In an angry and foreboding voice, Zarak pronounced sentence on Bret. "For your brazen disobedience, I will punish you myself at the end of this day, and if I ever hear you speak again without permission, I will drag you to the kennels myself and have the grooms burn out your vocal chords. I may do that anyway as a gift to your future master. Now get to your feet; we have tasks to attend to."
-0- MANDRASAT Chapter Two: Zarak! (cont'd).
Zarak pushed Bret ahead of him, out of the shower and into the middle of the room, then went to the storage shelf on the side wall and retrieved a pair of handcuffs. Turning toward his prisoner, he barked sharply, "Hands behind your back, slave."
Bret, head bowed, silently complied. Zarak was none too gentle snapping the cuffs on his wrists, then, reaching back to the shelf and taking hold of a long, braided leather leash, the giant stepped in front of Bret and clipped it to the ring on the front of his slave collar. Yanking on the leash, he dragged Bret to the door, and, as it was sliding open, he grabbed the wall phone and punched in three numbers.
"We will be there shortly," he said into the mouthpiece, then slammed it back into its receiver.
There were no more commands, no more threats; Zarak, his massive genitals slamming back and forth against his thigh muscles, took long angry strides down the dimly lit corridor, jerking Bret's leash mercilessly, the cuffs chaffing against his wrists as he struggled to keep apace, his own balls slapping against his inner thighs. He knew now he was hopelessly lost.
The stone pavement was cracked, rough, and cold against his feet, and he tried to resign himself to whatever fate awaited him. He had had virtually no time to reflect on his situation, having been raped and drugged and tortured almost continuously since his kidnapping, now, with Zarak pulling his leash, his attention and hopes were focused solely on not stumbling or falling.
As they rapidly approached a door at the end of a side corridor, it slid open quickly and silently, and Zarak, not missing a step, stormed into the room, twisting and pulling down on the leash, catching Bret off guard and sending him crashing to the floor. He lay where he fell, afraid to move a muscle.
An unseen voice, hovering somewhere over Bret's tangled body, speaking a language Bart did not understand, said in Arabic, "Now Zarak, how many times have I told you not to throw your trash on the floor."
"Ahhhgggh! Katib," the giant responded disgustedly in their native tongue, "this worthless piece of dog shit does not know the meaning of the word obedience. I should have throttled him before we came."
"It looks," Katib chuckled, "as though you have throttled him enough for one week. Try to be a little more temperate in the use of those mighty muscles of yours. Let me take a look at this baby slave and see how he fares."
In a moment, Bret's chin was lifted from the floor and he was looking into the face of a strikingly handsome young Arab man squatting down in front of him. He might have been five or so years older than Bret; his skin, a rich mahogany; his features, finely chiseled, with a long, tapered nose, deep set, dark brown eyes, full mouth. His jet black curly hair, trimmed mustache and goatee announced clearly that this was not one of Shareem's slaves.
He wore a white, ankle length tunic, open from neck to navel; his feet were bare in worn leather sandals, a stethoscope hung around his neck, and he seemed seriously concerned about Bret who grimaced as he tentatively probed the sore spots on his face.
Then standing up, he said dispassionately in English, "Take the slave over to the scale; we will begin the exam weighing and measuring him there."
Zarak, pulling hard on the leash, hauled Bret to his feet, then snapped his fingers and pointed to a physician's scale standing against a wall across the room. Both of them walked to it, and Bret stepped onto the foot pad, as Katib fiddled with the sliding weights.
"One hundred ninety-one point five pounds," he said absently. "A bit on the lean side for a slave, but certainly a healthy enough weight for his height, which is," he placed the arm of the measuring rod on top of Bret's head and pronounced, "six feet, four inches exactly.
"I will confer," Katib commented in Arabic to Zarak, "with Master Shareem on a proper diet for the slave. I think he will want to increase his bulk by twenty or twenty-five pounds, and it will be your responsibility," he smiled slyly at the overseer, "to make sure that bulk is all muscle."
Both Katib and Zarak chuckled heartily over that statement.
"Now," Katib continued in English, "Take him over to the table."
