MANDRASAT Chapter 19
(contributed on behalf of the author by Pete Brown petebrownuk @ yahoo.com)
Clapping his hands together rhythmically and coughing slightly, Shareem continued, "Most diverting, Zarak," the strain evident in his voice as he brought himself and his penis back under control. "Both slaves showed improvement over the past five days." Then speaking in Arabic, he said to the overseers, "Now we shall take the next step. Let the Nubians have the two slaves for an hour, then take them to the courtyard and have them branded." -0-
Shareem turned and disappeared through a sliding door in the wall behind him as Zarak hauled himself up from the floor and Kasim jumped to the storage shelf, grabbed two pair of handcuffs, spun round, and tossed them to one of the Nubians.
"In one hour," Zarak barked as he and Kasim exited the room into the hallway.
Grinning hungrily, the eight Nubians circled Bret and the pilot; neither had any doubt about their immediate prospects. Zarak's two brawny escorts and Shareem's two body slaves suddenly pounced on Bret, dragging him to the floor. Knowing the futility of it all, he still tried fighting against the strength and weight of the four powerful Nubians twisting and pinning him into the exact position they wanted. The pilot fared no better and, struggling fiercely against his attackers, fell just as quickly at Bret's side.
Their arms pulled behind their backs and their wrists cuffed, both slaves were immobilized. The Nubians began greasing their thick, black cocks and exploring with fingers, tongues, and lips, the two long white bodies beneath them. They rubbed the adhesive pads clinging to the slaves' sides and legs, knowing that the juice inside would somehow make their prisoners suck and hump cock like wild beasts.
Bret had begun almost immediately to shake and moan as hot, wet, Nubian mouths sought his throat and nipples, his navel, his balls and cock, his inner thighs, the soles of his feet. No part of his body was left unassailed, unstroked, unmouthed. Eyes squeezed shut, the fire of lust pounding in his brain, incinerating his fear and despair, he surrendered his body to the hands and arms constraining him.
His legs were lifted from the floor, bent at the knees, and pressed back against his chest, exposing his inflamed hole, craving as much to be speared by Nubian cocks as it was throbbing with pain.
The pilot, twisting and fighting with equal futility against the four other Nubians pummeling him and slamming his body into the floor, was also locked into
a doubled over position, writhing in furious anticipation, his hole and guts still burning fiercely from Zarak's massive cock gouging. As Nubian tongues licked at the lips of his anus, scooping out Zarak's cum, the pilot howled in anguish at his total helplessness; he'd been unable to defend his body even from that first moment when Shareem's slavers grabbed him outside Qassir City, stripped him naked, and gang fucked him in a roadside ditch.
He'd been powerless to prevent his capture or his transport in a cage to Jakeem Air Base in the Deserts of Qassir, where he was chained and fucked and battered continuously throughout the night by the base garrison. For almost two weeks after his arrival at Mandrasat he'd been tortured, raped, and defiled in ways beyond his wildest nightmares, until the reality that he was inescapably a sex slave, a fuck toy, had been beaten into his flesh.
Shareem's Nubians delighted in playing with their lean, young, hairless fuck toys. The contrast between their glistening iridescent black skin and the white flesh of the auction slaves tanned a golden brown from head to foot was hypnotic and mouthwatering.
Nubian slaves were beyond proficient in stoking their victims' furnaces, flaming them to a fevered pitch. They would first assault their prey with lips, teeth, and tongues, sucking their throats into their mouths, thrusting and digging their tongues into their rigid tendons, then, continuing on, would lather down their captives' entire bodies.
No slave in his life before Mandrasat could possibly have experienced the full inferno of sexual fire in every part of his body simultaneously, nor would he have imagined packs of naked men coiling around his torso and limbs, sucking and chewing nipples and arm pits, tonguing his navel and butt hole. Who could picture three or four mouths unrelentingly licking, kissing, stroking, mouthing cock and balls all at once? Shareem did. It was how he turned men into slaves.
Bret offered no resistance as a huge black cock plowed its way to the back of his mouth, cramming it full, and stretching his lips. His hold on consciousness wavered in the blistering heat of desire as hard, rough hands grabbed hold of his hips, and cock that felt like sewer pipe ripped into his hole.
