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A fire warms up my mouth

by Ratboy

(sent by Psychouzibear)

(Images by Firingsquadnut)

Duty	Penalty
I'm working my way with the remaining two of my men along the corridor, our boots stomping against the damp concrete floor and echoing off the bland grey walls and the steel panels of the doors either side. With us are two of the cell block guards - the lowest in our organization and tasked with making sure the scum held after an action were detained in between interrogation sessions and until no longer needed. Takes a special kind of scum to find benefit in the job and am sure these two have been enjoying themselves down here on their shift. Their disposal fell to my platoon. Not much fun for the guys as it had meant getting up early and hanging around a cold yard. Not too great an honor, either, in being detailed to finish these kind of scum. Usually keep away from the likes of them - they have a tendency to eventually smell like the conditions they keep down in the cell areas and the prisoners they are responsible for. (But then they tend to be just one step removed from being the kind of scum that end up in the cells anyway.) But need to have them to hand identify each required cell and unlock its door. Have a list of those I need.	Boots stomping against the damp concrete floor and echoing off the bland grey walls and the steel panels of the doors either side. Yep, could hear them coming back. Obviously haven't finished making up the line out there in the yard. Suspected something was up as the movement out there had been too early, even by my dodgy reckoning, for the morning meal. (Not that cold porridge made with water could be classed as much of a meal - drank from or lapped up, as practical at the time, from a bowl. Still was feeling empty - had been long since last evening's bowl of cold beans.) Well, the end had to come. How many today? My turn? The boots stop outside my cell. Yep, my turn. Still maybe a chance to see the sky.
One of the cell guards identifies the last cell needed. He takes a key from the collection on his chain and sets about unlocking the door. My two men behind me brace back in expectation, I involuntary put my hand in front of my nose and mouth. Automatic reaction. As the cell door opens the stench from inside wafts out.	There is a jingle of keys and then the lock is activated. The door is swung open and a shaft of light breaks in. As the cell door opens, I see that the men outside stand back - obviously the cell (and me!) must stink, but have evidently got used to the accumulated ordure of sweat, piss and shit. Have been kept in darkness most of the time - though the guards lit the cell when they came in last night... Not that what they did was much more of a humiliation after what the interrogator had done to me during those last sessions. My body still aches from the way that truncheon was used up me.
Sweat, piss and shit. The putrid air is warm in the dark cell - standard practice to keep prisoners either in constant light or total darkness, depending on the instructions of the interrogator or the whim, once the questioning was over, of the guards. They are not too fussy about hygiene down here - anyone who ends up down in these cells is a goner already when he enters. The guard switches on the light at the panel to the side of the door. I look into the cell.	Still, they had bored of me and, from the cries of whoever they had moved onto, they made up for it. The whimpering had carried on from down the corridor all night - though had stopped not so long ago. We all know that any of us who ends up down in these cells is a goner for certain. Only way out is either death under torture or when the bastards decide to clear out the cells and finish off those no long of use. Light explodes about the cell and I try to shield my eyes after so long in the dark. Can just make out them looking into the cell.
The prisoner is sloughed on the floor of the bare cell in a corner. He is wearing a dirt soiled red and blue checked shirt which has been ripped apart to expose the grubby t-shirt underneath, work coveralls and army boots. (They are our issue - obviously stolen from somewhere or bartered on the black market - and have no laces, which have been removed to make sure the prisoner doesn't try to finish himself off before we have finished with him.) Around his neck are the torn remains of the ski mask he was caught wearing when the scums' plot was been blown. The clothing is torn from handling and stained from where he has pissed and shat himself. Down the front of his t-shirt are stains of dried blood - he had obviously been given a full interrogation and the bruises about his face give further evidence of this. Coveralls. Not as easy to work with and time's pressing.	What do they see? Am sloughed on the floor of the cell in the corner. Am wearing an old woolen sweater, work coveralls and army boots. (They are their issue - took off one of their dead soldiers after we took out one of their patrols - the laces were cut away by the guards, either to hinder me in an escape attempt or so I do not try to finish myself off before they've finished with me.) Around my neck are the torn remains of the ski mask I was wearing when we were betrayed. Surprised it has survived and have kept it as a sign of my being with the resistance. All my other clothing is torn from handling and stained from where I've been restrained most of the time during interrogations and between sessions - had to piss and shit as I was. Not that it matters - they do not provide latrines down here. Down the front of my sweater are stains of dried blood - in the last couple of interrogation sessions, the torturer no longer needed to be subtle about his methods. My face aches with the bruises from the slaps and punches. Can feel the gap where a tooth was knocked out.