Zarak tugged on the leash and led Bret back across the room to an oversized, black leather examination table.
"Have him sit on the end for now," Katib said, walking to a large cabinet on the opposite wall.
In the few moments he had, Bret could see the room was much like any doctor's examination room only with considerably less equipment. A counter ran half the length of the wall opposite him with drawers underneath and boxes, files, and bottles cluttering the top around a strangly out of place tomato red telephone; next to the counter, a deep, dark granite sink with two faucets, and next to that the tall medicine cabinet standing by a door open sufficiently for him to see parts of a toilet and sink.
The walls and ceiling of the examination room were a cement gray, illuminated by three bare florescent light fixtures. The leather surface of the table he sat on was ice cold to his butt; his legs dangled over the edge at the knees, but his feet did not come near touching the floor. Zarak removed his wrist cuffs then stood beside him, the leash firmly in his grip.
Katib, whom Bret decided was a doctor, stood tall and slim, perhaps two or three inches shy of his own height. He moved with athletic grace back and forth in front of a long wooden counter, opening drawers, removing items and placing them on a metal tray, then pulling open the doors of the ancient, five shelved, glass fronted cabinet, he collected what looked like medical supplies. After a few moments, he turned and walked back to the examination table carrying a number of items on the tray which he placed on the table next to Bret's thigh.
The next part of the examination consisted of taking Bret's blood pressure and temperature for which Katib used an oral thermometer. The doctor next tied an elastic band tightly around Bret's right bicep, causing the veins in his arm to bulge. Then came the needle, a large, intimidating thing; he took three vials of blood quite painfully from Bret's arm, each vial bearing a label in Arabic.
For the most part, it was a routine exam; the kind Bret was used to for his annual seminary physical and before some triathlons, the cursory ear, eye, and throat inspection, the rubber hammer to his knee and the sole of his foot testing reflexes, the stethoscope to chest and back, coughing as the doctor fondled his balls. Finally, Katib told Zarak to have Bret stand on the floor and take three steps away from the table. Zarak, still holding the leash, took the steps with him; at this point, the exam became bizarre.
Katib took a pair of calipers from the tray, and while Bret tried to distance himself mentally from the exam, he was unnerved when Katib used the instrument to measure his nipples. He shuddered and gasped slightly as the points of the caliper pinched the sensitive base of each nipple.
Speaking in Arabic, Katib said, "These beauties are very good. Thick and strong. They will easily carry the heaviest gauge rings you have."
Zarak grunted in response.
Continuing to smile at Bret, Katib, speaking now in English, said, "Just a few more measurements and we are almost through."
Stooping slightly, he took the measure of Bret's navel, then stepped back to the examination table and, taking a pen from the tray, jotted the measurements on a pad. He returned to Bret and, squatting down in front of him, placed one point of the caliper at the base of his cock and the other at the tip of his cockhead.
"Impressive," he said as Bret flinched. "Somewhat over nineteen centimeters" Then looking up at Zarak he said, smiling broadly, "Would you make it stand up please."
Zarak smirked in reply and stepped behind Bret, and, reaching around his waist and pressing their bodies together, took hold of his cock and said, "Behave yourself, slave. I warn you only once," then began jerking it with his fist.
Sweat broke out on Bret's forehead almost immediately as he squirmed involuntarily against Zarak's body. He felt more humiliated and demeaned by this violation of his person than by the gang rapes he'd already been subjected to because he desperately wanted the feel of Zarak's fist pumping his cock, and the electric thrill of arousal shooting though his body. But his self-loathing intensified too, the more he wanted these sensations to continue.
He ground his teeth together, his groans locked in his throat; shifting his weight back and forth from his left foot to his right, he rubbed his buttocks up and down on Zarak's thighs and felt the giant's cock rapidly hardening in the crack between them, until he straddled it, fully hard and rigid and jabbing into his scrotum.
As Katib widened the caliper's arms, he felt his own cock harden and press painfully against the confines of his garments. He measured Bret's thick, rigid, blood red cock by sticking one of the points at the underside of its base and the other at the tip of the twitching cockhead.
