Diary of a Shota Boy - Part 12

by

Cosmo

Part 12: Transition

I was lying in bed with Simon-Peter, having just completed another lesson in boysex with him. I was concentrating on the rudiments of cocksucking, at which Simon-Peter seemed infinitely adept. I taught him the best sucking and licking techniques, and the most conducive use of tongues and teeth. Teeth were very important in cocksucking. They could make all the difference. Used wrongly, the sucker could injure the suckee, or at the very least cause discomfort. Used correctly, they could add to the pleasure and enhance the sensation beyond belief. Anyhow, I had brought him off twice, with his little appendage clamped between my lips and tongue, and felt his stubby little dick pulse madly in my mouth, both times making him squirm and squeal with pleasure. It was so erotic when he squealed, almost as though he was vocalizing his disbelief at how good it was. Simon-Peter had the right idea. He loved having his little dick sucked. And I loved sucking it. But more than that, he was getting very proficient at cocksucking himself. When I finally sank my stiffie into his hot, wet little mouth, his little rosebud lips pursed in an expectant and inviting little pout, I knew I wasn't going to last long. His sweet head was wrapped around my hairless dick and I just knew I had to cum inside there. It was so slimy and warm in his mouth, and I could feel the wetness of his lips around the base of my dick and on my hairless little balls. I fucked his pretty face real good, eventually cumming mutedly into his tiny mouth. The first time he did it, I was amazed that I didn't have to instruct him. As I squirted into him, deep into the back of his mouth, he gulped my kidspunk straight down, swallowing the evidence direct from the source. And then, he let my stiffie fall from his lips and drew back, even licking his lips, and looked up at me enquiringly as if to ask 'How did I do?' What a dirty little spunkboy he was. So eager, so dedicated, so obliging. Fuck, he was good.

As we came down from our exertions, both our little dicks now deflating in the aftermath of our sex games, we laid there on my bed, cuddling up to each other. His tiny body lay naked next to me, pulsing with little breaths. I was on my side, half thrown across him, with the wetness from the tip of my todger leaving a silvery little trail on his slender thigh, where the residue of my kidspunk had leaked from the tip of my softening dick.

We were both about to fall asleep, when suddenly the whole room was rocked by a loud explosion somewhere in another part of the building. A deafening thud shocked us from our reverie and everything moved, as though the entire building had been picked up and thrown down by some angry, capricious giant, tossing us a couple of feet into the air. We could hear the sound of breaking glass and wood splintering. White dust floated down from the ceiling. We clung to each other like scared rabbits, shocked and confused. There was a lot of screaming emanating from outside. The lights went out and then I don't remember exactly what happened next.

In the aftermath of the explosion, Guus assembled us all hastily downstairs in the Club. I took Simon-Peter's little hand and kept him very close to me. We had just about managed to throw on some clothes and went downstairs in the darkness, groping around blindly as we made our way to the basement. Guus had a contingency plan for this kind of eventuality, and he seemed to go into this strange autopilot mode where he was totally in charge, yet emotionally neutral. It was odd. Guus was usually so highly strung and emotional. Guus comforted us all, and went around the room stroking and patting the other boys, murmuring words of reassurance and handing out drinks and blankets. It was reassuring to see him so firmly in control. He was a good guy to have around in an emergency - always calm, always clear headed and always totally in control. We were all covered in ash and dust. Our faces were caked in white powder like some horribly grotesque facepaint which whitened out our features so that no one was recognizable. Some of the other boys were looking dazed and disorientated. Some were yammering away pointlessly, clearly shaken by the explosion. Yet others seemed strangely calm and unperturbed. They were in shock, of course. All of us were looking a little disheveled, but thankfully no one had any serious injuries. Meanwhile, Guus sent some of his goons to go and investigate the explosion.

It was a car bomb of course. That was how they assassinated people these days. Somehow news had got out that UNVERO personnel were staying at the hotel, and so the new wing of the hotel was targeted. The VLA claimed responsibility for the bombing. They killed several high ranking UNVERO officers. I knew it was very serious when Guus came to me personally and took me aside with a grave expression on his face. He himself looked ashen-faced and glassy, clearly shaken by the news. Simon-Peter's dad had been killed in the bombing. Guus gave me very strict instructions to stay with Simon-Peter and not say anything until it was confirmed. I could see even Guus had trouble keeping his composure. After all, Simon-Peter's dad had been a personal friend of his. Later that day, we heard it on the news. Photos and library video footage of Simon-Peter's dad was being looped continuously on the satellite news broadcasts. I hadn't realized he was such a senior officer - a Major General, no less. I made sure Simon-Peter was kept away from it. We decided it was better for him to hear it from me.

I will never forget Simon Peter's reaction when I told him his father was dead. I took him back to my room, which was thankfully still intact, and we sat down on the edge of my bed. I put an arm around him and gently explained what had happened. It was almost too much for his immature little mind to comprehend. His expression went through several phases, at first incredulity, then shock, followed by a tearful and howling lament. I wrapped my arms around his head and tried to comfort him as best I could. He cried into my chest.

