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Zac - The Unlucky One

Part 1

Zac The Unlucky One

The Iran/Iraq border

14 June 2009

“Awww fuck….hurts.”

The dry heat was oppressive, but Zac was accustomed to that after three tours of duty in southern Iraq.

The forced run, to which he was being subjected, was exceptionally testing, but not physically impossible for the young marine. Not quite.

Zac had run in the mid-afternoon desert sun before, both in training and in combat, but this time was different. The 21 year old was not in his desert fatigues, because they had made him remove them, along with his body armour, helmet and of course his radio equipment.

So, what was left? Well, on his back remained his trusted marine-issue 100 litre Bergen rucksack. In normal circumstances, this would be filled with 14 kilograms of arms and basic survival equipment. But, of course, they had not dared leave Zac with that. So they had replaced his gear with 15 kilograms of brick and rubble, both easy to come by amid the devastated border villages.  

On his feet, Zac retained his tan combat boots, and thick beige socks. The boots scrambled for grip on the rough desert track.

What was hurting Zac, beyond the physical exertion of the run, was the leather cord tied tight around the collar of his ball sac. A leather cord attached, at the other end, to the rear towing eye of a large Toyota pick-up truck.

The ability of the cord to hurt, of course, was binary. If there was slack, everything was fine excepting the need to avoid tripping on the wretched thing. But every so often, cruelly and entirely deliberately, the Toyota would speed up a little. Zac would see the pain coming, before it hit him, as the slack in the cord disappeared in front of him, one moment grazing the desert floor, the next a tight, virtually inelastic horizontal line between the boy and the truck.

Zac would feel the strangulation of his testes as the rawhide gripped them, vice like.

If his marine training instructors had little sympathy for discomfort, these guys, so it seemed, had none.

“A leetle faster Zac, please.” The muscled Arab would call from the flat bed of the truck.

“Awww fuck….hurts.” Zac would cry, to nobody in particular, by return.

But the young marine knew he faced three choices:

  1. Have his gonads ripped off.
  2. Stumble, and be pulled along on his back by the truck.
  3. Keep up.

So, of course, he managed to raise his pace in short bursts, to keep up with the truck, saving himself in the short term, but alerting his captors to the possibility they could squeeze more out of the frightened but sturdy young marine.

As Zac grew tired, the bursts of speed from the truck seemed to become more frequent. This was not an illusion taut cord, rather than slack, was becoming the norm. Slack, and recovery, began to feel like heaven, whereas in reality it was still a hell-on-earth run.

Zac did not see the greeting party, so focussed was he on the tension in the cord, and potential obstacles underfoot, but they could see him as they waited at a small oasis in a Land Cruiser. Through binoculars, they tracked his progress, and passed little updates to each other.

“The wrapped hide is contracting in the sun, around his balls, as we said it would, Atif”

“Look at the way his nuts are pulled out in front of him, Sergei. They must be a full eight inches from his body!”

They were right, of course. Sac flesh that was never intended to stretch significantly was almost translucent, so thinly was it tugged out in front of the youth, like extensively rolled pastry. Beyond was the tightest little gonad package you could imagine, now angry red/purple. Zac was so very close to a physical separation from his juice-maker, and he knew it. Only his will not to be so-separated kept him in touch with the vehicle ahead as it pushed on, as Zac suspected, away from potential rescue in Iraq, and into the interior of Iran.


They gave Zac a large water bottle after they allowed him to collapse to the floor under the semi-shade of a palm. Initially, he lay foetus-like, unable even to sit with his back against the tree trunk. The youth had a series of frightening dry heaves, the torture in his balls now somehow registering consciously, where it had not done so on his run.

Eventually, the kid managed to push himself into a sitting position, and took long swigs from the water bottle not, at first, to re-hydrate his body, but rather to ease the sandpaper feeling in his throat.

As he drank, a bearded, olive-skinned Arab perhaps more Saudi looking than Iraqi strolled over. He was dressed traditionally, even stereotypically, with a flowing headdress.

“Recovered a little, boy?” He spoke better English than the thugs in the pick-up who had captured him.

“Where are you taking me?” Zac asked, ignoring the question on his welfare.

“Somewhere safe.” The Arab replied, blandly.

“Your documents say Zachary, but I presume its generally Zac?”

The kid nodded.

“Date of birth, October 18, 1987?”


“How long in the Marines, Zac?”

“Coming up two years.”

The Arab seemed to consider this answer for a moment.

“You run well, even for one so young. But then you are lean muscle, rather than bulky muscle. A little less weight to carry on your frame.” He observed.

“Are we stopping here, tonight.” Zac asked.

“No, here is unsafe. We have moving on shortly, another eight miles or so.”

“In the trucks?” Zac made deliberate eye contact with the Arab for the first time.

“Zac, it feels a little strange you not knowing how to address me.”

“Okay…then whats your name?” The kid asked, with just a hint of sarcasm.

“Well, you can call me Sir. And these other men… can call them Sir also.”

He gestured towards the men scattered around the two trucks, with a broad sweeping movement. Zac looked down again.

“Why…..why did you make me run, rather than put me in the truck?”

The 40-something captor looked sternly at his prisoner.

“Sir, I meant.” Zac added. He was military, so the title formalities should fall easily into place.

“Because we wanted to see you run, Zac. Does that explain.”

The marine was unsure whether he washed to explore this further. He needed to know the reality, but was also frightened by it.

