Soldier: 2050 A.D. Lieutenant Ford was in trouble. His transport had gone down on the wrong side of the DMZ. He was the only survivor. His only chance was to get back across the border before dawn, and try to avoid the patrols. The loud click of an automatic rifle was the first sign that he’d failed. Ford woke up on a ratty cot in what looked like a psychopath’s bedroom.   There was writing on the walls and floor, in several languages, and the air smelled of old blood and death. His jumpsuit had been taken, leaving only his thin, white undershirt. A quick glance revealed that that was all he was wearing beneath the soiled blanket that had been draped over him. A set of electronic cuffs connected by a thick cord connected his wrists. “Good morning, Lieutenant.” A scratchy voice called out from nearby. “Do you have any physical conditions I should know about before we begin?” Ford looked up groggily, searching for the source of the voice. “I am dying to know why

Jason had only been on the cross country team for one semester before the school year ended. He wasn’t the fastest runner, but he did allright. The star of the team, Steve, was a speed god. He outpaced everyone. His body was magnificent, and Jason had a hard time not staring in the locker rooms after practice. He had twice the muscle mass of Jason, and it looked like he was cut from marble. Jason always had to race home and beat off. That summer, all new team members were required to go to running camp to improve their skills. Jason was concerned by this. He was the only noob on the team. Four weeks, in the mountains, with the best runners in the school? He’d be humiliated every day. Things got worse when he arrived at the secluded camp. They were paired up, two guys per cabin…and he was paired with Steve. There was no way he’d be able to conceal his hardons for a month! He’d be outed for sure! It didn’t take that long. The second night, after a painfully long, hot day, Ja

(feat. artwork by Enduring Inferno, posted with permission) The sound of the chains and gear clinking and grinding filled the dark room. “Uggghhhh….uhhhgghhhhh….” Barret groaned as his arms and legs were stretched even tighter. His shoulders and groin burned, his limbs trembling as the chains strained them further from his core. There was a loud thunk as his tormentor hit the switch on the control panel, stopping the hydraulics. “That’s far enough for now. Don’t want you to strain anything…yet.” Barrett didn’t know the man’s name. He was a muscular Australian, sporting a Mohawk and rat tail down his neck and constantly holding a lit cigarette in his mouth. Barrett just took to calling him “Mohawk.” Mohawk gestured toward his pal, Cueball, who handed over a syringe. “Speaking of straining things, do you know what this is?” Mohawk asked casually. When Barrett didn’t reply, he waved the syringe back and forth. “It’s a special formula our lab boys cooked up: Tri-Mix, Viag