AT HIS WHIM
By Tommyhawk1@AOL.COM
WWW.TOMMYHAWKSFANTASYWORLD.COM
WWW.TOMMYHAWKSROGUEMOON.COM
Thomas Piker held up his hand and two buddies wrapped white rags around them. Well, they used to be white, once upon a time. Now they were a grungy gray-brown color, but that didn't matter. If it would help him keep from breaking his hands as he slugged it out with his contender, that was what mattered.
He stood, and accepted a dipper of water from a friend, it helped moisten his mouth. From the parade ground, he heard the sounds of the other POW's, cheering and booing the struggle now ongoing. The fact they were booing their fellow POW's locked in combat was forgivable here, it was a case of a friend and buddy winning against a relative stranger. Someone had to lose each bout, it was no time for patriotism, your friend needed to hear your voice urging him on!
He felt his heart racing, his breath coming out in rapid, short breaths, panting and sweating like he'd just finished a race. Fear touched him in a way that it hadn't in combat, because there, he'd known its rules and sides. Here...he lived and died according to one man's whim.
How much longer would this war drag on? He'd had no news worth mentioning for so long; the news blackout at this POW camp was absolute. No new prisoners had been brought in for months. Did that mean that America was losing or winning this war, or was it a stalemate with no wins or losses on either side? How could he tell, here, far behind enemy lines, living behind barbed wire and breathing dust and fetid stench of thousands of frightened and ill men, all of them waiting for the time when, like him, his name would be called for the day's entertainment.
A sharp command from the camp commander ended the bout, and Piker tensed, waiting for the sound that could follow. If the commander wasn't happy with the fight for some reason, what he would do was...and it happened, a pistol shot muffled by the human skull it was held against, a "Pfff!" sort of sound marking an American death, and he gulped. No second shot, the other prisoner had performed well enough, then.
His turn was next. He had to either kill or knock out his opponent, using only his hands and his combat skills, and his opponent would be a fellow American. He would do this because the only other alternative was for them to both die, if he didn't put up a real fight, a no-holds-barred fight, that was the rule, if one held back, both died. Both died if the commander didn't like the battle for some reason. Both died if they didn't adhere to whatever new rules he might impose in mid-battle. Life...and death. Both in this camp were according to the commander's decision, life and death at his whim. A few men died in every day's combats, either from the wounds of the fight or the commander's pistol. Would he, Piker, survive through this day?
He stepped into the circle of men, slaps at his back from comrades and strangers wishing him luck. The other half was a semi-circle of wire, behind it, the enemy soldiers had their own stations, and looking from one group of men to the other and ignoring their clothing, Thomas couldn't tell which was which. Blood-lust reigned at this camp, blood and pain and torment were everyday facts of life, brought about by the camp commander and his entertainment.
As required, he and his opponent strutted around the ring, giving the watching crowd a good look at him, they had bets going back and forth. The Americans, too. He couldn't really blame them, there was little else to do or think about. There was the chance of gaining something by gambling, either to make life easier or to gain something needful. A chance to win extra food, or medicine, or shoes that fit and didn't let in water when it rained or the filthy, filthy mud that lingered seemingly until the next rain. Not that it had rained in some weeks, the ground was at least dry for this bout. Thank God for small favors.
Piker took the opportunity of the circling strut to examine his opponent. Large, brawny, black-haired and handsome, his tanktop shirt was strained by the large pecs, clung to the tiny wait. Except for the hair color, they were nearly alike in body size and height; if this man had training to match his body, they'd be pretty evenly matched. Figured. The camp commander spent a good deal of time during the morning count examining the men, looking for matches. He'd either seen Piker and looked for a match for him, or seen the opponent and then looked until he found Piker. When the commander had asked his name at the count, he knew then he'd been selected. He hadn't needed to hear the announcement made at the end of the count.
A sharp command from the camp commander and he turned to ready for battle. He didn't speak the language even after these months in the camp, but he knew these words. The next command would be to battle. And unless the command came to halt, they would fight without break until one or the other was either dead or completely disabled. If your opponent broke your right arm, you fought on with your left. Stopping for any reason less than real unconsciousness could mean death.
