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Reconstructed Ww1 Cold Steel Assault On
Sand
The Preliminaries: Outline Howdy there! I’m
ex-marine, part-time arms dealer, and WW1 buff. I supply rifles for historical
battle reconstruction groups. I get a kick out of equipping members with
rifles. When I adjudicate,
I see all the action on the battle ground. It’s great hearing the members’
cheer as they compete with my rifles. There’s a waiting list of volunteers
for the WW1 battle which is presented every third year. Selection of
participants for the combat reconstructions is very sought-after. Battle
group members provoke hard cocks during the simulated combat. I, too, get a
hard cock. The climax of the battle compels unrestrained cock spurting. Pirate Island
Commander “T” stipulated a WW1 trench assault. This WW1 reconstruction
assault provides additional fullfilment to warbuffs like me. The rifles will get bona fide use. The assault will be
a celebration of Cold Steel. I’m the
adjudicator, Retired Marine Sgt Major Ralph Davis. I declare a squad the
winner. I employ the authority which I once exercised in the Marines.
Commander “T” and I will each carry a rifle during the WW1 assault. Who
knows? We intend to deal with opportunity targets. Rival weapon dealers
accuse me of mixing business with passion when I join in these occasions. The Preparations: Commander “T”ordered a crate of forty WW1 style rifles with fixed
bayonets, slings but without breech blocks. He sacrificed WW1 authenticity by
modifying the bayonet length. The official
requisition specified sixteen inches. Sixteen-inch bayonets pike targets
right through. The broad, steel blade pressing retains the edge teeth,
serrated edge along the back of the blade. The target will be beyond repair
as the blade rips out the entrails. WW1 German manufacturers took
considerable care to develop deadly bayonets. The Commander
specified a trench assault which requires fast-moving contact. At the same
time he craves at least four soldiers staked out, and bound helpless for a
protracted period of time. I expect the
targets to combine gruff looks with fanatic military skills. The physiques of
the soldiers who escorted me here were solid: broad shoulders with blunt,
muscular arms, barrel chests, tight midriffs and firm legs. I take to
soldiers who mouth obscenities and brazenly enjoy the killing game. For
instance, the marine coxswain chuckled as he confided in me, a fellow marine:
thirty-three soldiers were digging their own graves at the moment. Yes,
Commander “T” wanted the squads digging six-foot deep trenches twenty four
hours in advance of the assault. I visualized the trench digging scene:
thirty-three, brawny soldiers wielding entrenching tools, shoveling sand,
building mounds and digging into the trenches. The marine coxswain added more
detail. The squads were naked. Did the naked soldiers imagine these trenches
as their own graves? Whom would they be fighting against tomorrow? Did they
pick a target to stick? Did they get a measure of the cocks and balls? Would
they fuck somebody on their last night? An aide supervised
the stakeouts’ sites. Four stakeouts were created: one on each arm of the
Greek cross. He insisted that soldiers sprawl spreadeagled
in the sand, tied with ropes. The pegs were adjusted so that stakeouts would
be unable to break free. A pillow, formed out of the sand, was positioned.
The stakeout could look down the chest at his dog tag, pause to consider the
threatened cocks and balls of himself and other spreadeagled
stakeouts across the sand. The distance between the spreadeagled,
stakeouts deliberately allowed for warriors to fight beside them. In the
Commander’s assessment spreadeagled, stakeout
soldiers with cocks and balls experience a turn-on in this physical position
and with the visual stimulus. They could exercise (almost) no control. They
would feel the pressure building on their tight balls and erect cocks. Soon,
they would look across at spurting cocks and the passing balls of the
warriors fighting beside them. They would guess, see and feel castrations and
impalement. Many mouths await a gag. The stakeouts’ only freedom was in
shouting obscenities and yelling about the predicament. Of course, the
executioners would growl when they drove the sixteen-inch blade through the
guts. The executioners’
ambition is that the stakeouts brave prolonged, painful impalement. The
rifles will remain standing, thrust through the body, into the sand. Maybe
the Commander and I, or victorious soldiers, at the climax of the assault
will stick the centre chests to finish them off. Evening Ration Conversation: Commander “T”
encouraged yelling. He told me of an incident when he was a Cpl. He lead a
patrol ambush into the jungle. The element of surprise was lost. His patrol
unexpectedly bumped into an enemy patrol. He yelled ‘Attack!’ The firefight
was full-frontal, close quarter combat to the death. He personally pounded
one enemy head, participated in a group bayonet assault--two vs three, three vs two, two vs one and finally the scary one vs
two. Perhaps he exaggerated the numbers in the enemy patrol! The yelling
strengthened his resolve in driving home the cold steel. I gather the
victorious patrol brought home choice trophies for male only field barracks
bragging. Tomorrow the
fighters drive the sixteen-inch blade into throats, centre chests or bellies.
