Date: Sun, 3 Sep 2017 06:52:00 -0400
From: Orson Cadell <orson.cadell@gmail.com>
Subject: Patriot UP (authoritarian, military)

This story and its characters are fiction and based on no one outside my
head. If any character resembles you or someone you know, I WANT DETAILS,
you lucky fucker, preferably with photos! It is, of course, copyrighted by
the author with all rights reserved and very, very negotiable. Do not
repost without permission Also, keep the cum coming -- Donate to Nifty
**TODAY** at donate.nifty.org/donate.html! I'm an old guy. I know what it
was like when you had to BUY porn. Five miles uphill both ways in the snow
just to GET to the XXX store. You whippersnapper don't know how good you've
got it.

This involves CONSENSUAL BUT COERCIVE SEX between teens and men, along with
BDSM elements; if that is illegal for who/where you may be right now, go
away! Get thee to a monastery (where you might just find scenes similar to
some below). Also, please note that all my stories exist in a world where
STDs are neither common nor deadly. Don't be an idiot; use protection. 'To
die for' sex should never lead to your actual death.

Feedback from readers is important to me, but if you get off on flaming
people, please know that you will HATE the results. I will read your
missive and weave you and your comments into the nasty parts of my next
story to the point that you cry like a little girl. Bullies get as bullies
give.

Patriot UP!

By Bear Pup

The fucking bastards at the travel agency promised me, PROMISED me that
this could never happen. Not on *their* tour, oh no! They guaranteed
it. Guarantee THIS, bitch. Fucking bastards.

Everything was going fine. The flight into Lamar, the new city/fort in the
valley of the same name, was flawless. Clearances had been obtained from
each militia, PrepperZone and Sovereign State within the flight path since
the whole of the Yellowstone Territories of the USA were surrounded by the
loose and warring factions that made up the American Redoubt.

So, the plan was to fly in and spend two weeks exploring the wonders of
nature. Ironically, The Yellowstone Territories of the USA were better
preserved as a besieged military territory than ever had been true when the
lands were a string of national parks, wildlife preserves and wildernesses
in a roughly C-shaped area stretching from Teton and Gros Ventre to
Bighorn. VTOL transport was contracted and ready and the itinerary was
breathtaking. The YTs were nearly-inaccessible but still one of the
greatest sights of the modern world.

For the past seventeen years, a stalemate had ruled at the borders of the
Yellowstone Territories. With the exception of bribes -- excuse me, fees --
paid for transit, contact with the survivalists surrounding it were
rare. Conflicts were constant on the fringe (pun intended), but we'd
experienced some of the most-spectacular places on the continent. The whole
group was FLASHing everything to the SociMedi of their choice.

We were coming back from a morning river-raft trip on the Snake River,
ending at Alpine Junction. The sixteen of us (fourteen tourists, our tour
guide and a medic) strapped into the VTOL and lifted off as normal. We'd
seen the erupting thunderheads and thought little of them, but our pilot
was less reassuring. "We've got large and unexpected storms due north and
to the east." His static-ridden voice echoed in our headsets. "We're gonna
swing a bit more westerly than expected, coming in at Targhee Fort." That
was the heavily-defended outpost at what had been Grand Targhee
Resort. "Nothing to worry about, but keep your harnesses fastened."

I looked over to my right. I happened to be across from the tour guide. She
scowled slightly, then pulled out and unfurled her iScroll. As the VTOL
banked even further to our left, I watched her eyes get larger. She
abruptly unbuckled her harness and literally ran forward to the pilot's
station, first whispering, then actually shouting.

The rest of us started to worry when a couple key phrases penetrated the
drone of the engines: 'Active Incursion' and 'No Fly Zone'. Worry turned to
panic when another word wafted back, 'Patriots'. The pilot, not even
needing the microphone to be heard, screamed, "FUCK ME!" and dropped us
nearly to the treetops, turning the air blue with his top-of-the-lungs
cursing. Most of us were adding our own choice words along with him.

Puke was flying everywhere as the pilot put the VTOL though maneuvers it
was never intended to perform. VTOLs are meant for simple, steady,
straightforward trips; dips and dives were not part of the plan. We'd
cleared the edge of the mountain and could actually see the signal-smoke of
the fort when I started to hear a strange... ticking, I guess. Deep,
powerful, regular. Tu-tu-tu-tu-tu-tu-tu-tu, getting slightly louder. I
belatedly placed the sound -- heavy machine gun -- as it changed to,
tu-tu-Tu-Tu-TU-BOOOOOM and the VTOL lurched instantly to the right. The
pilot started inventing cuss words then, but like a shutter thrown,
everything went silent and black.

***STOP: I said it above, but I will say it here. This is a story about
coercive sex including sadistic treatment. It is NOT nice or pleasant or
happy or healthy. STOP READING if that is not your thing. If you keep
reading and write me to complain, I will laugh at you and use you and your
letter as the basis of my next evil-mean-bad story. You have been
warned. Now back to our regularly-scheduled fuck-fest.***

"Patriot Seven Leader, this one's coming around." Everything hurt. I could
feel a long, deep gash on my left arm, the side that had been against the
window. My left shoulder felt like it was dislocated and both my knees were
ablaze with pain. The shocker was that I was, apparently, still
alive. "Yep, Big Boy here's gonna make it." The voice was... odd. I
realized why when my eyes stopped spinning and started to focus. The
speaker had on a complicated helmet and face gear, including a HUD. He was
also hard to see, frankly, with his green digital camo against the backdrop
of evergreens that carpeted the slope.

A far deeper and somehow bigger voice responded. "Superb, Seven Medic
Walsh, simply superb timing. And it's the Big Boy, huh? Excellent, Patriot,
excellent." I was, actually, a pretty big guy. Six-six and bearish, I kept
fit not at the gym but through my job as an Environment Reconstruction
Engineer, specializing in deciduous mountain ecosystems, mainly in the Old
Glory states of the north-eastern USA. That entire landscape is either
uphill or downhill, and we don't use mechs in the recovering systems so we
tote everything with shoulder-power. It also paid like a fucking
lottery... if you got it right. My head spun and I thought I might puke as
two burly guys hoisted me into a sitting position.

Just before the mountain of a man, Patriot Seven Leader, blocked my view, I
got a clear sight of what I'd survived. The VTOL was in pieces, the cabin
split open like a gourd and engine parts everywhere. I was surprised by the
lack of flames, but also by the number of roughly-six-foot-long plastic
bags. Body bags. Lots of them. "Welcome to the Treasure Mountain
Redoubt. You able to talk yet?"

Good question. "Grungsh, urg, um, yeah? Wa'er?" the medic aimed a squirt
bottle at my mouth and I opened up and drank a long stream of herb-flavored
water. "Unnnng, yes, sir. I can talk." I knew better than to either
volunteer info or be even vaguely disrespectful. Patriots were some of the
worst, with a fierce pack hierarchy and intolerance for, well, everything.

"Good. First we need to classify you." He started ticking off on his
fingers, "Stooge, Polly, Zombie, Goblin, Goon. You don't have a BOB or even
a fucking EDC, so those five are your choices." BOB was a bug-out-bag, what
a person would need to simply survive on his own and EDC was
everyday-carry, the minimum a survivalist of any stripe would have attached
to his person at all times. I thought furiously.

