Little Big Man

LITTLE BIG MAN – a serial novel by Travis Creel

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN: AFTERNOON DELIGHT, AFTERNOON DESPAIR

Previously: Alex is visited again by Latronius, who insists on a blow job. Realizing this is a skill he may need to acquire, Alex asks for – and receives – a lesson. Later, he is visited by another maroon, who gives him a pill which puts him to sleep. When he awakens, he is startled to find that they are in port, but he is mystified as to where they might be and why he's allowed to look out the window. To his horror, the captives are escorted off the ship stark naked, in broad daylight, to laughter and jeers from what seems to be an assembled crowd. He realizes that there is only one place within the ship's range corrupt enough to possibly let this happen openly – Somalia.

The captives are shoved into a van into which they can barely fit – their bodies pressed tightly against each other – and driven off to an unknown location.

[Authors' note: the depiction of Mogadishu in this account has no basis in reality, aside from Somalia's general reputation as a nation without an effective government or rule of law. It is no reflection whatsoever on the character of the Somali people.]

DMITRI – FRIDAY, 17 JUNE, AFTERNOON – MOGADISHU, SOMALIA

The location of our arrival may have surprised you, Alex. What may have surprised you more is what happened after you were spirited away in the van.

We went back on board with the enforcers and addressed them as a group; we let Sergei do the talking.

• Later today you will get your paychecks.

Cheers.

• And we have something special for you, to reward you for your loyal service. We recognize that you are healthy young men who need frequent sex.

• (a voice) Yeah!

• We have deprived you of that for about forty hours. And now we have taken away the boys you have so enjoyed fucking over the last two weeks. To reward you for your service, we are taking you to our favorite local brothel, where you may avail yourself of the merchandise without charge. This particular brothel offers men and boys only, so if you'd prefer to fuck women, let us know and we'll see what we can find for you.

This remark was greeted with derisive laughter. Various voices:

• No thank you. I want to fuck something with a cock and balls.

• Or at least a cock!

• Or at least used to have a cock!

More laughter.

Officially, homosexuality is a crime in Somalia, but there is no real government here. The militias are in charge, and even though they are virulently homophobic, it is only the passive partner who is considered homosexual. A man who rapes another, as a display of his power or to punish his victim, loses no status. He is simply showing his dominance, his masculinity. The one taking it up the ass is to be shunned. And because money speaks louder than principle, there is always a place or two like The Red Lion. In Mogadishu, I know of four.

The Red Lion has a stable of about thirty boys. Most are local, often taken by militias after some display of defiance. When a young man falls into the hands of a militia, his fate depends upon the particular unit who has captured him. Some are executed. Some become the squad's whore. And some are sold to one of the brothels. The brothels get additional stock from fathers who earn extra income by selling their sons. As these can be boys who are literally boys, they tend to go to one of the other brothels; the Red Lion will not accept them if they have not reached puberty. In fact, all but a few of the Red Lion's boys are biological adults, at least seventeen years old, including eight or nine Americans. Those are the ones they buy from us – every year they buy some.

If they buy from us every year, why are there so few Americans on the menu? That, my friend, is a question you may not want to ask. Western boys are popular – it is a particular source of pride to fuck a white American – and get used up quickly. A boy who lasts more than three years at the Red Lion – or other boy brothels – is a rarity. Many are gone a year later. What happens to them after they have served their purpose? That is not my concern.

Ramses and I accompanied Abdul to the Red Lion, while the others headed to the hotel in taxis.

Abdul was old friends with Suleiman, the proprietor of the establishment, and I was well acquainted with him, from past visits. Abdul had asked Suleiman to reserve a good selection of boys for our men to choose from. We advised Suleiman that at least one boy may be out of commission for a few days, most likely one of the Americans. For this, we compensated him well.

It was afternoon, while most men were at work, and we had the place largely to ourselves. Suleiman trotted out about fifteen boys for us to choose from, seven of whom were former Little Big Man `contestants'. Three other white boys I didn't recognize. I asked the big Somali about their provenance.

• Let me just say that if you spoke to them in your native tongue, they might understand you.

• Soldiers?

• (shrugging) We have contacts in Syria.

Not exactly answering the question. He pointed to another boy who looked South Asian.

• This one came from Syria as well. He's a Paki from Manchester. Thought he was joining ISIS.

• Karma.

Suleiman and Abdul both grinned. The enforcers had looked over the offerings and were huddled, making a decision. Joey, speaking for the group, pointed to a short, trim young man with blond eyebrows – the only hair on his body.

• This one. He's the main course.

• (Suleiman) An excellent selection. Dylan, you will accompany our guests.

