Tim

Spokane, 1962

“Mine’s longer!” Tim said, pushing in on his belly and balls to accentuate the length of his cock.

“Not by much.” I replied, defending my masculinity. “Besides, I’ve got more hair than you and my balls are bigger too.”

“The only reason you have more hair is because you smoke a lot.” Tim echoed the myth that helped to hook a generation of kids on cigarettes.

I had lived next door to Tim for all of my life, but I hadn’t seen him naked since we had been little farts. We were both thirteen and we both stripped for PE, but I went to the Catholic school while he attended the public one. My parents and sister all smoke, and it was easy for me to pilfer enough from them to feed my one a day habit, and that Saturday I had scored an extra one for myself and two for Tim and we were in an abandoned barn puffing away. His contribution to our afternoon of sin had been a girly magazine he had found somewhere, and after checking out all of the pictures we had taken turns reading the steamy stories aloud, and had dropped our pants to free our erections.

The question of who had the biggest balls remained unanswered, so Tim fondled his own to judge their size and then reached out to gauge mine. The foreign touch of his cool fingers encircling my scrotum sent an electric-like shock through me and I cut loose like a runaway Uzi, sending a stream of jizz from his navel to his chin.

The people at the Catholic school kept a close watch on us, and about the time a guy got old enough to start enjoying himself they would take him aside and give him a stern lecture, explaining how to masturbate and then warning him that it was a sin to do so. I took all of that shit pretty seriously back then and I usually waited until Sunday morning to jerk off so I could confess my sin the same day and not have to live with the guilt all week, but I would usually start sleeping on a towel about Thursday so I wouldn’t make a mess if I screwed up.

“Shit!” Tim cried, reaching for his shirt so he could clean himself up. “Okay, now you feel mine.” Being a godless heathen who didn’t have to answer to the pope, Tim was a frequent flyer and didn’t have a hair trigger like me so he had to stroke himself a few times before he got off.

The experience was a real revelation for me: I had found way to get my rocks off that didn’t involve touching my cock, so was therefore legal. I was back at Tim’s house after school on Wednesday practically begging him to squeeze my balls. He kneaded them until I cried out in pain, but I didn’t come until he grabbed my cock and stroked it a few times.

“What the Hell’s going on?” Tim’s Mom said, walking into the room just as I shot my wad.

Viet Nam, 1971

Part of our training, both at Fort Rucker and again in-country, had been directed at ways to survive enemy interrogations, and one method was to disassociate your mind from your body, and drift back to a happier time, and that’s why I recalled the adolescent event.

“These people are not like us Westerners.” The Russian Major informed me, taking a deep drag on his pungent Havana. He spoke with a heavy Slavic accent, but I understood him perfectly. “They hate our guts, mostly because they envy us. Politics aside, they hate us for our wealth and power and the influence that it buys. Most of all they hate us for the size of our genitals and they way we please their women.” To emphasize this point he unholstered his Tokarev and used it to lift my cock, commenting, “It would be safe to say they hate me even more than they do you. Maybe it would be best if I just shot you now and got it over with. If you don’t sign the confession they will castrate you and leave you for your people to find. They may do it fast with a knife, or they may hang you by your balls until you drop. One of their favorite methods is to band you and another prisoner like calves and offer to cut the band from the first one who agrees to sign. You won’t be able to see your own balls as they turn black and die, but you will see those of your countryman, and you’ll wonder if he’ll rat out and save his before you do yours. Sign the confession now and I’ll personally see that you get to go home intact, as a man, and able to fuck until your eyes pop.”

I kept a straight, stoic face, but I was scared shitless. I was naked and tied to a tree far away from where my Huey had been shot down a week ago. I knew the Major wasn’t totally full of shit, as we had picked up POWs who had been nutted. They were in tough shape and couldn’t talk, but I didn’t think that their injuries had occurred in battle. They wanted me to sign a confession stating that I had bombed and machine-gunned hospitals and schools. This was all bullshit, of course, as the medivac Huey didn’t even have forward-firing guns, rockets, or bomb racks. They claimed that I had jettisoned them before the crash.

A rat-faced, evil looking NVA Major, impatient with the Russian’s lack of results, pulled on a thick glove that had about two dozen thumbtacks protruding outward through the palm and approached me.

“We can hurt you very badly, Captain.” He said, gently squeezing my shoulder and leaving a bloody tattoo. “It would be best if you signed the confession now.”

I drew a deep breath, steeling myself for the inevitable pain as he lowered the glove to my genitals, and let my mind drift back.

Spokane, 1967

“Mines still longer than yours’.” Tim said, hosing a powerful stream over the bridge rail and into the river below. Tim was proud of his cock, which was about an inch and a half longer than any other of the high school guys’.

