The army relocates to a new territory, forcing captives to endure harsh conditions alongside their captors. The grueling journey tests the physical and mental limits of both groups, but the soldiers’ camaraderie provides them with a source of strength.
Chapter 12: "The Long March"
The camp was on the move, a serpentine mass of soldiers and captives, their journey through rough terrain reflecting the endurance and expansiveness of their society. The march was not just a physical journey but a grueling test of the captives' new lives.
The Harsh Conditions
The sun was relentless, beating down on the column of men, both soldiers and captives sweating under its gaze. The captives, including the newly initiated like Gunnar and Torsten, were burdened with not just the physical load of supplies but also the unspoken weight of their new roles. Their bodies, already marked by the camp's initiation rites, now faced the four elements, their skin chafed, their feet blistered.
The Brutalities of the March
Gunnar, with his powerful build, was used like a beast of burden, his muscular back bearing heavy packs, his thighs straining under the load. Soldiers would occasionally slap or kick his legs, encouraging him to move faster, their laughter a cruel accompaniment to his pain. His strength, once a source of pride, now made him a prime target for their whims, including being forced to drink water from the boots of a soldier, the taste of leather and dirt a constant reminder of his degradation.
Torsten, his youth and slighter frame making him less suited for heavy labor, was instead subjected to different forms of brutality. Soldiers would make him run ahead, only to pull him back by his hair or collar, his body dragged through the dirt, his skin scratched and bruised. They would then force him to clean their sweat with his tongue, licking the salty residue from their necks or chests - each act performed on the march, under the open sky. With laughter, they forced his tongue to work, cleaning the salty sweat from their glistening chests, from their balls and armpits, the musky scent overwhelming as he licked, his mouth finding the damp, sweaty hair around their groins. Some would make Torsten lick clean the crevices of their buttocks, the sweat and dirt a trophy of their power.
The march offered new opportunities for intimate degradation. In moments of rest, soldiers would use the captives for their pleasure, often in plain sight of others. Jorund was made to kneel among the rough ground, his mouth used by one soldier while another watched, commenting on his technique, the act both a punishment and a form of entertainment.
Sigmund, whose lean body was still adapting to this harsh life, found himself subjected to a particularly degrading act during one break. A group of soldiers, under the pretense of hydration, urinated into a container, forcing him to drink it, his body convulsing with disgust, his spirit broken further by this act of control.
The captives, like Aldric, whose once-proud posture was now bent under the weight of both his load and his shame, felt the march in their bones, their spirits as weary as their bodies. Eadric, accustomed to comfort, now walked with the others, his feet bleeding, his clothes torn, his dignity left behind with each mile. The soldiers' crude comments about his appearance, his body, were constant, turning the march into a parade of his fall from grace.
For the soldiers, the march was another bonding experience. They shared in the toil, their laughter and boasts about who could make which captive do what, reinforcing their brotherhood. They would help each other with the captives, sometimes swapping them for different forms of entertainment or to share in the acts of degradation.
As the sun set, the column halted, the captives collapsing under their burdens, their bodies a map of their day's trials. Their clothes clung to sweat-slicked skin, their limbs heavy not just from the burdens they carried but from the weight of cocks they'd been forced to service on the move. The soldiers, invigorated by the day's exertions and their shared acts, prepared for another night where these men, now so far from home, would learn again the harsh lessons of their captivity. The march had been a physical and psychological gauntlet, where every step, every touch, every command, was a reminder of their new life, where their bodies were no longer their own.
Chapter 12.1: "The Halt for Rest"
The group came to a stop in a small clearing, the relief of the break overshadowed by what was to come. The soldiers, sweaty and dirty from the march, began to organize themselves, their eyes scanning the captives with predatory intent.
Gunnar, his muscles glistening with sweat, was pulled aside by two soldiers, Khalil and Faris. Khalil, with a sneer, pushed Gunnar down to his knees, the dirt embedding into his skin.
Khalil: "Look at this beast, Faris. Still thinks he’s got some fight left in him, huh?"
Faris laughed, running a hand down Gunnar's broad back, feeling the hard muscles tense under his touch.
Faris: "Let's show him where that fight's gonna get him."
Khalil forced Gunnar's head up, his fingers gripping the captive's jaw.
Khalil: "Open wide, big guy. Time to earn your keep."
Gunnar's face contorted in disgust as Khalil used his mouth, the soldier's crude remarks filling the air.
Khalil: "That’s it, lick it clean. Show me how much you love it, beast."
Faris, not content with just watching, moved behind Gunnar, his hands exploring, then forcing Gunnar's legs apart.
Faris: "And while he’s busy up front, I’ll make sure he remembers this break."
It was harsh, Gunnar's body reacting with pain, his grunts muffled by Khalil's grip, the soldiers' laughter a stark contrast to his humiliation.
Nearby, Torsten was cornered by a group of younger soldiers, their eyes gleaming with amusement. Zahir and Aref took charge, pushing Torsten against a tree, his youthful frame trembling.
Zahir: "Look at this pretty boy, Aref. Bet he's never been used like this before."
Aref chuckled, his hand sliding under Torsten's shirt, feeling the softness of his skin.
Aref: "Let's teach him a lesson then, shall we?"
They forced Torsten to kneel, his hands bound behind him, making him vulnerable to their whims. Zahir grabbed Torsten's hair, pulling his head back.
Zahir: "Lick my boots clean, boy. Show us some respect."
Torsten's tongue moved over the leather, the taste of dirt and sweat filling his mouth, his eyes watering. Aref, meanwhile, unbuttoned his trousers, stepping closer.
Aref: "Now, let's see how well you can handle something else."