I recognized him. Dylan, one of ours. A blond from Tennessee, whom I would have been happy to take home with me, but he had lost his virginity the first night, and Abdul auctioned him off to the Red Lion when we arrived here a year ago.

I could see the expression on his face – just me? There are fifteen of us here and – just me?

• (Joey, to the assembled group of also-rans) Don't worry, fellas. We won't ignore the rest of you. Dylan may be the main course, but we'll have some side dishes.

The laughter that followed didn't reassure any of them.

• (Joey) Okay, who goes first?

• (clearing my throat) Not so fast, Joey. Suleiman, you know what to do.

The brothel owner grinned and had one of his staff lead Dylan out of sight.

• (Suleiman) We have to get him properly dressed for the festivities.

• (José) Dressed? What kind of boy-brothel lets their stock get dressed? I want my boy naked as the day he was born when I put the screws to him.

• Oh, he will be. But we don't want him dead when you do.

That mysterious remark raised more than one eyebrow. Even veteran enforcers like Joey did not know what it meant. Abdul and I winked at each other – we had arranged this activity in advance with Suleiman.

• (Suleiman) Gentlemen, if you will follow me.

He led us into a small room dominated by what was essentially a human-sized gyroscope.

• Dylan's going onto this.

The wheel could be spun and the subject could be rotated so that he was upside down, right-side up, horizontal, or at any angle in-between. He could be spun horizontally as well, like spinning a globe. If you pushed down on the wheel it would rotate the subject vertically; if you pushed sideways on the wheel it would spin horizontally. If you did both . . .

• (Marcus) He's going to be very dizzy.

• (Abdul) Oh, that's the least of his worries.

A minute later, Dylan was led back into the room, wearing a hood which extended down to his neck and a harness that covered major sections (but by no means all) of his torso. Everything below the waist remained uncovered.

• (Abdul) Just enough to cover his vital organs.

But what was most remarkable about what Dylan was `wearing' was that it appeared to be made of cork.

• (Suleiman) Mount him on the wheel.

Dylan, utterly compliant, allowed them to strap him into the machine, attaching him by Velcro straps across his ankles and wrists, which were pulled very tight to make sure they didn't loosen as he spun. I addressed the group:

• Okay, who wants to go first?

• (Joey) I do. I said so before. But I'm not going to fuck him while he's spinning around in that.

• True, you're not. And you're not necessarily going to fuck him at all. Suleiman has put a limit of fifteen on this young man. Some of you may remember him; he was our Tennessee last year. Now we're going to play a little game. The winner gets to go first. And the next fourteen places get to fuck him. Everybody else may take their pleasure with other boys in the stable. Suleiman, explain.

Suleiman nodded to his assistants, and they affixed a blindfold around Joey's head. Joey was smiling as they did so, and, anticipating the fuck to come, was getting a robust hard-on.

• (Suleiman) We're going to play an adult version of Pin the Tail on the Donkey'. Since a donkey is also an ass, we're going to call this Pin the Tail on the Ass'.

Suleiman's man handed him a thumb tack with the number 1 painted on it.

• The goal is to plant this into Dylan's ass. Closest to his rosebud goes first. Unless someone gets a direct hit on his balls, that's what we call a bullseye.

• (a voice) You mean `balls-eye'.

• The first point on his body you touch is where the tack goes. That's why we've protected his head and vital organs. We don't want to pierce a ventricle or a kidney. Or an eye. However, anywhere else is fair game.

Joey grinned and took the thumbtack in his hand.

• (Joey) Start `er up!

Suleiman's men started the gyroscope spinning in both directions. Dylan was whirling around at all angles so that at any point in time just about any part of his body was the closest to me. He was rotating in 360 degrees times 360 degrees.

• (somebody, feeling his oats) Round and round and round he goes, and where he stops nobody knows.

When Dylan stopped rotating, his head was at a 30 degree angle with the floor and his body was angled about 80 degrees clockwise from the original position. Joey held his thumb tack out in front of him and slowly advanced, reached down and hit – a shoulder.

Laughter from the guys as the thumb tack was pressed into Dylan's shoulder, and a little pool of blood oozed from the wound.

Joey was dismayed when the blindfold was removed.

• (one of the men) Thank you for playing. Please take one of our lovely parting gifts.

Joey was followed by Nelson, who – after Dylan was spun around a second time, planted his thumbtack in the front of Dylan's left thigh, about four inches above the knee.

• Well, Nelson goes before Joey, but no ass shots.

Tupu went next and his thumb tack wound up about an inch from Dylan's left eye. Which meant it went straight into the cork protecting the boy's head.

It took eleven attempts before anyone found his ass. Two others did as well, and we had to get out the measuring tape to see who was closest to the golden rosebud. Ezequiel won the prize, and earned the right to have first crack at fucking Dylan. I was a bit disappointed that no thumb tacks had managed to find the boy's balls.