It would be a treat. Commander “T” and I reviewed the action plan. Administration Details: Patrols will operate
outside the Area of Operation, acting as an early warning in case of outside
enemy attack. Three companies, a
total of ninety-nine soldiers, will watch the stakeouts and assault from the
beach sand hills. They will wear a commando boot knife in their black combat
boots for personal protection. However, their issued weapons will be secured
away from the sand on the nearby grass area for quick access. These
bystanders and the fighting squads will be in the raw but wearing black
combat boots. Of course, all will wear dogtags. Infringements of
discipline will be punished by casting the soldiers into the stakeouts area. The single Weapon
of the Day is the WW1 rifle with fixed bayonet plus sling. The selected
thirty-three marines, special forces and army soldiers will form up into squads of a
Sergeant, a Corporal and nine Privates. The Head Dress of
the Day for the squads is a bandanna. I could now clearly
identify the squads: The marines with
the hairless chests wear the red bandanna; The special forces
with the hairy chests wear the black bandanna; The army G.I.’s
with the bull-sized balls wear the yellow bandanna. Timing...mid
morning The Squads’ Mission: The Squads’ Mission
is to fight the enemy to the death. The killing ground is the central
stakeout area surrounded by WW1 style mounds and trenches. The Squads’ Tasks: (1) Charge or
defend a trench. (2) Engage in group
assault bayonet games in the stakeouts area. I will award
premium marks for the squad or individual soldiers who show superior skills: (1) in using the
WW1 bayonet; (2) in the games in
the stakeouts area; (3) who brazenly
enjoy the assault. The Commander’s personal instructions to the Sgts: The Sgts returned to their squads with hatred in their eyes.
The Commander bawled them out. He threatened to publicly crucify the Sgts. Their deaths would be intentionally slow and
extremely painful. The Sgts would endure total
humiliation in front of their troops. In fact, the Sgts
could only avoid crucifixion by obeying the following orders. Sgts lead the squads in full-frontal
assaults in the trenches. The assaults will reconstruct WW1 combat. Sgts are expected to yell, carry out group assault
tactics and drive the blade into the enemy with killing force. In the
trenches it’s preferable to withdraw the blade so that the fighter can stick
the same or another opponent. Stick the enemy from any direction and in any
exposed body area. Sgts ensure cocky soldiers play
terminal games in the stakeouts area. Cocksure soldiers will be mindful:
every warrior, with a cock and balls in the killing ground, brags in front of
other soldiers. Each soldier wants his cock to be fully erect, spurting
profusely, especially during combat, and seen by other soldiers. Sometimes
erect cocks need a helping hand. The rules which
follow spurting cocks are quite explicit in Pirate Island terminal games. Balls become
bulls-eye targets. All zestful ball collectors will drool over the army
G.I.’s with the bull-sized balls. The sixteen-inch bayonet blade will hack
the dribbling cock and firm balls away from their roots. It’s a memorable
sight when a victor holds up the trophy for all to see. Some soldiers
intentionally stuff the cock and balls into another warrior’s mouth. It gives
the warriors a taste for cock and balls as well as something to choke on. My reaction: I’m looking forward
to the assault. Commander “T” confided details to me about the Sgts. He was cunning: he
deliberately misled the Sgts about their future
prospects. Sgts reach their ‘use by expiry date’ as
far as Commander “T” was concerned. Preferably, all three Sgts
would ‘buy the farm’ in the assault. I heard the expression long ago in my
boot camp training; now soldiers talked of ‘terminating targets’.