"Sir, I'm L-L-L-L-Larry Coos, sir. I'm not armed and I don't steal, so I'm
not a Goon or a Goblin," meaning that I'm neither an opponent/soldier nor a
thief, "but I don't know the others, sir?"

"You work for any government or centralized authority?"

"No, sir."

"You in denial that TEOTWAWKI has already happened?"

"No, sir!"

"Excellent! Not a Stooge or a Pollyanna, so you are precisely what we need
right now, a Zombie. A dead man walking around who doesn't even know he's
dead yet. Perfect. I've got a choice for you, Zombie. We can pack up and
leave you here and it's entirely possible that goons will come to look for
survivors, and it's even slightly possible that they'll get here without my
men killing every last fucking one of them."

From the hive-like activity around me and the precision with which these
men moved, I put those options in the 'well then I'm fucked' category.

"So, we can leave you here for rescue. If they get here, grab you and get
out -- alive -- within a few hours of sundown, you might even survive. The
alternative is to be the... let's say the 'star' of a Patriot event
tonight. You will agree fully and unconditionally to cooperate and be used,
physically, in a ceremony. Your agreement is carte-blanc; you agree to
everything up to but stopping short of your actual death. We do with you
what and whatever we choose. Zombie, do you understand the offer?"

"Y-Y-Y-Y-Yes, sir. Um, I'll... I'll live?"

"Assuming your full cooperation, I will guarantee your survival and your
deposit at a checkpoint where the Illegal Occupation that has seized
Yellowstone will find you. ANY non-compliance voids the deal and you go
back to being just another fucking dead man walking. Your choice, Zombie?
You need to tell me that you both agree to the terms and consent to
whatever treatment we decide upon"

"Yes, s-s-s-s-sir. I agree to terms and, um, uh, consent to whatever you do
to me. Um, sir! " If they got me to the Yellowstone Territories, there was
little physical damage that couldn't be repaired by the miracle-workers in
the Front Range Free State that ran up and down from Denver, and God knew I
had the money to cover it.

"Seven Medic Walsh, secure this Zombie. Bag and tag; he's going with us to
Seven Base."

"ACK, Patriot Seven Leader. Bag and tag, sir." The medic "ACK"nowledged the
order and the two apes shoved something in my mouth. The pair of them got a
form-fitting black canvas hood strapped over my head and neck. I could hear
the click of locks there, at my ankles and at my wrists.

"Seven Guard Witkowski and Seven Heavy Gun Grover, you're carrying."

Both of them grunted, "ACK, Patriot Seven Leader. Carry Zombie Seven Base,
sir."

"Damn if it ain't convenient to have a big ole Zombie drop right out of the
sky the same fucking day as the Blood Moon Festival. Providence, Patriots,
providence." When the deep-voiced leader said that with such relish, I'd
have sobbed if it was physically possible. 'Moon' and 'Festival' didn't
worry me, but a Patriot talking gleefully about my situation being
providential for an event with 'Blood' in the title? My soul shriveled at
the thought.

My life became an interesting and frustrating hell of pain and disconnected
sounds for the next three hours. Every shift or movement fired agony
through my shoulder, knees or both. It started as a downhill march with
manly chatter and braggadocio about taking out the VTOL, then a whistle
followed by stunning quiet as the troop of men -- maybe 12? -- moved so
stealthily that I could hear individual breaths and soft footfalls.

I was unceremoniously dumped into the bed of a vehicle that groaned under
my weight just as I tried to scream through my gag at the pain. It purred
with the buzz of an electric vehicle. From the angles and bouncing, it was
an ATV version. The motor cut after a long period of movement. I was
hoisted again and this time the angle did something so horrible to my
shoulder that I might have blacked out for a little while. They walked
thirty more minutes before stopping in an utter and eerie silence broken by
fake birdcalls.

After perhaps ten minutes of motionless quiet, we moved steeply uphill and
there was that indescribable change in the texture of sound that happens
when you enter a semi-enclosed space. Finally, that broke open into the
sounds of a camp. A fairly-sizeable one at that. The guys carrying me
dropped me, with very little regard, off to one side and I wriggled
desperately into a position that would lessen the explosion of pain from my
knees and shoulder.

"Seven Guard Witkowski," the deep and very satisfied voice of the Leader
intoned and I heard a set of keys being thrown, "you have the
Zombie. Secure him. Water him as needed. Don't waste rations or
potables. He's still a Zombie. "

"ACK, Patriot Seven Leader. Secure and Water Zombie. No wastage, sir."

I tried to scream as he wrenched me back to a painful sitting position. He
efficiently and ruthlessly unshackled my hands then pulled them high above
me, attaching them to a hook of some kind. The pain was intense as my
shoulder was abused still further by the change. He unlocked the hood next
and pulled it off, blinding me with the sudden light after so long under
the dark covering. I felt him remove the gag and coughed as my vision
cleared slowly. I felt something at my lips, wetting them and started to
try and sip just as my vision cleared completely. The man had his fatigues
open and his dick in my face. I almost retched as I realized the wetness
was his urine -- the fucking Patriot bastard was pissing in my face.

I started to struggle and got a resounding, powerful slap. "Listen, you
Zombie bitch. You want to drink, this is what you drink. We don't waste
potable water on Zombies. Get me?" I was, indeed, nearly desperate with
thirst. I squeezed my eyes shut as hard as I could and opened up. The evil
fuck wasn't satisfied with just peeing into my open mouth as I
swallowed. Oh, no, he pushed all the way in and I could feel the cock
thickening in my mouth as I gulped his vile urine. As he got toward the
end, he was hard and I choked as he plunged deep, sending the last of his
bladder-load right into my throat.

I knew that if I puked, the horror I'd just gone through would be wasted
when I spewed his piss with whatever else was in my guts, but it was
close. I just managed to stop the heaving as he pulled back. "Not bad,
Zombie. You are gonna be fun at the Blood Moon, boy!"

He stepped back and I finally got a look at my captor/tormentor. He was a
thick brute of a young man, perhaps mid-twenties, with the feral looks and
pumped-up muscles that the movies always gave Patriots. It was surreal, as
if he were a caricature come to life. Reddish-brown hair was cropped short,
of course, and the fatigues hid his physique, but it was clear he worked
out constantly, musculature and toughness being essential badges of honor
with these nut-jobs.

He sneered down at me, "When you're thirsty again, tell me. I'll get one of
the guys who needs to go come over and help you out." My body was screaming
with pain. I felt myself getting woozy and, instead of fighting it, I
simply embraced unconsciousness.

A sharp CRACK jolted me awake. My still-sneering guard had smacked the butt
of his assault weapon into the tree inches from my ear. "Wakey, wakey,
sunshine. Patriot Seven Leader is headed this way. Look sharp, Zombie."

"Ah, he is looking better. Good job Seven Guard Witkowski. Seven Medic
Walsh, clean this Zombie up and clean him out. Get him ready for the Blood
Moon Festival. He's the guest of honor. Seven Guard Witkowski will assist."