Dylan was dismounted and carried over to a table where he was thrown over the edge and thoroughly fucked by Ezequiel. Marcus and Jay followed Ezequiel. Each of Dylan's fuckers came away with bloody hands – the boy's hips were covered in blood right where the fuckers wanted to plant their hands. The boy had nearly twenty wounds, most of which had stopped bleeding, but a few of which continued to ooze small amounts of blood. Robinson – the fourth to assault the boy – took delight in rubbing his hands over the naked youth and smearing blood all over him. None of the wounds was serious, though – he would be just fine. His asshole, however, wouldn't be; it would take a while to recover from the pounding he was getting from the 15 mammoth cocks that drilled him.

Meanwhile, I could hear the whack of a paddle, and moved to another room to investigate the source of the sound. As I suspected, it was Joey – spanking with a hard implement was one of Joey's favorite activities. I also heard the pleasing sound of `oomph' from the unfortunate recipient of those blows. A typical Bottom paddled on the ass by Joey would be screaming his bloody head off and begging for mercy; these boys were well-trained and used to it. While they couldn't remain completely silent during the brutal assault on their buttocks, they knew how to keep the noise to a minimum. Which only made Joey more determined to cause him to scream – and eventually he did. When he had provoked enough decibels to satisfy him, he turned his attention to burying his bone inside the lad's butt.

The men had a great time at the brothel, fucking away, tying up their subjects, raping their mouths, punching them in the gut and balls, whipping their asses and backs, and other activities which brought them as much pleasure as it brought discomfort to the objects of their attention.

ALEX: FRIDAY, JUNE 18, MID-AFTERNOON – MOGADISHU, SOMALIA

I cannot tell you what the last two hours have been like.

In America – and in Europe as well – we hear occasional stories about trucks being discovered crammed full of immigrants who have been smuggled across the border, the desperate souls having died from the heat, starvation, dehydration, lack of oxygen, or some combination of the above.

I think about these people as we're confined here in the van. As the hours pass I wonder if we will get out of this vehicle alive.

It doesn't make sense that, after all of the elaborate planning of the past two weeks, Little Big Man would intentionally dispose of us in this callous manner. But what if they were unable to remove us? This was Somalia, after all (unless I was very much mistaken), one of the more dangerous places in the world. They could have been arrested. They could have been kidnapped. They could have been murdered. Or simply detained by some militia until they were satisfied that these Russians were not a threat to them.

Where the fuck were they?

It did seem like we had plenty of air, but it was oppressively hot. Sweat cascaded down my face. And we had no space. No space to move and it felt like no space to even breathe. With all the perspiration I was losing, I was getting dehydrated.

When I was fourteen, Dad took Adam and me to New York City. I remember going into the subway at rush hour, crammed into the car like sardines. I had to use contortions to find something to hang onto as people pressed up against me from all angles. It was horrible.

This was like that. Only in the New York City subway you could get out after a few stops. And you weren't dying of thirst. And you could wear clothes.

And you could see. They had taken away the sense I treasured the most – sight. I doubted there was any light inside the van, but it didn't matter with the blindfolds superglued to our heads. Everything was pitch black. The only thing that could have been worse is if they had fixed us with sound-blocking earphones.

Our other senses were all there in abundance – well, taste was irrelevant. The most prevalent, obviously, was touch. Flesh was touching flesh, seemingly everywhere. Torso against back, hip against hip, buttock against abdomen, arm against arm, even leg against leg. There were a few inches of space around my head, but every other part of me seemed to be rubbing up against someone else's body.

And of course there was smell. With the heat, the air was redolent with our sweat and our natural masculine aroma. It was like a locker room living in your nose.

The one sense that was comforting, I suppose, was hearing. We could hear, and we could talk. Which I think was what kept us sane. From their voices, I knew that Rhody was behind me and Nodak in front of me. No one was to my right – I was against the side of the van, facing backwards – and someone who wasn't speaking was at my left. But just in front of him – facing the front – was Wyoming – our faces were less than a foot apart.

It took me well over an hour before I heard Matti's voice and it was way back near the cabin and, it seemed, closer to the opposite side of the van. No way could I talk to him, at a time when he was the one person I needed to talk to.

I said that talking kept us sane. Well, that was a relative matter, I supposed. Some were handling it better than others.

We'd barely been in the confines for a few minutes I heard the person next to me breathing heavily, panting, as if he was running. At the time I didn't know who it was, and then I could feel his body moving against mine, his chest moving in and out with his heavy breathing. Wyoming must have been right up against the guy, chest to chest.

• Hey, you okay?

