Pavel the Sailor

“Pavel, you disgusting little scrote!  Two coffees!  Milky and sweet, like your mama’s snatch I pounded last night.”

“Yes, Senior!”  Pavel hurriedly stowed the last of the laundry and scurried off to carry out the order.  The mess deck was at the other end of the ship, but as the youngest and smallest seaman aboard the corvette Gromkiy he had no right to complain.  About anything.  Ever.

How proud Grandfather had been when he heard Pavel’s national service would be at sea.  When Pavel’s mother had expressed misgivings about her son being too small and light for the Navy, granddad had said, "You wait!  His shipmates will protect him and care for him because he is the smallest.  That’s how it was in my day."

Protect him?  Care for him?  In a pig’s arse.  Pavel was everyone's servant, scapegoat and punching bag, from sunup ‘til lights out.  He was abused whenever he made a mistake, and when he did everything right he was abused just the same.  Head-slapping, gut-punching, arse-kicking, ballsack-jabbing, nothing was off-limits.  Dedovshchina it was called, and such was the lot of a conscript.

Amidships a group of men had gathered in the corridor to listen as two officers conducted a screaming match.  “What kind of clusterfuck shitshow are you running here, Chief?” the senior lieutenant demanded of the chief petty officer.

“Calm down, Lieutenant, no need to get your nice starched panties in a twist.”

One of the men turned to Pavel and whispered, “The Phantom.”

Pavel nodded.  No further explanation was required.  The Phantom Wanker had struck again, leaving a rank, sticky deposit where he knew a shipmate’s hands must go.

“My binoculars!” the lieutenant roared.  “My fucking binoculars!  This is your responsibility, Chief!  Does every inch of this fucking ship have to be coated in stale cum before you fucking take action?”

Pavel had no time to listen to the shouting of his Seniors (everyone was his Senior).  He wormed his way through and made it another ten metres before running into a brick wall - a brick wall named Anatoly Burakovsky.

Burakovsky was one of the Brutes:  seasoned, career sailors, mountains of muscle, contemptuous of everyone but God and maybe the Captain.  Pavel’s legs turned to jelly.  Burakovsky could break him in two and swallow the pieces without chewing.

Burakovsky regarded Pavel from a great height and said, “That bag of pus Sasha is drunk again.  Go out and check that gun number one is squared away."

Although he knew it was hopeless, Pavel began meekly, “But Senior…”

An enormous hand clamped the top of his head, turned him about, and irresistibly moved him toward the outer hatch leading to the main deck.  Pavel just had time to grab a life jacket before he was thrust into the freezing wind.

It was barely lunchtime but both sky and sea were almost black.  The North Pacific had been lashed by storms for the past three days.  No sooner had Pavel put one foot outside than the ship plunged down a steep trough.  The deck dropped away beneath his feet until he was hanging on by one hand.  At the last moment he realized the hatch was about to slam shut and sever his fingers.  He snatched his hand away and slid out across the icy wet metal on his arse, spinning like a hockey puck.

As luck would have it he slid straight to deck gun emplacement number one.  An appalling clanging noise came from inside, like all the church bells of Hell.  Pavel clung to the door handle as the ship righted itself, then heaved himself to his feet and went inside.  His eyes bugged as he saw a 100mm a-190 shell as long as his arm bouncing off the walls.  Was the fucking thing about to explode?  Would it set off the rest of the a-190 munitions and send the whole ship to Kingdom Come?  How would Pavel know?  He wasn't a gunner and had never been trained.  Yet here he was.

As the shell struck a wall Pavel planted his foot against it then tried to pick it up.  Holy shit, how heavy was this thing?  Hard to believe it was basically one giant bullet.  Wheezing, he hoisted the shell in his arms just as the ship descended another mountainous trough.  Both he and the a-190 flew into the air.  Pavel curled into a ball as the shell crashed and smashed about the tiny space, just missing his head.  His terror turned to anger, he kicked the armour-piercing shell to the deck, then wrestled it into its cradle next to its fellows.  As he stepped out of the gun emplacement a flying wave top of icy sleet struck him straight up the middle, drenching him from head to toe.

As he returned to the steamy interior of the ship, he considered telling his shipmates that he had maybe saved all their lives.  But what would be the point?  They would just laugh at him.  “You’re welcome, cocksuckers,” he murmured to no one.

