touch my charge. But then Hamid insists that it wouldn't be fair, and it really wouldn't be, so to be fair I reluctantly take a seat by the door.
Let it be said that my entire asexual, nonsexual, antisexual image of Hamid is shattered by the presence of this now eager voluptuous child. Hamid is an incredible sex organism for his size. And he's probably a slut, a virgin slut, an oxymoron which encompasses the extremes of the moral assessment of women. I enjoy not only the thrill of the risqué scene but also Bene's masterful initiation of Hamid into the mysteries of sex. I am in love with both lads. At the end when they are sexually exhausted Hamid has a question and he crouches over between us and we very lightly spank his still blemished buttocks for over a minute before he wants no more.
Hamid is up early next morning and has cleaned up the previous night's debauchery before I awake. He seems particularly alert and cheerful as he serves me my morning coffee. School goes well I am told and dinner is pleasant, but even when we have our leisurely after dinner liqueurs, he doesn't mention the events of the night before, and I am in no rush. Talk makes experience less tentative and more concrete and narrow. Talk loads words, definitions, bias and unnecessary meaning onto both reality and memory. Not talking about some things may be the best way to deal positively with those things. But only as long as we understand it from the viewpoint of wisdom, not moral imperative where it becomes taboo, and thus a source of much misfortune.
When Affir arrives late Saturday morning I am puttering in the kitchen while Hamid is reading at a small table. I have barely welcomed him when he wants to know why I am working when his cousin is taking it easy. I tell him he is mistaken, that I am pleased with how well things are going with Hamid. Affir doesn't seem convinced, speaks to Hamid and the cousins retire to his cubicle while I start preparing lunch. I'm surprised when soon I hear shouting, Affir sounds enraged and tells Hamid he's going to get the beating of his life. Hamid, I'm very surprised, is telling his cousin to fuck off. The spat continues loudly. Lunch is almost ready when Affir comes up to me and demands to borrow the strap. I suggest that we postpone 'business' until after lunch. This doesn't stop occasional remarks that Hamid is lazy, lies and shows no respect for authority. After Affir takes me aside and insists on knowing how things really are. I have no idea of what Affir thinks, knows or suspects. When I say I am very satisfied with Hamid's performance Affir thinks I am covering up for him, perhaps because I'm fond of him. He knows his cousin better and feels responsible for him and wants the strap so he can give him a good spanking which he sees as part of taking care of him. I ask him to explain. "I know that boy, he may be lazy sometimes, like rich kids are, but he always take care of self. Always neat hair and tidy. Hamid tells no problem, no problem, says he works hard. But I see with my eyes the problem. His room big mess. Before he at least kept his part tidy, now he... big mess." I try to explain that his cubicle is no longer the compulsively tidy focus of his life, he's too busy with other things. Affir is unconvinced, "And he lie to me, and tell me things none of my business, No Respect for elders, for Me! I over sixteen now.” Then he called me bad names. I give him very good spanking, maybe squeeze balls too." He goes off to get Hamid.
I find Hamid first and signal his cousin to wait while we talk. He says Affir won't believe him and keeps asking all these questions. "He is not my father, he is not even two whole years older. I tell him, 'Fuck Off'." I talk to Affir and point to the yard and clean floors to prove how Hamid has improved. "But he has been rude to me, not show respect." I say that's no cause to spank him, and tell him that he hasn't been rude to me. "But I have already promised him a good beating, give my word, it is my honour, I cannot go back on my word." But he's done nothing deserving of punishment that concerns me.
I face the dilemma of Affir's pride, Hamid's innocence and my own desire to see the latter spanked. While I agree that he in no way deserves a spanking, or any punishment whatsoever, I explain to Hamid how Affir feels, how he feels insulted, and all about his pride. The boy understands, "You want him spank me?" It's a difficult situation and I suggest a compromise to Affir, only six strokes, and it seems an honourable solution for all is worked out. Affir is beginning to suspect that he may look foolish, that some might feel punishment is unjust. He has made his point, a symbolic victory, and so as to not seem vindictive he plies the strap with barely playfully force across Hamid's protruding posterior. The child protests, "You treat me like a little child, you think I'm a wimp? Hit harder asshole." Affir embarrassed, complies and the rest approach moderate in force. "That only six, last time twelve." Hamid claims to be insulted, "Again you treat me like a child." Honour demands he stand up to his cousin and receive his due measure.