Thirty-three soldiers might ‘buy the sand’ today when one considered the
killing area. A game proposal: The Commander
proposed I create games for the event. How about braving the killing zone?
Get beside the players; invent the game and the rules; blow a whistle at the
start; blow a whistle every time somebody blows. That’s it! The players face
each other from a distance, rifles upside down in the sand and balanced with
the left hand. The players clearly grope and show their cocks and balls fully
to the spectators. At the first whistle they slowly masturbate with their
right hands. They shout when they blow. I blow the whistle when each cock
finishes spurting to my satisfaction. The suspense builds as the players feel
cock, look at balls and wait. I whistle three times after the last cock
blows. This is the signal to grasp the rifle with the right hand, adopt the
short guard position. Immediately the game moves into a random assault with
the bayonet. Players can adopt group assault tactics: three vs two, two vs three, two vs one or one vs two if there
are sufficient targets. Players stick
targets in every direction. I’m confident I can defend myself. It’s an
exciting game. It creates a space for the sixteen-inch blade. The killing area: It’s on the beach
sand between the ocean and overlooking sand hills. The trenches are
six-foot deep, four-foot wide. They are occupied by: (1) the marines at
the southern end; (2) the special
forces at the northern end; (3) the army
immediately in front of the spectators. The stakeouts’ area
is in the shape of a Greek cross. Its arms are of equal length. There is
provision for four simultaneous stakeouts. The planned trench assaults will
require maximum manpower. Tent pegs are
firmly positioned in the sand with attached ropes to permit spreadeagling and stakeouts of short-term captives. Four,
extra rifles will stand upright beside them in the stakeouts’ area to grant
spontaneous impaling. Commander “T” and I can use a wooden, open tower with
easy access to both the killing ground and the spectator area. Two sets of
field binoculars for our use will remain on the tower. The Next Day’s Parade: The Commander has
firmly trained troops. The three squads reported for duty in parade
formation. I’m used to inspecting uniformed troops. It was an engaging favour to inspect such naked squads. The cocks of both
the Commander and I looked veteran. The Commander’s cock is huge, thick and
circumcised. My cock isn’t as thick as his but my bull sized balls stood out
even in this assembly. The Commander’s barrel chest was, to my surprise, hairless.
When I eyed the squads over, the barrel chests of the marine squad were
totally hairless, the barrel chests of the special forces’ squad were thick
with matted hair. The barrel chests of the army squad were mixed. However,
the army squad all had bull sized balls. The Sgts
themselves fitted the pattern. Did they select the volunteers using these
criteria? The Commander
addressed the three squads: ‘Squads! This
morning you will execute the reconstruction game. Your Sgts
asked for a lasting gift. The Sgts request
permission for a fight to the death. I considered the matter seriously. You
are soldiers trained to kill instinctively. It’s unreasonable to expect a
mock fight. Our Pirate Island location permits unrestrained combat. You are
grown-up soldiers playing zealous games with cocks and balls. Some of you
brazenly enjoy combat... Yesterday you dug
the trenches. Here, drive home the Cold Steel. You prepared the stakeouts
area. Make the executions memorable. Three Pirate Island companies will watch
your game. They expect you to fight with guts. Remember, you volunteered for
the WW1 reconstruction. There is a waiting list for replacements... Does any soldier
wish to withdraw? If so, form up in front of our guest.’ Two special force
soldiers formed up in front of me. Their hairy chests were magnificent. I
imagined they would taunt many spectators; especially when they were spreadeagled and staked-out on the killing ground.