He had still to fetch two coffees, sweet and milky, before he could change out of his wet clothes.  As he neared the mess he heard more yelling.  The Chief again, this time harangued by the Cook.  “This arse-sucking cum-sprayer!" the Cook was roaring.  “This dog of a Phantom!  On my spoons, Chief!  My fucking spoons!”

“For the love of God, calm down!” the Chief roared back.  “And stop waving that damned knife around!”

“This knife?” the Cook spluttered, apoplectic with fury.  “If I catch your Phantom I’ll take this knife and cut off his balls!  I swear it!  Then I’ll burn his filthy dick off and stuff it down his motherfucking throat, see if I don't!"

Pavel, still dripping, slunk quietly into the mess and poured two coffees.

 

Before the evening meal the crew was addressed by the senior lieutenant, who calmly informed the men that until the Phantom Wanker came forward and confessed, a ship wide ban on autoerotic stimulation would be strictly enforced.

The sailors glanced at each other and shifted uncomfortably in their seats.  Was this a joke?  Should they laugh?  Half the crew thought he couldn’t be serious.  The other half merely hoped he wasn’t.  But sure enough, when they bunked down that night the lights were left on, the beds stripped of all but a single sheet, and a watchman posted from among the Brutes to ensure they stayed chaste as Nuns.  Pavel’s heart sank.  Masturbating was not only one of the last handful of pleasures remaining aboard ship (handful being the operative word) but was also something of a necessity.

How long could a healthy young man be expected to go without ejaculating?  Pavel came from a strictly Orthodox family and was still thoroughly virgin, but this didn’t stop him jacking off twice a day, morning and night, like clockwork, with the occasional afternoon delight for good measure.  He hadn’t gone 24 hours without coming since… actually he couldn’t remember when.  And predictably, making the act even more forbidden made it seem all the more desirable and urgent.

The first night of the ban Pavel's prick got hard as soon as the lights went out.  He tried to focus his thoughts on things like football and food and eventually fell asleep.  In the light of the following day it seemed like a joke, a silly dream, although Pavel noticed it was all anyone seemed to talk about.  And when he went for a shit there were no doors on the cubicles and an officer watching to make sure no one diddled himself.  When bunk-time rolled around again and the watchman took his place on a stool by the door no one thought it was funny anymore.

No sooner had Pavel drawn the sheet up to his chin than his dick fairly sprang to attention.  And there it stayed, throbbing, painfully hard, begging him to give it sweet release.  It was torture.  Fighting the urge was like fighting the sea – there could be only one winner.  He lay on his back staring at the springs of the bunk above, with his arms outside the sheet and his knees raised just enough to conceal the shameful bulge of the iron rod over his abdomen.  He could tell his shipmates also suffered.  They tossed and turned, muttered and groaned.  Their watchman, Ivan, one of the more terrifying Brutes, took his role far too seriously.  He spent most of his watch strolling slowly, slowly up and down the rows of bunks, twirling a silver whistle on a string round his enormous finger.  No crewman dared turn his back, or so much as scratch close to his nether regions, while the eagle-eyed Ivan Ivanovitch scanned for the merest hint of piston-like movement.

The next day every ordinary seaman was frustrated, sleep deprived and angry.  Tempers had a hair-trigger.  Every minor quarrel became a shouting match, then a wrestle or a fistfight.  They were all addicts denied their daily fix.  Pavel tried even more than usual to remain invisible.  In this he was betrayed by his relentless cock, which became painfully and publicly erect at least once per hour.

“Fuck me dead, that horrible little twink Pavel is hard again!  Get over here, Twink!”  Slap.  “I mean, look at it.  Just look at it!”  Slap.  “Get your hands away, you can't hide it now."  Slap.  “What are you, a man or a dog?"  Slap, slap, jab to the balls, slap.

“Admit it Pavel, you’re the Phantom, aren't you?”

“No, Senior!  Of course not!  On my sainted grandmother’s grave, I swear it!"

“Well run to the Chief and confess anyway, for the love of Christ, so we can all drain our gonads before they explode.”

“No!  Cook swore he’d burn the Phantom’s dick off.”

“Your dick is a small price to pay!  Cook burns everything sooner or later.”  Slap, slap, slap.