"I only agreed to six. I keep my promise.” Affir refuses, “You make it into a game, a silly game. I don't have to spank you, and you cannot make me." The cousins start swearing at each other and I am afraid they will end up fighting.
Anxious to avoid trouble I step in and volunteer to give Hamid another six strokes to make up a dozen. The boy gives his cousin the finger, "Fuck you." and bends over the table. I make sure the last six strokes are delivered with near maximum force. They thwack loudly into his narrow bum. It's a joy to watch as little Hamid fights to control himself enduring the blows. He's hurting at the end, tears are flowing, but he's made it through with his dignity intact. Affir is also impressed, he says he's sorry and embraces Hamid emotionally. Such a sweet happy ending with cousins equal, honorable and friends.
It's weeks before Hamid gives me any cause, which I suspect he contrived, to spank him again. It is a most satisfying spanking indeed, long and loud with many pain giving smacks and not a whimper from the proud lad. He may even have enjoyed it, I did. My love for him becomes rampant but he never ever mentions sex. I can't be his type.
Four: Contest of Courage
One day at the piazza Jacob turns up with a black eye and a few other bruises. I am naturally curious and he tells me that there was a big fight at the refugee camp. It seems that there's a split between those who support the Patriotic Liberation Front or PLF, his side, and those supporting the Popular Resistance Army or PRA, who in his estimation are not true freedom fighters. "They are a bunch of bullies like Vazz, but they have no guts. The PRA gave up three villages without a fight." From what Jacob says I cannot tell what differences, other than personalities, separate the factions but it is obvious that the dispute is threatening the unity of the resistance movement among the refugees. He fears there will be a riot when a political representative of the PRA visits the camp. There could even be turf wars in the piazza. I can see it being bad for the tourist industry if a lot officials and journalists get involved and started snooping around.
The next day Vazz whom I've not seen for a while approaches me. He wants to know if I want anything done. I tell him I don't need anyone beaten up but he can help me shop and carry home groceries for a few lira. "But I need big money, many thousands." He leans close to confide, "Maybe you like sex?" Some boys like Vazz are about as exciting as a woman to me, so I ignore the question not wanting to be insulting. When I ask him why he needs money he gives me a different version of the fight at the camp and claims that the PLF is betraying the independence movement by holding secret talks with the government. He is worried about trouble when one of the PRA leaders visits the camp next week. But why does he need money? Vazz says to protect themselves and their leader when he comes, and after further questions he admits they want the money to buy some guns. I make it clear that I am not about to help arm his, or any other faction. "Oh no, but maybe you like nice boy to torture, maybe?" I make a sarcastic comment about the PRA pimping boys' bottoms and he's offended. "Not pimp. They do for PRA to help war." I say nothing. "You could spank lots! And other things too." I certainly don't mind a friendly spanking where a boy gets a chance to show his mettle but it's not something I want to arrange through a pimp even for a worthy cause. "I meet you many boys, boys you squeeze and spank. You choose one you like, maybe only ten thousand lira." I make my refusal clear and firm, and I suggest that what his people need is not money but some type of accommodation with the other side. Live and let live I say. "Not possible." Vazz states indignantly and he leaves disappointed.
I am quite surprised when Vazz shows up an hour later to ask if he can use my cottage for a meeting. He says it might help make peace at the camp. Although unsure what is happening I agree. I discover it's for a secret meeting between the heads of the two factions. That night Jacob shows up with a dour, young, one armed man he introduces as Mikail. I insist on frisking both of them for weapons taking a switchblade from Jacob. Mikail smiles unconvincingly, his limp forelocks obscuring his eyes and pallid face as he speaks carefully, cleverly disparaging the enemy and revealing his political ambition. I learn that Mikail was wounded and captured in the early days of the uprising but managed to escape. Exactly two minutes later, as if they had waited for the others to arrive, Vazz appears at my door with Brozny, a tall, brooding, bushy haired young man with thick lensed glasses who glances around nervously. I find a small unloaded pistol in his boot. I assume both factions have posted men outside. I seat the four of them at my multipurpose kitchen table and serve them colas, but remain in the background. The leaders are mutually suspicious and start by accusing each other of deviation from the correct path. But I am able to pick out that they are both concerned about how infighting would damage the cause. But as neither is prepared to be reasonable, and back down, honour demands that they fight. Accusations have been made, insults have been exchanged and the honour of the factions and their faith in destiny's judgment override everything else. I miss many of the details and innuendoes.
