Chapter 1

One year and three months ago, almost to the hour, I made what I thought at the time was a mistake. Now with the wisdom of hindsight, I believe it was probably the best thing I’ve ever done. Quite a turnaround, isn’t it?

I think I owe anyone reading this story an explanation of what my “mistake” was, as well as why I now believe it wasn’t really a mistake at all, but rather something that needed to happen. So, here goes:

Jenny and I had been married for two months less than three years when the events I’ll describe below came to pass. On the night when everything changed, I was in the bedroom watching a program that was being streamed to the TV set in there, while she was in the living room rotating between watching “Teen Mom” on MTV and reading “Woman’s Day” during the commercial breaks.

I was watching a documentary about the movie genre known as “Nazisploitation,” which referred to the grindhouse movies that were set in the days of WW ll, and were usually about the sexual torture that was supposed to have taken place in Nazi prisoner-of-war camps. I freely admit that I’ve been fascinated by the idea of being sexually tortured ever since I was a kid, and one of my older cousins and two of his friends introduced me to the idea of serving them with my mouth and my bottom, and punishing me with willow switches when I didn’t do it right.

I had never, ever revealed the details about that part of my life to anyone, and as far as I know, the other boys didn’t either. I’ve never been able to stop thinking about those times, though, and even after I discovered what miracles girls are when I was in high school, I still fantasized about how my mouth and other parts of my body had been used to pleasure others of my own gender.

The hidden part of my life continued even after Jenny and I became romantically involved. When we at last began to have sex, I tried to stop thinking about my earlier experiences, but always failed. There was no way for me to shut down that part of my memory, and even though I loved her more than anything else in my life, I continued to fantasize about you-know-what.

Those horrible fantasies continued to dominate my love life after we were married, but gradually the dominant person in them began to be Jenny. She was the one who was whipping me, she who was tying huge weights to my cock and balls and making me drag them through the trees on the farm where I’d been raised, and who was tying me to a tree trunk and making me spread my legs so she could hold a candle under my crotch and laugh uncontrollably when I screamed and begged her to stop.

In case you’re wondering, yes, I did know that was wrong, and I should not have been doing it, but no matter how I tried to make myself stop, I just couldn’t.

And that was my mindset as I watched the documentary about Nazi prison-camp torture on that fateful night.

I was wearing nothing but my undershorts that evening, since I had already prepared for bed. Due to the warmth of the late-spring evening, I had thrown aside the covers and top sheet, so the fact that I had an erection due to what I was watching on TV was easily visible. Since Jenny usually read and watched the other TV until late at night, it never occurred to me that she would ever see it.

The program consisted of showing portions of some of the more-violent movies in the genre, followed by interviews with the crew and actors and actresses who were in them. In every case the portions being aired showed both girls and women, as well as boys and men, being tortured. Sometimes the guards were doing the torturing, but more often it was the beautiful, rabidly-oversexed female Commandants of the prisons who were in charge. Of course, as you’ve already guessed, I was imagining myself as the victim in every part where someone was being sexually tortured. And I was doing that even when the victim was a girl or a woman.

The program was dealing with the most-popular movie in that genre, “Ilsa: She Wolf of the SS.” About halfway through the documentary I watched the guards gang-raping young boys, with my erection growing by leaps and bounds. The segment then jumped to the part that showed beautiful women having their fingernails pulled off, or enduring slivers of pitch pine being shoved under them before being ignited. With each scream of agony, my own excitement increased, then increased even more when I saw men being hanged by their wrists and forced to spread their legs so their cocks and balls could be whipped.

The last segment of that particular movie that was presented showed the star, “Ilsa,” in bed with one of the male prisoners on top of her, trying his best to make her cum. All of a sudden she pushed him off, then said, “You puny excuse for a man, you failed to excite me as required, and now you will be punished!”

She then yelled, “Guards! Guards!” and the bedroom door was thrown open by four men wearing Nazi uniforms and carrying rifles. As they grabbed the prisoner, Ilsa screamed, “Take him to the laboratory and prepare him!” The guards promptly grasped the man’s arms and frog-walked him through the door.

The next scene showed him being lifted onto a platform, or table, that was built of 1X4 boards that had been spaced about an inch apart. I knew from watching other films of that sort the spaces were to allow the man’s (or woman’s) blood to drain away during the process of being tortured.

When the struggling man was held spreadeagle atop the boards, then his ankles and wrists handcuffed at each corner, my imagination just went crazy as I tried to guess what was going to be done to him. I didn’t have long to wait for the answer, because as soon as the prisoner had been secured in place, a man wearing a long, white apron, which I assumed was supposed to mark him as a doctor, walked up to the table holding a huge knife in one hand.

To my intense disappointment, the man stood between the camera and the victim’s crotch, which always happened in movies like that, but I nevertheless always hoped the next one I watched would show what was being done to the helpless guy.