An explosion of searing pain sliced through his body, and he sucked in desperation on the massive spike slamming back and forth inside his mouth. His body, saturated with hormones and endorphins and furiously writhing and tossing, screamed for more pain to fuel the fire consuming it. He lusted for the agony that was pulverizing him.
On the floor next to him, two Nubians were hard fucking both of the pilot's holes, slamming their cocks back and forth in unison, like synchronized pistons. The giant straddling his head, held him in place gripping him by his ears; two others had hoisted his legs high and wide, shoving his knees back against his shoulders, and the fourth, crouching into the slave's ass and screeching ecstatically, his arms clamped tight around his victim's thighs, drilled his cock deep into the violently twisting and shaking body.
The Nubians had less than eight minutes apiece to slam their cocks into each slave's ass and throat, and all eight throbbing cocks were burning to bury themselves into both warm, wet mouth holes and fuck chutes. Bret gagged and gasped for air, sucking furiously against a Nubian shaft pounding wildly into the sides, roof, and back of his mouth. His whole body bucked and shook as another Nubian drove his cock in and out of his ass.
Through the entire fuck session, neither Bret nor the pilot could have guessed how many cocks had split their holes. The pace was so fast and so furious, it could have been the same cocks fucking them over and over; their faces were pressed tight against black, muscled abs, denuded of hair, their lips stretched around the bases of thick black cocks. They would struggle to swallow wads of hot cum from one cock even as a second was shoved in to take its place. In sixty minutes, sixteen bolts of Nubian nut cream had exploded out of hot, hard, Nubian cocks, blasting into the guts and bowels of their captives, splattering their faces, chests, and bellies, and dripping out of their butt holes.
After an hour's time, the door to Shareem's torture chamber suddenly slid open, too soon for the gasping, squealing Nubians, an eternity too late for the two mute auction slaves buried under steaming coils of black flesh. Zarak and Kasim charged into the room, kicking and swatting the Nubians away from Bret and the pilot.
"Get back," Zarak roared. "Your fucking time is up."
Kasim laughed in spite of himself at Zarak's remark. "And a fucking good time they seen to have had."
Zarak was too busy snarling and hurling Nubians out of his way to respond to Kasim. He shouted at one of the black slaves to bring him two choke chains from the storage shelf, and the cringing Nubian scurried off, snatching the chains quickly and dropping them into the overseer's gaping paw.
The giant stooped over Bret, rolling him onto his stomach, shoving his wrists up between his shoulder blades and snapping the short chain to the cuffs at one end and at the other to the small ring at the back of his steel collar. He then dragged the trembling slave to his feet, and repeated the process with the pilot.
Both auction slaves were streaked with Nubian cum, dribbling from the corners of their mouthes to their chins to their chests and down their bellies; it leaked out of their fuck chutes and ran down the backs of their legs. The heavy taste and acrid smell of semen enveloped them, but they were by no means free of their Nubian tormentors. The three who had entered the room behind Zarak brandishing lashes of knotted twine, retrieved them from where they had been tossed, and, while the other Nubians punched and shoved Bret and the pilot through the doorway and into the corridor outside, they brought their whips slashing down across the shoulders, backs and buttocks of the two screaming slaves.
Surrounded by a ring of howling Nubians, Bret and the pilot, beaten with fists and whips, were driven like animals through Mandrasat's corridors, crying aloud in shock and pain, the horrors of their enslavement unending.
Zarak and Kasim trotted behind the crush of screeching Nubians and wailing prisoners, two naked drill sergeants shouting curses at the top of their lungs. The insane tumult echoed along side corridors, reverberating off ceilings and walls until the jumble of bodies exploded through a huge double wooden door into a blazing desert noon.
Bret and the pilot stumbled hysterically into a large, paved courtyard, hardly able to remain upright, blind to all sensations save the shrill hissing and squawking of their Nubian tormentors and the slash of knotted twine raking their shoulders and asses. The rough pavement scoured the bottoms of their feet, and they were shoved and beaten across its cracked and broken surface until they fell against the centerpiece of Mandrasat's heritage of suffering, the instrument of pain beyond all pain.
It was six feet wide and nine feet long, standing just over a meter in height, constructed of thick wooden planks heavily reinforced and bolted to eight vertical support legs which in turn were bolted to a gigantic stone slab in the center of the courtyard. Three legs at each end and one at the middle on either side bore the extraordinary weight of this trestle. A dozen thick leather straps were affixed securely across its length and width.