• Cain't breathe . . . Too crowded . . . Claustro . . . phobic.

I recognized the drawl.

• Alabama?

• Yeah, who's that?

• Wisconsin.

I wondered if he'd react to that, as much as he resented me and Matti but all he said was,

• I cain't breathe, I cain't take this.

Rhody got involved.

• Yeah, you can. It will be all right. We'll get through this.

• No we won't. . . . I'm going to die in here.

• You're not going to die in here. Calm down, you're among friends.

• No I'm not. That's Wyoming right up against me. He was the first to rape me. And that's Wisconsin, he let the fucker do it. He could have saved me, but he didn't.

• At a time like this, we all need each other, okay? We're all friends.

• Are we? Who the fuck are you, anyway?

• Rhode Island.

• Oh great, another Top. You probably fucked me, too. You all stick together. You all just fuck and fuck and don't stop fucking and you don't care who the fuck you fuck!

He was getting louder and less in control of himself with every speech.

• (Wyoming) Calm down. Like the man said, no matter what the past, we're all in this together now.

Alabama emitted a sound that could have been either laughing bitterly or crying.

• I'm claustrophobic! I can't stand this. I can't stand this, I can't stand this, I can't stand this!

Now he was sobbing uncontrollably.

• (Wyoming) Alabama, I'm going to put my arm around you, okay?

• No, I –

• I'm not going to hurt you, I'm just going to hold you, you can cry on my shoulder.

• That won't help. I'm too close to you already.

• (Rhody) What will help?

• Getting the fuck OUT OF HERE?

I couldn't remember when I had heard such a genuinely desperate plea. He was like a time bomb ready to explode but that there was no way he could except by venting orally. I decided to say something.

• We will get out of here.

• Yeah, when?

Out of someone like Florida, this would have been a dart of sarcasm, but from Alabama it was somewhere between skepticism and hope. He desperately wanted someone to tell him when it would all be over. And we'd only been in the van about a half an hour at that point.

• I wish I knew, Alabama. But they will let us out. They have to – they brought us here, they want us, they don't want us to die in this van.

• But I can't breathe. I can't see, I can't move, I feel like . . . like I'm going to have a heart attack.

• (Rhody) You're not going to have a heart attack. Let Wyoming put his arm around you. He'll steady you.

• . . . (weakly) Okay. I'll try.

I felt Wyoming shift as he manipulated his arm into a position where he could put it behind Alabama's neck. I felt Alabama lean forward against him.

• (Wyoming) There, there.

I'd never heard anyone say `there, there' before; as many times as I'd read it in books, I'd never heard it in person.

• (Rhody) It'll be all right. It's not all right now, but it will be.

But it will never be all right, I thought. Not for Alabama. He had been raped who knew how many times, by Wyoming, by me, by Matti, by so many Tops just trying to stay Tops, and by a squadron of maroons. And he would be raped many more times. For his sake, I hoped he was open to being at least partly gay, the way that Matti and Rhody and even some Bottoms like West Virginia and Ohio were. Because we were definitely going to be sold, and not so we could train to be accountants or programmers.

He calmed down for a while. After a few minutes, I heard him murmur,

• I wish to hell I could see.

• (Wyoming) Yeah, well, if you could, you'd be seeing a face you don't like very much. So maybe it's just as well.

I thought back over the past few days, to the time when Wyoming was seated at my table and shared his story. And the fact that he had been the first to believe me when Latronius locked me in my room, and had helped persuade others of the truth. And now I was seeing yet another side of Wyoming that I hadn't seen before – empathy. Maybe all of that macho braggadocio WAS just a defense mechanism, maybe deep down he wasn't really an asshole. Listening to him cradle Alabama and trying to comfort him – the same Alabama he had raped with seeming relish eleven days ago – was eye-opening.

Eye-opening. Bad choice of words when you're blindfolded.

The air was moving around us but it was still hotter than blazes and the scent of masculinity became even stronger as more and more sweat poured from our naked bodies.

I heard something in my ear, so close and so softly that I could barely hear it – and I was sure that no one else could. It was my name.

• Alex?

I was startled. The only person who knew my name was Matti, who was way across the van. Oh, wait – I'd told Rhody.

• Yeah, Chris.

I tried to keep my response inaudible. At this point, it may not have mattered if everyone knew our real names, but we'd not been given permission to reveal them and punishments had proven to be severe. But I wanted Rhody to hear me use his name.

• Can I put my arms around you?

• I don't know. Can you?

I was trying to keep it light, but it was not entirely a rhetorical question. We were so tight against each other that being able to move your arm freely was not to be taken for granted.

• Yeah, I can. MAY I put my arms around you?

Oh, what the hell. He was already bumping up against me. I nodded, and then a moment later realized that he couldn't tell that I'd nodded.