Regulations say any of these criminal terrorist scum one captures has to be effectively questioned and the interrogators need to make sure they get any information before the scum's comrades still at large have time to take countermeasures. The regulations are vague on the methods to be used and I know the interrogators on our staff have varied and individual ways of extracting information out of these fuckers. Have listened to some of them discussing their work at mealtime. Always interesting... They had joked about the last batch brought in; one had cried all the time during questioning, even before they started on him; one had croaked on them as they strung him up by his wrists. Another had seemed to enjoy being interrogated, especially when one of the interrogators had got one of the guards to fuck the spread-eagled prisoner with a riot baton....	My body aches from the various ways they have used over the last week to make me talk. Not that it was unexpected - standard practice with these bastards. Treat us like criminals. We have a just cause and should be treated as proper soldiers, is what the rules say. Still, these bastards torture their own at the least excuse.
I have my two men go in and force the prisoner to his feet. Once both have a grip of an arm, I have them turn the prisoner around, none too happy to be that near the putrid smelling scum. I notice that the seat of his coveralls has been torn away. I turn to the guards in the corridor and one gives me a leer back. The other seems too busy with twisting his rubber truncheon. Yep, they have been enjoying themselves. That had been obvious from the cell where we had found one young prisoner, whimpering, chained up with his trousers already around his ankles. These scum had made do since no females had been brought in the last round-up...	Two of the soldiers come in and force me to my feet. They each grab one of my arms. It is obviously from the distance they try to keep they are none too happy to be that near me in this state. They turn me around in the cell. Whoever is behind me will notice that the seat of my coveralls have been torn away. The guards obviously knew I was due this morning when they came in during the night. One held me down and secured my hands while the other ripped the seams of the coveralls' seat. They took turns and I can still remember their stale breath as they exerted themselves. Should have guessed my time was up after they stopped taking me away for interrogation a couple of days ago and didn't bother to leave me chained up in the cell.
Enter the cell and approach the back of the prisoner. Take a length of rope from the loop in my belt. The smell almost makes me gag. Work the rope round the prisoner's arms. Pull it tight and knot it - no need to worry about circulation. Once I've moved back from the prisoner my men turn him round towards the door - his loose boots scrape and slosh across the cell's floor as they handle him.	There are boot steps behind me and an intake of breath - obviously whoever it is is taking in the ordure of piss and shit. Then feel a rope being placed around my wrists. It is pulled tight and knotted. Wince as feel the circulation being cut into. Once I've moved back from the prisoner, the guards turn me round towards the door - my loose boots scrape and slop across the cell's floor as they manhandle me. Difficult to get a tread. Am facing now towards the one in charge. Glance at his rank insignia. Yep, an officer. He looks in disgust at me - not just at what I stand for but also the state I'm in.
I look at the state of him and turn back to the cell guards. "You've been letting them shit themselves?" One of them nods with too eager a smile. Have to change that. These scum, even if they work for us, need to be taught a lesson. The prisoner bows his head, as if in embarrassment. "Then you better, once we've got rid of the scum, get these cells cleaned out sharply. We'll be needing them soon enough." The smile begins to slip. "And I shall come back and make sure you've done it - if it isn't done right shall make sure your superiors know and they will know how to deal with you."	He turns to the two cell guards out in the corridor. "You've been letting them shit themselves?" One of them nods with an eager smile. The officer looks at him sharply. I bow my head, am embarrassed that I'm being left in this condition. He barks at the guards, "Then you better, once we've got rid of the scum, get these cells cleaned out sharply. We'll be needing them soon enough." And with menace he adds, "And I shall come back and make sure you've done it - if it isn't done right will make sure your superiors know and they will know how to deal with you."
Yep, they would. Usual practice is for the duty sergeant to take an errant guard to one of the cells and give him a good kicking. That is how the system works. Know my corporals give the men the necessary punishment when required. May come back and do it to one of these guards myself later. Depends how things go.	Yep, the bastards would. Is well known that the locally employed traitors are dealt with harshly by their employers - not harshly enough, though, for the fucking traitors they are. Am sure one of the sergeants would only be too happy to kick the shit out of these two. None too few of 'em end up swinging from the bastards' gallows for some misdemeanor or a disrespect shown. Hide a smile of satisfaction. The fuckers may just pay for being traitors and maybe even for what they did to me during the night. Or some of our guys will get them one day and string 'em up from a lamppost...