That night, the third of the ban, there was a whiff of mutiny in the air.  Pavel lay on his bunk, sleepless, certain that his was one of twenty stiff, aching pricks in the room (he wasn’t sure about Ivan Ivanovitch, and didn't dare look).  One hour passed.  Two.  Three, and still he lay awake.  How could he still be hard?  He couldn't keep still for more than 30 seconds, but any movement, even the slightest, caused the fabric of his shorts to brush against his erection, such that he wanted to moan aloud his pent-up desire.  Why couldn't he just come without touching himself?  Then he could rest.

A flapping sound broke the silence.  Pavel looked up to see the crewman in the bunk across the aisle, Yuri, blatantly and furiously masturbating under his sheet.  Pavel jumped as a shrieking whistle split the air, and Ivan Ivanovitch pounced like a tiger on a suckling pig.  The Brute tore the sheet from Yuri’s bed, seized the young man by one arm and hurled him from the bunk onto the floor.  A second Brute, Oleg, strode in from the corridor, just as Ivan heaved the naked, painfully erect Yuri to his feet.  Pavel’s eyes went wide in astonishment as Yuri, despite being on full display to everyone in the room, used his free hand to grasp his prick and frantically continue masturbating.  Pavel pulled his sheet up to his nose, ready to duck under completely if Yuri shot his load across the aisle.  But the Brutes were having none of that.  Ivan Ivanovitch twirled poor Yuri, gripped the back of his neck and slammed his face into the wall.  His fellow Oleg marched over, without breaking stride tearing a clock radio’s power cord from its socket, and expertly bound Yuri’s wrists together behind his back.  Yuri’s brave rebellion was over.

The giants marched the struggling Yuri to the door, his jutting prick flung to and fro like a sapling tossed by a high wind.  The Chief arrived in the doorway in his underclothes, looking half-asleep and more than half-drunk.  While the officer wiped sleep from his eyes Oleg held the naked offender at the ready.  Remarkably, Ivan calmly resumed his guard duty on the stool by the door, as if anticipating one of the other crewmen might seize the opportunity for a quick tug during all the excitement.

The Chief’s bleary eyes lighted on Yuri's upright penis and his upper lip curled in a sneer.  “For fuck's sake – what’s wrong with you men?  Do we have to tie your pricks in knots to keep you clean?”

Yuri, an aspiring rock guitarist from Vladivostock and a conscript like Pavel, had reached his wit’s end.  "This is stupid!" he yelled for everyone to hear.  "Have you all gone crazy?  I can't take it!  My balls ache so much I can’t sleep!"

Yuri’s angry protest turned into a whimper as Oleg seized his ear in a pincer grip.  The young man’s face screwed up in pain as Oleg twisted the ear and dragged Yuri’s head back.  Oleg’s action proved itself a feint, designed merely to distract Yuri from what was coming next.  From his chair, Ivan Ivanovitch curled his enormous hand into a fist like a sledgehammer and drove a vicious uppercut square into Yuri’s exposed ballsack, mashing his testicles against the base of his erect penis.

Yuri’s eyes and mouth shot open and he let loose a blood-curdling shriek loud enough to wake the dead.  His legs buckled.  Oleg, still in tight possession of Yuri’s ear, allowed him to sink to his knees but held him upright.  Yuri, hands still helplessly tied behind his back, writhed and moaned in agony.

Ivan, now able to look Yuri in the eye, said, “Now your balls ache.”

Indifferent to Yuri’s piteous cries, the Chief raised one leg and jabbed at the poor man’s wilting erection with his foot.  “What's the temperature on deck?”

Oleg replied, “Minus eight.  Wind chill another ten."

“30 minutes outside," said the Chief without pity.  “Let's see if the bastard can still wank once his prick's frozen solid."

Ivan delved into a chest beside his stool, brought out a length of rope, and expertly tied it around the condemned man’s neck.  Oleg heaved Yuri to his feet.  Yuri was still in agony, bent double, knees tight together, his face a mask of torment.  Oleg took the rope from Ivan and dragged their victim out into the corridor like a dog on a leash.