"ACK Patriot Seven Leader. Clean Zombie up and out. Prep for ceremony,
sir." Both men chimed in unison.

"Patriot Seven Leader, do you want him neutered or whole, sir? Any other
mods, sir?" My blood ran to ice at that. The phrase, 'up to but stopping
short of actual death' echoed horribly in my mind. A man -- well,
afterwards I guess just 'person' -- could live without his cock and balls
and... other things, all of which I was quite fond of and loathe to leave
lying around.

"Hmm. Not sure. Strip the Zombie, Seven Guard Witkowski." With terrifying
efficiency speaking of ample practice, the guard's MTECH knife sliced away
my pants, shirt and t-shirt in mere seconds, the knife so sharp even my web
belt caused little resistance. He whipped them away leaving me in only my
boots. "Hmm. Not bad. The Big Boy Zombie has a lot of fur, which I always
kinda like during the ceremony. Leave him intact. Actually, let's make
tonight real special. Get some SenzAll from Seven PersIntel Garcia. I want
nips, lips, tongue, balls and ass super-sensitive. Other than that, just
general prep. Oh wait, he's uncut. SenzAll inside his foreskin and around
the back of the glans, too." The man chuckled in a way that did not make me
feel better.

"ACK Patrol Seven Leader. SenzAll and intact, sir."

The leader stalked away and the medic looked down then at his partner,
"Damn, Witty, this fucker is in for one hell of a night. Even for a
Zombie... just, damn! Okay, Witty, get him over to the shower rack. I'll
meet you there."

I screamed as he wrenched my arms, but no one even glanced. I was in a
place, apparently, where screams were as commonplace as birdsong -- not a
comforting thought. Not at all concerned by my wrenched shoulder or my
inability to walk due to my knees, 'Witty' dragged me to a slap-dash
CeramiSteel hut. Inside were five showerheads, one in each corner and one
in the center. He chained my arms to the one in the middle and let me
hang. I howled in unspeakable agony that
suddenly... vanished. Inadvertently, Witty had popped my shoulder back into
place. Now it merely hurt like a motherfucker.

The medic came in as I was catching my breath. "So, Walsh, what's the SOP?
I've never prepped a Zombie for a ceremony."

"Simple, really. Clean him inside and out, water him thoroughly, get him
packed with SixGel and, for this one, SenzAll the fuck outta him," he said
as he stripped off, his back to me. "You'll want to strip for this,
Witty. You don't want Zombie Juice on your PASUs." As the guard stripped as
well and hung both uniforms outside, the older man went to one of the
corner showerheads and pulled the hose from it. I got a quick glimpse of
them both as they got ready.

The medic was perhaps forty-five, just starting to get a little salt in his
pepper-colored chest hair. He was not ripped, but extremely fit. Compared
to dudes I'd seen in locker rooms, he had a nice set of balls and an
average-sized prick. My first guess for Witty's age was probably a bit
high; instead of mid-twenties, he was likely around twenty-two or so. He
bulged with muscles, especially arms and his broad, triangular back, and
meaty ass. He had very little hair anywhere other than his head. It was a
brighter red tone around his very hefty, uncut cock and his balls were
high, tight and very large.

"Hit the center control, Witty," the medic said as he cranked on the steel
shower hose he held. I gasped in shock as cool water drenched me, then
screamed when I felt the tip of the metal hose shoved forcefully into my
asshole. I continued screaming -- more a loud gurgling under the flowing
showerhead -- as I felt my belly bloat larger and larger from the water
invading my ass. I started sobbing hysterically as wave after wave of
cramps punished my body. Suddenly the invader was gone and all that water
was gushing uncontrollably out. The rinse-head above me never changed,
never got warm or cold, washing my waste away as I sprayed it out.

I managed not to scream when the hose was shoved unceremoniously back in
and the process repeated three more times. The worst, though, was the other
end. The medic pushed the smooth hose-tip straight to the back of my
throat, counted to ten, then pulled back as I puked the water and anything
else from my stomach onto the CeramiSteel floor. Three more rinses there as
well, but he gave me time to breathe a little between assaults.

I was a wrecked mass of quivering flesh by the time the medic finished with
that, and I barely yelped as two stiff brushes on long poles started to
vigorously scrub every part of me. A lot of special attention was given to
my ass, which continued throughout the shower to leak spurts of the enema
water. Finally, the brushes were gone and the hose was used to hit any
areas the overhead spray wasn't reaching.

"Okay, Witty. We've got fifteen minutes. Let's get cleaned up while Zombie
boy drains the rest of his ass." They proceeded to shower themselves. There
was no modesty, real or false, just efficiency. After a while, the
ass-dribbling seemed to stop and the medic came over and pushed hard into
my gut and I felt a small spurt then nothing. I'd never felt so empty in my
life.

"Witty, grab a hobbyhorse." Weird word, I thought. A hobbyhorse was a
costume, wasn't it? Something British, I believed.

"In here?"

"Yep. Zombies leak and it's easier to clean up in here." He grabbed a small
pack as Witty returned with what looked like a sawhorse with two rails at
the top instead of one. "Rack him up."

Witty unhooked me and dragged my flaccid and exhausted body over and laid
me across the hobbyhorse. One of the bars was about at my hipbone and the
other just below my collarbone. I felt more than heard Witty lock my feet
and hands in place. "Stand back, Witty. He may spew at some of this, mainly
from realizing what's happing than anything else." The young Patriot
retreated at speed to the doorway.

Walsh roughly jabbed something into my ass, far smaller and smoother than
the enema hose. I turned my head languidly, only partly aware, as I watched
him squeezing what looked for the world like a big caulk gun. Suddenly, I
felt everything inside go slippery and it dawned on me, they were pumping
lube into my ass, and an alarming amount of it. Why a man would need lube
in his ass had only one, horrifying answer.

The medic was right. My guts started desperately heaving at the idea, and
rinse-water with a touch of acidic bile came up. Not much, but enough to be
repulsive and painful. It took my mind off my ass, though, as he finished
and pulled the tube back out. He jabbed a fingerful of something else into
my hole and suddenly it felt like my mouth was puckering from the sourness
of a lemon, just at the other end of the plumbing. It was a strange but not
painful sensation.

"Damn, I hate this shit," the medic mumbled to himself. "I wish Gitmo had
never invented it, or burned the fucking recipe at least."

"What's that, Walsh?"

"Nothing. I've got to put on the SenzAll. Do NOT get near this shit,
Witty. Trust me on that." I noticed that the medic had on long, thick,
kitchen-style rubber gloves. He uncapped a tall bottle with a long
applicator, pulling it out. He moved around in front of me and said, "Hold
still, Zombie. You do not want me to miss with this stuff." I froze in
panic and watched as he smeared the applicator over my lips then pried my
mouth open and laved my tongue with it as well. He got the applicator wet
again, then moved to the side and do the same to my nipples. From behind, I
felt him grab my dick and skin it back, then rub the applicator around and
around the inner fold of skin and all over the glans. He proceeded to paint
my ball sac and everywhere around and even a bit inside the folds of my
asslips.