Four Nubians leaped onto the top of the apparatus, and, as the pilot was thrown across its surface, two pinned him in place. The other two seized Bret, dragging his shoulders and torso down onto the table and kneeling on his back; another two strapped the pilot to the outer support leg by his left ankle, knee, and thigh; the remaining two strapped Bret's right ankle, knee, and thigh to the opposite outer leg.
"Now the fun begins," Kasim gloated. "Strap them to each other," he ordered, "nice and snug," and the Nubians quickly bound the pilot's right ankle to Bret's left, then their knees and thighs together at the center support leg. Their hips and shoulders were strapped tightly against each other, their sides so squeezed together, they could feel each other's blood pounding, each other's flesh coated with the cold sweat of terror, and each other's spasm's of pain.
Shock from the hour long gang fuck and the savage lashing through Mandrasat's dark corridors, had all but disabled their minds; their fear was primal, instinctive, reflexive, and it hung as a curtain between their senses and their reason. But that curtain was about to be ripped apart and their brains thrust into acute and horrifying awareness.
Through a broad archway in the wall opposite the far end of the table and facing the terrorized slaves, two overseers entered the courtyard, each carrying a thick leather glove. One was Jullah, the tall, lean, black who spoke with a British accent and whose genius lay in his effective use of electro-torture; the other, a squat, bulky Asian.
As they strode across the pavement, their gold collars, nipple rings, and genital cinches glinted in the desert sun and flashed in the prisoners' eyes. Behind them, two giant Nubian slave beasts were bent over a wooden crossbar, dragging a heavy metal cart behind them.
The pilot slave began to scream and struggle frantically against his bonds when he saw the brazier bolted to the floor of the cart, the mound of red hot coals, the super heated air rippling above the cauldron, and the two andirons plunged into its fiery heart.
Bret screamed also, not because he understood the horror that had entered the courtyard, but because the of pilot's violent, hysterical outburst. He saw the overseers, and recognized Jullah, remembering instantly the searing pain he had wreaked upon his body; he saw the Nubian slave beasts, and the cart and its cargo, though it all did not register immediately, but, in a moment, everything fell quickly into place, and he knew.
"Oh God," he cried. "Oh God no. Please no." He too fought uselessly against the leather straps binding him to the pilot's body and against the weight and force of the giggling Nubians pinning him to the table.
Kasim stood behind the two writhing, sobbing slaves and scratched his fingers across their reddened buttocks.
"Now, now, little darlins," he cooed, exaggerating his drawl. "We just don't want you to suffer any identity crisis."
"Leave that to us," Jullah shouted over the din bouncing off the walls of the courtyard. "If they ever forget what they are, all they will have to do," he laughed, "is look at their arses."
Kasim stepped aside as Jullah and the Asian, pulling on their gloves, took their places behind the slaves. The Nubian slave beasts maneuvered the cart behind the overseers so they need only turn slightly to their right and grasp the handles of the andirons.
Bret and the pilot, now hyperventilating, gasped for breath, their screams of terror reduced to a hoarse in-sucking of air. Strapped tightly to each other from their shoulders to their ankles, they shook violently, anticipating a desecration of their minds and bodies beyond imagining.
The two overseers planted their left hands squarely on the slaves' left buttocks, then, with gloved hands, reached behind themselves, grabbing the ends of the andirons' long handles and wrenched them free from their bed of red hot coals. With the irons trailing a shower of exploding sparks, the overseers raised them above their heads, and, with experience drawn from hundreds of such rituals, brought them down forcefully into the slaves' right buttocks, vaporizing skin and burning through layers of flesh.
For Bret and the pilot, it was as though they had been struck by a massive sledgehammer that drove them into the leather straps binding them to each other, then, a split second after impact, a blinding, searing, mind crushing pain ripped through their bodies. No sound came immediately from their throats, but every muscle, every nerve, every fiber of their being shrieked in agony. This inner scream coalesced, and, with eyes bulging and bodies convulsing, burst through their lips, shattering the desert heat.
Over and over, the horrific pain from molten iron searing human flesh hammered them, throwing them screaming into paroxysms of agony and torment. Suffering excruciating pain, perhaps especially suffering so unbearablely, the human body and mind seek the only respite open. In the midst of their overwhelming agonies, Bret and the pilot passed out. Their bodies twitched and unrelenting pain throbbed even in their darkened brains.