“It’s not how big it is, but how you use it that counts, and my balls are still bigger than yours’. Hey, beat this!” I countered, unbuttoning the fly of my 501’s and arching my own stream several feet farther out than his.

“Well, I have to admit you used it pretty well tonight.” Tim offered.

“I didn’t hear Shelly complaining either, stud.” I said.

We had went on a double date to a drive in theater in Shelly’s Dad’s Econoline van, and things were going nicely until some asshole, bothered by the rocking of the van, called the manager. Things were a little looser back then and the manager, as if throwing water on mating dogs, booted Tim and my asses out and told the girls that they had to stay for the rest of the double feature or he’d call the cops.

We were hoofing it home and had stopped on the bridge to take a leak. “So, what are you going to do?” I asked my best friend, referring to our impending graduation from high school.

“I don’t know, but I’m considering volunteering for the draft and getting it over with. That way it’ll only be for two years.” He confided. “You still going to go to school?”

“Yeah.” I answered. “I really want to fly, and Dad says that if I’m going to have to go, I may as well go as an officer, so I’ll go to school for two years and then go in as a Warrant Officer and get helicopter training.”

Tim was still my best friend, and now also my classmate. The Catholic school was okay, and even a little easier than the public high school, but it wasn’t coed. I wanted a social life, and to be fruitful and multiply and all that crap, so I conned my parents into letting me switch. Tim showed me the ropes, and we double dated a lot and even swapped around some and now I was getting laid on a regular basis.

“You have to stay in, what, like four or six years?” He asked.

“I don’t know. I guess I better find out, huh?”

Tim’s Dad was a big influence, and he convinced Tim that the Navy had better schools and was safer, so Tim became a sailor and I went off to WSU. I didn’t see him much after that, but we wrote each other now and then, and about the time I started helicopter school he finished his training as a Corpsman and was posted to a destroyer.

Hanoi, 1971

They tried all kinds of ways to break me, and they sure as Hell hurt me in the process, but I didn’t sign their confession and my balls were still intact, so they shifted their focus towards psychological torture. I was a prisoner at the infamous Hanoi Hilton, a facility usually reserved for commissioned officers instead of lowly warrants. They kept us isolated in small cage like cells, and only allowed us to bathe about once a month. Now and then some Jane Fonda like organization would show up, and then we would get our hair neatly cut and were allowed to shave for our camera appearances, but it was back to normal as soon as they left. People still badmouth ‘Hanoi Jane’, but I think she may have saved my life: I had been seen on a documentary, in relatively good shape, so they couldn’t just off me or mutilate me like they did some guys.

The clanging of the cell door and the shuffle of feet announced a new arrival in the neighboring cell. We were not allowed to talk among ourselves, and all who tried to communicate with each other were punished severely. We couldn’t see or touch each other, but by reaching out we could see each other’s hands, and that evening the new guy stuck his hand out and started waving it. The motions meant nothing to the ignorant guards, but to me it was like a shout in the darkness!

‘Knock Knock, who’s there?’ My neighbor said in American Sign Language. Tim and I had both learned ASL as kids so that we could communicate with his older sister, who was a deaf mute.

‘Warrant Officer Carl Nelson.” I replied, cautiously using my name and rank. One of their tricks was to get someone who had turned to try to convince you to turn also, so I was careful about talking to strangers.

‘Mine’s still longer, Carl!’

‘Tim! What the fuck are you doing here?’

‘Same as you, bud, just cooling my heels.’

We talked all through the night. Tim had trained as a Corpsman, which is like an Army medic or a civilian EMT, and the Navy supplies these specialists to the Marine Corp. Tim had been taken prisoner when the Marine fire base he was attached to had been overrun. He had been held in a prison camp in the jungle until a few days ago when he had been brought here. They had hurt him some, but he still had all his parts, and he didn’t say anything about them wanting to sign a confession. He had no idea why he was transferred here.

The next morning were both summoned to the chambers of Colonel Tran, the chief inquisitor. Tim was probably as shocked at my appearance as I was at his. He was filthy, with long matted hair and several open sores from disease or mistreatment were evident on his emaciated frame. I wouldn’t have even recognized him if I had seen him that way somewhere else.

“I see that you two buddies have been reunited.” Tran said, speaking perfect, unaccented English while wiggling his fingers in a crude mimic of ASL. “I’ll bet you’d like to suck each other’s cocks again or use each other like women, like you did when you were boys on Willow Street in Spokane.” He said, mispronouncing it as ‘Spo-cain’ instead of ‘Spo-can’, an indication that his research hadn’t been perfect.

He was full of shit, of course. Tim and I had never done anything of the sort, and we couldn’t have even if we wanted to. The starvation diet and harsh conditions of the prison had completely suppressed any sexual urges, and I had neither masturbated nor had an erection in months.

Tran motioned, and six stout North Korean guards, probably the most sadistic people on Earth, grabbed Tim, stripped him, and bound him securely to rings that were set in the concrete wall.