I have said nothing but finally fed up with their stubborn, self defeating posturing I ask why don't they simply have a representative of each faction, 'gladiators' in effect, fight and agree to accept the results beforehand? After initially disparaging the idea both Mikail and Brozny become interested. "It could be a fight to the death!" Brozny exclaims. "Honour in blood!" Mikail retorts. A death would create problems and they decide on a no rules fight. It would save face. But then another problem arises. It wouldn't be fair because a huge, tough, streetwise supporter of the Patriotic Front is recognized as the best fighter by far in the camp. He would be almost sure to win. The idea is about to die when Vazz sneers that the Patriot 'warrior' is a wimp. "He pee pants when hoods beat him up." Even Jacob acknowledges that his size and strength are greater than his courage. This leads to a discussion of who is the toughest, who can take the most and still come back. Mikail boasts that he survived a brutal interrogation by the enemy and displays cigarette burn scars on his one arm. Brozny has his tales of fortitude and points to ridges on his scalp he got from police truncheons at a student protest. He was in a coma for days. The boasting continues.
For the second time I interrupt, and suggest that instead of a fight it could be a 'contest of courage', which side had the toughest 'soldier' or 'prisoner' who could hold out the longest, take the most. I cunningly imply that the most determined boy, the one with the most faith in his cause would triumph. Again both men seem interested and each can think of potential candidates and feel confident that having the correct political outlook their representative would prevail. They agree to think about the idea and leave. From my porch I watch them head off in opposite directions.
With Jacob and Vazz as go betweens discussions are held. After both factions express interest in settling their dispute through a 'contest of courage' I suggest a set of rules. Each camp leader may be accompanied by two friends or bodyguards, and each side shall provide a 'team' for the contest. The team will comprise: A 'soldier' or 'prisoner', a boy fifteen to seventeen who will be tortured by the other side and must be able to endure extreme pain; three hostages who will be beaten by the victor's hostages if their side loses; two young tormentors who will do the actual torturing and must not weigh over forty kilos. I suggest that using small boys would reduce the likelihood of serious injury. They can be assisted by a strong helper who could hold, bind or restrain, but not torture the 'prisoner'.
The factions will take turns, one pair of tormentors will torture the other side's soldier, their 'prisoner'. Then the other faction will torture their prisoner. I suggest alternating ten minute periods. The contest will end when one side makes their prisoner submit. Vazz had suggested simultaneous torture, a simple race to make the prisoner submit. I thought it would be difficult to supervise and make it easier to get away with things they shouldn't. I favored a slower process, both for political and entertainment reasons.
The tormentors will decide what to do although the hostages can advise them or encourage the prisoner. The leaders and their guards must remain silent and not interfere. As for the torture the only things prohibited are those that may dislocate or break bones, maim, disfigure or leave permanent scars, or that may bruise internal organs. Only light instruments, whips, straps or canes will be allowed and punching may be limited. I reserve the right to redirect the torturing but not stop it short of serious injury. The prisoner will have to be able to walk and perform basic functions immediately after his tortures.
At the end the losing side's leader and guards can leave immediately taking their soldier with them. One who was thought to have given in too soon might be further tortured by his own faction. A Security Staff, Affir's mafia I call them, will enforce the rules. I hope they're not armed. The winning side's hostages will be untied and are free to punch and kick, except on the head, the others who will remain bound. The winning tormentors get to strip the losing ones and give them ten strokes with a bamboo cane across the ass as they are held over the kitchen table before they leave. I want there to be strong incentives both to encourage the prisoners to resist and to make them yield. I look forward to some painful and determined demonstrations of boyish pride and fortitude. I realize that neither 'prisoner' may submit short of unacceptable injury or maiming so I suggest a limit of two hours for the contest. As entertainment that's long enough. The leaders are interested in the idea, I am surprised, and it takes only a few messages back and forth before both Mikail and Brozny indicate their agreement.
For the contest I cut a bundle of thin, springy switches or stingers, wrap electrical tape around the strap to make it a little more wicked, stock up on leather thongs, soft ropes and duct tape, and thoughtfully screw eight large hooks into the kitchen's ceiling beams. I recruit a couple of Affir's local friends, Tony and Benito, as enforcers to keep the refugee kids in line. This is quite costly and no doubt a share will go to the local police. I inform the two leaders of my preparations and the contest is set for noon Friday. I pray that the contest will reconcile the factions and avoid serious disturbances at the refugee camp and in town.