• Okay. (trying not to sound enthusiastic)

And then he was holding me, hugging me, his arms wrapped firmly around my chest – I think Nodak in front of me must have felt his hands. And then his head was suddenly next to mine, resting on my shoulder. Cheek to cheek. And he smelled . . . nice. I felt the roughness of his unshaved chin against my shoulder and against my face. It was scratchy and . . . nice. And then his hand started to drop until it was below my chest and was slowly working its way down my stomach.

• Rhody what are you doing? (a whisper so soft that only he could hear me)

• What comes naturally.

His voice was soft, but his chest was hard against my back. His fingers were playing with my pubes, the only place I had body hair. He pulled on different strands, lightly tugging them and letting them slide through his fingers.

I reacted.

My cock started to twitch, and he hadn't even touched it.

• Alex, do you like this?

His voice was a whisper, his mouth a half-inch from my ear. Even in this crowded van, it was private, it was intimate. There was enough other conversation going on that no one had any idea of what was going on in my little region.

I did like it. I had to admit that I did like it. And my cock liked it. It was starting to lift.

• I know you love Matti and I'd never do anything against that – Matti's a great guy. But I love you too, Alex. I love you, too. If somehow, somewhere, we wind up together –

• We won't.

• I want you to remember that. Alex, I want to make love to you.

And now I was getting hard.

• (my softest whisper) Careful, or I'll accidentally rape Nodak.

Which made Rhody laugh out loud. Which made our bodies move. And with me now sporting a solid boner, someone else became aware of the situation.

• (Nodak) Whoa! What is THAT?

I wanted to shrivel away and die of embarrassment, but by that time Rhody's magic fingers had reached their ultimate target and Mr. Penis did not want to deflate one little bit.

• Uh, sorry, Nodak. Nothing personal.

• Well, it seems pretty personal to me.

But his tone of voice was jocular, not miffed. He continued.

• I think someone's discovering their gay side.

He spoke loudly enough that there were guffaws of laughter all around. Various voices:

• He's not the only one!

• You, too?

• Hey, why don't we all jerk each other off?

• Who said that?

• (Idaho) Idaho. I mean, give us Bottoms the chance to get our rocks off for a change.

A resounding chorus of "Woo!" filled the van and I felt like I was back in a high school locker room.

• (Del) Yeah, well some of us can't do that anymore.

• (a loud silence)

• (Idaho) Hey, man, I'm sorry. Wasn't thinking.

• (someone else) What if we –

• (Noisy) Careful, man. They might have this thing bugged.

A silence fell over the van.

• Good point.

• (Nodak) Speaking of points. . . .

He said it softly enough that only myself, Rhody, and Wyoming could hear. From the sensations around my dick, it seemed like it was sliding into Nodak's ass-crack.

Rhody, who had firm hold of my still-erect cock, shifted my body slightly so it was no longer angled at the crevice between the flutist's fleshy cheeks.

• (Rhody, into my ear) If you don't mind, I'm just going to keep hold of this for a while. It feels so nice in my hand.

• You keep hold of it for as long as you want. It feels very nice in your hand.

If such a thing were possible, I heard him smile.

DMITRI: FRIDAY, 17 JUNE, LATE AFTERNOON – MOGADISHU, SOMALIA

Our men were having a great time. Eight of them had fucked Dylan and seven more were waiting in line. Those who were done with him had moved on to one of the SM rooms for a higher level of play.

I kept my pecker in my pants though it was straining to get out and join in the fun. But there would be no sex for me until I took North Dakota or a suitable substitute home with me in two days.

Suleiman, noticing my abstention, pulled me over me and motioned me over into a quiet corner for what looked like a business conversation.

• I am much looking forward to the auction tomorrow night. We need to replace three Western boys we lost over the past year. We have always found your product very satisfactory.

• Thank you, Suleiman. We aim to please.

• We could buy more than that. A couple of our lads – local stock and one of the Russians - are expendable. We might want to replace them as well.

• I do not know this word. `Expendable'. My English – sorry. Explain.

• They are no longer popular. Not bringing in the revenue to justify their upkeep.

• Upkeep? What upkeep? You feed them, sure, what else do you need? Soap to keep them clean, razors to shave them, that's about it. Maybe you wash their sheets – do you give them sheets?

• Direct expenses are only part of it. We have overhead – rent, electricity, and so on. We have staff to pay. We have equipment to keep maintained and rooms to clean. We have lubricant and condoms. We have –

• Condoms?

• Some of our clients are nervous that our boys are not as clean as they should be. A valid concern in lesser establishments. But that is another expense – we must test to make sure they have no diseases and sometimes to attend to them after a rough client. But the main thing is that the boy must earn back the price we paid to get him in the first place.