I have my men pull the prisoner out of the cell and into the corridor. Move behind the prisoner as one of the men pulls his head back. The prisoner moans at the strain on his neck muscles. Take a cloth and force it over the prisoner's eyes and knot it behind his head. He will not be enjoying any last sunrise.	They pull me out of the cell and into the corridor and then pull my head back. I moan at the strain as a cloth is forced over my eyes and knotted behind my head. My vision is reduced to vague shadows against the dull light that comes through the fabric. No look at the sky or last sunrise then. They drag me along the corridor. I gave a moan as they grip into my arms to force me along. Behind me I can hear a flush and a fine spray of water drifts in the air. That sound along with the sudden movement makes me lose control and I feel the warm trickle down my leg as I piss into my coveralls. The two soldiers start as they realize. One of them calls back. "He's pissed himself, Sir." I can feel damp spreading over my abused coverall legs.
I order my men to drag the prisoner along the corridor. Draw my pistol from its holster, just in case he tries to do anything. He moans as my men grip hard into him and force him along. The smell from him trails as I follow up the rear. Behind us the two guards start to wash the cell down with a fire hose. A fine spray of water fills the air. As we move along the corridor my men suddenly stop. I come up. "He's pissed himself, Sir." I look down and can see a fresh path of dark damp on his abused coverall legs and a small pool on the corridor's floor. "Let's get him out of here and get rid of him along with the other bastards quickly as possible." "Yes Sir."	They drag me along the corridor. I gave a moan as they grip into my arms to force me along. Behind me I can hear a flush and a fine spray of water drifts in the air. That sound along with the sudden movement makes me lose control and I feel the warm trickle down my leg as I piss into my coveralls. The two soldiers start as they realize. One of them calls back, "He's pissed himself, Sir." I can feel damp spreading over my abused coverall legs. "Let's get him out there and get rid of him as quickly as possible," the officer barks behind me. "Yes Sir."
We start to move off again, with my men kicking the prisoner forward with their boots. We come out into the open air. The prisoner starts to shake as the cold air hits his sweat and piss moist body and starts to resist as the realization of what is to happen to him sinks in. Our boots echo against the high walls of the yard. The rest of my men are waiting.	With that, we start to move off again, with the two either side of me kicking at me with their boots. Then I feel the open air. I start as the cold air hits me and begin to resist as the realization of what is happening to me sinks in. Their boots echo against the walls. I can hear others waiting.
"Let's get this one in place." The prisoner stops resisting as the two take him by the bound arms and force him over to the far wall. There the other four taken from the cells this morning are waiting against the wall - which is marked with targets painted on it and pocked from earlier operations.	There is a bark of "Let's get this one in place." Have stopped resisting and am now being dragged by the arms across from where we entered. Can sense there are others up ahead - maybe the other four they had taken out already? Had heard no firing, so they must have waited. Maybe I was the last.
There is one space left with three to the left and one on the right - so this fucking shit-smelling scum isn't going to get the place of honor amongst the rest of the scum to be disposed of. Each is bound and blindfolded and anchored by a rope from their hands to a chain that runs along the base of the wall. Each has his trousers collapsed about his ankles from their transit from the cells. They all stink of piss and shit - none has been allowed to clean himself since his capture. And the yard hasn't been cleaned from the last couple of lots to be disposed of.	Am forced into a space, the echo making me aware that there was a wall behind me. Can smell, after the cleaning but brief fresh air again the stink of piss and shit - obviously my treatment was not unique. Also there was a slight smell about - suspected that it was the leftovers from the previously couple of days' work by the troops. Would make sense - no point cleaning up if you're going to make another mess there so soon afterwards.