Frankly, two combatants would get extreme pleasure castrating the cocks and
balls. An ex-marine like me would even like to do it. I called across the
Commander’s aide. Already, he had specific orders about processing shirkers
and providing immediate replacements. ‘The Sgts’ request is granted. However, in return for this
gift give something special back to the spectators, the guest, me and your
fellow fighters. Show us spontaneous cock aroused by brutal combat. Our guest behind me
is Retired Marine Sgt Major Ralph Davis. He supplied us with forty rifles
with fixed bayonets reconstructed in the style of WW1. The Sgt Major will
adjudicate. Also, he’s created
a game for you to play within the stakeouts area. Follow his instructions
carefully. Make sure every cock spurts. Remember under Pirate Island rules, a
spurting cock in combat becomes a bulls-eye target. Have fun; have a ball.
There were many trench assaults during WW1. Of course, the number of fighters
greatly exceeds what we, today, can imagine. Portray yourself as a WW1
fighter. Assault a WW1 trench. Use a WW1 weapon. The victorious squad will be
awarded trophies... Sgts! Fetch the trophy box. Put one
trophy around the neck of the Sgt Major. Accompany him as he shows the trophy
to the squads!’ The Sgts marched across to the side of the parade ground
area, picked up the box of trophies, marched
back to me, stopped, turned, saluted. I felt the incredible zest which the
winning squad members will feel. Two Sgts took out
one trophy-- a necklace made out military wire-- placed it around my neck.
The genitals were retrieved from the previous day’s grudge match. There were
ten sets attached to the military wire. The Sgts accompanied me as I inspected the troops a second
time. Predictably, I got a hard-on wearing the trophy, examining the facial
expressions of the troops as they closely inspected the trophy. The facial
expressions ranged from a mild fear to horror at the danger, from a
controlled smirk to outright pleasure and from curiosity to a firm resolve. I’m confident I
looked radiant. I deliberately stopped in front of each Private for maximum
viewing. I stood upright with a - hard as rock iron - cock pointing at the
Privates, my neck adorned with authentic cocks and balls. Did the troops
recognize the cocks and balls from fallen Pirate Island warriors? Had they
seen and felt the cocks fucking male arses? Many -
hard as rock iron - cocks saluted the trophy. These privates had the firm
resolve to do it to others; the others had the firm resolve to relish the
danger. The Sgts escorted me back to the place of honour,
returned the trophy to the box, marched back to their squads. Then the Sgts laughed loudly. The Privates’ faces smiled again.
The tensions relaxed. Every soldier on Pirate Island waits for action. Many
squads already have combat experience. The squads have periods of monotony
broken by dreaming of executing operational orders. It’s a gripping moment
for every soldier when he gets combat orders. He will shortly, with official
permission, kill enemy soldiers and may be killed himself. He may castrate
soldiers but, in turn, he may get his. ‘Sgts! The Sgt Major will present a short weapon’s lesson
under the oak tree. Sgts! March the squads over
there. Return immediately for detailed orders.’ The Weapons Lesson: The squads were
dumbfounded when they sighted the tooth serrated edge of the blade. However, the
sixteen-inch length impressed them. I enjoyed the impact as it registered
that this was the only Weapon of the Day. The Privates muttered ‘Fuck!’ and
other obscenities. I let them handle
the rifle to get a good grip. Gradually they felt more comfortable with the
rifle. Nevertheless, I
filled them in about the machine-guns which were so effective in WW1. An
American engineer Hiram Maxim developed a machine-gun as early as 1884. The
Lewis Gun was a resounding success. Machine-gunners had dream targets in
large scale trench assaults. A trench assault required Vickers or Lewis
machine gun support. The squads were
awed at the number of the machine guns hits. They laughed with relief when I
mentioned I couldn’t supply any WW1 machine guns for today. I arrived at the
moment when the opposing troops faced each other in the trenches. I checked
my excitement and coldly told them that the troops aimed for the guts or the
chest. They were surprised to learn the first drive home didn’t kill
outright. Furthermore, the soldier would still have enough strength to
retaliate with force. The lesson was
interrupted when a Private beckoned a Sgt for a piss break. The Sgt whispered
in my ear. I quickly got the message. ‘Private. March
over here. Lie down on your back on the ground. Now watch this everyone. The
Private is going to take his cock with the right hand. He aims upwards. He
starts to piss. The piss cascades all over his chest.’ Everybody chortles.