The medic recapped the bottle, then washed it thoroughly, washed his gloves
and turned them inside out before packing them in a zip-back which he also
rinsed. Lastly, he washed his hands like a surgeon before an
operation. Whatever he'd put on me was something he never, ever wanted to
touch. This was not a happy thought.

That's when I started to notice something. Every breath now made my lips
tingle. Every drip of saliva made my tongue sing. The sensitivity was
intense, and getting stronger. I realized that my nipples were absolutely
ablaze with sensation, and then my cock and balls and ass came alive with
furious messages to my brain that something important was happening and
they didn't know what. It wasn't pain, it was just overload. I felt every
molecule of air that passed by each area that had touched the applicator. I
tasted every scent on the air as it hit my tongue.

I vaguely heard Walsh say, "Okay, Seven Guard Witkowski. It'll hit
soon. After the first wave, it will plateau for the next roughly twenty
hours. Suit up. Guard the door and make sure he doesn't overturn the hobby
horse. Otherwise, no one in and the Zombie definitely does not come
out. And whatever you do, don't touch the fucking Zombie or let any sweat
or spit get on you for the next fifteen minutes. Thirty would be better."

"ACK Seven Medic Walsh. Secure showers. Secure Zombie. Don't touch Zombie,
sir."

I sat there, suddenly in a universe consisting of lips, tongue, nipples,
cock, balls and ass. I felt myself go rock-hard in an instant as the
sensations flooded through me. Every movement, twitch, breath or twinge was
like being stroked, licked or teased. Every jet of saliva exploded across
my tongue. I started to moan with pleasure, then whine with need as the
sensations kept redoubling. I felt my body instinctively start to hunch
which pulled my foreskin back and forth across my hypersensitive glans and
I cried out, a loud keening of desperate need. I did it again and again and
again, unable to stop, starting to grunt with each thrust, each heartbeat.

I felt my cremasters pull my nuts up and in, the final sensation that I
could bear. My world shattered as I climaxed, the sound of my howls echoing
in the small CeramiSteel room. Every contraction, though, intensified the
sensation yet further and I crashed through another orgasm and another
until I was a weeping, dry-cumming mass of desperation. The acute phase
seemed to pass after only ten or fifteen years of torment. The sensations
were still unimaginably intense, but had faded to the point that the
feedback loop broke and I sagged, utterly spent, sobbing and tasting my own
tears, sweat and jism on my tongue from what had flavored the air.

"Holy fucking hell," I heard the young Witty say with awe and fear in his
voice. "God damn! By Cooper and Rawles, that shit is fucking evil." He
walked in when he was sure I was done. "You thirsty, Zombie?" To be honest,
I wasn't really conscious, but 'thirsty' penetrated and I felt him insert
his cock in my mouth and start to piss. The flavor exploded across my
senses, both the acrid, ammoniac tastes and the ripe, luscious musk of his
crotch-sweat where it had wet his dick. I moaned at the intensity of MAN
that flared across my tongue even as I welcomed his piss into my parched
throat.

I suckled eagerly, needing to reclaim the moisture that I'd dumped on the
CeramiSteel floor, but also greedy for that intense, erotic, masculine
flavor. I drank until he was done and, instinctively, kept nursing like a
calf at a teat. I could feel him approaching climax and pull back,
panting. "Fuck, Zombie, that's one hell of a mouth you got there!"

He zipped up and retreated to the doorway, resuming a guard-rest
position. I sagged on the hobby horse, wavering between tears of dread and
tears of desire for something I'd never wanted... or maybe just never knew
that I needed.

I guess I dozed some for I startled when I heard a new voice, answered
quickly by my guard. "Negative, sir. I have specific orders, sir: No one
in, no one out, sir." Time had passed because the light had changed.

"Orders from whom, Seven Guard Witkowski?" The voice was low and firm.

"Seven Medic Walsh, sir."

"Was the order specifically for medical reasons, Patriot? Is the Zombie
contagious, dangerous to us or in some way medically in danger himself?"

Uncertainty now leaked into the boy's voice, "Um, sir? Not that I know,
sir. Seven Medic Walsh prepped the Zombie per Patriot Seven Leader's orders
and told me, 'No one in, no one out,' Leader O'Connell, sir."

"Then stand down, Patriot. Unless it is a medical order, I outrank Walsh. I
hereby modify your orders, Seven Guard Witkowski: You are to allow me to
speak with and perhaps water the Zombie, after which, no one in, none one
out."

"ACK Seven PersIntel Leader, allow you access then resume no one in, no one
out, sir!" I looked up as he shuffled to the side.

The man who came in was... big. He wasn't fat or some sort of muscle-god,
just generally huge. He also had one the meanest faces I'd ever
seen. That's when the title permeated. PersIntel -- Personnel Intelligence
was Patriot slang for interrogators... torturers with tools and techniques
Torquemada never dreamed for. I went stone-still as my heart pumped
supercooled blood through my veins.

He stood close and spoke low. I craned my neck up but could barely see his
face above me. "Listen, you fucking Zombie and listen close. You are going
to do me a favor tonight. The third up to bat will be my son. He's..." his
voice went soft, caring, a bizarre tone to come from that face, "not
as... merciless as many. Tonight, you have two jobs. You scream like a
motherfucker as long as he's with you. I want the agonies of hell, you
little bitch, get me?"

"Yes, sir." I noticed my voice was hoarse and also trembling. I could tell
he liked that... a lot.

"And your second job is to make him scream with pleasure. Make this the
best night of that boy's fucking life. Now, what's your job, Zombie?"

"Scream like he's k-k-k-k-killling me and make him enjoy it? Sir?"

"Good. And let me explain why you'll be doing this favor for me, Zombie."
He leaned down so his hot breath was on the back of my neck. "I have it
completely within my power to have you painted head to fucking toe with
SenzAll, then pricked, poked and flogged without pause for as long as I
think it is warranted. I can make damned sure you stay alive for days and
days no matter how much you beg for death." He stood, unzipped and pulled
out a meaty, gnarled cock. "Now open up. I need to piss and I can tell you
need to be watered."

I didn't hesitate and was frankly stunned at my body's response to his
taste. His musk was deeper, spicier, utterly and inescapably male, and his
piss was strong but not even slightly nasty like the guard's had been. I
felt my flaccid cock spring to rock hard and moaned around the
urine-stream. I heard the huge man chuckle as he pulled out after a very
long, very satisfying release, letting the last of his stream dribble on my
chin. With no ceremony at all and not another word, he zipped up and walked
out past Witty.

I understood, though, the underlying message. The big man's son lacked the
heartless mania of True Patriots. I was to make it seem that he was the
most ferocious, merciless creature ever to touch me. I shivered at what
that meant, but the idea of ever seeing that tall, brown bottle with the
applicator near me again nearly made me scream. I would dance on the gates
of hell to avoid SenzAll, whether followed by slow torture or not.

I had dozed again when suddenly the world exploded into light. It had gone
full-dark, apparently, and Witty had flicked on the LED rope around the
edges of the ceiling. He came in with another gorilla-type, just as young
and just as stupid looking. I expected them to uncuff me and take me
someplace. That was not, apparently, on the agenda. They threw a tarp (camo
color, of course) over me and I felt them lift the hobbyhorse by the legs
with me still attached.