Pavel felt sick inside.  The memory of Ivan’s fist smashing Yuri’s balls made his own brimming testicles ache in sympathy.  30 minutes outside was a terrible punishment, at night, in this weather.  Would Oleg untie Yuri’s hands?  Would he take pity and slip Yuri a coat?  Or would he simply drag his helpless prisoner out into the freezing night naked and bound, unable to even shield his genitals?  If Yuri was tied somewhere sheltered, and if he could overcome his crippling pain enough to dance and jog on the spot for the full half hour he might come through unscathed.  But if he were left exposed to the icy wind there was a good chance he would suffer hypothermia or even frostbite to his fingers, toes or face.  And if Oleg were feeling sadistic enough he might take the Chief’s words as an order, and tie Yuri with legs spread wide and his front exposed to the wind.  If he went that far, Yuri’s prick could easily freeze solid.

Pavel squirmed in his bunk.  Silence had descended on the room once again.  Ivan Ivanovitch sat like the statue of a wrathful god, daring anyone else to try something so foolhardy.  Everything was as it had been five minutes before.  Everything but the empty bed across the aisle.  How could Pavel hope to sleep now?  He couldn’t help but imagine the agony of a fist like Ivan’s smashing into his own testicles.  He felt they would pop like soap bubbles.  And then to be bound naked in the biting wind, to feel his dick start to freeze, then to not feel it at all but to know it had frozen solid right there on his body, to feel his aching balls turning to ice…

Stop! he commanded himself.  He would make himself ill.  He had to sleep!

Such were his thoughts, and they whirled around and around in his throbbing brain, hour after hour.  Sometime between 4 and 5 bells he sank into an exhausted slumber, so deep he was almost unconscious.  So deep he slept through the first call to reveille and had to be dragged from his bunk and almost carried bodily as far as the door, he didn’t know by who.  His brain was so full of fog he barely remembered where he was and stumbled along in the crush of arms and legs until he came to the communal washroom.  As he entered he realized he had no towel or toothbrush.  And it was only when he automatically stepped out of his shorts that he discovered his thrice-damned cock was hard as steel and upright as a flagpole.

Panicking, he clutched his genitals and looked to retrieve his shorts, but they were on the floor behind him and the space was filled with naked men all pushing toward the showers.  Pavel tried to back his way through the press to the corridor but someone behind put strong hands in his back and gave him a vicious shove into the wall of flesh before him.  Instinctively raising his hands to protect himself Pavel crashed into the man in front, and as cursed luck would have it his erection pressed briefly but neatly between the man's buttocks.  Both men gave a cry of shock and jumped apart.

The offended man was a third year NCO named Aleksei.  He gaped at Pavel, astonished.  “Fuck me!" he exclaimed loudly.  "Pavel just tried to shove his dick up my arse!”

The shower room instantly fell silent.  Every face turned to stare at Pavel, standing naked and forlorn.

Aleksei continued, “I’m telling you, Pavel just tried to rape me.  Look at him!"

Pavel swallowed hard.  “It's not true," he said, but he was so ashamed it sounded weak and unconvincing.  “It was…an accident."  He realised denying the accusation while plainly hiding a rock-hard boner with both hands was a bit like standing over a dead body while holding a smoking gun and denying he was the killer.

Aleksei couldn’t stop repeating himself.  "He tried to butt-fuck me.  Right in front of everyone!”

“Stop saying that!” Pavel yelled, turning beet red, wishing he could just wake up and find this was all a bad dream.

“Right in front of everyone!" Aleksei said yet again, as if that were the worst part.  The other men were closing a circle around Pavel.  His eyes darted to and fro, looking for a way to escape.  It just made him look guilty.

Someone said, “I told you he was gay.”

“Now we know why his dick’s always hard.  The little faggot.”

“I’ll bet he's the Phantom.  You can see it in his face."

“Shut up!” Pavel yelled, his frustration boiling over.  “Shut up, all you cocksuckers!  I can't help it!"

In hindsight, Pavel should have clarified that what he couldn’t help was waking up with a raised flagpole between his legs because of the ban on masturbation.  Those listening heard something different:  his confession that he couldn’t help being a Shower-Rapist, or the Phantom Wanker, or both.  And if he was admitting that the charges against him were true, it seemed doubly insulting that this little peanut was accusing them of sucking cock, which for most of them was untrue.