The men position the prisoner into the gap with his back towards the wall, and use another rope to tie an anchor to the chain on the ground behind him. He stands, scared, still. I move forward and make my final inspection of the line - making sure they are all anchored in. As I come to the prisoner we had just brought, I notice he is stiff under the fabric of his coveralls. The others are shrivelled up in the dawn cold. I turn to my men as they assemble in the yard and call out, "Look men - this fucker is enjoying himself." The men jeer back. The guy on the prisoner's left, though blindfolded, turns towards the prisoner. Knows which of the line I have singled out. The stiff prisoner pulls his body in, as much as the ropes allowed, in obvious embarrassment. He obviously wants to die now, knowing the contempt he is held in by one his comrades, even behind the anonymity of the blindfolds.	After they position me, I feel another rope being used to tie my hands to some anchor. From the sounds of the metal, I guess it is a chain. I stand there, making myself appear oblivious to what is going on, but begin to realize that my cock has not shrunk from when I pissed on the way over. That is unsettling. The officer moves about making his check of the line - from the noise of breathing, there is someone on either side of me. Can make out that the officer is in front of me. Hoping he will not notice the stiffening cock in my coveralls. But he is sharp. He shouts back to his men, "Look men - this fucker is enjoying himself." There are jeers back. I'm hoping no one on the line realizes it is me and I pull my body in, as much as the ropes allow, in obvious embarrassment. Want to die now, before the others work out who it is the officer is referring to. But, thankfully, they are all blindfolded like me.
I finish my inspection. One of my corporals starts going along the line cutting the clothing of each of five prisoners so that their chests are bared. He gets to the fourth prisoner and rips apart the cloth of the t-shirt. The corporal snickers and comments on the prisoner's erection, which is still tent poling in the coveralls, as he forces the cloth apart to expose the prisoner's torso. The prisoner on the left in the center of the line knows now which one it is and starts to shift away. White paint is used to mark the aiming point on each chest. The paint is thick enough to apply, but still some drips down the abused torsos. I call to my assembled men: "Right men - those are your aiming marks." The prisoners shudder as the drips play down their bodies.	There is the sound of ripping somewhere to my right. Suddenly I feel my sweater being cut apart and my chest bared. Whoever is doing it knows about my erection, which is still tent poling in my coveralls. They snicker and comment - there will be no doubt with the guys either side of me now. As I am thinking of the embarrassment, there is a sudden cold smear applied to my chest - where my heart is. Whatever they have applied, it is dripping down my torso. There is a shout: "Right men - those are your aiming marks." I shudder as I realize I have become a marked man.
I move back towards my men - they have formed in a line under the direction of one of the corporals. Only have ten on the firing detail - two to make sure each of the scum gets slotted. Make sure my pistol is back in its holster - but leaving the cover unclipped so I can draw it out when necessary. I look down at the polished toecaps of my boots - dust from the yard's floor has settled on them. Look over to my platoon - they are dressed in the same combats and boots and berets as I am. They wear webbing and carry their rifles.	Can hear the firing squad being formed at the other end of the yard - boots moving about and the clank of weapons being handled. How many? How many have they assigned to make sure we are finished off?
I look back at the line of prisoners. Some of them on the left are starting to moan. The second one from the left begins to cry. The prisoner to the right of the one with the erection seems to be trying to distance himself, in apparent disgust, from him. I call to one of my corporals - "Get that fucking bastard back into line, Corporal!" The corporal forces him back. The scum had no right to be choosy about who he gets wasted next too. Even if it is that fucker with the stiff. Should have though about that before he joined those so called 'freedom fighters'.	There is quiet moaning along the line while someone starts openly to cry. There is a shout. "Get that fucking bastard back into line, Corporal!" One of the prisoners has tried to move - one to the left of me. In disgust of me? There is movement and I hear him being forced back into position. He emits a snort of disgust - obviously at me. But still my cock rears up.
The firing detail lines up with their rifles in the rest position. They look, despite the nature of the duties, disciplined. Just as is right - have trained those guys to follow orders and we have had plenty of unpleasant tasks to perform. Complete contrast to the criminal terrorist scum against the wall - in soiled rags and stinking of their own piss. Some still bleeding from their last questioning. All show evidence of the abuse needed to process them.	Should have got killed fighting - this is no way to end, being a spectacle for these fuckers. Come on, do it!
Check my watch - how much of my time will this take? The scum should have been shot in the field when first captured - on their knees, into a pit with a slug in the back of the neck. Or strung up and made to dance at the end of a rope, as an example. Yep, that was more suitable - get 'em up on a stool or on the tailgate of a truck and noosed up. Then either kick the stool away or push the fuckers off the tailgate. A much more effective deterrent to the others than some of the ideas the command comes up with. Fucking 'hearts and minds', weed out the troublemakers, make some examples and then things would be settled. Our interrogators could have tortured them there without all this. I could have tortured them. Just a bunch of criminals. Or just pathetic. Freedom Fighters! Look at the bowed heads and listen to the gathering whimpering. Catch a whiff of the crap. Just fucking fodder for the men to practice their shooting at.