I heard the texture of sound change as they got me out of the CeramiSteel
shower enclosure, followed by shuffling and moving feet around us with low
muttering, the eternal music of men going to a meeting. I could taste the
bonfire with my SenzAll'ed tongue, as well as the rich pine, fecund mulch
and raw, overpowering man-sweat. They set me down and I could hear the fire
to my right and the majority of the crowd to my left and rear.

A sound intended to freeze the marrow of everyone other than the most
extreme of the Patriots came next. The woods erupted in dozens if not
hundreds of drums. A relatively-obscure drum and dance troupe of the
twenty-teen years called the Dragon Ritual Drummers had a piece of their
music set to scenes from an equally-obscure art-house film. The result was
Masters of Chaos, a really impressive drum piece.

It would have passed into obscurity if a certain group of MANkind fanatics
intent on recapturing their stolen machismo hadn't arisen and seized on it
as the perfect ritual opening of Real Man events. The incestuous membership
between those desperate to reclaim their balls and those wanting to remake
'Merica in their twisted image turned the penetrating DUT da-dut da-dut,
DUM DUM beat into the Onward Christian Soldiers of the American Redoubt.

After the TAB (Take America Back) attacks a decade later, the
ultra-extremist True Patriots and the hyper-extremist Real Patriots had
turned it into the war chant. Hearing it meant that you would soon be
fighting for your life against people who honestly believed that anyone who
wasn't them both needed and deserved to die at all costs. I was now chained
to a fucking custom sawhorse, covered in a tarp next to a roaring bonfire
and surrounded by DUT da-dut da-dut, DUM DUM, DUT da-dut da-dut, DUM DUM,
DUT da-dut da-dut, DUM DUM. I pissed myself without any shame at all then
regretted it as the stench of twice-recycled urine assaulted me,
concentrated as the tarp acted like an evaporation still.

A horrifyingly loud voice, that of the Leader guy, roared, "PATRIOTS!" and
the drumming became an ecstatic tattoo that abruptly went still sixty
seconds later. The entire world seemed to hold its breath. His voice boomed
but was more modulated now, full of restrained but formidable power. "We
stand beneath the Blood Moon that rises into view. Under the Blood Moon
lies a Witness who is not one of us." The camo tarp was whipped away,
leaving me naked and chilled in the night air. The moon was, indeed,
reddish and had just cleared the tree line. "Tell the Witness and the Blood
Moon who you are!"

"PATRIOTS!" echoed around me from untold number of male voices.

"Who fought for this land?"

"PATRIOTS!" at each repetition, the refrain got louder, more intense,
more... crazed. The faces I could see glistened and eyes glittered in the
light from the bonfire.

"Who took this land?"

"PATRIOTS!"

"Who HOLDS this land?"

"PATRIOTS!"

"Who DESERVES this land?"

"PATRIOTS!" The pure ecstasy of that sound, the feral madness and
pack-mindlessness made me very, very glad they'd cleaned me out and
puckered my hole, and that I had already lost control of my bladder.

"Are there any here who are not Patriots?"

"AYE, Patriot Leader!" It was the rough baritone of the man who had come to
me earlier. "We have men who claim the right to be Patriots!"

"PATRIOTS!"

"Have they been blooded?"

"Each has taken the life of an enemy. They claim the right to be Patriots!"

"PATRIOTS!"

"Each has reached the age when they may move from boyhood to manhood?"

"Each has his hair, his man's voice, his scent and his seed. They claim the
right to be Patriots!"

"PATRIOTS!"

"Bring them forward." There was some shuffling and five men, mostly young
and one barely a teen, moved into the penumbra of firelight. All were
wearing long, loose shirts and, apparently, nothing else. The first was a
small, whipcord kid with as feral a look as any of the men. In a civilized
city, I would have crossed the street to avoid him.

The Leader stepped in front of him and intoned. "What was your name when
you walked into the firelight?"

His voice was a high tenor, but not *necessarily* that of a boy. "I was
Erich Madison, Patriot!"

"What do you demand?"

"I demand the right to be one of the Patriots!"

"PATRIOTS!"

The leader reached down and ripped open the shirt and threw it to the
side. Buttons (obviously designed to do so) flew and scattered. "Stand
before the witness!"

What seemed to be a bony frame was revealed as a heavily-scarred and
tightly-muscled body. He had a straggly patch of pubes around a small but
serviceable (and fiercely erect) cock, perhaps five inches. My gut churned
as I thought of just where that was going to be all too soon. He stood
perhaps a foot from me.

"Tell the Witness how you were blooded."

"Six weeks ago, I shot a Goon sniper who threatened Seven Patrol
Charlie. It was attested by Seven Gunner Wallace and Seven Gunner Simms."

"Those who attest, speak!"

"WE ATTEST!" rang out two strong voices.

"Witness, do you allow that this boy is blooded? Speak!"

"Y-Y-Y-Y-YES! He, uh, he has b-b-b-b-b-b-been blooded."

A smaller man moved forward with a pail and the Leader dunked his hand
deep. "Though this is merely a deer's life-essence, it shows the Blood Moon
that you have done your duty and been blooded." He ran his gore-slimed hand
from the boy's forehead, down his face and all the way to his abdomen,
leaving a ghastly trail of cruor behind.

"Witness! Does he have his man's voice?"

Well, uh, sure, I guess, sorta. "YES! He has his m-m-m-m-man's voice"

"Witness! Does he have his man's hair?"

Frankly, I doubted that his sparse bush qualified, but fuck if I was going
to quibble. "YES! He has his m-m-m-m-man's hair."

"Stand forward!"

The kid moved straight into me, ending with my face right in his rank
crotch.

"Witness! Does he have a man's scent?"

What the fuck did that even MEAN? Yeah, I could taste his nasty ball-sweat
with my hypersensitive tongue even with my mouth firmly closed, but it was
more like a rabid animal than a 'man' per se. Apparently, pausing for
thought or to form a considered opinion was not part of the program. Some
thin, stiff crop THWACKed my SenzAll'ed ball sac and I squealed at the
intense and unexpected pain.

"YES! YES! HE, HE has LOTS of man scent!" I blubbered that a bit and was
muffled as that fucking brat ground his crotch in my face, but I guess it
worked.

"Witness! Prepare to attest that he has his seed."
Fuck. Fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck, I thought, until I realized that was
precisely what was about to happen.

Someone had set a box of something behind me and he clambered up. A cry in
the crowd went out, "Patriot UP!"

Without any real prep or warning, he lunged forward, spearing my ass. I
screamed, "JESUS!" at the shocking pain from my sensitized ass and there
was raucous laughter all around. What made it worse was the kid had
fuck-all for aim. It took three more tries for him to hit the bullseye,
each getting me to bellow a curse and strain at the bonds. That was
nothing, though, to when he finally figured it out.

Whatever they'd done to pucker me was brutally-effective. I'd seen this
kid's cock, hard and rampant. It was basically the size of a whiteboard
marker, with a remarkably similar shape. What went up my shit-chute felt
like it was the size of a baby's arm. He was thrusting hard and fat. Thank
God for the impetuousness and impatience of youth. I grunted and chuffed
with each butt-punch which seemed to please the crowd, who shouted
encouragement, instructions and manly insults in equal measure.