The collective weight of the men’s accusing stares was enough to shrivel even Pavel’s persistent hard-on.  He saw a path opening to his shorts and darted through, tripping as he pulled them on back to front.  He just wanted out.  The men parted for him as if he carried a contagious disease.  He made it to the doorway only to run head first into the same brick wall he’d struck on his way to fetch the Seniors’ coffee three days before:  a brick wall named Anatoly Burakovsky.

This time Pavel actually bounced backward and fell on his backside.  Dazed, he looked up in horror at the Brute, who from this angle looked like a human avalanche about to crush his bones to dust.

Anatoly Anatolyevich regarded Pavel as he might a cockroach scuttling at his feet, then raised his eyes to the others.  “What the fuck’s going on here?  Why aren’t you washed and dressed?”

The men collectively turned a shade whiter under Burakovsky’s withering gaze.  One brave soul piped up, “Pavel’s a queer.  He just arse-raped Aleksei.”

“Right in front of us.”

“And he’s the Phantom Wanker,” came another anonymous voice.

Burakovsky returned his stare to the cowering Pavel, pinning him to the floor with eyes as cold as Arctic ice.  His upper lip curled with distaste.

Pavel tried desperately to defend himself.  “I’m not,” he said, “It’s not true,” but his fear was such that he choked on the words, which sounded hollow even to him.  He began to scramble to his feet but a boot the size of the moon planted itself on his chest, flattening him against the floor.  Burakovsky sought out someone he knew in the crowd.  “Fetch Ivan and Oleg,” he said.  Pavel saw a pair of bare feet and a towel scurry past him and out the door.

Burakovsky continued, to no one in particular, “We’ll need four belts.”  And, when nobody moved, “Now!”  Several pairs of naked feet fled past Pavel.  His heart quailed.  There was nothing he could do to budge the tree-trunk crushing his chest.  He couldn’t voice a protest.  He could barely breathe.

The loud clomp of heavy boots told him Oleg and Ivan had arrived.

“The men say they’ve caught a fag,” Burakovsky explained to his fellow Brutes.  “Let’s see if they’re right.  And teach him a lesson he’ll never forget.”  Oleg chuckled, a sound like rocks grinding at the bottom of a well.  The padding of naked feet returned.  Pavel saw leather belts dangling from hands.

The boot lifted from his chest.  He sucked in air.  “Get up,” said Burakovsky, the voice of doom.  Pavel rose to his feet and glanced about fearfully.  What were they going to do to him?  Silently, Burakovsky advanced, and Pavel found himself backpedaling to avoid the man-mountain squashing him like a bug, until his bare feet stepped onto the large metal grille that collected the run-off from the showers.

Burakovsky halted.  “Hold out your arms.”  Pavel felt his legs turn to water.  He had to escape!  But where could he run?  At sea the ship was a prison, and that prison was the whole world.  Reluctantly Pavel extended his arms, trying not to tremble.

Oleg and Ivan needed no directions.  A belt for each of Pavel’s wrists, round and round until only the ends were loose.  Then the giants hoisted his arms to the low ceiling, where heavy steel brackets supported the water pipes.  The loose ends of the belts were passed through the brackets, buckled and pulled tight.  Pavel’s wrists were pinned firmly to the steel, separated by an arm’s length.  His heart was pounding.  He knew no amount of struggling would get him free.  He whimpered with fear as Oleg and Ivan dropped to one knee and began to manacle his ankles.  The belts went round once, twice, then his legs were yanked apart and the loose ends threaded down through the grille and back to the buckles.  The belts drew tight, Pavel grimacing as he felt his shoulder joints stretch to breaking point.

Pavel felt the grip of true fear.  His body was spread and stretched tight.  He was completely helpless.  They could do anything they wished with him.  A dozen conscripts died every year in situations like this; everyone knew that.  The eyes of every man in the room were upon him, making his skin crawl.  Despite his best efforts his legs began to shake.

The three Brutes moved in on him:  Oleg in front, Burakovsky looming to his right, and he sensed Ivan behind him.  All the other men shuffled about, craning their necks, not wanting to miss seeing what three bears could do to a mouse.