Turn back to my men. "DETAIL!" They brace. The prisoners' heads jerk up aimlessly in an attempt to comprehend what is happening. "DETAIL-SHUN!" A snap of boots echoes out as my men get into the position of attention. The prisoner crying begins to beg to be spared. One of the others shouts at him to dry up. "DETAIL, SHOULDER RIFLES!" There is a clack of metal as weapons are manoeuvred. I glimpse at the prisoners who are bracing their bodies in reaction to the metallic sound. The prisoner with the erection is still stiff.	"DETAIL!" Involuntarily raise my head at the order as I try to comprehend what they are doing. "DETAIL-SHUN!" Boots echo about into place. One of the guys - must be the fucking blubber - to my left is now begging to be spared. One of the others shouts at him to dry up. What should he expect from these fucking bastards? Not mercy. They enjoy what they do. "DETAIL, SHOULDER RIFLES!" Brace up. Feel my cock building.
"DETAIL, POSITION YOUR RIFLES AT THE SHOULDER!" More movement of metal. The rifle barrels are now aimed towards the line against the wall. "MAKE READY!" They work a round into the chamber and safety catches are slid off. The prisoners obviously chill at the noise of the parts being engaged. "TAKE AIM!"	"DETAIL, POSITION YOUR RIFLES AT THE SHOULDER!" Why? This shouldn't be happening. I shouldn't be thinking of a hard-on now! Should be preparing to show these bastard how we are prepared to die for our cause. "MAKE READY!" Rounds are slid into the chambers. Cock still hard. Why? A chill runs through me as the working parts move into place. Still stiff against my thigh. "TAKE AIM!"
The prisoner who has been crying starts to shift about, his efforts limited by the rope anchoring him to the chain behind. Still not good, as it will put some of my men off. Piss, steaming in the cold, trickles down his legs. Two of the others on the left of the line, stand staring forward in apathy - including the one with the erection. The other two push back into the wall against the painted targets, seeking some kind of safety. I smile to myself; always happens, they panic. No guts. Moisten my lips - see the men steadying their rifles, fingers on the trigger. Check one last time at the line against the wall and see the prisoners are mostly bracing themselves for what is going to happen. Turn back to the detail.	The crying continues. I feel I am staring forward apathetically. There is movement along the line as some of the guys tense up and step back onto the wall. Run my tongue along my lips in anticipation. Brace myself.
"FIRE!"	"FIRE!"
Shots ring out as each member of the firing detail releases one round towards the wall and the brass falls onto the yard floor. Smoke fills the air and the smell of cordite stings at the nostrils. The sound of the rounds hitting their targets is dampened by the echo of the firing in the yard. As the smoke clears, I turn towards the wall to see what has happened. The prisoner on the far left has been thrown against the wall and is slouched at its base. The one next to him, who has been only winged in the upper right arm as he moved, is sprawled on the ground moaning. No brains to go with having no guts - anyone sensible would have tried to play dead and chance being missed. The next prisoner is crouched on the ground, having been thrown against the wall by the impact and then sliding down - there is a stain of fresh blood smeared down the wall above him. The prisoner with the erection has fallen, but is obviously winged with the one next to him, slumped down onto his knees and moaning with his head bowed into his chest.	Noise fills the air. Feel the sting of something biting into my side. Too low to be on target. It winds me and I lose my stand and start to fall towards the ground. I land in a cloud of dust, instinctively turning slightly so as to protect my face. Feel the draft as something is thrown back to my right. Try to work out the nature of my wound - am not dead, that is for certain. The pain is on one side of my torso. Must be something just more serious than a graze. Pain. Can feel the trickle of blood into the dust as I lie on the ground. Am winged, but still hard.... There is someone moaning to my right with a more cushioned moaning above me somewhere to my left. The bastards are not that fucking hot at shooting. The smell of cordite fills the air and there is the stench of fresh blood, piss and shit. Know the blood smell must be coming from me, but hope that the others are not...
Shall have to check this. Turn towards the men and angrily shout at them. "DETAIL, MAKE SAFE!" The click of safeties being applied rings out over the moans of agony from the wall. Do not want to get shot by some fucking negligent fiddling about with a trigger.	The quiet is broken with the order, "DETAIL, MAKE SAFE!" Safeties resound on application as they briefly drown out the moans I can hear about me.