There were a few moments of quiet, but not of inactivity. Unresisted, the Arab reached out and, with a long finger, traced the sweat-wet definition in Zacs pec meat.

“Are we all going in the truck, now?” The kid asked.

“Not all, no. But if you are anxious to push on, maybe we should.”


Zac was now in a vehicular sandwich as he scurried along a shallow, dry valley. In front of him was the pick-up, and behind, the Land Cruiser.

There was no longer a leather cord strangling his young testes. That was the improvement in his conditions. But this was, if anything, an even harder run. The reason why was illustrated by the flat bed of the truck in front, on which perched provocatively -  one of young Zacs combat boots. And the other? Well, that was tied hard, by its own laces, to his scrotum. Inside were stuffed Zacs socks, and they served to disguise a three inch deep layer of sand, added as an after-thought for ballast, which ran the length of the sole.

No more were Zacs balls pulled painfully in front of him. Now they were tugged cruelly down by the weight of his boot. The weight they, the bastards, had thought insufficient a challenge on its own, as they scooped desert sand and poured it into the stinky interior of his tan boot.

The sheer weight was only one dimension of the challenge, however. Another was trying to get into any sort of run with the boot grazing his thighs, and causing horrible nausea as it caught his body and jarred his testes. Zac was forced into a ludicrous spread-kneed run. They, his captors, found his gait hilarious.

Part three of the challenge was the heat of the desert floor, which forced the youth to be fleet-footed or face severe burning to his soles. So, much as he would have liked to slow down or stop a while, to rest his gonads that were pulled halfway to his knees, he couldnt.

Part four of the challenge was one of the muscled goons responsible for his capture, who was also travelling on foot on this occasion, in front of the youth and to his left. And armed with a 20 plait signal whip.

The goon would monitor Zacs spacing between the truck and the Land Cruiser, which both travelled at identical speed, and the rules of the game were very simple. If Zac started lagging, and the vehicle to the rear threatened to catch him up, the burly guy would, slowly and deliberately, unfurl the whip. Zac would get a shouted warning.

“Head back!”

Whereupon, to protect his eyes, he would desperately crane his neck back as far as it would go, whilst somehow continuing to manage a crab-like run of sorts.

The whistle in the air marked the imminent laying of the whip in an expert diagonal across the kids wet chest and tight six pack, and down as far as his thighs. 

Then his familiar and pointless refrain as an angry red stripe grew along his torso.

“Awww fuck….hurts so bad!”

Finally, the goons equally familiar refrain by return.

“A leetle faster, Zac.”

And sure enough, the sturdy little 58” Californian, with his unkempt mop of dark brown hair a military cut that hadnt seen a barber for three weeks would push on, closing the gap with the truck in front again. Proof, if it were needed for the Arabs, that motivational corporal punishment really works.

Naturally, a few minutes later, he would tire again and his pace would drop, and the whip would be unfurled. Constantly, over eight miles, this same cycle.

The goon was an accurate whip handler, it could not be denied. Maybe that was good news for Zac, whose face and neck entirely avoided the ministration of CP. Or, perhaps, it was bad news, for the guy seemed to uncover new and painful areas to strike each time.

Diagonal stripes right to left, and left to right. Horizontal stripes along his tender breast meat, and stinging his boy titties so badly it made Zac cry. He never imagined nips could be so sensitive. Of course, there were blows that deliberately struck Zacs flaccid boy cock a tender tube of flesh, so cruelly punished. Incredibly, there were blows which seemed to reach under his dick to lift it, then sting its most sensitive areas. Finally, there was a blow which struck the crown of his cock, sending Zac reeling backwards upon his weighted rucksack, onto the ground.

As the kid lay spread-eagled on the floor, the goon pulled what the young marine thought was a truncheon from his belt. Probably, the boy lost consciousness for a second or two feet burning; torso stinging; legs aching; balls distended and hurt. He was brought to was an immense, jolting bolt of electricity from the truncheon, that did a good job of seemingly throwing him back upon his feet.

“No rest, just run.”  The goon jabbered away, and raised his truncheon once more, but Zac was on his way, tears rolling off both cheeks, his goal of the pick-up truck just visible through blurry, unfocussed eyes.


The convoy is at the safe house. They have relieved Zac of his rubble-laden rucksack, but his boot still swings gently between his legs, the laces gnawing and torturing his testes.

Zac stands before his captors, who have arranged themselves in a group. He is young and physically fit, but they all seem to tower over him. He hates being 58”.

The man who spoke to him at the oasis appears to be in charge.

“You must know, Zac, that this is not a simple prisoner of war scenario. I guess you understand that from the whip, the boot, the cord?” The Arab said, his tone neutral.

Actually, such was the shock he was in, Zac had not really considered his scenario since his capture -  whilst foolishly separated from his unit during border reconnaissance. Abruptly, however, he marshalled his thoughts, and had to concede, he was in very deep shit. The Arab allowed him this time to reflect, and respond.

“Yes, Sir.”

“Would you like, maybe, to see your girlfriend and family again one day?” The bearded guy continued.

“Yes Sir!” Zac responded sharply.

“I understand, Zac. Perhaps a little unfair, but I have a question for you. If pain was the price of freedom, is that a price you would be prepared to pay?”

Kinky shit, Zac thought. Predictable given his recent experience.

“Yes Sir.”

“Okay Zac, good boy, very good boy. Welcome to Iran, kid.”

To be continued.

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Review This Story || Author: Ryan
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