The command to fight came and he launched himself at his opponent. If he could strike hard and fast, maybe he could....
No good. Instead of a tackle about the mid-section of his opponent, he got a sharp blow to his back as he went to the ground. Despite this, he managed to turn his landing into a roll and back onto his feet, just in time to be tackled in his turn.
His head hit the shoe of one of the watching POW's, and instead of being helped to his feet, he got kicked instead. "Get him, Graham!" came the call from the man near him.
A friend of his opponent, then. Piker fought off the damage and the dizziness and began to struggle for a purchase. He hunched upwards at his opponent, whose head was now about his chest, he had to get the weight off of him before this man--Graham--managed to put that weight on him where he could punch with near impunity. He had to lift both of them with his heels dug into the dust, bounce this man, and hope to dislodge him.
He did this a half-dozen times, and though Graham was flung about like a rag doll with no chance to do anything but hang on, he didn't turn loose. Piker was keenly aware of every bit of pressure on his body, if he detected any slackening on Graham's hold on him, he would know how to pitch the man off. Maybe a slight lessening on the grip of these hands. He hunched upwards again, faster, if he could make that grip slip even further.
The command came, the command to stop the combat. Per the commander's instructions for these death-battles, he and Graham both froze in place with Graham's body half between Piker's legs, Piker's groin pressed against Graham's abdomen. They would have to hold this position until the commander said otherwise. Then the commander might decide to "make it interesting," which could be just about anything. His inventiveness was almost infinite, everything from the vicious, such as breaking both of one man's arms and both legs of the other and making them fight like that, to the ludicrous, like making both men fight while up on their tiptoes. Sometimes he would even dress them up in costumes, force them to act out some historical scene in their combat.
Piker didn't know what the commander had planned this time around. Whatever it was, he would have to live with it...or die with it.
The commander said something and his men laughed uproariously. The commander on his chair on the dias dropped into visible thought, a pose he donned for these occasions. Piker always thought he intended to look like a contemplative Emperor on his throne, instead, he looked more like a spindly gray spider on its web with his long, thin arms and legs splayed out and the chairs four thin legs added to it, that made eight, just right for a spider.
The commander gave more commands. First was that Piker and Graham had to get up from their position. Men came at them with knives and Piker gulped. The commander decided to maim them in some way. All he could do was wait and see what they did to him, then fight while crippled in some way he hoped would be temporary. Broken arms could heal, but if they cut the tendons in his legs for example...the pistol would be a relief to the life he would live in the camp if they did that, crawling everywhere he went.
The knives came at his midsection and he grimaced, watched what they did first in horror, then in puzzlement.
First hey cut off the legs of his pants high up. They wanted him and Graham to fight in shorts? But they left the legs of the pants on his body!
But the next cut ripped the upper section from him and was removed, and he was left with only the legs of his pants, which drooped on him like a pair of very bad socks. His boxers under that were also cut away, baring him from waist to mid-thigh. He looked over and saw them doing the same to Graham. What were this commander's bizarre scheme this time?
Whatever it was, that was all he intended to do with the knives. The soldiers went back to their posts, still laughing among themselves.
The commander waved for his translator to come over. He spoke and the translator made sure that everyone understood.
"The commander has decided that this battle shall not be to the death or disablement of your opponent."
What was this?
The translator went on. "The commander will allow both of you to live if you will resume your battle, and continue to fight as if it meant your life. But your objective will not be to kill your opponent nor to disable him."
Another pause. This time the translator turned to the commander and queried him, got an answer, protested, was cut off and ordered to proceed. The translator turned back to the POW's and continued.
"The commander was struck by your struggle, the way your bodies' movements could easily be mistaken for two men who were engaged in another, quite enjoyable, activity."
Piker got it then. The commander thought his struggle to get free, his bouncing of Graham's body up and down upon his, looked like they were fucking. Maybe it had, he'd been too busy trying to get Graham off him to care how he looked.