Pulling my pistol from the holster, I walk over to the wall. I check, starting from the left, each prisoner. The first prisoner is still breathing, but more or less wasted on the ground. The next is winged and grovelling in the dirt. The one crouched at the base of the wall is moaning - a chest wound. The light plays off the smear of blood on the wall that marked his descent downward. Kick at the one grovelling on the ground. "Get up, you shit!" He has, in terror, crapped himself. Look down at the one who had the erection - see the round has passed to the side of his torso. Is keeping quiet. Turn to the prisoner to the right. He is still on his knees with his head bowed. Obviously still alive. Order one of the corporals to force him onto his feet. Look back to the one on the left - notice he is still hard. Fucker.	There is the sound of boots moving towards us and then heading off to my right. There is the sound of shuffling and then a harsh shout. "Get up, you shit!" Not near enough to be aimed at me. Must be that fucking waste of space they stacked up with us. The boots pass. Grit my teeth as I stifle a moan from the pain of my wound. Then the voice directs someone to move someone on my left. I'm getting very unsteady now but feel my balls throbbing. My ears are ringing now.
Turn towards the firing detail and berate them. "You bastards - we'll have to do the fuckers again. I ain't doing all the fucking work for you!" And then to one of the corporals, "Corporal, make sure those scum get to their feet - leave the one on the end at the left - will finish him off when we've done the rest of 'em." Then, pointing to the prisoner with the erection. "And make sure that shit stinking fucker with the hard-on is up - make sure he gets the full treatment since he enjoys it."	The officer is berating the firing squad and screams, "You bastards - we'll have to do the fuckers again. Because I am not doing all the fucking work for you!" Then in our direction, "Corporal, make sure those scum get to their feet - leave the one on the end at the left - will finish him off when we've done. And make sure that shit stinking fucker with the hard-on is up - make sure he gets the full treatment." Sure that last bit is directed at me. The corporal moves along the line and violently forces us to get back up so the officer can get the job finished. I moan both in agony at my wound and the struggle, and pleasure as I enjoy the feeling of my cock as it plays against the ground in my struggle. The others moan as they struggle likewise - though I'm certain they haven't got erections.
As I make my way back up the yard, can hear the corporal making the four stand up - hitting with a baton and kicking them where necessary. There are moans of torment - both from the wounds and the further abuse. The prisoner with the erection starts to move his body - his hips make slight movements, as if fucking. He appears to be humping the air. I shout back, "Get that fucker up now, corporal! Or I'll take those stripes off you!" The corporal kicks the prisoner to his feet along with the four others. Crying issues from the whimperer - the corporal goes over and hits him.	I start to move my body - making my hips make slight movements so that I can feel like I'm fucking. I hump the air. There is a shout from the officer, "Get that fucker up now, corporal! Or I'll take those stripes off you!" The corporal aims his boots into my good side and forces me up alongside the others. There is crying to my right somewhere, followed by the sound of a sharp punch, and then it dies abruptly.
A bunch of shits - waste of my time shooting them. Order the men ready. Look towards the prisoner with the erection. Notice his blindfold has slipped down to his chin in the fall and mishandling. Realize he can see me. He is staring at me. Smile to myself - that one will see it all. That should keep him excited, the bastard. Pervert. Still hard and now is drooling from his mouth onto the cloth of the slipped blindfold. Bet they had fun questioning him, I think to myself. Must have been the one they had talked about, the one fucked with the riot stick... Makes me want to move into that line of work... My cock is swelling up.	The officer is barking orders to the firing squad. My blindfold has slipped down to my chin in the fall and mishandling. Realize I can see about, albeit only hazily initially. The officer looks towards me - notices that the blindfold has slipped and must realize I can see what's happening. He stares at me and smiles. He notices I'm still hard - precum oozes from my cock and I feel the fabric of my coveralls sticking to the head. Drool is starting to seep from my mouth well up in the cloth of the slipped blindfold. He works his leg - his cock must be swelling up with the power this head-trip is giving him. The fucking bastard.
The prisoner's stare seems to speak - 'You love your job! Yep, you!' Yep, good job my combat trousers are loose fitting and I have my jacket worked down - or the men will know I'm enjoying this.	Thoughts pass through my mind as I register what I can see - the firing squad getting ready, the officer barking orders, his gathering excitement. The officer - 'You love your job!' Yep, he does. 'You.' He stares at me and seems to read my thoughts...
