“Some BOY gave them a wrong look …. “
The general was still reminiscing .. still reliving his days in Apartheid’s jail ….
“or some poor sucker didn’t look down fast enough ….. caught the guards’ eye ……”
Scott lay there. Running with nervous sweat. Steeling himself. Dreading what came next.
Gritting his teeth at the pawing his backside was getting from the general’s clammy hand. Imagining the shame .. forced to take a man’s cock rammed up inside him …..
He’d raised his head once .. to find Mzama at the other end of the table. Smirking down at him. Toying with fingers on an out-stretched fist .. clad in glistening steel. Goading Scott with the blows he’d just taken to his back. Reminding Scott there was not a damned thing he could do to help himself. Making Scott’s blood boil. The sight of that smug-faced Mzama filling Scott with rage.
— – – –
So he couldn’t help himself? So he was going to have to take this, eh? No choice. No point in fighting them, then. Scott swore to himself. They could take his ass, he’d have to put up with that. They could rape his virgin ass. It would hurt. It would hurt like mad .. they’d make sure it did. BUT .. that was not the end of it. These fuckers would not break him. They’d rape him to shame him. Hope to break his spirit. Make him suffer so Mwenye would crack.
Well, damn these bastards. He might cry out. But it’d be with pain. Not with shame. The pain might get to him .. but like hell would they break his will! Like hell would Mwenye hear him beg to talk. Getting fucked up the ass by a man .. shaming, belittling. But FUCK ‘EM. They’d not get to him like that. He’d not demean himself. He’d not give another twist of the screw on Mwenye’s resolve. He’d fight’ em. He’d take ‘em on. Not for his ass, though. It’d be his dogged resolve slugging it out with theirs.
The general was still prattling on, the prick. Scott was stuck with the man’s hand resting on the sweaty skin of his backside. He assumed the general was trying to get through to Mwenye.
“ ….. if those kaffir-haters wanted to teach this BOY a lesson he’d never forget …..”
Despite himself Scott was getting jumpy. On edge. Bloody furious. But still twitchy as hell. This delay .. this prattling-on .. it was messing with his mind. He wanted to scream, Get-the-fuck-on-with-it! But that would only give this asshole a feeling of greater power. He glanced up, saw Mzama taking a big swig of water from a plastic bottle. His supercilious grin! Torturing Scott with his thirst! Both just combined to fuel Scott’s anger. Anger he quickly turned into a cast-iron resolve. Fuck ‘em. He was going to fight ‘em tooth-and-nail.
Again the hand stroked over Scott’s ass-crack. He heard the general give an odd chortle .. remembering bygone days in a white-man’s jail. Or was that tone of mirth because he was going to stick it to Scott. Get his own back. Give this white-BOY a taste of his own white-assed medicine?
“ .. if those kaffir-haters wanted to put on a show ….. they other guys at breakfast looking helpless on …. ”
The tension was getting to Scott. He bit on his bottom lip. Calming himself. Taking a deep breath.
“ .. then THIS is the toy they always got out.”
Could it be the general had got his cock out? Scott was dying to know. The general was actually standing there with his fly open and his hand working up his dick? In front of all these guys? His own men? Scott was bursting to twist around and see.
Curiosity nearly got the better of him. Just in time, he stopped himself. Reckoning they would read that as a sign of his nerves getting to him. Beating him. He clenched his fists together. Then he forced his body to relax. Best to be relaxed when that bastard’s hard-on pressed itself to Scott’s ass.
A sudden sound. Scott tensed. Unsure what it meant. Before his brain could unscramble the sound of rushing wind, something took a giant bite out of his ass. He yelped. He went rigid. His hands stretched out in front clenched tight.
Scott vaguely heard the word. But his head was in a whirl.
“THIS. Sjambok. Always their favourite toy.”
The hut was full of cheering. Scott missed the general’s grunt, lashing out with a second strike. His blood was racing, heart pounding. That strike had his senses in a spin. The next blow hit. Smacked across a pair of white muscled globes. Like a lightning strike. A flamethrower lit up Scott’s ass. Cheers rushed in from soldiers peering in through slatted walls. Applause for the general’s strike on Scott’s white-BOY ass flooded the hut with hot pain. Shock rushed the length of Scott’s spine. Heat swamped every fibre in his out-stretched body. Unstoppable, he yelled.
— – – – — – – – — – – –