Zarak stood impassively beside Bret's unconscious body, then turned and exited the courtyard; Kasim, arms folded across his chest and smirking, watched in amusement as the pilot's back and shoulder muscles writhed in uncontrollable and unconscious spasms of pain. The four Nubians leaped off the top of the branding table and joined the other four, grinning and gibbering among themselves.
"We will leave them just as they are for a couple of hours," Jullah said removing his leather glove. "Let the brandings air dry before applying any ointment."
The Asian overseer and Kasim nodded approvingly, as Zarak, re-entering the courtyard carrying two large cylinders, called out to his comrades, "These water jugs will keep the two of them from dehydrating too badly."
He slammed the jugs down on the table, one beside each slave's head, then he and Kasim unhooked lengths clear plastic tubing connected to the bottoms of the jugs, each tipped with a rubber nipple, and placed them next to the unconscious slaves' mouths.
Jullah, releasing the strap that bound the slaves' shoulders together, turned to confront the Nubians gathered at the far end of the table, still salivating over their fuck session with the two auction slaves and anticipating another, and snarled, "If any of you even approach either of these slaves, I will personally castrate you on the spot.
"Do you understand me," he roared, and the Nubians who had hoped to fuck the auction slaves while they were strapped helpless to the table, fled the courtyard in panic.
Jullah turned to Zarak and Kasim and said calmly, "Come back in two or three hours; that will give the brands a chance to set, and you can tend to them then."
He and the Asian turned to exit through the archway followed by the slave beasts towing the branding cart.
"I feel the need to let off some steam," Kasim grinned as he turned away from the table. "How about we do a couple hours in the exercise pit?"
"I will join you there," Zarak answered falling in step beside Kasim. "I want to make my report on this morning's activities," he said, "and you, Kasim, will figure prominently in it for the good work you did in preparing your slave for my cock."
Kasim smiled and threw his arm up and around Zarak's massive shoulders. "I love you too, darlin."
The overseers departed the courtyard without a backward glance.
-0-
Bret surfaced into consciousness, squirming in agony and screeching through clenched teeth, each vein and muscle in his head and neck bulging through his skin, tears streaming down his face. The pilot, gasping for breath, moaned loudly, not yet sufficiently conscious to scream. They were alone in their suffering, the courtyard empty and brutally hot.
Like the blistering heat radiating out from the molten tip of the branding irons themselves, pain throbbed and surged through their bodies, pulsating, devouring, consuming their flesh. The four walls surrounding them shimmered in waves of heat. Bret and the pilot were being roasted alive in a courtyard turned oven.
With the strap removed that bound their shoulders together, they had some small degree of mobility; this did not alleviate their pain or suffering, perhaps it even increased it, but at least, on this small portion of their bodies, they weren't squeezed together. This slight, additional movement also allowed them to stretch for and close their mouths around the nipple tipped tubes leading from the cylinders next to their heads.
"Water," the pilot gasped barely above a whisper. He'd worked the nipple into his mouth and had sucked enough to bring warm water squirting through it.
Bret imitated the pilot's moves, and in a few seconds, both were slowly, painfully compensating for the water streaming out of their bodies as sweat. The excruciating heat in the courtyard, the blistering sun overhead, and the agonizing pain boring through and pounding their bodies, dragged the two of them into and out of consciousness.
A whirlpool of fire ringed the hideous scrawl on each slave's right buttock, burned black against a canvas of malevolently reddened skin, a thousand times more intense than the twisting of a knife through flesh. When conscious, they sobbed uncontrollably, crying aloud in near hysteria, their brains and nervous systems fighting to survive against the massive onslaught of pain. For an unending hour, their life was a tormented struggle to retain their sanity. It held, and would continue to hold throughout their agonies. That would also be their hell.
The line between reason and suffering became more defined to their minds through each excruciating minute. This growing awareness did not distance them from their pain, or diminish it, but simply tormented them further with self identity in the midst of blistering agony.
The human body could never become accustomed to the kind of searing pain unleashed by Shareem upon Bret the the pilot slave, but, for a considerable length of time, the human mind can function in the face of it, and that has always been the true object of torture, that the victim knows he's being tortured, and by whom.