• And if he doesn't?

• We get rid of him. That is what I mean by `expendable'. Would your men like to help?

• ?!!

• Is that a `no'?

• My men like to fuck and they like to keep boys in their place and inflict a little pain. They are not here to do your dirty business. If you want to expendable, that is your own business.

• No matter. It is not an urgent need. I just thought your men might enjoy it. And, of course, with more openings we could buy more of your boys.

• My boys will get sold, either way. It is simply a matter of `to whom'. I am happy to sell them to you, Suleiman, you are a good client, but you have to determine your needs and how much you are willing to pay.

• Very well, my friend. You are not going to sample my wares yourself this afternoon?

• My needs are well-satisfied. And, of course, on Sunday I will be taking one of our virgins home with me.

• So last year's boy was not agreeable?

• Very disappointing. I have several excellent candidates for his replacement, but of course they are all virgins at the moment and you never know how well they will adapt. Jackson was sexy, but never adapted to slavery. I need a new boy. Have my eye on three good Midwesterners. Any of them will do. And their personalities are less troublesome than Jackson's.

• So Jackson was . . . expendable?

• (grin) Not in that way, Suleiman. I moved him, that's all.

Poor Jackson. I wondered how he was doing in his new home. If he thought living with ME was difficult. . .

I moved on to watch Joey feed his cock to a Black boy who looked about fourteen, though Suleiman assured me he was older than that. Ramses had stripped down and had gotten into the action. He and Nelson were in opposite ends of a muscular blond that I recognized as Arkansas from a previous year, Ramses plowing away at his ass. Before leaving, Ramses had moved into what Suleiman called the Stud Room, where a big Sudanese returned the favor. Suleiman apparently kept a couple of his better-endowed stock to perform an active role – Ramses was versatile and liked the role of pitcher and catcher with equal enthusiasm.

It was a great afternoon, but it was getting on toward six o'clock and time to get back to the hotel and attend to the boys in the warehouse. We couldn't leave them in that van forever.

ALEX: FRIDAY, JUNE 17, VERY LATE AFTERNOON – MOGADISHU, SOMALIA

As the afternoon grew on, the situation grew more intense. It is one thing to be stuck in a van, pressed up against other bodies so that you can scarcely move a muscle for a few minutes. It is another to be stuck there for an hour. And quite another to be stuck there for hours on end.

How long were we there? Over five hours. I only found out afterwards.

Somewhere – about the halfway point – Alabama had another meltdown. I think being held by Wyoming helped, for a while. Then Alabama said it was enough and Wyoming withdrew.

But as our confinement went on, with the incessant heat and sweat and involuntary proximity, Alabama started to hyperventilate.

It was eerily similar to sounds some of the Bottoms made while being fucked, but with more air, more raspiness – and more sheer panic. And then he started peppering his rapid intakes of breath with "omigod, omigod, omigod" and those around him – me, Rhody, Wyoming, and some on his other side, whom by now I knew to be Maryland, Kansas and Louisiana – were trying to calm him down.

His frantic sounds kept increasing in volume, he was getting more hysterical by the second until finally I heard a sound that, as tightly bunched as we were, I would not have thought possible to produce.

It was the sound of someone slapping his face. The traditional `cure' for stopping someone in hysterics. Had to be Wyoming, who was both facing Alabama and posessing the nerve to do something like that.

But it worked. Alabama stopped, stunned out of his breakdown.

• (Wyoming) Do you want me to hold you again?

• (Alabama) No. It doesn't help. It doesn't help.

• (Rhody) What would help?

• (Alabama) (pause; weakly) Getting out of here.

• (Rhody) Okay, that will happen but not right now. What else will help?

• (Alabama): Nothing. I need space. I need to breathe. I need to feel – air – around me.

Silence.

• (Rhody) Lift him up.

• (Kansas, I think): What?

• (Rhody) Let's try to lift him. There's space at the top of this van. I can't reach the ceiling – I've tried. We could give him a little freedom up there.

• (Wyoming) Alabama, would that help?

• (Alabama) . . . I don't know. Maybe.

• (Wyoming) Let's try it. I don't know if we can do it, Alabama, but we're going to try.

• (Alabama, weakly but with hope) Okay.

He was still breathing hard, and I felt myself getting shoved around in several directions at once as Rhody and Wyoming and others were working to get their arms in a position where they could lift Alabama. A lot of the shoving came from Rhody, who was trying to get down to grab hold of a leg.

Then all of a sudden I heard Alabama cry: "Hey! That's my junk!" Which prompted unfortunate laughter.

• (Wyoming) Sorry, Alabama. But I have to get some leverage. Which means I need to grab you by the perineum.