‘Watch my cock.’ I piss, right over his face and into his mouth. The Privates
were surprised to see that my cock pissed with such a large stream. Some
Privates admired my bull sized balls.
If I hadn’t been a marine, I would have secretly wagered a victory for the
army G.I.’s with the bull sized balls. I knew from my background that the
marines and special forces’ squad would covet collecting the bull sized
balls. The lesson settled
down after that. Two special force
replacements arrived before the rifles were issued. One was six-feet plus
high. The other one was just over five-feet high. Frankly wearing the
coloured bandannas was a distraction. The Commander
obeyed orders from above. Pirate Island soldiers were expected to exterminate
every target of opportunity on the Island. Yet, at the same time the assault
would bolster his own combat thirst. Sometimes he missed the bayonet
point-to-point killing. The First Sighting: The Commander
determined that the squads would pike each other. Therefore, he arranged for
the squads to expend valuable energy on the way to the killing ground. He
wanted the squads arriving in a bad mood which could only be allayed by
combat lust. Ninety-nine
spectators sighted the squads at a distance. Marines stormed ashore on crude
landing crafts. They occupied a trench position at the southern end. Special
forces ran along the beach to occupy a trench position at the northern end.
Spectators laughed when the army marched along the beach from the other
direction. The army occupied the middle trench. This was nearest the
spectator. The Commander and I
started off in the wooden viewing platform between the spectators and the
fighters. We needed the slings to rest the weapons over our shoulders. The
fixed bayonet satisfied the commander’s immediate expectations. Now, we would
watch the bayonet in action. The First Two Stakeouts: Commander “T”
disciplined the two special force soldiers who chickened out of the games. He
checked them into two stakeout positions. Discipline: The Sgts with two scouts from his squad skirted the
stakeouts’ area. Two Privates, once
spectators, faced each other in the stakeouts’ area. They were being
disciplined for unspecified charges. The first Private turned around, saw the
squad scouts blocking any exit. The second Private pulled the WW1 reconstructed
rifle out of the ground, advanced towards his target who grasped his small
commando boot knife in the right hand. The Commander was
impressed. The sixteen-inch blade stuck straight through the chest; the small
commando boot knife slashed the throat. Both Privates locked themselves into
an embrace. Round One: Whilst the two
Privates took a few minutes to expire, the scouts skirted around each other.
Two marines (wearing red) isolated a special force soldier (wearing black). He
calmly pulled two weapons out of the ground, used the weapon as a spear and
impaled both marines. The Commander’s hands strayed, I’m sure, to check
whether my balls were getting the message. Another special force scout joined
the marines who were buckled with the fixed bayonet sticking right through
their torsos. The special force scouts lowered the marines so that their
backs were flat on the sand, spread-eagled their limbs to show a classic
image of impalement. I guess I’m biased because I was a marine. Two marines
looked magnificent, spread-eagled and impaled onto the sand. Their hardened
cocks looked striking at this distance. It was fitting that the special
forces’ scouts pulled the cocks. The two marines were obviously in great
pain; they raised their heads so that they could look at their spurting
cocks. They looked across at each other, saw the two cocks spurt, felt the
release amongst the pressure. In a flash they remembered eyeing each other’s
cock off in the showers and now regretted not going down on the cock. The
special forces’ scouts overcame a certain clumsiness in handling the weapon.