“One of you will be home next week, in the country that you should never have left. It could be you, Mr. Nelson.” Tran said, using the correct form of address for a Warrant. “All you have to do is sign the confession, and you will be exchanged and will be on your way. Do so, and your friend here will be sent to a relatively comfortable prison camp where he will be kept well fed and unharmed until your country realizes that it’s cause here is hopeless and agrees to withdraw all troops.

If you choose to not sign the confession your friend will be released near where your units are operating. Unfortunately we will need to make an example out of him before he can be released. Do you want to cause the castration of your best friend and have to look him in the eye later and apologize?”

The little cocksucker had me over a barrel. A pilot’s confession that he had used a medivac aircraft to fire on enemy civilians would be a real asset at the peace talks, and they had figured out a way to make me sign. They knew by now that my personal code of conduct would prevent me from signing, even to save my own life, and they also knew that carving my own nuts off to obtain a confession would make it bogus, as it was obviously signed under duress.

They weren’t going to give me much time to think about it, as one of the guards reached out and gingerly grabbed Tim’s ample cock as if it were a dead rat or something and lifted it out of the way while two other guards went to work on his balls. They took a common guard’s baton, laid it crossways tight above his balls, and methodically laced them one at a time, to the baton. When they were finished they steps back so that I could admire their handiwork. Tim’s nuts were stretched tight along the baton; his scrotum bulged almost to the bursting point in two separate lumps.

“This is your last chance, Mr. Nelson.” Tran informed me, as he reached out for the baton.

I started to speak at the same time Tran started to twist the stick, but Tim’s hands, unseen by Tran, were wildly signaling ‘Don’t sign! Don’t sign!’.

The baton made one half of a revolution, and I let my mind drift as Tim’s screams filled the air.

Spokane, 1966

“Hurry up, slowpoke!” Tim cajoled through my open bedroom window. “Drop your cock and let’s go!”

I threw back the covers and got out of bed, embarrassed by the tent in the front of my underwear. I modestly turned away from him, stepping out of my undies and slipping on a jock strap, shorts and t-shirt before donning my socks and shoes for our morning run.

I had just transferred to the public school and Tim had conned me into trying out for the track team with him. I was good at cross-country, and I had been jogging every Sunday morning all year, and I though we were both shoe-ins to make the team.

We started out slowly to warm up, and then picked up the pace. Midway on the run was a place by the river where fishermen often parked during the day and kids sometimes used for evening make-out sessions. I usually stopped there to piss and masturbate on Sunday morning if I was running alone, but on this day that would have to wait until I got home and in the shower. That morning a Volkswagen pop-top camper occupied the place, and a youngish woman was forlornly looking at the engine.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, as Tim coasted in beside me, puffing.

“The damn thing wont start.” She said, forlornly. “It just makes a clicking noise, but the horn and lights work.”

Tim knew next to nothing about mechanics, but I helped my Dad work on his old pickup all of the time, and sometimes we had to wiggle the battery cable around on the terminal before it would crank. I tried it, and it started right up.

“Thank you.” She said, earnestly. “Let me give you something for your trouble.”

I replied that she didn’t have to pay us, but she took out her purse, opened it, and gave us each two rubbers.

“Come on in, and let’s see if they fit.” She said.

Tim was hot to trot, having lost his cherry a year ago, but I was a little nervous. She decided that I would go first, so she led me to the small sink in the camper and pulled down my shorts. My cock, already erect, slapped up against my belly, revealing my true desires. She gently washed it with disinfectant soap and then gave me my first blowjob.

Later, after servicing Tim, she led me back into the camper, got me hard, rolled on the condom, and gave me my first piece of ass.

“Did he do okay?” Tim asked her when I emerged from the camper. “Was his dick big enough?”

“It’s not how big you are, but how you use it,” she replied, diplomatically, “and he did just fine.”

Tim lapsed into unconsciousness by the third turn of the baton, and Tran finished the castration with his knife and laid his bloody trophies on the confession document, ruining it.

“Take him away.” He told the guards, pointing to Tim. He used English for my benefit, and then repeated the command in Korean. “Use him for your own pleasure, then send him South for his own troops to find.”

A little later, back in my cell, I heard a hideous, oriental voice screaming, and I smiled, hoping that Tim had extracted a mouthful of retribution from his rapists.

I never saw Tim again. He had moved away by the time I was released, but I did get a couple of letters from him, mostly congratulating me on surviving the ordeal. He didn’t mention how he felt about the experience, and I didn’t have balls enough to ask.

I wasn’t really surprised when I heard that he had committed suicide; I probably would have considered it myself if it was me that got nutted.

Author’s note: The Spokane episodes of this story are basically true. The rest is one hundred percent pure, unadulterated fiction.