I was impressed that Wyoming knew the word `perineum'.

• (Rhody) How we doing, guys? I've got his right leg.

• (Kansas) I've got his left.

• (Maryland) I've just got hold of his ass but I can push up on the bottom of it.

• (Louisiana) I've got his left armpit.

• (Wyoming) And I've got his junk. (Wyoming – making a joke!). That is, I'm under his crotch. Okay, guys, on the count of three. One, two, THREE!

Grunts all around and various bits of conversation like "push this way" and "grab hold of that" and "can somebody find his right pit" and a few "whoas" and an "okay, this is working." It took maybe two minutes of effort. But finally I heard:

• (Wyoming) Hey, we did it. Alabama, how is that?

• (Alabama) Omigod, this is so much better. Thank you. Thank you so much! But. . .

• (Rhody) But?

• (Alabama) I'm heavy.

• (Kansas) We're strong.

• (Wyoming) But he's right. We can't hold him up with our hands very long. Alabama, you're going to have to rest on some of our shoulders. And maybe, I don't know, some heads. It might be uncomfortable.

• (Alabama) I don't mind. It's okay. I can breathe up here. I can move my arms.

• (Wyoming) Guys, is that okay with you?

Most people said there was no problem and then others further away said that he could be passed over to them if it got to be too much. Which I knew it would.

• (Wyoming) Alabama, I don't know how long we can do this for. But we will for as long as we can.

• (Maryland) Well, I think it would be a little tough to get him back down vertical now that he's up.

Good point. It's not like there was lots of room on the floor to squeeze him into.

Minutes later, Oklahoma demanded to be lifted up as well, though he had not evidenced any panic to the degree Alabama had.

I heard someone – Nevada? – say, "Yeah, let's lift him up. He's lighter now that he has no balls." I had no fondness for Oklahoma, but that remark was a bit – you'll pardon the expression – below the belt.

In the end, a group decision was made to lift Oklahoma and three other guys. There was strain introduced by having to bear their weight, but it also created floor space and we could all breathe better and have a few personal inches. Which helped psychologically even if the guys were awkward to hold in the air.

I just hoped we wouldn't have to do this for hours on end. Because, as Maryland had said, it was going to be damn difficult to squeeze them back into us in a standing position.

We'd figured out the best position was to align Alabama parallel to the side of the van, so he was resting on the left shoulders of me, Rhody, Nodak and other guys behind and in front of us, and also on the shoulders of Wyoming, Kansas, and others in that row. With him on our shoulders, our hands could move around a bit and we could move our feet, although with Alabama resting on top of us, that was harder. And our feet were getting very tired of standing.

But we could move our hands and to my surprise I again felt Rhody reaching around me and running his hands gently over my pecs. It felt good and, despite Alabama's legs resting on my shoulder, I felt stimulated. I realized that after a solid week of sex, I had gotten used to being hard a lot of the time, and that hadn't happened now for four solid days, since fucking Kansas Monday night.

It just goes to show you, I guess, that if you are deprived for a long enough time, you will feel stimulated by almost anything.

FLASH-FORWARD: FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 4 – ST. PETERSBURG, RUSSIA

• Really, Alex? That was lesson you learn from that?

• Yes.

• Not that you attract to Rhode Island and want sex with him?

• No.

• No?

• Men in prison, they get hard and they have sex, and most of them aren't into guys.

• You still think you not into guys?

• . . .

• You not answer question, Alex. You not have that right.

• . . . Maybe. I'll give you a maybe.

• Maybe what?

• Maybe I was attracted to him. A little.

• You are cry. Is so bad to be attract to Rhode Island?

• . . . Yes.

• Because is bad to be attract to other man?

• No, it's okay, if that's your thing.

• But is not your `thing'.

• I'm not sure.

• Was more you afraid to be gay, or more you betray Matti?

• You keep him out of this! This has nothing to do with Matti!

• (slap)

• (silence)

• Alexei, no slave speak to Master like that. You will have punish tonight. Heavy punish.

• I'm sorry.

• I'm sorry, what?

• I'm sorry, Master.

• You will be. Anger in voice betray you, Alexei. It tell me this all about Matti. Is heart of problem. you attract to both Matti and Rhode Island.

• (Pause) Maybe.

• I settle for that, at moment. I almost done reading about van, I return to it.

ALEX: FRIDAY, JUNE 17, VERY LATE AFTERNOON OR EARLY EVENING – MOGADISHU, SOMALIA

Nodak wriggled as my erection started to poke him. I apologized.

• (sheepishly) Sorry, dude.

• Oh, I don't mind.