'Shh, don't cry little one,' I whispered, trying to calm him.

His initial cries receded into those shuddering little sobs that were so symptomatic of little boys, his diminutive body rocked violently with his grief. Then, when his childish sobs began to peter out, he was quieted for a moment, his tears stemmed, and he was a little more composed. After the initial shock, it did not surprise me that his first thoughts were for himself.

'What's going to happen to me now?' he asked, looking up at me through his tears, grinding his little fists into his eyes in that inimitable way that all little boys have.

'Don't worry,' I said, reassuring him, 'I'll look after you.'

Then he stopped rubbing his eyes, trying desperately to smile.

'Weally? I can stay with you?'

'Of course you can,' I replied, 'You're my friend.'

Then he entered a renewed fit of crying, as though this sudden and dramatic turn of events was too much for him to assimilate. The poor boy could almost not encompass the enormity of it all. He sobbed away for a while longer, and I just held him close, nuzzling his pretty face and soothing him with kisses.

I waited for his grief to ebb away, and when he was calm again, he sat forlornly on the bed looking quite dejected. He was silent for a while, then he brightened, apparently struck by a new thought.

'Cloud?'

'Yes, little one?'

'Can I be a shota boy, like you?'

That made me smile. I was flattered.

'Of course you can,' I said, 'We can be shota boys together.'

It was funny, I thought, that he should be so quick in latching onto the idea. It was also very brave of him. He was of course distraught, but he was practical too. So that was how I volunteered to take responsibility for Simon-Peter. It seemed only right that I should. I owed that to his father at least. After all, Simon-Peter was in my room being sexualized and corrupted by me. But I also realized afterwards, with shockingly profound hindsight, that I had unwittingly saved Simon-Peter's life. It had been a stroke of fortune, for had he not been with me, Simon-Peter would have been killed too.

Later, when the initial reverberations of the bombing had begun to settle, we were brave enough to join Guus and the other boys in the common room. The big plasma TV was tuned to the satellite news broadcasts, and the other boys were variously lounging on the sofas and beanbags with concerned frowns, every now and then exchanging alarmed stares with each other. The rolling news broadcasts were all about the bombing and the pundits were speculating on its consequences and possible repercussions. The consensus was that it marked a resurgence in the struggle for Verolino. All the warring factions that had been kept at bay for so long were now on the verge of a renewed campaign. They had mustered their reserves and were now poised to make one final push to capture Verolino. The UN peacekeeping mission was in the balance. That evening, there was a hastily convened session of the UN Security Council, to debate the implications of the bombing. They took the decision that UN personnel had to be their priority, and that was when they decided that UNVERO would be withdrawn. They could no longer enforce the Security Council Resolution. The safe-haven of Verolino was now untenable. The UN renounced its mandate, and they had taken the decision to pull out. Finally, as we had feared, the UN were going to abandon us. That car bomb proved to be the last straw. The UN mission in Verolino had failed. Thus they were going to leave a vacuum - Verolino would be up for the taking and we knew that when the UN had gone, the rebels would be upon us within hours, no doubt eager to claim the prize, or at least snatch whatever they could of it, just as Ciggy had prophesied.

That night, from the window of my room, I looked out as Simon-Peter slept on my bed. Poor boy. It had been a tumultuous and traumatic day for him. His grief had exhausted him. From outside, the sounds of the hastily assembled troops of UNVERO and their equipment echoed into the night. It was the same familiar sounds of orders being barked out, heavy boots tramping, rifles clattering, huge diesel engines being powered up, lifting gear whirring and chains crunching. UNVERO were leaving, and it seemed that they had to withdraw so fast they were going to leave most of their equipment abandoned in the streets. They were going to leave the UN garrison in Verolino deserted.

Whilst I was observing all this, I was secretly planning my escape. My priority was now to make my way to the airfield to rendezvous with Ciggy, just as I had promised. Only I hadn't envisaged that Simon-Peter would be part of that plan. But I really had no choice other than to take him with me. That night, I had vowed that we would make our escape under cover of darkness. There was only one thing to do now. I would take Simon-Peter and we would hide out near the airfield until tomorrow. By then, UNVERO would be gone and the last transporter would leave at nightfall. We just had to reach the airfield before it fell to the rebels, and hope that there was room on that transporter for both of us.

As Simon-Peter slept, I gathered up my stuff. It was a pity I could not take most of it with me. But I did squeeze as many clothes as I could into a little backpack, and took great care to empty my cash tin from the bookshelf, stuffing the rolls of notes in with my clothes. That was all the dosh I had, and I figured we were going to need it.