Turn to the men. "DETAIL, MAKE READY!" Control myself. Glimpse at the prisoner's face. It seems to be saying; 'If they could see you getting hard doing this they may end up stacking you against the wall.' Another round is worked in the chambers. "TAKE AIM!" The prisoner seems to be rubbing his cock against his trousers. Will get the bastards this time. Moisten my lips. Cock is getting harder.	He turns to his men and barks an order. "DETAIL, MAKE READY!" Hardly seems to be controlling his excitement now. He looks back at me - perhaps he can read the thought: 'If they could see you getting hard doing this, they may end up stacking you against the wall.' My leg rubs my cock harder against the fabric of my coveralls. Can feel it building. There is the sound of another round being worked into the chambers. He barks, starting to drool himself. "TAKE AIM!" I move my hips so my cock is rubbing against my pants. Feel my balls contract.
"FIRE!"	"FIRE!"
Noise, smoke and echoes fill the yard.	Noise, smoke and echoes fill the yard. The firing squad ahead of me disappears in a cloud of smoke. My cock explodes and I feel, briefly, the sensation of the warm cum shooting out and cooling on contact with my flesh. Then I feel the impact as two rounds slam into my torso. Am winded. The force of the impact doubles me over and I feel my hands arch out either side of me as they appear to be freed. Slump down towards the ground and, as I fall, I hit something already down there. It feels warm and wet. The dust from the ground rises up as I land and I inhale some as it dries my lips. With effort I close my mouth, stifling any moaning at the pain my body is registering. I lie there half on my side facing to my right with my head wedged up against whatever I've landed by. I keep my eyes close to avoid both the dust and the sight of whatever there is about me. Only shadows against the light register.
The air clears. Look to the wall. All are now on the ground. There is moaning. Shout. "MAKE SAFE!" Safety catches are applied. "REST RIFLES!" The clutter of metal being moved. "DETAIL, FALL OUT!" The detail turns and moves off, group at the back of the yard and light up as they wait for me to finish things.	In the distance, there is shouting; "MAKE SAFE!", "REST RIFLES!", "DETAIL, FALL OUT!" - all accompanied by the sounds of metal being worked and boots stomping.
Pull my pistol out of its holster. Make sure a round is chambered and working parts moved forward. Release the safety. Make my way to the far left of the line. Check first the one I had left slide to the ground. He is nearing his end. Take aim and fire. Some of the detail distract themselves from their smoke and look towards the wall. Seeing I'm finishing off the prisoners, they turn back to their mates and cigarettes.	Then there is the sound of an automatic pistol being worked and then a pair of boots striding nearer and nearer. Somewhere off to my right there is the sound of a round being let off. Vaguely see the shadow of a figure over there standing, and then movement as it turns back towards the rear of the yard, as if spotting something. A faint smell of cigarettes drifts on the breeze, livening up the putridity of piss, shit and blood that infuses the dirt.
Make my way along... on to the one who had grovelled. He is now face down in the ground. Use my boot to turn him over, wary of his death-shit. Take aim and fire. He jumps like a rag-doll. Fire again to make sure he is finished. Glance along the line and see that the prisoner who had the erection seems to be alive and is following me with his eyes. Turn away, got to finish this.	The boots get nearer. Hear some movement and then two rounds being fired off in succession. I risk opening my eyes more fully, but automatically focus towards the source of the movement and sound. Realize I am staring right at the officer in charge of the firing squad. He notices me and realizes I'm still alive - will make sure I'm finished off for certain. Try to avert my eyes, but they stay, in my weakened state, fixed on him as he moves about. He turns away.
The prisoner in the center is truly finished - obviously my men had aimed more at the center target - and is slouched against the base of the wall. A new smear of his blood is beside the one on the wall from his earlier hit. Make certain anyway and fire off a round into him. The body hits back against the wall and his head knocks back to one side with his mouth falling open as if in a final gasp.	Another round is fired off, followed by the sound of something solid falling back against a surface. Must be my turn - there were only three on that side of me. I await the thudding impact as a round is slammed into me. There is the sound of a thump on a soft mass and a slightly further distortion of the breathing I can hear. Then there is a noise and the sound of cordite invades the air again. This time nearer.