The Commander and I, ninety-seven soldiers, the two army scouts, and
especially all four participants watched intensely. Fixed bayonets hacked off
the marines’ cocks and balls. The special forces’ scouts held them up for
everybody to see. The two army scouts
surprised everybody by hacking up the disciplined Privates. They brought the
Privates’ privates across to the marines, shoving them into their mouths. The special forces’
scouts reciprocated. Hopefully, by the end of the Assault, the fallen
warriors will sport dripping cocks and balls in their mouths. Commander “T” likes
to see soldiers impale each other. He also believes that soldiers might enjoy
a painful -slow-death on the battlefield, hearing the cries of exaltation and
defeat. The two army scouts
sent a message to the special force Sgt. Consider joining forces to wipe out
the marines. The Assault: The marine Sgt
quickly assessed that his squad was two down. The other squads would assess
his squad as weak. He decided to attack the closest trench occupied by the
army. The G.I.’s might be a bit thick in the head compared with his flexible
marines. Before the special
force Sgt could consider the joint force proposal, he saw the marines
advancing towards the central trench. He decided to allow the marines to
first attack the army G.I’s. Then his special forces’ squad would literally
attack the marines from behind. It didn’t matter how dirty this fighting
would be. A bayonet through the guts would settle the ethical question. Four G.I.’s lay
chest down on the sand mound in front of the trench; the sand settled across their chests
and down into their public area. Five G.I.’s crouched on both legs in the
trench itself. The army Sgt and Cpl watched the advancing marines. I knew from marine
bayonet training that the advancing marines had a sharp edge over the army
G.I.’s. The marine Sgt surprised the spectators when he shouted: “Attack!” There was almost no
tactics. The attack was simply nine marines confronting the army G.I.’s with the
intention of bayonetting them. Two G.I.’s were bayonetted in the back, impaled into the mound. The
marines confiscated the
fallen G.I.’s weapons. The other mound G.I.’s scored two marines with a
frontal thrust into their guts. Blood drenched the weapons. The army Cpl was
impaled from two directions, back and front. Whilst his body registered the
shock, a marine used his weapon to hack off his cock and balls. The marine
stuffed them into his mouth. The planned marine
attack on the army trench was simple. However, the marines didn’t have enough
force to score a decisive victory. In the trench: two army G.I.’s and two
marines bayonetted each other. One army G.I. rifle
butted and knocked two marines unconscious for the moment. The special forces’
squad attacked at the strategic moment when the marines and army G.I.’s were
regrouping. However, both the special force Sgt and Cpl were bayonetted in the initial charge. The marine Cpl took out
the Sgt who was surprised to feel the bayonet sticking right through his
guts. The army Sgt took out the Cpl. He swiped the Cpl’s hairy chest with an
“X” with the bayonet, then thrust the bayonet through the guts. The Cpl wanted to
fight back but the body blow was unbearable. He dropped his weapon, spread
his arms out and collapsed backwards into the sand. The five G.I.’s
chased four special force Privates immediately. I was surprised to
see five special forces take on the marine Sgt, Cpl and conscious Private.
The special force Privates pulled additional tent pegs out of the tops of
their boots, followed by
rope for the fifth stakeout. The captured marine Sgt, Cpl and conscious Private
were manhandled in the most arousing way. They were spreadeagled
into the sand,
staked out, tied securely to the ropes. Their weapons were stuck upright in
the sand beside them. Despite the strength of the marines, they couldn’t
break free from the stakes. They now displayed erect cocks to taunt the
fighters and the spectators. Only cock milking, castration and impalement
could release them from their predicament. The special force
Privates released the other two captives provided they fighted
for the special forces. Two marines
regained consciousness in the trench. Unfortunately for them, they attracted
the attention of two passing special force Privates. The special forces have
a ‘way’ with the bayonet which is uncompromising, merciless and effective. It
involves disemboweling the
guts, slashing the throat and hacking the back of the neck for good measure.