Reluctantly, and with a heavy heart, I woke up Simon-Peter. He was dazed and sleepy and slightly incoherent, but I told him we had to go. Luckily, he put himself totally in my care and didn't ask too many questions. That was what I liked about Simon-Peter - he trusted me and was very compliant. He asked to do one thing before we left - and this time it was my turn to trust him. He went back to the wrecked room in which his father was killed, to salvage what he could of his things. I thought that was very brave of him. When he came back, all he had was a handful of clothes crammed into a little school backpack, and he was clutching a stuffed bear. The rather sorry-looking teddy bear had obviously seen better days and was dangling upside down by one of his stubby legs, with a quite inane expression that was permanently set in a type of wry smile.

'What's that?' I asked him.

Simon-Peter held up the bear.

'This is Howard,' he said, 'My daddy gave him to me.'

'Oh,' I replied, 'We'd better bring Howard with us then.'

And so, with Howard the bear in his hand, and his little backpack secured to his diminutive shoulders, Simon-Peter and I silently crept downstairs to the back door and out through the parking lot. My overriding emotion was that our lives were now in transition. Gone was the cosseted world of The Saxon Club, where we were relatively protected and where Guus provided everything for us. We were on our own now. We would have to survive on our own wits from now on. But even as we stepped out into the unknown, I couldn't help feeling a stab of sentimentality at what we were leaving behind. The Saxon Club had been my home for the past two years. It was where all my friends were and had been my life and work, the center of nearly everything I knew. I was sorry to have to leave it all behind, especially slipping out like this without the chance to say goodbye to everybody. But I knew we had to. I knew I was going to miss this place - Guus and Chip and of course Ten. How I would miss Ten! I only hoped that Guus and the other boys would all find their own way out in time.

* * * * * *

As it turned out, our flight was short-lived. We had not gone very far when we ran into the militia. We were out in the deserted streets of Verolino, and already I had let us both down by my own kackminded stupidity. I thought we could rely on my guile and wisdom, but I guess I just wasn't a street kid. I had no street savvy whatsoever. I should have seen their unmistakable colors fluttering away on the whip antenna of their Toyota pickup truck. I should have known what they stood for, what those colors signified. They were the colors of KAPO - the familiar diagonally bisected colors of black and red - an obvious attempt to emulate the traditional colors of the old anarcho-syndicalists. But they didn't fool anybody. KAPO disguised themselves as ultra-left anarchist communists, when in reality they were just a band of lawless privateers. The KAPO militia were merely opportunist bandits hiding under a flag of political doctrine. In truth, they had no doctrine. They were just a bunch of murdering bastards. I remember thinking that my previous encounter with KAPO was not particularly edifying. Then, they had forcibly fucked me and beat me and discarded me at the roadside like so much soiled meat, unconscious and with an enormous gash in my head. Given their reputation for brutality, I didn't hold out any higher expectations this time around. To paraphrase Wilde, once might be seen as a misfortune, but twice was downright careless. Careless and stupid. So here we were, Simon-Peter and I were now prisoners of KAPO, scared and totally at their mercy. We had been captured, and had our hands tied behind our backs, with our mouths gagged and were sitting on the floor in the back of their open pickup truck, being taken at high speed across open country. The truck bounced about on the rugged terrain, jiggling us around in the back, and with our hands bound it was difficult to hold on, so we simply got thrown around.

In the truck with us were two KAPO militiamen. I thought it was very odd that in all the time we were in the back of the truck, nobody spoke. Of course, Simon-Peter and I were gagged, so we couldn't speak, but even the two KAPOs didn't say a word - neither to us nor to each other. It was very unnerving. Sitting next to me was a rather nondescript militiaman dressed in irregular khakis. He had a thick black beard and a type of turban around his head. I think he fancied himself as some kind of pseudo-tribesman. Across his lap was a rather battered looking Kalashnikov. Simon-Peter was opposite me, the gag over his little mouth, looking plaintively at me with real fear in his eyes. I felt so sorry for him. It was my fault we were in this situation. It was difficult to even smile some reassurance at him. Next to him sat a young KAPO boy who looked about the same age as me, and who, for some strange reason, had a handkerchief tied over his nose and mouth, in the customary paramilitary way. He was wearing a dirty gray hoodie with the hood up, so that his head was completely shrouded and only his eyes were visible. But they were beautiful eyes. He had a rather pronounced kink in each eyebrow, which was extremely sexy, and his eyes were almond-shaped and very dark and mysterious. Just from his eyes I knew he was a good looking boy, and those eyes glinted like two little gems of lignite all the time we were in the back of the pickup truck. He watched me intently the whole time, with an almost sycophantic stare. I wondered if he was simply trying to freak me out or whether he just fancied me. He was small in stature, smaller than me, and he was wearing enormous boots that made his feet look almost too big for his body. He held his Kalashnikov next to him, upended on its stock, the barrel pointing skywards. It looked big and unwieldy next to his diminutive frame. The gun looked almost as big as him. I couldn't help wondering if he had ever used it. In fact, as we all got thrown around in the back of the pickup truck, I wondered how such a young boy ever got involved with KAPO and what he was doing consorting with these hardened militiamen. I wondered why he was out here fighting for a political cause, enmeshed in all the politics and guerilla warfare, when he should really have been at home compulsively pulling his pud and playing football with his mates. Okay, I know my lifestyle was somewhat unconventional for a 12 year old boy, but at least I had fun and loved what I was doing. This KAPO boy seemed a little sad. I couldn't imagine that this was what he really wanted. I dunno, but I kinda felt sorry for him.