A single enemy soldier came up to them and he held a pot in his hand. A pot full of thick cooking lard.
"Oh, no!" Piker groaned.
The soldier scooped up a handful of the lard. Piker didn't dare protest when the young soldier used the lard-filled hand to grab his cock and smear it upon the flesh. The soldier simpered up at him as he made sure the lard was smoothly spread. Despite his situation, despite his humiliation, Piker's cock filled and hardened slightly under this greasy manipulation.
The youth did the same to Graham, and Piker saw the size of Graham's tool and grimaced. Now what?
The translator concluded with the words, "Your battle now shall not be to the death, but to the dishonor. The victor shall be the one who successfully impales the other with his greased shaft and reaches his completion. Be warned that you may not pretend any part of this, the loser will be examined as need be to make sure of this. The winner shall receive double food rations for one week, the loser shall receive half-rations for a similar period and will have to return at the end of the week for another combat of this...special kind."
While Piker was still considering this odd combat (could he even get it up under this public commotion, much less fuck this man hard and long enough to come?) and then the command to resume the fight came and this time, Graham launched himself at Piker.
And got the same reception Piker had gotten from Graham. A man running at you is less in control of his body than a man standing still. Piker had all his muscles free to do what he did, catch Graham as he came by, convert the energy of that run into a turn and throw. Only where Graham had tossed Piker away from him, Piker held on and slammed Graham down to the ground where he was, and with a twisting motion above the prostrate man, he was on top of Graham.
Graham wasn't idle in the last moments of the struggle, he got one leg up to block Piker's body, a leg is a powerfully muscled limb, it was enough to hold Piker at bay.
Graham's arms caught hold of Piker's tanktop and pulled at it, and the much-worn and much-washed cotton cloth ripped under his hands. Graham ended up with a length of semi-free cotton which he used to pulled Piker's head down and the calf of Graham's leg caught Piker right in the throat!
Piker got his own hand at Graham's throat and yet the leg still forcing back against Piker was enough to prevent him from choking Graham sufficient to make a difference. Graham's leg wasn't doing such a good job of cutting off Piker's own air flow; all he succeeded in doing was making the blood pound in Piker's head, it was like blood was getting up there, but unable to get back again, and it was accumulating!
And then Piker felt it. His cock, hard now (he had managed it!) and his head was touching Graham's buttocks! He had to guess in which way Graham's body was twisted down there (he couldn't see) but he guessed right the first time, his cock first found the crevice between those round orbs, and then it was a matter of poke-and-hope until he found the anus.
When he did, when his glans touched Graham's sphincter, Graham's eyes flew open wide and he grunted. Piker grinned a mean grin back at him, he wasn't going to kill Graham, he was just going to fuck this guy's butt. Double rations, yes! Food was always in short supply, he could finally eat and eat his fill, even if it was the crappy food they got.
The thought of food, of a full stomach after so many months of barely enough, it was enough to give him a full-on erection, he turned from just-plain-hard to steel-like piston, and he rammed it into the hapless man beneath him.
The feel of that ass about his cock, the realization that he had half the battle won (and the rest wouldn't be a problem, all he had to do was hold this position and he could hunch into Graham without any trouble) and he felt his body surge with passion. The ferocity of his combat-stimulated body was converted into desire, and his cock was thoroughly ready to feed on this energy pulsing through it, he felt his face flush and his eyes blur and his body flying into climax, a mere handful of thrusts and he was there, he was ready to come, those double-rations were as good as his!
"Ah, ah, I'm coming, I'm coming!" he crowed out, just to make sure this crazy commander understood what was going on, and then he was beyond words, he could only groan and clutch, his body spasming as he thrust into Graham's bowels.
But a man's body in climax is a body helpless in the extreme, he couldn't maintain his pressure on Graham's throat, on Graham's leg, and that leg threw him down and out of Graham's body and he landed on his back, his cock spurting into the air, and then Graham was on top of him. By the time Piker got control of his body back, he had both legs up in the air and Graham between them, and in his exhaustion of ejaculation, he felt the hard cockhead press against his virginal prick.