Occasionally a set of cock and balls remains momentarily intact before it is
hacked off. The action is very bloody. Participant cocks were stiff and on
heat during the carnage. Commander “T” was pleased. Spectators shouted
remarks like “Play a terminal game! Pull them off!” I awarded points to both
sides. Eventually, the soldiers did pause from the fighting. They played a
pernicious, terminal game. I ran across to establish control of the game. I
quickly reminded them of the rules. I blew the opening whistle. They slung
the weapon across their back; they faced an opponent with both hands free;
they smiled first, grasped an erect cock, played and squeezed the tight
balls, pulled foreskins back. The four participants tried to hold their cocks
back from spurting. The spectators felt the tension; even some of them were
holding their cocks back from spurting. The first cock spurted at three
minutes. I blew the whistle once when each cock spurted to my satisfaction. I
blew the whistle three times when the players were ready to attack. Two vs one: the special force Privates bayonetted
one marine before he had a chance to catch his
breath. The sixteen-inch blade drove through the torso with killing force. This was
accompanied by a thrilling castration. This was followed by savage
disemboweling, really pulling the guts right out on the sand plus hacking the
back of the neck. Of course, their special force cocks spurted as they hacked
away. The second marine was confused. He attacked me. I parried left. This
movement wasn’t enough. I had to deliver a solid butt stroke in his groin
area to open up his guard. He took the sixteen-inch blade centre chest as a
marine. I felt true satisfaction as I pulled the blade out for a second
thrust. His arms were spread wide open. He dropped his weapon when the blade
went into his guts. I impaled him on the sand. Quickly, I picked up his
weapon and impaled him through the neck. I’m afraid the
marine squad was reduced to a spreadeagled Sgt, Cpl
and Private awaiting execution. The special force Privates took advantage of
the spectator interest in terminal games. They impaled the spreadeagled marines in the order of spurting cocks: the
Private, Cpl and lastly the Sgt. They left the cocks and balls alone for the
moment. Then, they
regrouped. There were now eleven special force Privates versus an army Sgt
with five G.I.’s. The army moved and occupied the empty marine trench. They
also collected about a
dozen weapons wrenched from the guts of slowly dying soldiers. The special forces lost
their advantage of the free-for-all close combat. They mounted a conventional
assault on the trench. The Commander and I
walked off the tower, occupied a field position from which we could see the
detail. At the climax to
this assault, the sixteen-inch blade did a magnificent job. The army Sgt
killed three special force Privates before the fourth thrust a blade right
through his neck. He took a while to
die. He was able to see his five G.I.’s attack the eight remaining special
force. He slipped into unconsciousness dreaming of cocks and balls, hairychests, bayonets thrust in and out of male torsos,
spurting cocks... I expected the
special forces to win but nobody assumed the leadership of their fallen Sgt
and Cpl. In fact, the G.I.’s pulled steady military punches. The G.I.’s head
butted wherever they could, they kept away from close confrontation wherever
possible. Two of the special forces slipped on the mound height. Three G.I.’s
held them upside down in the trench by their boots. The other two G.I.’s
stuck the fixed bayonets down their arses. The screams were
almighty. Impaled special forces struggled to break free with their legs; of
course, a sixteen-inch impalement up their arse is
fatal. The spectators thought it looked dramatic. The remaining six special
forces charged into the six-foot trench. For a few minutes it wasn’t clear
what had happened. When the Commander and I arrived at the trench, it seemed
that ten male bodies were writhing with bayonets stuck right through the
torsos. So much blood splashed everywhere it took a while to recognize the
cocks spurting for the last time. The surviving G.I. took a hard look at the
Commander and me, a deep breath, and then positioned his weapon. He slowly
walked up the trench, stopping to castrate a set of cock and balls and shove
it into another mouth. He stumbled half way up the trench beckoning us to
finish him off. The Commander jumped into the trench, thrust the bayonet
right into his guts. The Commander and I hacked the remaining sets of cocks
and balls in the trench. When we returned to
the spreadeagled marine bodies, the Commander
insisted that I, as a marine, souvenir the marine Sgt’s, Cpl’s and Private’s
sets of cocks and balls. On the one hand, it was careless of the marines to
get captured; on the other hand, precisely because they were marine, their
cocks and balls were truly impressive souvenirs of my trip to Pirate Island.
The Commander and I handed the Game Trophy over to a delighted army
spectator. I guess I was lucky to leave
Pirate Island victorious. According to arms dealers, additional weapon
shipments were consigned to and used on Pirate Island subsequently. |
