he prisoner, a young officer, is tied to the four metal posts of the bedframe by neckties discovered in an adjacent closet. Someone rips off the silver badges of rank and throws them with a shrug on the debris-littered floor of the abandoned apartment house. Freddy pulls out his switchblade and holds it close against the pale skin of the officer's neck. The young lieutenant stiffens visibly and you run your fingers through his thick dark hair, look into his blue eyes, say "you're beautiful."
"We'll fix that," says Freddy, holding the razor-sharp edge of the knife closer still to the officer's throat.
One of the others has pulled open the dark uniform tunic revealing a smooth chest and well-defined muscular torso. Several of us stand around the bed calmly smoking cigarettes. Freddy pulls up a metal folding chair and sits down next to the prisoner.
"You're a dead fuckhead, you know that?"
When the young officer -- younger even it seems than any of us -- does not respond, Freddy applies the tip of his cigarette to a nipple.
Now the pain, the throbbing, alternately the burning. Now the sound of shrieking, the smile that passes quickly over Freddy's face and the ugly smell of burnt flesh.
Our captive does not seem to understand what's expected of him and he looks helplessly around at the impassive faces surrounding the bed. Freddy nods and, while one of us holds up his arm, another applies his cigarette to the soft hairy flesh.
Between screams, he continues to volunteer information, never realising that neither Freddy nor any of us could care less.
Freddy never stops smiling as a cigarette is applied to the genitals.
Several cigarettes are applied at once now and the room is filled with the acrid sick-making smell of burning flesh and tobacco. The smoke rises in a heavy yellow column, the sound again of the boy's screams and the snickering that ensues. Freddy's face is still, impassive as a mask now.
And the sight of your face, radiant, intense, almost glowing. Your eyes glazed, your long slender fingers that caress his cheek as he convulsively throws his head from side to side and screams.
"I betcha you'd like a piece of this here," hisses Freddy, grabbing at his crotch, "betcha you'd give anything to suck my cock."
The young officer starts to cry and for some horrible, inexplicable reason that starts you laughing. The sound of your laughter fills the room, puddling in the grey shadowy corners, rising like whisps of yellow smoke to the ceiling and beyond. And now everyone is laughing, everyone including me.
Now that it comes down to it.
t's Freddy's voice saying it's up to us to show them, it's up to us to show them we can be just as ruthless, it's up to us to let them see that we can be just as capable of terror and giving pain as they are. Even more capable. His hands are covered with fresh blood which he wipes onto his fatigues.
"Did you and Freddy ever sleep together?"
"No, of course not. . ."
You look at me like you don't beleive me. You fold your arms across your chest and, staring, seem to wait for me to say something.
"He wasn't into it. We tried once. He was too nervous, too drunk. I took advantage of him."
"It's hard to imagine you taking advantage of him." You laugh. "In fact, it's hard to imagine you taking advantage of anyone.
"Why do you say that?"
Of course you don't answer. You just reach over and grab me, pulling me ontop of you, wrapping your arms around me and holding me tightly to you. I feel your heart beating hard against my own.
Now that it comes down to the whole thing of pain and pleasure, of violation, of humiliation, of blood and guts and glory. There is the taste of chalk in my mouth and the agonizing wrenching sensation racing across my abdomen and lower back.
You watch as first Freddy, then one by one the rest fuck the young soldier.
"He's dead," Freddy says, holding his head up by the hair, "the faggot."
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