"No, no, I won, damn it, I won, Goddammit!" he got out, and then he was penetrated.
A gurgle escaped his lips as the last expiration of the breath he had used to curse with, and then he could only gasp as Graham's cock plunged into him.
There was a roaring in his ears, partly from the blood in his brain still boiling about, and part from the men watching them, they were cheering, booing, laughing, hooting, making crude jokes in a clamor that was raw confusion, and he was aware that Graham was fucking him.
Piker was back in control of his body, he clenched his legs tightly about Graham like a vise, and Graham threw back his head and groaned as his waist was constricted and those muscled legs of Piker threatened to snap his back in two.
And then Graham gurgled and Piker felt it, the hot seed spraying into him, and he snarled, and threw Graham back and off of him (now Graham was as weak and helpless as he had been) and Graham's jizz spurted onto his chest and then he was furiously punching Graham in the face as Graham got him with another squirt, this time a weak one that only reached him because he was on top of Graham, punching him while he was down. "You son of a bitch! I won, damn it, you son of a bitch! Fuck me, you bastard, I'll kill you, I'll fucking kill you!"
In the roaring in his ears that now was his fury, he heard the commander's orders to stop, and he managed, though not immediately, to make his body obey and he got up. "I won, damn it, I shot a wad right up in his ass and then the fucker kicked me off and climbed on me! I won!"
"He did the same thing to you." came a voice from the American side.
"Looks like a draw to me." another hooted.
The commander did his spider-on-the-web appearance again, and then he issued his decree. "Both have won and both have lost." came the translation.
"What!" Piker shouted out.
"Both will receive the winner's prize of double rations." came the decree.
Well, that wasn't so bad. Piker calmed down.
"And both will suffer the loser's penalty of returning next week to fight again in the same way."
Piker stood there, not believing it at first, and then it sunk in. "You mean we're going to have to do this all over again next week?"
"The commander recommends that you spend the intervening time figuring out how to keep your tool inside your opponent until you can finish the next time. Now thank him for his generosity."
Piker knew better than to disobey. "Thank you, Camp Commander." he said. The commander was a lowly lieutenant colonel, he preferred the title Piker had used to his rank.
"Thank you, Camp Commander." Graham echoed.
"If you two will go to the supply building now, you will be issued a pair of replacement trousers. But take care of the ones you have on now, you are to wear them again next week."
Piker was glad of that, he had no other clothes to wear, not even any needle and thread to sew his clothes back together again. "Thank you again, Camp Commander." and Graham said the same.
He and Graham walked to the supply building; with everyone at the parade ground, except for the guards on watch in the towers, they were alone. "Hell of a note." he said by way of conversation to Graham. Hell, just what DO you say to a guy you had just raped, and been raped by in turn?
"Damn right about that." Graham said. "What do we do next week?"
"Ask me after a week's worth of double rations." Piker licked his lips. "At least we got that to look forward to."
"Yeah." Graham agreed. And after a pause, he continued, "I've been thinking."
"About what?"
"Next week. What happens if we fight each other to a draw again."
"You mean fuck each other again, but not manage to keep it in?"
"Yeah. What do you think the commander would do in that case?"
Piker considered this in light of his previous experiences with the commander. "He will probably make us keep right on doing it over again and again every week until one of us does win."
"And keep both of us on double rations while he does it." Graham pointed out.
Piker thought it over. "Yeah."
"And if we keep it all convincing enough, neither one of us gets a bullet in the brain." Graham concluded. "So what do you say?"
They would win thus a certain immunity from the from the camp commander's caprices, and receive double rations meanwhile, all for the price of a weekly public fucking. In a camp ruled by fear and death at the whim of a single man, where buying time was all-important, to buy it by the week was precious indeed.
So Piker put his arm around Graham's shoulder and quoted the ending of "Casablanca." "Louie, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship."
And the two walked off together.
THE END OF CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
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