Next in line, as I move along, is the prisoner from the far right - he has fallen across the front of the prisoner beside him. I check and he is still breathing with his mouth gaping open - he is sprawled on his back. Give him a kick to make sure, then take aim and fire straight into him. His body convulses - knocking into the next prisoner's. A river of blood streams from his body.	Something hits into my side - must be the guy from my left as his body takes the impact. He must have fallen out of line and wound up next - not much of an advantage, that gives me, though. There is a warm sticky tide creeping along and pooling up to one side of my body.
Come to the last prisoner - the one who had the erection. His body is marked where the rounds found him and his coveralls are soaked dark with blood. But look at his crotch - the coveralls are damp there, more damp than from where he earlier pissed himself. From the difference in the color of the fabric I can tell it is not wet blood. Can see, through a tear, that his cock has been spent and the cum is sprayed over the cloth and flesh. It glistens on the thick hairs of his skin. A smile breaks out across my face as I feel my own hard-on through the fabric of my combats. Nice. The prisoner seems to be trying to work his mouth. The lips open and his tongue manages to lick his top lip.	My turn. He looks over my body and checks the entry wounds that have ruptured my torso. He doesn't notice that one of the rounds has cut through the ropes round my wrists. Getting careless, might be a chance - but know I am ebbing away down here on the ground. He looks down my body and rests his eyes on my crotch - must notice that the coveralls are damp and that the cause is not piss or blood. He looks more intensely and must be able to see the cum my cock shot off. A smile breaks out across his face. Yep, he sees it. He starts to feel his own crotch through the fabric of his uniform as I feel my own hard-on. I try to smile in recognition of this, but it is a strain to move my lips. Manage to open my mouth slightly and use my tongue to moisten my swollen top lip.
Decide I need to finish this one off properly.	He appears to have made some sort of decision.
I lean down and push the muzzle of my pistol into his waiting mouth, pushing the barrel in... Can see he still feels the heat from the rounds sent into the others. My smile widens. His lips seem to embrace the barrel. The smell of his piss and shit is now mingled with that of fresh blood and the remains of the cordite from the firing. Looking down at him, I ask, as if expecting an answer, "Bet your were busy with your mouth when out with those other fucking criminals committing your terror crimes?" He seems to mouth something in his defense. I carry on - "Right, cock sucker? Well, you're a shit smelling fucker who pissed and spunked himself at the end - a piece of crap along with these other lumps of shit."	He leans down and starts to push the muzzle of his pistol into my mouth, pushing the barrel in... It is still warm from the rounds he fired into the other guys. The barrel depresses my tongue. My lips collapse around the barrel. He inhales the cocktail of odors now refreshed with the blood and guts of his victims. I can taste the residue of cordite upon the muzzle from his handiwork. He looks down at me and then, with an inquisitorial manner, says. "Bet you were busy with your mouth when out with those other fucking criminals committing your terror crimes." I try to protest that we were freedom fighters and had an honorable calling and that he and his men are the criminals here. But I cannot - my energy is ebbing and the pistol's barrel doesn't enable me to answer. He carries on regardless of an answer. "Right, cock sucker? Well, you're a shit smelling scum who pissed and spunked himself at the end - a piece of crap along with these other lumps of shit." As he speaks, my eyes glimpse that hard cock in his uniform that demolishes, for me, the superiority he claims.
Suddenly the prisoner manages to lift his hand - obviously freed from its bonds by a round that passed through him - and strokes at my crotch. Just a momentary effort, a near-dying spasm? I move back, almost in recoil at the touch, but ensuring the barrel of the pistol is in the prisoner's mouth. I make sure the safety is off. The prisoner closes his eyes. My finger catches at the trigger and the pistol fires. Finish him.	Suddenly, I find some last reserve of energy and manage to raise my now free hand and reach out for the officer's crotch and his stiff cock under the fabric of his uniform. My hand runs, falls, along its length in a final effort. The officer recoils, but not so far that he withdraws the barrel of his pistol from my mouth. He regains his composure and checks that the pistol's safety is off. With effort, I let my eyes close. Then, after a few seconds, there is a loud noise filling the air and a fire warms my mouth.
I stand and wipe the barrel on a clear piece of the prisoner's clothing and then call back to one of the corporals. "Corporal! Get a work party in and dispose of these scum in a ditch - they stink more than they did alive. Make sure the men get to breakfast and then are rested up - maybe rounding up the ones these scum squealed about later." With that I turn and leave the wall, feeling my crotch. Need to be alone. Got something to do.	Dark. Empty. Nothing.