Perhaps two minutes after he started, he let out a squeal that, even though
I certainly would not have mentioned it, sounded a lot like a girl as he
started to unload in me. After the first blast, he lowered his voice to a
fake profundo set of grunts. With the shit they'd swiped across my asslips,
I knew he actually only got about three real spurts; I was so sensitive
that I could feel his urethra expand. He pretended to have perhaps six
more, though, hunching and grunting with each fake shot. He pulled out and
my ass went back to its former puckered-tight status. That did NOT bode
well for the evening.

"Witness! Do you attest to his seed?"

"Yes! I felt his seed."

"Taste it to be sure."

Say whu? The little fucktard came back around and shoved his cock straight
into my stunned mouth. My overactive taste buds could clearly recognize his
spooge even over and above the ass-funk and chemical lube that nearly made
me puke all over the kid. I pulled back after seriously considering biting
the fucking thing off and hollered, "Yes, I taste his seed!"

"You who came into the firelight as Erich Madison, the Blood Moon has seen
that you are a man who has been blooded, and that you are able to perform a
man's duties with your body. You will strengthen the Patriots!"

"PATRIOTS!"

"What will your name be as you leave the light of this bonfire?"

"Seven Sniper Madison, Patriot Seven Leader, SIR!"

"We greet Seven Sniper Madison as one of the Patriots!"

"PATRIOTS!" That was followed by cheering and catcalling as the blushing,
proud and still-feral kid was dragged into the fold.

The leader went to the next guy in the lineup, a somewhat lanky youth of
around twenty, I guessed, maybe a little older.

The Leader stepping in from of him and intoned. "What was your name when
you walked into the firelight?"

His voice was an unexpected bass. "I was Jermayle Willison, Patriot!"

"What do you demand?"

"I demand the right to be one of the Patriots!" The shouting then the
shirt-ripping proceeded. He had a nice, long, thin cock, uncut and
strangely-dark from the midpoint to the wrinkled tip. He was already
chubbed and I watched as he grew harder. His body was lanky, but you could
clearly see that the cliché of iron pumping Patriots was real.

"Five weeks ago, in defense of Seven North-Forward Bunker, I manned the
heavy gun when Marks was clipped by a Goon, sir. I killed six, sir, and
wounded more. It was attested by Seven Heavy Gunner Marks and Seven Gunner
Smalley, sir."

I allowed that, yes, he'd been blooded. Leader smeared him with blood and I
attested that he had a man's voice and hair. When he stepped into my face,
I could smell the not-quite-rank aroma of jock-sweat and young funk. "Yes,
he has a man's scent!" His cock was now fully railed, and I was relieved to
realize that, for all the length, he wasn't that much thicker than his
predecessor.

"Patriot UP!"

He mounted me with considerable experience, using the box set up for the
short kid to get a unique angle into me. He relished my shriek of pain on
entry then plowed me like a field. The guys around were far more bawdy with
their suggestions this time, including a few that would have made me blush
if a dude wasn't balls-deep in my goddamned ass.

His length and the odd angle had him pounding that place inside me where
only a doctor's finger had ever been. It was... right nice. His steady
see-saw rhythm was not terribly uncomfortable but I made a show of groaning
and whining and complaining about the pain as he finished his business.

His cock also had far less ass-taste than the little fuckwad did and I
attested loudly to both his seed and its taste. He left the firelight as
Seven Heavy Gunner Willison to the same chant and raucous applause.

Next up was a somewhat meaty youth who bore the unmistakable signs of being
the son of the guy who had the power to make me pray for death. The kid,
perhaps late teens, had a kind face that was screwed up into what he
probably thought was 'serious and manly' but looked a lot more like
constipation. His cock hung loose and quite long over a nice but
normal-sized set of very, very hairy nuts.

The Leader stepping in from of him and intoned. "What was your name when
you walked into the firelight?"

His voice was a nice, rich, low-tenor. "I was Robert O'Connell, Patriot!"

"What do you demand?"

"I demand the right to be one of the Patriots!" He didn't seem at all sure
he wanted to 'demand' anything. It was clear he would much prefer to
politely request things. The shouting, somewhat haphazard then the
shirt-ripping proceeded.

"Two weeks ago, I g-g-g-gutted a Goblin after interrogation was
complete. It wu- was attested by Seven PersIntel Garcia, Seven PersIntel
O'Connell and Patriot Seven Leader, sir!"

I allowed that, yes, he'd been blooded. Leader smeared him with blood,
seeming to use far more than with the previous two guys. This one looked
like he'd walked through a charnel house. I attested that he had a man's
voice and hair (this time without hesitation on either count). When he
stepped into my face, I felt a flush creep up. The scent flowed up my nose
and across my hyperactive tongue like warm, masculine honey. His spicy,
gentle musk was sensational. I heard him snort in surprise as I licked out
to capture more on my electrified tongue. "Yes. Oh, yeah, he very much has
a man's scent!"

My wording got lewd chuckle and a few impressed nods. While they did that,
I urgently whispered, "Robert! Robert, fuck me like a whore. Use me,
kid. I'll give the sound effects so Pappy'll be happy, but fuck me
senseless. I want to live past tonight, got me?" He stepped back in
surprise but I saw realization and intense disappointment flood his face as
his whole upper body blushed crimson; I prayed it would pass as sex-flush
instead. Every part of his countenance told me that his overbearing and
perpetually-disappointed father had managed to ruin a night that should
have been deservedly and unreservedly his.

I saw his face tense and his mouth set. His breathing got shorter and his
cock began to rise like a very unhappy snake. If anger at the big dog would
get his puppy's engine running, I'd take it. I start to doubt myself as the
thing kept growing, both in length and girth.

"Witness! Prepare to attest that he has his seed."

"Patriot UP!" The cry this time was not as strong. The kid, probably due to
his pappy's long-expressed disappointment, was not respected, just
tolerated.

I heard him contemptuously kick the box the other kids had used aside. He
hocked up a wad of spit and I felt every bubble as it hit me dead-center on
my SenzAll'ed hole. Another apparently went on his cock. The PersIntel
guy's son put his hands on either side of my ass, pulling me open and
placed the blunt nose of what, by now, felt like a fucking log right at the
star of my puckered as. He leaned in and got a strong hold on my hips. "You
wanna be fucked senseless?" he hissed, "You got it, Zombie bitch!"

He didn't jam it in like the other had done. Instead, he pushed inexorably
forward as he pulled me back with his hands. Pappy had wanted the agonies
of hell? No fucking problem. I wailed like a banshee when he popped past
the first ring. As he broached the second, I screamed, begging for him to
stop, to go back, to wait, to do anything to stop the pain. Act? Fuck
acting! That shit HURT!

I pulled viciously against the restraints, head back and alternating
between pleas for mercy, condemnation of the entire fucking universe and
intense howls of pain. As the kid got his rhythm, though, I suddenly began
to feel... very, very good. I was still screaming, but now between the
begging him to stop was the occasional whimper, then groan, then gut-deep,
penetrating moan and finally begging for more, harder, deeper. The kid's
thick cock was punching again and again right across the love nut that Mr
Heavy Gunner Dude had pounded just minutes before.