As the pickup truck sped through the open countryside, it finally joined a dirt road which passed through a wooded area and finally up onto an asphalt road. There was a distinct lack of UN personnel on the road. The absence of UNVERO was tangible. Officially, they had not yet withdrawn, but the freedom and impunity with which these KAPO rebels traversed the countryside indicated that UNVERO were as good as gone. I was relieved when the truck slowed down and pulled off the road towards a fenced compound just on the edge of some woods. It was quite a secluded spot, very quiet, and looked almost deserted. I had no idea where we were, though we were evidently still somewhere in Verolino. The gate opened and the truck drove inside, halting by a pair of single story huts. I guessed they were once farmhouses. The bearded man and the boy jumped out, pointing their rifles at us, and herded us out of the truck and into one of the huts.

Inside the rather bare hut was a large writing desk. The floor was bare wooden boards and the walls were whitewashed. It was very basic. Simon-Peter and I were made to stand facing the unoccupied desk, still bound and gagged. Behind the desk, on the wall, was an enormous oil painting of a bespectacled old man with a large nose and a pointed goatee beard. The painting looked old and dark, and the man in it was standing staring regally to one side, one hand resting on his belt, wearing the familiar uniform with the black and red insignia of KAPO. I recognized him of course. It was Boernfusser, the KAPO leader, affectionately nicknamed Boyfucker. I thought that moniker was rather appropriate. The KAPOs were renowned boyfuckers which, by implication, made Boernfusser the biggest boyfucker of them all.

After a short period of silence, we heard a car pull up and voices approaching from outside the hut. The bearded man and the boy stood either side of us, and pointed their rifles at us, evidently to keep us at bay for the imminent stranger. A Captain appeared, in full KAPO uniform this time, with breeches and high boots, and a proper tunic. His uniform was a pale sickly green color and he had a peaked cap that almost hid his eyes. He took his seat at the desk and placed his cap carefully at the side, revealing a shiny bald head. Then he leaned over, surveying us both with a gleam of satisfaction in his eye, as though we were some prized catch or something. Then he gave a very tangible nod to the young boy. The bearded man kept his rifle pointed at us while the boy released our gags. He untied mine first, then Simon-Peter's. We both breathed a long sigh of relief. I tell you, having your mouth gagged for even a short time is very uncomfortable. The boy let our gags fall to the floor and then stepped back, picking up his rifle once again. I started to get some feeling back in my jaw. I wished he would untie our hands too. The thin twine they had used was cutting into my wrists and having my hands behind my back for so long was cutting off the circulation. After much deliberation, the Captain stroked his chin and spoke in a gravely serious tone. The tension was tangible.

'Do you have anything to tell me?' he asked, cryptically.

Simon-Peter and I looked at each other, almost amused by the question.

'No,' I said emphatically, with a tone of contempt. It was a stupid question.

'Who are you working for?'

I didn't quite know how to answer that. It was so way off the mark that I couldn't think where to begin.

'Do we look like we're working for anybody?' I replied, with a faint note of ridicule.

He didn't like that. Immediately he gauged my feistiness and looked annoyed.

'Don't get fresh with me!' he shot back, 'You were wandering the streets in the middle of the night. Where were you going?'

'Nowhere.'

'So you're out in the middle of the night and you expect me to believe that you were just out for a casual stroll?'

'We're lost,' I told him, 'We're shota boys. Our club was bombed.'

The Captain leaned forward across the desk, resting on his elbows. His shiny bald head reflected the harsh light from the one bare bulb that illuminated the room. I detected a spark of fascination in his eyes.

'Shota boys?' he queried, 'Really?'

I thought that would grab his attention.

'Yes,' I said, 'Well, I am. He's just a novice,' I explained, jerking a nod at Simon-Peter.

'Young boys have so many uses these days,' he mused, almost pleased by that revelation.

And as he said that, he beamed a crooked little smile at the young militia boy who had his rifle pointed at Simon-Peter.

'Don't I know it,' I replied, laconically.

'You're not working for the VLA?'

'No,' I snapped back, 'Sorry to disappoint you.'

Another flash of annoyance. Good. I was getting to him. He decided to ignore it and continued with his questioning.

He got up and circled the desk, coming to sit on the edge of it, just in front of us, and he folded his arms, determined to take his time. He was a big man, very tall, well built and portly, and his uniform was very tight on him. Looking at him at close quarters, his complexion appeared rather wearied, with fine lines on his face, and loose, heavy jowls. He was a surly, mean-looking bastard.

'Shota boys eh?' he said, with a note of cynicism.