Mikail arrives with his guards including Jacob, all immaculately dressed in black gangster style suits and smoking cigarettes. Seven boys in green outfits follow. I am introduced to their soldier, Yousef, a handsome wiry lad with dirty blond hair falling over his face. He has a bright green satin cape over his shoulders sporting the PLF logo. I check to see if his eyes are pinned as pain killing drugs would be unsportsmanlike. Still I wonder what he might have been threatened with if he yields first. He is well muscled but doesn't have much fat on him and seems unconcerned about his coming ordeal. The Patriotic Front's two small tormentors are pale, dark haired identical twins with satiny green tank tops and shorts who chatter animatedly and tease their helper, a tall awkward boy also in green. They look around arrogantly and try to appear cruel. I sit Mikail and the Front's guards at the far end of my large kitchen. Their slightly built adolescent hostages also dressed in green satin seem quite apprehensive as Benito binds their forearms together behind their backs. I assume that Mikail doesn't want to risk his older, stronger followers as hostages.
Brozny shows up soon after with Vazz and a husky older boy as bodyguards. The whole entourage is dressed in quasi military fatigues and camouflage attire. Their soldier is a big, strong looking youth with short auburn hair and the eyes of a fanatic. Vazz tells me his name is Ahmet and that he was chosen because he volunteered. "He make Jacob look like big crybaby." The two PRA tormentors with shaved heads are not much over four feet tall. They show off their sturdy muscular bodies and strike aggressive poses. They must already be lifting weights. Their teenage hostages clad in camouflage T-shirts and black shorts sporting PRA logo are bigger and maybe a couple of years older than the PLF's. They remain confident and pretend nonchalance as Tony binds their forearms behind their backs. I can't find out if they volunteered too. I sit Brozny and his guards at the near end of the kitchen.
As the master of ceremonies I outline the program for the 'Contest of Courage'. The hostages come forward and are sat on the floor in the centre of the room where Affir's mafia binds their ankles leaving them defenseless. As a precaution against hidden implements etc. I have the tormentors and their helpers strip to their shorts. The two prisoners to be tortured are told to remove all their clothes and leave them with their leaders. Tony and Benito tie wide leather thongs with loops around each boy's wrists and ankles to facilitate their restraint when required. Both have handsome, clean looking muscular adolescent bodies with little hair aside from small dense pubic thatches. Ahmet who is slightly taller and somewhat heavier proudly displays his sturdy, olive complexioned body and gazes around the room. Yousef appears more relaxed, he looks around the room and nods to Mikail, stretches and rubs his lean arms and thighs. The tormentors whom seem eager to begin grab hold of their respective prisoners.
I announce that for the first ten minute rounds the prisoners will have their hands bound behind their backs and their ankles joined by a two foot cord. The tormentors may freely punch except on the head or in the groin. Open handed slapping only is allowed on the cheeks. The tormentors must however take alternate blows with three second intervals between. The helpers can steady but not hold the prisoners. Brozny wins the coin toss.
The muscular PRA tormentors approach Yousef from either side keeping him off guard and jab him in the ribs and chest. The prisoner avoids some blows but the tormentors switch to his stomach. Yousef tightens his ridged abs and the regular thudding in his gut pinkens his belly. He becomes less agile and his cropped head tormentors return to his ribcage and by reaching up slapping his face. The beating continues with regular blows, over a hundred a hostage counts. Yousef starts having trouble keeping his balance and the helper holds the thongs binding his hands to prevent him from falling. He must now take the full force of their bruising punches and slaps and is exhausted when the energetic youngsters are finished. His body is splotched with pink and his face is flushed and he's subdued as his hands are unbound. He seems a bit groggy but says he's OK when I ask him.
Ahmet stands proudly and unmoving when the greenclad PLF twins begin working him over. Only when his side's hostages advise him does he try to go with the blows. He absorbs more punishment, his face becomes puffy from repeated slaps and his torso displays many pink to red blotches. He is more bruised than Yousef but with his sturdier build seems no worse off at the end. Both Mikail and Brozny seem satisfied with things so far when I speak to them.
