CAPTIVES

Richard Michaels

I can do nothing for him.

His face is impassive, except that the sharpness of his jaw is perhaps more incisive than usual because he is clenching his teeth, exercising self-control. And when his eyes meet mine for even less than a heartbeat, is there a flicker of something—or am I just imagining that slight light because I want it to exist, because it would be a sign, however ephemeral, of what is between us? Or perhaps I am simply imagining that there is something between us? No, there is something, though I know only incompletely what it might be.

And part of that something—a very substantial part—is his cock.

His body, his almost impossibly sculpted body, is a mobile aggregation of flowing muscle and shimmering skin: the firmness of his chest with its scattering of short black hair, the conjunction of wide shoulders and rounded arms and forceful hands, all of this fleshy vista expansively spread above the thigh-length skirt, and below the skirt the revelation of his tree-trunk legs. He is solidly handsome and handsomely solid, beyond handsome, so magnetic that I am irresistibly drawn to him, and I have had to fight staring at him and expressing more than my admiration, my fascination, but also rendering entirely too obvious the connection between us.

And we had been connected two nights ago. I had knelt before him, and he had lifted the skirt, releasing his cock, his hard, hard cock, and I was on one side of the bars and he was on the other, and his risen skirt had covered the back of his prick as I covered with my yearning lips the front, and the mask shielding the head retreated, granting me full access to a masculinity as muscular as the rest of him. His hands were clenched around the bars between us, and he leaned his head against the metal, and I could tell that I was giving him pleasure.

His pleasure enhanced my own, and I found pleasure indeed in his taste and in the texture, and I wished that my ravenous tongue could reach the large low-hanging testicles, but the iron columns prevented access, and so I contented myself—no, more than contented myself—with taking his cock as fully into my mouth as I could and relishing the rough yet tender terrain and attacking each part, every part of his plentiful prick, and this was more than contenting myself; it was sating myself with the richness of his rigid manhood.

He shuddered, and I looked up, and his eyes were closed and he was biting his lower lip, trying not to create some commotion that might awaken the sleepers. He flowed into my mouth, richly and profusely, and I released myself onto the ground beneath me as I answered the quake of his body with my own.

Then, wordlessly, we separated, and he walked away, and I watched as he adjusted his skirt to cover his magnificent ass. When he had lain down with his noisily resting companions, I stood and brushed myself off and tried to erase with my foot the signs of my sexual seizure and wiped on my leg the liquid remnants from my sole, and I joined my group, and soon, lulled by the susurration of soft snoring and the warm recollection of my sensual encounter, I surrendered to sleep.

I don’t know if he was there the first day or even the first week my group of captives was brought into the cell. He may have been in the forces who arrested my compatriots and me and threw us into our constricted confinement.

We had fought as well as we could, my squad and I. No one remembered how long the war had been going on. And nobody knew who was winning—although by that time, many of us, and perhaps many of them, realized that no one would really win. But no matter how many understood the futility of the combat, we, and perhaps they, comprehended that by the rules, the explicit rules, the implicit rules, neither side could retreat. Strategy had to be followed, even if the strategy was at best ambiguous and at worst injurious and most of the time impossible to discern.

So my comrades and I had been captured and incarcerated. Here we were, in an unfamiliar environment and an unfamiliar situation.

Initially, I was far too frightened to attend to my surroundings. I was jostled and jolted into a confused clump of men in the middle of our new home. We were to live here, and some of us would die here, and, according to the soldiers who had brought us, all of us would have to endure, strive to endure, pain and denial. When the soldiers told us this, the previously stony men grinned with indescribable evil.

Through the seemingly endless days that followed, we were subjected to loss, physically and emotionally, sometimes as relatively small as the withholding of meals, sometimes as great as beatings so severe that many men did not survive. And our spiritual space was more and more restrictive as we wondered what would happen to us and when and who would not make it past the next onslaught.

Our captors planted in us the seeds of fear that for some of my compatriots grew to madness, which gave our jailers great satisfaction.

In the beginning, we were stripped of our clothing. It was—it still is—a strange sensation being totally naked among many other naked men. There is so much individuality in body type and yet so universal the similarity in behaviors caused by the lack of even a minimal covering as identification, as protection. At the start, we all resolutely stared only at faces, and then no lower than chests, and soon blatantly at crotches, indulging in the masculine pastime of comparison and contrast. And then some of the glances became brazen invitations. Certain men turned away to hide what was so attractive, which presented another target for inspection and appreciation, and other men masked their own responses to invitation.

Our guards told us that anyone who succumbed to temptation would be severely punished. And no matter how clandestine the assignations, which were usually very obvious to all of us as we lay in feigned sleep and listened to the slap of flesh against flesh and the muffled cries of excitement, many were discovered by our guards, who themselves pretended slumber on the opposite side of the bars. And the transgressors were hauled away, with great ribald ceremony, not only naked but sticky and sometimes still joined, to unknown punishment. They did not return.