He looked at Simon-Peter, sitting there with the barrel of the young boy's rifle only inches away from him. Simon-Peter had a look of self-pity in his eyes, like he knew he shouldn't really be here.

'A little young, don't you think?' the Captain said.

I assumed that remark was aimed at me.

'Like I said, he's only a novice,' I reiterated.

He got up from sitting on the edge of the desk and leaned towards Simon-Peter, studying his little face very closely.

'Almost too young,' the Captain continued, as though thinking aloud.

'Leave him alone!' I said angrily, anxious to divert his interest in Simon-Peter.

There was a flash of malevolence in his eyes as the Captain turned his attention briefly to me, but he decided to ignore my outburst and went back to studying Simon-Peter. He put a big hand under Simon-Peter's chin, clutching his little jaw tightly, and violently jerked his head back so that he was facing up at him.

'Oh no, far too pretty to be left alone,' he said, continuing to voice his thoughts, 'this little cunt is ripe for splitting wide open.'

Then he turned slowly to me.

'I think your little apprentice is ready for a riding lesson.'

Simon-Peter looked alarmed. I dared not think about what this man wanted to do. You see, Simon-Peter had never been fucked. He had certainly fucked me, and we had done everything else - but I had never fucked his little butt. It was the next thing on my syllabus. I had reserved the ultimate privilege of taking his little cherry all to myself. I had been saving the best till last. I wanted him to feel the inordinate ecstasy of getting his little cunt rooted hard and deep by a stiff cock - even if it was only my little boycock. But even my little fuckstick was better than some fully grown guy with a monster cock brutally stabbing his little sphincter wide open with his big adult dick, like they did with me. The first time I took anything up my boycunt it had hurt like hell. But then, I never had an experienced teacher. All I had was big mancocks to bust my little ass cherry the first time, and they were hardly what you would call refined in their technique. Those KAPO bastards knew I was a virgin - probably turned them on all the more to know that nothing had been up my boycunt before. They shoved their enormous dicks into me without a care for my wellbeing, and when I screamed and pleaded, they just ignored me. They busted my ass anyway, and I cried all the way through. But they didn't care. On the contrary, my tears seemed to spur them on to fuck me even harder. I bled for days afterwards. That didn't stop them from beating me unconscious afterwards and dumping me at the roadside. That was how I got the gash in my head. No, my first time at the hands of the KAPO militia was not nice. I was determined that it wasn't going to be like that for Simon-Peter. I couldn't let anybody do that him. I just couldn't. I stepped forward in protest and appealed to the Captain, despite the rifles pointed at me.

'Take me,' I pleaded, placing myself at his mercy, 'He's innocent, just a kid. Take me instead.'

I almost threw myself at the Captain, but he stepped back, horrified and annoyed, and the bearded guy stepped forward and forced me to the floor with his rifle butt. I cowered at the Captain's feet under a rain of blows. I squirmed helplessly, my hands still tied so that I couldn't even shield my face from the barrage. Fuck, that hurt! The bearded man was merciless and brutal. And as I squirmed on the floor, I saw Simon-Peter shrink back in horror, turning his little face away as the man repeatedly raised his rifle butt to beat me.

It was strange that even when I was on the floor, assailed by this rain of blows, in the grip of searing pain, I noticed that the young boy was holding back. He didn't join in the beating. I detected a distinct reticence from him, and that was the first sign I had that maybe I had been right about him. Maybe his heart wasn't into all this after all, and deep down he didn't really believe in all this KAPO malarkey.

'Take me instead,' I begged, squirming at the captain's feet, still bearing the blows, 'I'll do whatever you want. I'll be your cumdump, your bitch boy, your cockslut.'

In my desperation, I was reeling off anything I could think of, all the dirty talk that I knew men liked.

'Get off me whoreboy!' the Captain screamed, and kicked me away with his heel.

I rolled backwards, tumbling from the force of his kick, and ended up in a heap in the corner, hitting my elbow and the back of my head against the wall. I froze up in pain, my elbow hurting savagely. The bearded man stood back with his rifle butt still raised, ready to beat me some more. The young boy was standing back a little dispassionately. The Captain was surveying me with a look of disgust.

'What's so special about YOU?' he demanded.

It was a bit of a shot in the dark on my part, as there was no way this man knew anything of my reputation or why my butt was so much in demand. My reputation was legendary amongst UNVERO. It was well known by all the agencies in Verolino, including the Red Cross. It was even known to the black marketers, the drug pushers, privateers and mercenaries. Everyone was into boy ass these days, and mine was so revered it seemed natural for me to offer it as a bargaining tool.

Still in a heap in the corner, I looked up at him, fearful, but still desperately hoping to change his mind, to inspire his interest in me and divert it away from Simon-Peter.

'I'll take your cock real deep. You can ride me hard, you can…'

'Enough!' he screamed, holding up a hand to halt my effusive appeal.