Oleg slipped out of one of his boots, drew off the sock, and wriggled his giant’s toes.  Pavel’s heart was pounding like a jackhammer.  The foot was rising slowly toward his crotch.  He tried to jerk his hips back but was stretched so tight he could only move a few inches.  He gasped.  The enormous toes had reached his shorts and were probing against his scrotum.  Pavel’s eyes went wide as he felt his testicles sliding around inside their sack.  He couldn’t bear it.

With a great cry of mingled fear and rage he threw himself against his manacles.  His wrists and ankles were hopelessly pinned but he thrashed his hips wildly, bellowing all the while like a trapped animal.  In less than 30 seconds his strength began to fade and his yells became panting sobs.  Then he felt something at his back.  It was a giant boot planted on his backside, slowly but inexorably thrusting his hips forward to the limit of his bonds.  Ivan leaned into Pavel with his full weight.  The sound of the leather manacles stretching blended with Pavel’s terrified whimpers.  “Stop,” he begged as his shoulder joints began to separate.  “Please!”

His spread-eagled body was curved like an archer’s bow.  The only part he could move was his head.  Oleg grinned in appreciation and reached for a near-naked sailor from those standing near.  Using the man to steady himself, Oleg again raised his bare foot to Pavel’s crotch.  This time there was nothing Pavel could do to avoid it.

He moaned through gritted teeth as the huge toes prodded his testicles, then gasped as they slid up the front of his shorts and located his penis.  His eyes went wide in disbelief as toes as thick as his own fingers fondled his shaft through his shorts.  He tried desperately to thrash his hips but to no avail.  “No,” he moaned, pleading not just with Oleg but also with his own body, for with horror he felt blood rushing to his cock.

Oleg felt his victim stiffening and chuckled.  He increased the pressure of his foot, massaging and squeezing, helping to move Pavel’s hardening prick into an upright position in his shorts.  “Senior,” he begged, as the toes inched their way up his now rock-hard shaft.  “No.  Please!”  He was burning with shame.  Because of what was being done to him.  And because part of him wanted Oleg to press harder.

The toes were about to caress the head of Pavel’s penis and a wave of disgust washed through him at the possibility he might publicly come in his shorts.  But then Oleg withdrew his foot and Pavel felt another set of conflicting emotions:  relief tinged with regret.

Oleg stepped back and Pavel cringed as he saw most of the men staring at the fence post trying to burst out the front of his shorts.  If he weren’t in manacles he would have curled up, mortified.  Pavel had a regulation penis, a good six incher when erect, but one exceptionally stiff and upright.  On his small frame it seemed larger, almost embarrassingly so.  But shame was quickly overridden by fear when Burakovsky stepped in front of Pavel and took from his pocket a cutthroat razor.  When Pavel saw the shining rectangular blade he whined like a frightened pup.

Burakovsky glanced over his shoulder.  “Good work, Oleg.  Let’s see what you've achieved."  His giant hands reached for Pavel’s crotch.  Pavel tried to jerk away but Ivan still had his boot in the small of Pavel’s back.  Burakovsky forced his fingers inside the waistband of Pavel's shorts, pulled, then began to saw through the material.

Pavel cried out, “No, Senior, please!”  The razor was cutting only a finger’s width from the head of his cock.  Burakovsky only cut down enough to sever the waistband, then moved to the other side of the bulge in Pavel's shorts and did the same.  Then he put away the razor and returned to Pavel’s side.

“Ivan," he said.  Pavel felt the boot withdraw from his arse and felt relief as his body snapped back.  Then he felt iron fingers slide inside the back of his shorts.  This time his hips were yanked backward as far as they could go.  Pavel yelled as his bulging genitals were squashed flat, then a great tearing sound split the air as the material tore along the cuts made by Burakovsky all the way through.  Pavel heard the shreds of his shorts drop to the floor behind him, leaving him naked as the day he was born, but considerably stiffer.

“No!" he yelled and again thrashed with all his might against his bonds, unable to bear his achingly rigid prick being on public display.  It was hopeless.  All he did was wave his cock around like a flag at a May Day parade.  He gave up, panting, chest heaving, red-faced.  He felt hot tears gathering in the corners of his eyes.  “Bastards," he moaned, then yelled, "Bastards!  Cocksuckers!"

Burakovsky loomed over him, standing astride Pavel’s pinioned right leg.  The Brute bent to bring his face close to Pavel’s and murmured, loud enough for all to hear in the silent room, “No one believes you, little faggot.  The truth is right here.”