The two lay as still as possible, trying to control even their moans and sobs, any movement intensifying the pain throttling their bodies, but wailed loudly when torn by sudden, uncontrollable muscle spasms. Their bodies bound together inflicted each slave's torment on the other, a diabolically clever way to aggravate their suffering.
Time and the air hung heavy in the courtyard. The pilot twisted his head slightly toward Bret and gasped, "Name."
Bret could only moan in response.
Again the pilot choked, "Name. What's your name?"
Bret continued to lay motionless, finally whispering hoarsely, "Bret. Bret Hauser," then, inspite of the pain ripping his body, he began to sob, the sound of his own name, more than he could endure, his convulsions inflicting increased suffering on himself and the pilot.
The pilot waited until his own pain and Bret's sobbing subsided, then slowly groaned, "Jon. My name is Jonathan Ballard."
Neither spoke or moved for long minutes, their faces pressed into the rough wooden surface of the branding table. Sporadically, their bodies shuddered, slashed by explosions of pain and accompanied by uncontrollable sobs and moans.
In a gravel voice filled with horror and agony, Bret gasped, "They branded us. Oh, God. They branded us. How could human beings do such a thing," he sobbed.
Ballard, again turning his head slightly toward Bret, whispered haltingly, "We're not human to them. We're their property. And they marked us."
From that point on, neither had the strength or the inclination to speak. They lay in a pool of torment and suffering, their only relief, the lukewarm water they sucked through the plastic tubing from the water jugs, terrified by the unspoken question in both their minds, "What are they going to do to us next?"
They felt no passage of time, the moment, always excruciatingly the present. They felt no change, only constant, searing pain, as though a mound of flesh had been hacked from their right buttocks. All the torture and degradation they had endured from the moment each of them was taken, disintegrated next to the unmitigated brutality that enveloped them now and that they could not be rid of.
Suddenly, shockingly, a new explosion of pain rocked their bodies, their screams propelled out of inconceivable agony. Kasim was lightly tapping his fingers into the livid wounds on their asses. Their cries of torment pleaded for mercy.
"Time to wake up, my pretties," he chirped. "We've got a surprise for you. Something that'll make you love us till the day you die."
Neither Bret nor the Navy pilot Ballard could hear Kasim's words over their own wails of anguish; they could hear him laugh, the tap of his finger tip onto their branded flesh was as devastatingly painful as a crippling blow with a crowbar.
Six tall, lean Nubians accompanied Kasim, four carrying large ceramic bowls filled with Shareem's specially formulated analgesic gel.
"These Nubians'll take real good care of you, slaves," Kasim smirked.
Bret and Ballard cried out in shock and pain as the Nubians applied the gel to their blistering wounds, but an immediate numbing chill spread through their charred flesh.
As the four Nubians layered the buttocks and backs of the two whimpering slaves, the other two Nubians undid the leather straps binding them to the table and to each other. When they had been coated with the gel from shoulders to ankles, Kasim ordered the Nubians to raise them up.
"Upsie dasey," Kasim chortled. "We don't allow Master Shareem's slaves to lie about all day doing nothing."
The two groaned as they were pulled to their feet. The branding burns, still excruciating, sent shock waves of pain through their bodies.
"Start walking," Kasim ordered. "Round the courtyard. The sooner you get used to your 'brand' new red hot asses," he laughed, "the better."
Grabbing Bret and Ballard by the shoulders, the Nubians pushed them forward, holding them upright as they stumbled across the pavement. In spite of the pain killing gel layered over skin, it was still virtually impossible for either to put one foot in front of the other. They lurched and staggered, their eyes squeezed shut, gasping, pushed and shoved along by Kasim's Nubian slaves.
Every ten minutes or so, the overseer ordered more gel spread spread on the slaves' bodies. The agony from the branding, slashing through their bodies, so overwhelmed the other wounds they'd sustained, they had lost awareness of them.
Where the reservoir of strength was that enabled Bret and Ballard to hobble around the courtyard again and again would remain a physiological mystery to them; they had passed through the pain barrier, and their reflexes were functioning on automatic, but even endorphin induced endurance is ultimately drained of energy.
As the sun passed over the west wall of the courtyard and slivers of shadows began to form, the two slaves collapsed and lost consciousness. Kasim then ordered the Nubians to pick them up and carry them into the fortress.
-0-
End Of Chapter 19