I heard distant sounds, like cheering and howls of enjoyment. They were
meaningless. Every thrust palpated my launch button then plunged *just*
past it to an unbearably-sensitive spot that I never knew I had. I realized
that I was hard and leaking, the SenzAll inside my foreskin doing
impossible and wondrous things to my cockhead. Right then, the kid reached
around my chest as he plundered my ass and grabbed each nipple.

They were more sensitive than they had ever been. My girlfriends had always
commented on how touchy I was there, and now they were light years beyond
that. If he'd pulled or twisted, I would have been a weeping mess in
moment. Instead, he teased and stroked them gently in sharp counterpoint to
the brutal use he was making of my ass. And, well, that was pretty much
it. I screamed in ecstasy and unloaded.

The kid on my back started pile-driving, now really working my nipples like
a master. I could tell he had me nearly to the edge again and started to
buck back into his thrusts, screaming obscene encouragements to him as he
went to town on my recently-virgin hole. I think it was my vocal prods that
finally triggered him. I felt him freeze, then plunge and grind his cock in
as far it could reach and screamed through his own pulsing climax. He sawed
in an out a few more times as he drained his ample nuts and then slowly
started to withdraw.

I don't know. Maybe I was possessed by demons or something. I was just
sooooooo close to another eruption that I cried and begged him for "just a
little more" and "don't take that cock out" and "just fuck me more." I know
for a fact that "make me your bitch" made loud and frequent
appearances. When I felt his head plop out and a dribble of his seed with
it, I sobbed at the loss.

I heard words, then shouts, then a brutal flick to my nuts before I
understood the words, "Witness! Do you attest to his seed?"

"Yes! Oh, God, yes! I can st-st-st-st-still feel it!"

"Taste it to be sure." The Leader's voice was a bit odd and uncertain. I
felt the slightly softened cock at my lips and suckled like a starving
piglet. O'Connell threw his head back and moaned. "P-P-P-P-P-Permission to
water the Z-Z-Z-Z-Zombie, sir?" Apparently, he got it.

I felt his cock start to leak, then flow with a rich, thick stream of piss
the flavor of sunshine and saltwater. I moaned deep as I sucked him dry
then refused to release him. His breath got short and desperate and his
voice went up a notch. "P-P-P-P-P-Per.... Permiss.... Permission to, to,
to, to, FUCK!" The last word echoed in a suddenly, unnatural silence. His
Uhn-Uhn-Uhns were the only sound aside from my moans.

I heard the deep, penetrating voice of the boy's threatening father whisper
in awe, "Holy fuck, Bobby."

The leader's voice seemed strained and, when I looked up, his pants were
having serious trouble constraining his very large, very leaky
cock. "Witness? Um, do you at-t-t-test to the tasting his, uh, seed?"

"Oh, God yes, Patriot Leader! Yes!"

"Y-Y-Y-Y-Y-You who came into the firelight as Robert O'Connell," he got his
voice back to the powerful, commanding tone, "the Blood Moon has seen that
you are a man who has been blooded, and that you are able to perform a
man's duties with your body. You will strengthen the Patriots!"

"PATRIOTS!" The cheer was also ragtag and a bit breathy and strained.

"What will your name be as you leave the light of this bonfire?"

"Seven Manager O'Conn--"

His voice faltered as a chant started to rise. I couldn't make it out at
first but could see Robert turn in something like awe as it
built. "Stal-yun. Stal-yun. Stal-YUN. Stal-YUN. STALLION! STALLION!
STALLION!"

Pappy was beaming in reflected glory and Leader was smiling broadly. He
held up his hands for quiet.

In his loudest voice, he intoned, "We greet Seven Manager O'STALLION as one
of the Patriots!"

"PATRIOTS!" The shout was loud, lusty and intense, and the recently-Robert
was swallowed in a deluge of laughing, cheering arms and dragged away. It
took several minutes for the noise to die down.

The fourth guy was, strangely, a young black man. The Patriots were not
precisely known to be Equal Opportunity Employers, so he was either
something special or his pappy had serious pull in the Patriots. He was
tall and lean with a wide chest and rippling muscles and moved in an oddly
graceful way. His cock was actually relatively-normal in size, but his
balls hung at least three or four inches below his crotch.

"What was your name when you walked into the firelight?"

His voice was a deep-chocolate bass, the kind that Broadway musicals swoon
over. "I was the Bravo Papa stalker called Night Wind." Oh, dear sweet
fucking Christ. Bravo Papa was the survivalist arm of the
recently-reinvigorated Black Panthers. They held a large swath of the
Craters of the Moon National Monument, having spent a decade secreting a
massive horde of supplies in the desolate and unpaved volcanic wilderness.

The TAB (Take America Back) attacks, largely by White Nationalists of the
Trumpeters stripe, was a "trigger condition" and they ended up well-secured
and ready when It Hit the Fan. They were already snug in prepared bunkers
and defined fields-of-fire, ready for anything The Man (e.g. anyone not a
black militant with the right code-phrases) could throw at them. Every time
they had been attacked, their scorched earth retaliation wiped out not just
the attackers, but ruthlessly scourged every supply base, homestead and
outpost that supported the interlopers, resulting in massive swag and
booty. That one was now with a Patriots band was, um, 'not a good thing'.

"What do you demand?"

"I demand the right to become one of the Patriots!"

There was some muttering along with the roar of "PATRIOTS" but it was
silenced quickly and firmly.

"Tell the Witness how you were blooded."

"Nine nights ago--" Bravo Papa counted nights, which were black, instead of
days "--I was cut off from Bravo Papa by Patriot patrols. I brought
Ballistic Wampum--" slang for ammo used as barter "--to Seven Patriot Base
and bargained for assistance. I was Challenged--" forced to accept an
impossible suicide mission "-- and went to The Man's forward reconnaissance
base with orders to obtain The Man's current Field Map--" holy fucking
Mother of God, a document that shows the layout of defensive perimeters
"--and counted coup on six Honkey Muthafuckuhs, returning with their ears
and the Field Map."

There were, apparently, men in the group who had not heard, or perhaps had
not believed, the story. The muttering was all on the order of, "Well fuck
me for a Pollyanna!"

"What do you demand?"

"I demand the right to join you until such time as I can return to the True
Path with Bravo Papa and, in the meantime, kill The Man's Honkey
Muthafuckas alongside the Patriots!"

"PATRIOTS!"

Yeah, yeah. Blooded, sure. Voice, hell yeah. Hair, check. Scent... I was a
little surprised at the intense difference. The man's crotch smelled of
clean sweat, deep funk and... coffee.

"Patriot UP!"

When he mounted me, of course I screamed. He wasn't small by any measure
and with his Honkey Muthafuckah this and Honkey Muthafuckah that,
gentleness was not on the menu. I was fine, though, until he hit his
stride.