Pavel’s eyes went wide as two giant fingers touched the base of his erect penis then slowly moved up his shaft.  Pavel’s cock had never before felt the touch of another hand.  He gasped and whimpered, trembling uncontrollably.  It was electric.  Pavel screwed shut his eyes, mortified, disgusted, he wanted to curl up and die.  But his prick wanted more, wanted him to thrust against Burakovsky’s fingers, growing so hard it hurt.  He moaned.  Burakovsky’s fingers hooked around his cock, gently pushing Pavel’s stiff penis down, down, until it hurt so much he whimpered.  When his prick was released it sprang back and slapped loudly against his stomach.

His eyes shot open just in time to see Oleg’s massive fist as it smashed into his gut.  He had a millisecond to tense his stomach but it did little to help.  The fist struck like a sledgehammer and Pavel’s abdominal muscles crumpled under the blow.  All the air in his lungs exited in a drawn out wheeze, after which he found it impossible to breathe in again.  His diaphragm refused to budge.  His eyes bugged.  There was a roaring in his ears.  His body jerked once, twice, his vision began to fade.  Then slowly, slowly air began to pass in through his mouth.  He had to strain for every morsel of precious oxygen.  It took all his willpower to inflate his lungs again.  So he was caught completely off guard when Ivan stepped up behind him and drove a vicious kick up between Pavel’s spread legs.

The steel-capped toe of Ivan’s boot struck Pavel’s testicles like a blow from a baseball bat.  His ballsack shot up and out from his body as if it might tear off and smack against the far wall.  Pavel’s hard-won breath was spent in a terrible high-pitched shriek.  He had never imagined such agony was possible, it felt like each of his balls had been split in two.  Gut-wrenching pain flooded his body, contorting his naked form as if he was being electrocuted.  Another high, gurgling moan escaped his lips.

The massive hand of Burakovsky reached from behind and embraced his erect penis.  Pavel's writhing body heaved and went rigid.  Burakovsky had something on his hand.  Oil, or jelly.  He was smearing it up and down the length of Pavel’s shaft.  It felt…  "Oh God," Pavel moaned.  It felt better than anything he'd ever felt before.  Ten times better.  A hundred times.  But the agony from his balls…  The two were clashing within his body, tearing him up inside like a hurricane at war with a tsunami.

Pavel felt Burakovsky’s left hand clamp onto his buttock.  At the same time his right fist closed on the base of Pavel's cock.  With both hands he squeezed, the contraction of his arse-cheek forcing Pavel to thrust forward into Burakovsky’s grip on his prick.  Explosions of pleasure made the room sway, his toes curl.  He was losing control, there was nothing he could do, he was going to come so hard he would die!

At the last moment he saw Oleg coming for him, he opened his mouth to yell, “No!” but there was no time.  Oleg’s brutal fist smashed into his abdomen again, he had no strength in the wall of his stomach.  The blow drove deep into his gut, he felt his internal organs spread.  Coloured lights popped in his vision.  His body rocked back but the grip on the base of his cock was so strong it almost snapped it off at the root.  He opened his mouth and let out a strangled moaning yell just as an explosive gout of cum shot from his prick like a ballistic missile, six feet into the air.  Burakovsky released him and for a moment Pavel was free to twist and writhe as his body spasmed uncontrollably.

Then his eyes bugged and his mouth fell open as he felt a fist like a gorilla’s wrap around his scrotum.  Ivan, on one knee behind Pavel, seized his balls and yanked them straight down, just as another ribbon of cum burst from his prick.  Pavel squealed, “God!  Not my balls!" certain that his testicles were about to be torn clean off while he was still coming.  He was wracked by a final spasm, a last small spurt that ran down the length of his shaft.  Then Ivan closed his fist and Pavel felt what real strength was.  His mouth spread wide in an ululating scream as he felt his balls being wrenched, mashed, crushed by steel fingers until it seemed they would be ground to dust.  He squealed until there was nothing left in his lungs.  Then Ivan contemptuously shook his wrist as if tossing away what was left of Pavel’s dangling testicles and rose to his feet.