Self-satisfaction was frequent, and of course the satisfaction at the only permissible expression of sexual release was fleeting and not really fulfilling. The sentries laughed to hear and see men indulging in at best momentary enjoyment, and the culprits (for that is how they were made to feel) curled up in shame and pretended that they were not the ones who had surrendered to weakness. I observed these feelings not only in those around me but also in myself.

So at the beginning, I was interested only in trying to find my place in my new life, to locate some small space to call my own, some boundary within which I might discover safety, no matter how temporary, no matter how illusory. And I was not immune to the abundance of manly charms around me. My cock spent a lot of time rising and falling as if it was drawn by some strange tide, and sometimes I wanted to accede to my desires, which were often virtually uncontrollable, and yet, with an often superhuman effort, I did not give in.

And some of the other men were winsome, and some of the men were exceptionally equipped, and most tempting were the men who were both.

But I resisted—until I saw him.

He was, at first, just one of the helmeted, faceless enemy on the other side of the bars. I first noticed him in a sort of anonymous way. I looked admiringly at his remarkable legs, at their mighty size. And then he bent over to do something and revealed the splendor of his uncovered ass, which looked so solid that it could stop an arrow.

My cock sprang up and pointed at him. I quickly turned and walked to a corner of our cell where I could hide my excitement until it subsided.

He was frequently in the opposite compartment. I did not know if he was new or if he had been there all along and I had not noted him until now.

But so much more shapely were his legs than those of the other jailers that I could recognize him even behind his helmet and his armor.

One day, he removed his helmet and mopped his brow and then laid the helmet on a table, and I was nearly undone. His face was striking, with a strong jaw. When he looked my direction, before I quickly turned away, I could see—or at least I thought I could see—deep brown eyes with lustrous eyelashes, and again I had to hastily retreat to a corner of the cell until my unruly cock would behave.

You are a fool, I told myself. You cannot possibly have seen the details of his face before you retreated, and your imagination has been overheated by your confinement, and you had better regain control before you do something for which you will be punished.

For a few days, I kept myself constrained, but finally I looked through the bars, and I found him.

And he was looking at me.

Quickly, I looked away. When I glanced back, he was talking to another guard whom he called Marcello and who called him Barradd. He was paying no attention to me, and I chided myself for letting my imagination carry me into the realms of fantasy.

But the next time I let my gaze fall on him, he was again looking at me—I was sure he was looking at me; no matter how brief the glance, it was a glance.

Our eyes met like that two more days. Then, in the middle of the night, something woke me, and I saw Barradd standing at the bars, and he was wearing only his skirt. He was so beautiful that my breath stopped for a moment.

He beckoned to me. I checked around me to be sure that he was not gesturing to someone else—why would he choose me, D’Meter, a lowly captive? Quite entranced by the eyes that seemed to be drawing me to him as if he were a magnet, I stood and walked over to him. We stared at each other for a few seconds, and then he put his hand through the bars and guided me to my knees and lifted his skirt, and his magnificent, munificent cock jutted toward me, and I took him in my mouth.

I was utterly enthralled by the taste of his flesh, and I lost track of time and surroundings. Coherent thought left me, and I was subject only to the delights of his dick.

Then he breathed heavily and shuddered and spurted into my mouth, and I held him and his moistness for a moment, a much too short moment, and then he withdrew and moved away and lay down among his fellow guards, while I returned to my fellow prisoners and fell asleep.

I was abruptly awakened by one of the guards shaking me, and when I could focus on what was happening, I saw that another guard had Barradd by the arm and was taking him to a door at one end of the bars, and this guard unlocked the door and shoved Barradd through and into the midst of us captives and said, with a nasty laugh, “You like our hostages so much, let us see how you fare among them!”

Barradd was still wearing only his skirt, and as the other guard pushed Barradd again, he pulled the skirt off, and Barradd was now, like the rest of us, completely naked.

It was obvious what had happened. Someone—another guard or a prisoner who was hoping to curry favor with his captors—had seen Barradd and me and had reported us, and now Barradd had been judged as a traitor and sentenced to be among us. Perhaps his former friends hoped that we would punish Barradd for what he was presumed to have done, might indeed have done, as a guard. Certainly Barradd would be subject to the stringent rules set for the captives.

And as I look around, I see the hatred on the faces of my fellow detainees. Barradd is one of the enemy, and now he is with us, defenseless. Here is an opportunity for revenge. Who knows what will occur later? Now is the chance to pay back some of what has happened to the prisoners.

And I can do nothing for him.