Jesus, was everyone here turning homo? And then Nodak startled me by maneuvering his butt so that my hard-on rubbed against his left butt cheek. And he wriggled up and down so that it produced enough friction that it was almost like jerking off.

• Don't do that! I haven't shot my load in four days. If you make me come, who knows what they'll do to me!

• Got it.

And Nodak moved an inch forward. My cock still rested on his ass, but it was no longer rubbing up and down against it.

Alabama was getting heavy. It felt like a good two hours since we had lifted him and the others into the open space at the top of the van. I thought about the fact that Rhody, behind me, was shouldering his ass and his head was not that far away from Alabama's cock. If he wanted to, he could probably reach over and suck him off. But he didn't want to. He wanted me.

The tension was building again. We'd been in this van for, I was estimating, four hours, and I was beginning to fear we might have to spend the night in this position. The way I knew things were tense was because it fell deathly silent. The only sounds you could hear were guys shifting their feet and the occasional grunt as one of the uplifted Bottoms was readjusted.

And then it began.

A single, solitary voice, so pure in tone, so lovely in timbre that I felt I could melt right there.

WHEN YOU'RE WEARY,

FEELING SMALL,

WHEN TEARS ARE IN YOUR EYES

I WILL DRY THEM ALL.

I knew that voice. It was Ohio, one of the kindest, gentlest among us. And the purity, the simplicity of that solitary voice, instead of drying my tears, created them.

I'M ON YOUR SIDE.

OH, WHEN TIMES GET ROUGH

AND FRIENDS JUST CAN'T BE FOUND

LIKE A BRIDGE OVER TROUBLED WATER,

I WILL LAY ME DOWN.

LIKE A BRIDGE OVER TROUBLED WATER,

I WILL LAY ME DOWN.

Had we had room to move our hands appropriately, there would have been applause. Instead there were cheers, and cries of "Sing it, Ohio!"

And he did, apparently knowing all the words.

WHEN YOU'RE DOWN AND OUT,

WHEN YOU'RE ON THE STREET,

And now a couple of other voices joined him:

WHEN EVENING FALLS SO HARD

I WILL COMFORT YOU.

I'LL TAKE YOUR PART, OH, WHEN DARKNESS COMES

AND PAIN IS ALL AROUND

And then the whole damn van joined in:

LIKE A BRIDGE OVER TROUBLED WATER

I WILL LAY ME DOWN.

LIKE A BRIDGE OVER TROUBLED WATER

I WILL LAY ME DOWN.

I realized I knew the third verse and started to sing with maybe a dozen others – we were doing harmony, now:

SAIL ON, SILVER GIRL,

SAIL ON BY.

YOUR TIME HAS COME TO SHINE,

ALL YOUR DREAMS ARE ON THEIR WAY.

SEE HOW THEY SHINE.

OH, IF YOU NEED A FRIEND

I'M SAILING RIGHT BEHIND.

LIKE A BRIDGE OVER TROUBLED WATER

I WILL EASE YOUR MIND.

And then, magically, everyone let Ohio finish it alone:

LIKE A BRIDGE OVER TROUBLED WATER

I WILL EASE YOUR MIND.

And somehow my mind was eased. Our water couldn't be more troubled, and my dreams were far from on their way – they'd been utterly shattered. But I had friends, one of whom was sailing literally right behind. Another, more important friend, was further away, but there was a bridge between us, a mental bridge, a connection that could never be broken, no matter what they did to us.

I will ease your mind, Matti. Somehow. I'll find a way.

And thus began the singathon. I don't know why it took us so long to reach that point, but we began singing everything we could think of, from Little Richard to Billy Joel to Taylor Swift. We were in the middle of one of the classics of buck-yourself-up music, Stand by Me, when

We heard the door open and a gush of not-quite-so-hot air passed by our heads.

We had been rescued! Sorta. It wasn't exactly the Fire Department who had come to our aid.

• Shut the fuck up and get your asses out here![

In seconds there were sounds of movement and there was space and I fumbled my way forward, gently assisting in the group effort to put Alabama back on his feet.

Bodies were pushing against me as everyone was rushing to get out of the van. I advanced a few feet, no idea how close I was to the open doors and afraid of falling. Then I felt a hard grip around my wrist, pulling me out of the van. I dropped to the floor, a good two feet below but managed to balance myself and land squarely on my two feet.

I was pushed over against some others, no idea whom, as they made room for all of the guys who had been furthest away from the van doors. And before I knew it, my arms were pulled behind my back and cuffed, as if I had been arrested. Our captors were discussing us.

• Can you believe the nerve of these slaves? Singing! Imagine, singing!

• Not worry, Abdul. Is okay they have chance to sing. Most of them never sing again.

[COMING UP NEXT: CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT: CHECKING OUT THE STOCK]