He stood there looking down at me with a scowl, almost peeved at my defiance, and yet seemingly contemplating my proposal.

'You're pretty full of yourself aren't you, whoreboy?'

I stared right back at him defiantly. I was still on the floor, my hands still bound, but I was determined not to be subjugated. I was too angry to let him get the better of me.

'Yeh I am,' I replied, vehemently, 'and sometimes I'm full of other people too.'

He didn't like my smartmouthing. But the impudence of my remark certainly wasn't lost on him. He regarded me with a look of cold cynicism and almost broke into a smile.

'I like your spirit whoreboy.'

He seemed to be contemplating my proposal.

'I'm hot and dirty,' I went on, 'I do everything. They say I'm the best.'

'Okay,' he said at last, with a quieter tone, 'I'll take you. I'll spare your little friend. But your fucking better be as good as your bullshit.'

'Thank you,' I said, relieved, 'I'll make it real good for you.'

He turned his attention back to Simon-Peter and reached over to grab a big fistful of his hair. Simon-Peter grimaced in pain and fear. The Captain pulled the back of his head down by his hair, forcing Simon-Peter to look up at him.

'You wanna watch?' he asked, with a malicious grin, 'Wanna see what you're missing?'

Simon-Peter was too scared to speak. The Captain let him go.

'Go and sit over there,' he said, gesturing to the desk, 'And keep quiet while your whoreboy buddy gets his cunt broken by a real man's cock.'

Simon-Peter did as he was told. He scurried over and sat in the chair behind the desk, his eyes wide with fear and his hands still bound.

Then the Captain came over and grabbed a fistful of my hair, pulling me up onto my knees. It hurt. He thrust his crotch into my face, pulling my head right onto his groin, and held me there. I could feel that his cock was already stiff in his dress pants.

'See, I'm already hard for you whoreboy,' he murmured.

He ground his thick hard-on into my face, even through the fabric of his pants, and I could smell the distinctive odor of unwashed cock. Behind me I could sense the other two had lowered their rifles and were lounging nonchalantly against the bare walls, preparing to enjoy the spectacle.

The Captain pulled me up by my hair, grabbing thick handfuls of it. Fuck that hurt! When I was on my feet he pulled my head back and looked closely into my face. The intensity of the bare light bulb almost hurt my eyes. Then he let me go, almost throwing me back, so that I stumbled a little. That seemed to amuse him. He stepped back to admire me.

'Strip him!' he ordered.

The bearded guy pitched into me with great relish. He loosened my pants and roughly yanked them down to my ankles, then he violently stripped open my shirt by pulling it apart, sending all the buttons popping all over the place. He couldn't take it off, because my hands were still bound, but he carefully peeled it back over my shoulders exposing my chest and tummy. The young boy just watched. His eyes seemed to light up at the sight of my body, like he wished he could have some of it himself. I noticed that he had now lowered his hood and the handkerchief that had previously covered his face was now resting around his neck. I was right about him. He was extremely beautiful. He had thick, black wavy hair and very noble, handsome features, accentuated by those distinctive kinked eyebrows. I couldn't help thinking at this moment that I wished it was him that was about to sex me up. I fancied him a lot more than his brutish Captain.

The bearded guy left me standing in the middle of the room with my pants around my ankles and my stiffie was already sticking out. I couldn't help it. Even the prospect of a forced fuck was enough to get Little Cloud aroused. It was probably going to be more pain than pleasure, but that didn't matter. If there was sex in the offing, Little Cloud was infallible, always at the ready, faithfully standing to attention.

The Captain pushed me over to the desk. I half stumbled and half hopped, my pants still around my ankles, and almost fell over the desk. My face hit the desktop with a thud. My nose stung from the impact, making my eyes water. I shuddered at the feel of the cold surface of the desk against my bare chest and tummy, and the sharp edge dug into my hips. My bare butt was naked and exposed. With my hands still bound behind my back, it was very uncomfortable. I was aware of Simon-Peter sitting very close. I was so sorry that he was going to have to see this.

Behind me, the Captain took off his tunic, so that he was in his shirtsleeves. I clearly remember the jingling of his belt buckle as he undid his dress pants and drew them down to his knees. I twisted my head around just enough to see what he was doing. He stood behind me, massaging his big cock with long, firm strokes. His breathing sounded labored and loud. I didn't know if that was from excitement or just because he was a heavy smoker. Next, I could feel his heavy body as he settled himself above me. He laid on me, his full weight bearing down on me, pinning me hard onto the desk. I could feel his trembling breath on my cheek which smelled strongly of cigarettes. I could feel the hot, solid mass of his heavy adult dick stabbing into my ass crack. He was trying to find my hole, and not doing a very good job of it. I puffed with the effort of bearing his weight and my shoulders and elbows were twisted painfully, pressed behind my back. He stabbed his hard dick into my opening. It didn't go in. His dick was too big. Even though my little star was by now dilated in anticipation, which was a little trick I had learned to help ease the larger dicks into my accommodating little hole. But I was no match for this brute. This guy was big - too big even for my veteran little snatch.