Did I mention he had freakishly low-hanging balls? Big ones? Loose sac?
Well, as he went to town on my ass, it turned out that every fuck-thrust
swung them in a large, momentum-building arc and slapped those puppies
right the hell into my SenzAll'ed nads. I yelped, yipped, howled and cussed
at every thrust, desperate to find a way to protect the unprotectable -- my
utterly exposed and right-the-fuck-there testicles.

He kept up a steam of what might have been called trash talk on a playing
field, completely overjoyed at the noises I was making. He lasted
for-fucking-ever and, when he finally, came, he made it his mission to
rabbit fuck me so his balls set up a sort of paddling tattoo on my aching,
mauled nuts. I was weeping and retching when he finished and used my mouth
to clean himself. I mumbled through the 'felt seed' and 'tasted seed'
things and hung there, utterly undone.

He left the firelight as "Seven Scout Night Wind" with an added "Seconded
from Bravo Papa" appended.

For reasons that I didn't understand at first, they let me catch my
breath. I looked up and let the ice wash through me as I figured it
out. The last guy was a short, thick tank of a man. His name had,
apparently, been Right Patriot Punisher. I recalled an article in the
Washington Post-Times about the destruction of the Right Patriots a few
months before. He, sadly, did not look particularly destroyed.

The shirt-ripping was a bit amusing, since it was stretched across his
impossibly-wide torso to the point the Leader had the damnedest time
getting a good grip. What that uncovered sent my mind into a sort of numbed
shock. Well, yeah, I thought. I said 'tank' but I didn't mean he should
have a fucking 120mm canon sticking out in front!

Honestly, I had never seen a dick like that. He was hard (I hoped) and it
stuck straight forward. It was thick, between a can of Red Bull and a can
of Monster. It was also longer even than the Robert kid. I mumbled through
the blooding, voice, hair, whatever-the-fuck in a trance, dreading the
"attest that he has his seed". I have to say that, shockingly, it was far,
far worse than I ever expected.

"Patriot UP!"

I lost consciousness twice as the pain of his thrusts drove me to
hypoxia. I came back each time to the horrific scent of an ammonia cap and
the screaming pain in my ass. He was like a horse, a robot and a terrier in
one: Huge, unfeeling and relentless. What made it so much worse is that it
was clear that he didn't fucking care! He was wrecking my ass because they
told him to, not for enjoyment or even mild pleasure. I was a... chore, a
task, a mission he had to laboriously complete!

When he presented himself to me for tasting and cleaning, I did puke, not
from disgust but from pain, exhaustion and horror. He calmly stepped back,
wiped himself down and continued as if nothing had happened. I wept in
gratitude that the ordeal was over.

Prematurely, as it turned out. The Leader intoned a whole set of rites
afterwards of which I heard nothing and cared even less, slowly coming back
to life as I lay there, panting. I perked up only when he said what sounded
like, "The Blood Moon is satisfied. He is pleased. He shines tonight on
TRUE PATRIOTS!" followed by orgasmic shouts. But then he ended with:
"Guards to stations. Otherwise, enjoy yourselves, men."

That night, the first I'd ever tasted or felt a man's cock, became a
marathon of pain and joy, disgust and rapture, fear and longing. The
refrain, "Patriot UP!" was no longer a loud chorus but more a raucous,
leering, locker-room boast, a pronouncement of machismo as I got
mounted. And fuck if I didn't lose track of the number of UP!s in short
order. It was... a lot.

The former Robert was, I admit, special. He came back to me four times. The
first with an entourage of those impressed, the second with an entourage of
those who were skeptical, then third with his beaming, delighted father who
chose to face-fuck me as he watched his son use me as his bitch. But it was
the fourth, in the small hours of the night when no men were waiting to use
me, that changed my world.

Over perhaps thirty minutes, Robert made sweet love to my body, in large
part healing the ravishment and abuse of the preceding hours. It was tender
and rough, powerful and gentle, and special, intense and meaningful in ways
I never had imagined. He also brought me to a shuddering, shattering climax
that I could only whimper through, thanking him over and over.

The man who had threatened to kill me slowly was the one who was there when
I swam up from the depths of sleep the next afternoon. He gave me a big mug
of water, holding it to my lips and helping me drink draught after draught,
then sat back, pondering me.

"I have received an extraordinary request, Zombie. A Patriot currently in
extreme favor with the men has asked that you not only be spared, but
offered a place here, within Seven Patriot Base itself. Why do you think
that is, Zombie?"

I hacked and coughed my voice into submission, but it was still raw. "I'm
s-s-s-s-sorry, um, Something-Intel Leader. No. I have no idea. I..."

"Go on."

"I'm just surprised that I woke up, sir. You know, alive? I mean? Sir?"

He laughed heartily. "Dear God, son, you had the promise of Patriot Leader
AND you did... well, you did more than I could ever had dreamed, son. Wake
up? Yeah, you were gonna wake up. Now, can you imagine who asked for you to
get special treatment and why?"

"Can I, well, will I get in trouble or upset you by speaking freely?"

"I personally guarantee that I will not tell another soul what you say, and
will not hold it against you personally. Is that good enough?"

"Yessir." I still chose my words with inordinate care. "I would guess that
a certain Patriot was grateful that I, uh, provided for his needs in an
unexpected way and thinks that I might... might be a valuable addition to
the Patriot cause?"

He laughed again, a rich and relaxed sound. "Let's say, for the sake of
conversation, that I concede that. Tell me more."

I suddenly realized that I was not bound, not cuffed, not disabled in any
way. My shoulder was in a FlexCast and I could see SkeleTemps on each knee.

"Then I'd say that a Patriot decided that I had more worth than a piece of
man-flesh, and I think a person who cares so very deeply for him -- who has
protected him and worked with him and was disappointed in him -- well, that
man was shocked to the fucking core by the ferocious stud he saw last
night... and, maybe, that man also thinks there may be something of value
in that particular Zombie? In me?"

The interrogator -- let's be honest, the torturer -- looked at me and
growled, "If you ever again suggest that I was disappointed in... well,
anyone, no matter how much evidence you might have, you will have a very
unpleasant and very short life." The blood drained from my face. Then he
sighed. "But yes, you are largely correct. How are you at cooking?"

"Um, c-c-c-c-cooking? Cooking like meals? P-P-P-P-Pretty good, I'd say. And
I learn fast and, well," my voice softened oddly, "I really liked a certain
nameless young man. I wouldn't mind, well, serving... *under* him?"

He smiled broadly. "Well, you might find it nice to know that the new Seven
Manager O'Stallion has requisitioned a cook and man-of-all-work now that he
has responsibility for managing the camp itself. We don't currently have
such a person in Patriot Seven, and Patriot Seven Leader is... open to the
idea of a non-Patriot fill-in. Do you think, well, that you might one day
want to be a Patriot yourself?"

I looked into his broad, suddenly-open face. "If Rawles, Cooper, God and
Providence suggest it... yes, sir."

"Welcome to the real world, Larry Coos. We may well make a Patriot of you
yet."

<eof>

THANK YOU to the amazing folks who volunteered to beta-read this story,
with special shout-outs to Lee, Tom, Thom and, most especially, the guy who
shall remain nameless that both asked for *and starred in* this particular
fantasy.

*****

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Active storelines, all at www.nifty.org/nifty/gay...
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