Pavel hung from his wrists, in a pain beyond pain.  His body writhed and he moaned helplessly as the agony from his pummeled gut and mangled balls twisted his insides in knots.  His legs had turned to rubber.  His head wobbled and lolled, a thread of drool slipped from his open mouth.  All he wanted to do was faint and hide in unconsciousness.  He sensed Burakovsky beside him.  The Brute seized his head from behind with one hand and with the other gripped Pavel’s still wooden cock.

“You'll never come that good again, gayboy," he sneered.  Then he squeezed Pavel’s prick until it made him whimper, as if he were wringing the last drops from a wet rag.  Still firmly holding Pavel’s head, Burakovsky raised his other hand and smeared warm cum all over Pavel’s face – over his eyes, his lips, his chin.

“If you ever” Burakovsky warned, "ever show your stiff little prick in public again, I swear we'll tear it off and feed it to you.”  And with that, he spat in Pavel’s cum-smeared face and walked away.

“OUT!" he yelled.  "WORK!”  There was a scurrying of bare feet and a rustling of towels as the men, those who had had their showers and those who missed out, obediently filed past the suspended form of their tortured shipmate with barely a backward glance.  Pavel hardly cared.  Let them abandon him.  Now there was only agony.  He just wanted his suffering to be over.

But it was not to be.  Fate had one more cruel trick in store for him.

One of the ship’s hidden sadists, and there were several, had watched Pavel’s vicious punishment and degradation with a delight mounting to ecstasy.  This man’s desire, raised to fever pitch, was like a voice in his head demanding he be the one to finish off the helpless youth and leave him broken and ruined.  And when by chance his eyes picked out a large spanner left on a locker by a maintenance man he knew that Destiny was speaking to him.

Pavel’s ordeal had left his head spinning.  His eyes wouldn’t focus and the room seemed to tip and roll like the sea outside.  The hammer blows to his gut made each breath a torment.  His prick was still swollen but had softened just enough that it now stuck straight out from his naked body.  The men shuffling past him were a blur, so he didn’t see the sudden raising of the spanner or the face of the one who smashed it down square on his protruding member.

There was no mercy in the blow.  It would have shattered an arm or a leg.  Pavel’s cock folded in two around the steel shaft.  The flesh at the site of the blow was crushed to jelly; the tissue underneath and at the base of his penis stretched and tore.  Pavel expelled all the air from his lungs in a full-throated scream and his hips jerked back and forth in shock and pain.  The force of the blow flung his prick back between his legs until it almost reached his backside.  When it swung back it flopped like a broken limb, grotesquely kinked in the middle, bent almost at a right angle.

Shock made Pavel’s eyes bug from his head, his mouth open and gasping as if he were a beached fish.  His anonymous assailant had dropped his weapon and fled, savouring the sweet music of his victim’s tortured scream.  Shock gave way to a searing pain that flowed from Pavel’s prick to flood his whole body, so that he jerked and squealed like an animal.  Finally his head fell forward and he saw the spanner on the floor and what it had done to his shaft.  His eyes screwed up and he moaned in deep despair.  Now both his cock and his balls were ruined.  The bastards had stripped him of his manhood.

The last pairs of feet padded through the doorway.  No one was going to help him.  They were going to leave him hanging, naked and spread-eagled, writhing from the agony of his mangled genitals.  The last crewman switched off the lights and shut the door on him.  Alone, Pavel sobbed quietly.  He wanted to cry, but refused to add his tears to the semen and spittle drying to a crust on his cheeks.  In the dim light spilling under the door he could see the fracture in his penis turning black and distended and he knew that for the following days pissing would be a nightmare, if not impossible.

Oh God, what if he couldn’t get hard any more?  What if his testicles were mashed beyond repair?  What if he had been left gelded like a dog?

Alone in the dark Pavel gritted his teeth and fought back the pain.  He was no gelding.  He clutched at the last remnant of manhood left to him:  his hatred.  He would force his cock and balls to work again by sheer will power, no matter how much it hurt.  And then he would make the scum pay.

No longer would he scatter his seed where he knew his shipmates put their filthy hands.  It was time for the dreaded Phantom to fade into the pages of history.  No, from now on he would hoard his precious semen as if it were gold.  Until he could wangle his way onto the kitchen duty roster.  Then he would see how the motherfuckers liked the taste of his cum in their coffee.