As I lay face down on the desk, in a lot of pain and with my heart thumping in fear, I tried to distract myself. I tried to become detached from what was going on. The Captain stabbed a few times with his dick and I winced beneath him, but it didn't deter him. He kept trying until his dick found purchase and he had forced the head a little way in. I could feel my hole being stretched. It felt like it was being forced wider than ever before, and it was hurting even more urgently. I gasped for breath under his weight. I braced myself as his dick invaded my body. It was inconceivable that it was actually going to go in, but it did. It was hurting more and more as his big dick dug deep into my abdomen.

'That's it,' he breathed into my ear, 'You like that don't you whoreboy?'

I closed my eyes and concentrated on making my hole relax because that was the only way it didn't hurt so much.

'See how you like this,' he went on.

He raised his pelvis off me as far as he could without letting the head of his dick slip out of my hole completely. He held his cock right there, poised at the entrance, held in place by the funnel of my little cunt, and he waited. He took a deep breath, then he put his big hand over my face, covering my nose and mouth, gripping me so hard that I couldn't breathe. Before I had time to protest, he brought his pelvis down with all his might and stabbed his cock into me real hard, spearing all the way up into my hole in one swift thrust. I screamed into his hand, but no sound came out. My hole was hurting savagely and it felt like my whole body had been impaled, like he had ripped my little cunt open. I struggled to get out from under him, but he was too heavy and too strong. His big dick was firmly engulfed inside me and it was embedded deep and thick in my little snatch.

He started thrusting in and out. After the initial penetration, the stinging didn't get any worse. So I didn't struggle anymore. It was easier to lie still and let him use me. I just waited for it to be over.

'Oh yeah!' the Captain moaned, as he worked his thick dick in and out, letting out a loud grunt every time he thrust into me.

He took his hand away from my mouth. I cowered beneath him, totally at his mercy. I had tears in my eyes from the pain.

'Worthless shota boy scum,' he muttered, as he continued to fuck me hard, 'Dirty little scumbag.'

I closed my eyes and waited for it to end. He impaled me on his big fat rod and fucked away carelessly. I braced myself to his impetuous thrusting. I bore the pain and his weight and just wanted him to finish. It really didn't feel the same as when the other men fucked me. The other men fucked me because they liked me. They paid me for the privilege of using my little cunt. But with this KAPO Captain it was just a utilitarian fuck. It was cold and passionless. There was no joy. No appreciation. Certainly no gratitude. He was rough and inconsiderate and all he was interested in was using my body for his own pleasure.

For a while there was silence, other than the muted puffs of his exertions, and he concentrated on making himself cum. The only thing that sustained me during his assault was thinking about Ciggy. As my butt was being plowed by this sadistic KAPO Captain, I thought that if I could get through this, when this horrible episode was all over, we could get to the airfield and tomorrow we would be on that transporter with Ciggy. I thought about Ciggy and how much I had missed him. I wanted so much to see his handsome face again. It was going to be so good to run into his protective embrace and feel the unbridled joy of him holding me in his strong arms once again.

Eventually I heard the Captain build up to his cum. He thrust into me faster and faster and started grunting heavily. His pelvis was slapping hard against my butt cheeks. He gasped loudly. Then he released his copious spunk into me with a series of very pronounced pulses. His dick spasmed powerfully a few times and my hole filled with thick liquid. There was a lot of it. It squelched inside me. Its warmth and wetness had an anesthetic effect, radiating into the walls of my little chute and soothing the savage sting of his attack.

When it was over, the Captain pulled out. Even his withdrawal was painful. I moaned loudly as his big, thick dick slipped out. He got off me, pausing to wipe the tip of his slimy dick on my butt cheeks. He pulled his dress pants back up and I heard him don his tunic once again. Then he came back over to me, still sprawled over the desk and grabbed my hair. He pulled my head up sharply from the desk, forced it right back, painfully jarring my neck.

'You know what whoreboy? You're not as good as you think you are.'

Now that he had used me and subjugated me, he couldn't even be complimentary. His unkind remark was the epitome of adding insult to injury. And with that, he pushed my head back down onto the desk. My head hit the hard wood with a pronounced thud, making me yelp from the pain. I knew that the force of the impact had cut the corner of my eye.

'They don't know anything,' he said to the other two, finally convinced that we were not working for the enemy, 'Do what you like with them and then let them go.'

Then the Captain left. The door closed and he was gone. The room was silent, except for his words reverberating in our ears. 'Do what you like with them,' he had said. Now, without their commanding officer to ameliorate their treatment of us, we were totally at the mercy of the two KAPOs who had captured us.

I laid on the desk, cowed and defeated, and feeling sorry for myself. I focused on Simon-Peter and saw that even he had tears in his eyes. He had witnessed the whole thing at close proximity.