The second pair of rounds allow whipping and strapping. The two skinhead youngsters decide to have Yousef suspended from a roof beam in front of the hostages. They take up the thin stinging switches and proceed to lash the boy's twisting, writhing torso, front and back with all their small boy strength. The hard springy switches cut into Yousef's soft skin leaving a growing number of raw stripes from his shoulders to knees and a couple of them get broken flailing his body. His stretched rib cage develops several oozing lacerations from overlaid blows. With little more than three minutes left the tormentors start taking turns with the heavier strap, ten second intervals, buttocks and thighs only. Yousef for the first time shows obvious discomfort with his face contorting in agony by the end of the round. I examine his brightly etched and bruising body briefly, noting no real bleeding. He is untied and allowed to rest as Ahmet's torture begins.
Ahmet taunts his tormentors mocking their fancy green shorts as like girls'. Like Yousef he is strung up from a beam. He recites some political creed aloud as the twins, cheerfully chattering back and forth whip their zealous prisoner, "That was a good one." And "Try belly, already sore." Ahmet endures the PLF assault like a martyr, pretending to ignore his torment. Stingers break and are replaced. The cuts are deeper and a few begin to ooze blood which soon trickles down his belly and thighs. The hostages become excited shouting encouragement to the respective protagonists. The twins pick up the strap and focus their steady hard blows on his ass. Ahmet becomes silent and only the thwack... thwack... thwack of the strap on his flesh can be heard. After about twenty concentrated blows I have them move on to his thighs. They end the round by lashing his chest breaking more switches. Ahmet remains stoical but is well bloodied and welted from his whipping. He also appears to be tiring. The leaders have watched intently but have no comment.
I announce the next rounds where the prisoners' bodies including their cocks, balls and nipples may be pinched, squeezed, stretched and twisted. No punching or slapping and no implements may be used. Tony moves a heavy bench is into the middle of the room and I suggest that the prisoners be tied over it on their backs with their legs apart. This will make it easier for the tormentors and allow others a better view. Jousef lifts his head as much as can to watch as his tormentors start handling his genitals. After a few seconds, perhaps getting used to the idea, each gets a hand on one of his olive sized balls and yanks from opposite sides. Yousef howls, shakes his hips making it difficult for the small tormentors to keep their grips as the testes, slippery within their sac, slip through. Jousef's determination becomes tinged with desperation and he starts sweating and swearing beneath his breath. After a couple of minutes I tell them to move on, they can come back to his balls later. With one sitting astride Yousef's stomach the determined tormentors start on the prisoners tiny nipples slapping them violently and pinching the nubs with their thumbnails dug in and violently pulling, their nails scraping his small tits. The prisoner begins swearing loudly and bucking but the helper adds his weight to his belly so he can't move. Blood trickles from the abraded nipples making a good grip difficult. The twins go back to Yousef's balls this time twisting and squeezing causing him to wag his head, moan and occasionally shriek in pain. He becomes drenched with sweat, writhes futilely and holds on grimly. After two or three minutes I have them move on and they attack his flaccid slender cock. Gleefully they yank, twist and dig their nails to pinch the delicate skin. Yousef begins swearing again and screaming but he remains determined to resist. At the end his crotch as well as his chest is glazed with a mixture of sweat and blood. After he's untied he hobbles around awkwardly, bent over, before sitting down to rest. Yousef winces when I check his swollen balls. Their torment is not yet over.
Ahmet seems confident as he is tied down over the bench, he knows what to expect. His large cock is erect when the PLF twins begin their work. They seize the opportunity and try bending his cock back on itself using its rigidity to increase internal pressure and pain. Ahmet, closes his eyes and starts audibly reciting some prayer. The tormentors bend and twist his hardon vigorously and Ahmet's prayers become louder and perhaps rewarded as his cock becomes soft. They continue to torture it, squeezing the end hard and running their nails around behind the corona and tearing at the frenulum. Oozing blood soon obscures their efforts and I have them move on. One tormentor gets his balls between the finger locked palms of his hand and applies as much pressure as he can. Crush, crush, crush. Ahmet stifles his screams and chants reassuring slogans. The PRA hostages chant reassuring responses while the other hostages egg the twins on. Then one of the twins moves in to pinch each ball separately with the fingers of both hands. I see them flattened from the pressure as Ahmet struggles to control himself. He twists himself momentarily free and chants louder. After a few minutes, fearing rupture I have them move on again. They pinch and twist the soft skin behind his scrotum and in his armpits before they attack his full nipples using their fingernails to tear at them ferociously. When slippery blood and sweat make that less effective they resume their assaults on his still bleeding cock and finish with pulsating squeezes on his blood smeared balls. He shrieks some god affirming mantra and endures to the end. He tries hard but fails to maintain his composure as he walks over to sit beside Yousef. They ignore each other. There are tears in Ahmet's eyes. Examining him I find is cock has a nasty bruise from its bending but his balls are no more tender and swollen than Yousef's. I am amazed and thrilled by the boys' capacity for endurance. I feel honoured by their fortitude.