The act was invasive, he was mocked by their lewd comments.
Aref: "That's it, take it like the little bitch you are."
Sigmund was led to a secluded spot by Hassan and Rami, who had their own plans for him. Hassan, with a lecherous smirk, pushed Sigmund against a rock, his body exposed.
Hassan: "Look at him, Rami. All this muscle, and yet, so weak."
Rami, laughing, made Sigmund open his mouth, spitting into it before they used him in ways that mocked his strength.
Rami: "Open wide, let's see if you can handle this."
Their acts were punctuated by harsh laughter, their hands roaming over Sigmund's body, their words a constant assault on his dignity.
Hassan: "You like that, don't you? Feeling us on you, in you?"
Chapter 12.2: "The Water Brake"
The sun was a relentless overseer, its heat sapping the life from the column of men as they paused for what was supposed to be a water break. They gathered around the captives, already parched and desperate for hydration, their lips cracked, their throats dry. The soldiers, their uniforms clinging to their sweat-drenched bodies, had devised a game they called the water game.
Gunnar, his body glistening with sweat, his muscles tensing from the strain of the march, was the first to be selected for hydration. Two soldiers, Basim and Omar, approached him with broad grins. Basim, his uniform sticking to his skin, the armpits dark with sweat, grabbed Gunnar by the hair.
Basim: "You look thirsty, beast. Let's give you something to drink."
Omar, not to be outdone, opened his trousers, his erection hard, the tip smeared with a mix of sweat and pre-ejaculate. He grabbed Gunnar's jaw, forcing it open, his penis dripping with sweat from the day's march.
Omar: "Open wide."
The piss came in a hot stream, directly into Gunnar's mouth, the warmth of it spreading through his mouth, down his throat. He gagged, the liquid mixing with the sweat, his saliva turning into a foul concoction, the soldiers' laughter a harsh echo in his ears.
Torsten was next, a group of soldiers circled him, their bodies reeking of the day's march, sweat running in rivulets down their chests and backs. One, named Zahir, his shirt soaked through, pushed Torsten down.
Zahir: "Time for your drink, pretty boy. Drink up!"
He forced Torsten's mouth open, pressing his groin against the captive's face, the sweat from his balls and pubic hair mingling with his piss. Torsten's face contorted in disgust as he was forced to swallow, the soldiers around them jeering, some even adding their own sweat by wiping their damp bodies across him.
Sigmund faced a group of three, their bodies slick with sweat. Rami, his member hard and wet, waved it back and forth, the motion light and teasing, like a threat dangled in front of a dog.
Rami: "You’re nothing but a dog."
He pissed into helmet. They made Sigmund kneel, forcing him to drink from it. The other soldiers took turns, each one adding their own sweat or piss, laughing at Sigmund's disgust, his body convulsing with the effort.
The act of drinking was transformed into an assault on the senses, each swallow was bitter.
Chapter 12.3: "The Trail of Tears"
During one of the more grueling stretches of the march, the soldiers devised a new play. They wanted to mark the land they were conquering with the captives' piss. They forced them to urinate like dogs, lifting their legs high.
One by one, captives were forced to mimic dogs, lifting a leg to urinate on designated spots along the path, their faces burning with shame under the soldiers' jeers.
"Mark the territory, boy!" one soldier laughed as he watched Torsten struggle to perform the act. The urine came in a reluctant, stuttering stream, hitting the ground in uneven spurts.
Chapter 12.4: "The Direct Source"
In the midst of the march, under the relentless sun, a captive named Eric was singled out. Kareem, his body slick with sweat, the smell of his exertion filling the air, approached with a lecherous grin, his trousers already tenting with anticipation.
Kareem: "Time for you to drink, but straight from the tap."
He grabbed Eric by the hair, pulling his head back, forcing his mouth open. His cock, soft yet still imposing, was positioned at Eric's lips.
Kareem: "Open up, drink like you mean it."
Kareem's cock, dark and thick, pulsed with each spurt, the pre-ejaculate mixing with the piss, creating a cocktail in Eric's mouth. Despite its flaccid state, the penis filled Eric's mouth completely, stretching his lips.
Kareem laughed, his grip on Eric's hair tightening, ensuring every drop was taken.
Chapter 12.5: "An Important Task"
During a brief halt in the grueling march, the soldiers decided to use their captives for an important task. They circled around a captive named Amalaric, their robes undone, revealing unwashed, sweaty penises, the air thick with the scent of exertion and neglect.
One soldier, Basim, stepped forward first, his member soft but heavy, the smell of days without washing sharp in the air.
Basim: "Clean it, boy. Show us you're good for something."
He pushed Amalaric down, forcing his face towards his cock. The taste was immediate, a mix of salt and earth, the sensation of rough, dirty skin against his tongue repulsive. Amalaric licked, his mouth filling with the taste of Basim's sweat and grime, turning the act of cleaning into one of debasement.
Another soldier, named Omar, joined in, his penis also unwashed, the head and shaft coated in a layer of sweat and dust from the march.
Omar: "Don't forget about me. Make sure you get every part."
He guided Amalaric's head to his member, the taste and smell almost unbearable, a cocktail of filth that Erik was forced to consume. His tongue worked over the dirt, the sweat, the grime, each stroke a new humiliation, his mouth a tool for their hygiene.
A third, Khalil, laughed as he approached, his circumcised penis soft but no less dirty, the smell of his body adding to the assault on Erik's senses.
Khalil: "Make it shine, you filthy creature."
Amalaric moved from one to another, his mouth a rag for their filth, each soldier's laughter a harsh sound as they watched him clean their members. Hygiene was important for them.