The bearded man came to lift me off the desk, but all he succeeded in doing was rolling me onto the floor. I fell off the desk and collapsed in a heap on the floor, my legs too weak to support me. Still cowering on the floor, with my hands still bound and my pants still tangled around my ankles, I felt very vulnerable. The cut above my eye was stinging, and there was spunk leaking out of my punished little hole. The bearded guy laughed. I think he was genuinely amused. His perversity and dispassion was frightening. I wondered if his laughter was because my little hairless dick was still sticking up stiffly in my crotch, or whether it was because he had simply concocted some twisted idea in his mind about what he was going to do to me.

The bearded guy stepped forward so that he was standing over me, and reached down, gently rolling my ripped shirt back over my shoulders. He did it with such care and tenderness that I thought maybe he had started to feel some compassion. He was uncharacteristically gentle, and he seemed to be admiring my body. My chest and tummy were exposed, where my shirt had fallen back over my shoulders, and I hoped he was admiring my body and that he liked what he saw. But he wasn't. Instead, he did something that I really didn't expect. He stood back, towering over me, and fiddled with the front of his khaki pants. He took out his dick. It was semi-erect, and a good size. Then he took up position above me, his dick still in his hand, and he narrowed his eyes.

'I've always wanted to do this,' he said, and there was a cruel twist of delight in his tone as he said it.

He stepped closer to me and leaned over me still with his big dick in his hand, and I was still on the floor looking up at him, not knowing what he was going to do. I thought maybe he just wanted to spunk on me. I knew that men often liked to do that, jack off all over me, and I quite liked that. But that wasn't what this guy did. He stood there silently for a few seconds, as though he was really concentrating, and then emitted a single squirt of pee all over my chest.

I gasped with shock and turned my face away, twisting my body awkwardly against the leg of the desk. I tried to get up, but he grabbed a fistful of my hair and pulled me back down onto the floor. He jerked my head back so that I collapsed back against the desk, and he looked at me with a stern expression that said 'don't try that again'. So I curled up at his feet, with my knees drawn up, with his pee still running down my chest, and he closed in once again and let the rest out all over me. It was a heady, robust stream of pee he let out, which mostly coated my back and legs. It was warm from his body, and lightly colored, with a very heady odor. I was incredulous. I just stayed there, turning my face away and curled up, frozen in fear and surprise, not quite able to believe what he was doing.

His pee seemed to go on for a very long time. He purposefully directed the powerful stream all over my body, splashing the side of me that was turned towards him, my back and legs and down into my crotch, until he was completely empty, and he even gave his dick a cursory shake as he finished off. When he was done, he stood back with a satisfied smirk and seemed to be admiring my body, all wet and shiny with the yellowy droplets of his pee. He had splashed it all over me, and it had dripped down my legs and under my butt, and it was all over my shirt, which was still hanging off my shoulders. In effect, I was dripping wet all over, and he just took in the sight of me, cowed by his act of subjugation. He regarded me with a look of cruel satisfaction and hitched up his khaki pants, finally tucking his big dick away. I thought that was the end of it. At least I hoped it was. And then he did something which shocked me even more. He pulled my head by my hair so that I was turned towards him, forcing me to look at him, and he gave me a twisted smirk of fulfillment, even curling his lip to show his contempt for me. Then he let my hair go, pushing my head once more against the desk. As he did so, he mustered a big, throaty mouthful of saliva, and he spat vehemently into my face.

I crouched there, naked and wet with his pee, with his warm gob of slimy, frothy saliva slowly dripping down my lips and chin.

'Worthless shota boy scum!' he cursed, echoing the insults of his commander.

And with that, he turned brusquely and left, stopping to collect his Kalashnikov from where he had propped it up against the wall.

I was almost too afraid to look up as he departed. I just stayed where I was, huddled on the floor, shocked and traumatized. I burst into a renewed fit of tears, scared and humiliated, and overwhelmed by the mess that I was in. I just cowered there defeatedly, afraid to move, wet with the bodily liquids I was covered in, the cum drying on my butt, pee all over me and spit on my face, mingling with my own blood and tears.

It was the young boy who came over to me when the others had gone. At least he had an air of gentleness and empathy about him. He hadn't participated in the beating and had mostly stood back and watched what had just happened. With a very tentative, nervous demeanor, he crouched down to see to me, and benevolently used the edge of his sleeve to wipe my face. The sleeve of his hoodie was all he had to hand, and he willingly smeared his cuffs with my tears, wiping away the spit of his colleague, and the blood that was congealing on my eyebrow. Then he untied me, releasing my hands from behind my back. I rubbed my arms and shoulders. The relief was tangible as I felt the tingling of the circulation in my arms being restored. Meanwhile, the boy went over to Simon-Peter, who watched him approach with real fear in his eyes, and he untied Simon-Peter too.

I didn't know it then, but that young KAPO boy was going to turn out to be a valuable ally. And, as our predicament deteriorated, he was destined to play a pivotal role in our flight from Verolino.

* * * * * *