He must realize at least some of what is going to happen to him. But he refuses to show weakness; soldier that he is, he will cope with his evident fate.

But maybe I can do something for him.

So far, none of my companions knows what Barradd’s offense was. What I am going to do will explain the puzzle and will simultaneously unmask me, will perhaps subject me to the same violence that Barradd would suffer.

He is not like the other soldiers. I know that. I think I know that.

I am compelled to do what I do.

I walk through the throng of bitter, vengeful men to stand before Barradd. For a moment, we look at each other. His expression is enigmatic.

“I am sorry, Barradd,” I tell him, “that you and I were seen. I am sorry that you have been punished for the enjoyment we took in each other. But I am not sorry that no more do bars separate us. Being so close to you allows me to do this.”

Does Barradd desire this? Is there indeed something between us? Am I delusional? Whatever the reality may be, in my lunacy, I kneel and take his cock in my mouth.

And part of me protests. Why am I doing this? Have I been stricken with a streak of insanity? Am I so overcome with lust that I lose all caution? Do I want this man so much that I am willing to risk—what? What happens as a result of this may be more dire than any revenge my compatriots might have leveled against him before. And by doing this, I probably, almost certainly, absolutely certainly, will subject myself to severe measures I could avoid if I just constrained myself.

His cock is as before plenteous in taste and generous in girth and length, and I could quite happily suck on it for days. And this time, I can reach his testicles, large, heavy sacs that smell of sweat and sexual potency, and I bury my nose in them and inhale deeply, and my own cock becomes achingly hard.

After a while, I let go of him and look up at him and smile. He seems somewhat puzzled.

I turn around so that I am facing away from him and bend over, presenting my rear end to him and presuming that he will know what to do with it.

For a moment, nothing happens, and I begin to think that I have misestimated the situation.

Then there is movement behind me, and he drops his hands on my back, and I feel the head of his cock at my asshole. He inserts himself.

My ass is not unexplored territory, but suddenly it feels almost virginal. Maybe I have not correctly judged my ability to take him, because his intrusion is painful, and I almost want to tell him, “This was a bad idea,” but as he slowly slides in and out of me, the pain decreases and pleasure takes its place.

His cock is certainly the largest and thickest that has gained admission to my ass. He might presume that, because his motions are slow and steady, as if he is allowing me to get used to his size. I get used to it. And I like it. Very much.

I stare at the men who stare at Barradd and me, and in the moment of coherent thought that is given to me, I wonder again why I am doing this. Am I rebelling against this crowd who might become a mob, rebelling against not only them but my family and the inhabitants of my village who could not hide their dismay at me and my actions? Is this a challenge to whatever is in charge of my fate, since I no longer seem to be in control? Is this a hunger that has overtaken me?

And what is going through Barradd’s mind? Has he considered what penalty he might incur from the other guards as he consorts with the enemy? Is he just as driven as I by instincts and desires beyond repression? I like to think that I have a fetching ass, but is it so fetching that it has impelled him to cast aside discretion just to possess me?

I arch my back to give him encouragement, and his tempo picks up, and soon he is driving all the way into me and then withdrawing almost completely, and he is warming me and expanding me. As he thrusts forward, I thrust backward, meeting his hips with a jolt. His stroke increases in speed, and now we are well beyond the tentative exploration; now he is truly fucking me.

I feel the scrape of his crotch hair against my ass, and it seems that the intensity and the friction is burning its way from my buttocks down through his cock and igniting my insides, not just the path that his prick is invading and capturing and making every part of my body entirely and utterly his as he drives into me.

I look up. Some of the men watching us are smiling, and some are openmouthed, and some are visibly excited, and some are stroking themselves.

Barradd goes faster and faster, and his hands press down against my back, and then he bends over me and propels himself into me, striking my ass with so much force that I can maintain my balance no longer, and I fall and then I lie beneath him as he batters and pummels me, and his breath is hot on my neck, and I hear both of us puffing and panting, echoed by the sighs and moans of the men surrounding us.

Can he fuck me faster? He does.

Can he fuck me harder? He does.

And I revel in the pounding, hammering assault, and I cry out to him, “Faster! Harder!”

And he goes faster and harder until I nearly become one with the earth beneath me.

Then he shouts, and he floods into me, and I match his yell and pour into the ground below. He collapses on top of me, and we remain that way, not wanting to move, not able to move.

We shall have to move, because two of the guards, two of his former fellows, roughly lift us to our feet. They are laughing as they inspect our sticky steamy bodies, and they shake their heads.

“Let’s go,” one of them says. “You know what happens now.”

No, I do not. But I am going to find out.

Perhaps Barradd knows what happens now, what will happen when we leave the cage and go through the door.

We go through the door.

To our fate.