This time both leaders seem a little less complacent. It is a fair contest they concede and they are impressed with the courage displayed by both prisoners. But I am led to understand there are unresolved political issues and questions of the correct policies to follow after victory. I shrug and pretend great ignorance and tell them I am also humbly impressed by the boys' courage and determination. Yousef and Ahmet are nearing their physical limits if not the limits of their determination. I tell the leaders they can be proud of them and add that such boys are an asset to any cause. I worry aloud that neither boy would yield short of death. After a pause while I try to assess the leaders' attitudes, I explain that the next rounds, which I hope are the last, will likely be the most violent. Mikail and Brozny look across at each other and signal for the contest to continue. Again they give me their word that they will abide by the result.
The fourth rounds I explain, will permit all that has gone before. There is an air of desperation as each set of tormentors, now becoming tired themselves, attack their prisoners. And the prisoners who struggle and shriek at first become almost passive as their torture continues. Perhaps the natural opiates of the body have induced a numbness suppressing the pain. I am concerned. The situation is no longer one of heroic fortitude but bloody savagery. It cannot continue. At end of his ordeal each prisoner is groggy and finds any movement painful. Their bruise mottled and ridged bodies are glazed with sweat and oozing blood. Their systems, physical and mental are in a state of shock from the intense ordeals they have gone through. They sit dumbly side by side each immersed in his own suffering. The hostages look on in nervous silence.
Both Mikail and Brozny appear serious and thoughtful. When I ask them separately if they would like to confer both seem interested. The kitchen hushes as I escort them to the storeroom. I leave them sitting side by side on Hamid's cot. In little more than an hour he will be home from school. Back in my kitchen things are quiet and tense with anticipation. The hostages seem particularly anxious. Yousef and Ahmet sit quietly hunched over. The two sets of tormentors both appear tired and impatient and exchange a few comments among themselves.
Finally the two leaders emerge. Mikail makes a point of deferring to Brozny. The Popular Resistance Army cadre says, "Our cause is too important and our youth too valuable to squander on infighting."
"We have agreed to negotiate on the basis of common interests." Mikail adds. All the participants have little to gain and swear on their honour to keep the contest a secret. Cover stories will be invented to explain the abuse of the prisoners' bodies which may take a week or more to heal. As a demonstration of good faith each leader entrusts his hostages to the other faction with the understanding that they will be severely beaten, or worse, if negotiations break down.
Jacob and Vazz keep me informed about the progress of the peace talks. Some of the hostages are beaten in the process but talks continue. The PRA cadre visits the camp without incident and is listened to attentively. He will convey the message of unity to his comrades fighting in their homeland. The boys also keep me informed about Yousef and Ahmet who both resume their schooling and normal activities within a few days. The weekend after the contest I invite each separately to my villa for a sumptuous dinner of Balkan delicacies. Both times Hamid, unaware of the roles they played, willingly helps with the preparation, serving and clean up. He politely goes out each evening leaving us alone. He thinks Yousef is very sexy.
On Saturday Yousef talks very little but gladly shows me the remaining marks and bruises on his body and welcomes my touch. When I gently mouth his still slightly tender balls which I last saw being brutally crushed by his tormentors he trembles with excitement, and when I suck his still discolored but exquisitely shaped cock he moans and then howls as he quickly squirts again and again. I allow it no rest. My awareness of the tortures he endured adds to my thrill at his ejaculations and I am sated without orgasm myself. We cuddle affectionately. I ask him if he would go through torture again. "No, no, NO!" He wants to emigrate to Australia or America and have a nice house and a car.
On Sunday I find that Ahmet is proud of his ordeal when he displays his marks and discusses his torture in detail. He would do it again for the cause and looks forward to joining in the war. He looks at me and down to his magnificent erection. With his eyes and gestures he invites me to fondle it. I gladly caress his generous organ with my hands and mouth, getting to know him, flesh against flesh. His breathing becomes irregular but he only cums when I hook my thumb into his anus and vigorously probe his warm orifice. He smiles at me and we briefly kiss like Western teenagers. "The cause comes first and I will not love women until after victory."