"Almost twenty-five centimeters," he chirped enthusiastically. "Once Master Shareem's clients see this, there will be no end to their bidding. Do not let him shoot yet," he said as he stood up, turned, and stepped quickly to the medical supply cabinet.
He hurriedly opened the cabinet doors and removed a long necked flask and, upon returning to Bret and Zarak, squatted down again giggling, "Your slave likes the way you play with him, Zarak; perhaps I was too quick in judging your disciplinary tactics. Point his cock into this beaker; we want to be sure to catch every drop."
As directed, Zarak aimed Bret's cock into the glass jar and tightened his grip on it, squeezing their bodies together and eliciting from Bret a loud groan and more intense writhing. The giant overseer was in the heat of arousal himself, ready to ram his cock full throttle up his slave's ass and into that waiting paradise within, but he would not allow himself to plunge over the edge no matter how close he might be. Katib had not give him permission to fuck the slave, and this was his work room, not Zarak's.
Suddenly Bret gave a loud cry as fiery hot semen blasted it's way up the full length of his tightly squeezed cock and erupted in long, thick white cords that splattered against the sides and bottom of the Katib's flask. Zarak's massive arms crushed Bret back against his body at each salvo. Again and again, Bret's cock shot streams of hot cum driving him to a frenzy Both of them were drenched with each other's sweat; Bret, gasping for air, and Zarak grinding his teeth. Katib was delighted at the quantity of semen accumulating in his jar.
"Excellent! Excellent," he enthused as Bret shuddered breathlessly from excitement and exhaustion. "Master Shareem will have his Russian brood mares pregnant in no time."
The last of Bret's cum dribbled down over Zarak's clenched fist which he then dragged along Bret's cock and shoved into his mouth ordering him to suck his fingers clean.
Katib's eyes still glistened as he placed a plastic cover over the container, and standing up, walked back to the counter and placed it there. Then, over his shoulder he said to the overseer, "bend the slave over; it is time to measure the golden portal."
As Katib went from the cabinet to the examination table to retrieve the calipers, Zarak commanded Bret to bend over and grab hold of his ankles. Then, standing to the side of Bret's smooth, dimpled buttocks, he grasped them and held them spread wide apart.
"Delightful," Katib giggled as he tickled Bret's hole with the tips of the caliper's arms, then after a few moments of amusement, he cleared his throat and said, "to business."
The sides of Bret's head were pounding in his upside down position; blood pressure and humiliation flushed his face almost purple. He grimaced and coughed as the tips of the calipers measured the length and width of his anus.
"Still nice and tight," Katib laughed as he rubbed his fingers across the lips of the hole, "but something tells me it has gotten much use these past few days.
Zarak arched an eyebrow and chuckled himself.
"Take the slave to the table, Zarak, and have him lay back on top of it."
Zarak pulled on the leash again, dragging Bret back to the examination table, ordered him to sit down and lay back until, from his knees up, he lay flat on the table, his lower legs hanging over the edge.
The doctor took a large green and white envelope from the tray and tore it open, extracting a long plastic tube; one end of which was tapered, the other fixed to a clear, transparent balloon.
"It might be wise," Katib said again in Arabic, "to restrain the slave and gag him."
Without speaking, Zarak stepped to the head of the table and dragged a manacle and chain from under the right corner, then pulling Bret's arm above his head, snapped it onto his wrist, he then repeated the process on the other side of the table for the left wrist. While the doctor waited, holding the plastic tube in his hand, Zarak cuffed Bret's ankles to the legs of the table, took a roll of gauze dressing from the doctor's metal tray, and, stepping back to his starting place, shoved the entire roll into Bret's mouth. Bret immediately began to groan and squirm, not knowing what to expect but fearing the worst.
Katib's warm hand closed tightly around Bret's cock, still hot and sore from Zarak's fist, and began twisting and stretching it, and, while this sensation was uncomfortable, it was not particularly painful, until an agonizing fireball exploded at the lips of his cockhole. His body went rigid and his muffled screams filled the room. A searing hot poker was plowing its way down the length of his urethra; the pain was mind crushing, excruciating. He slammed about so violently on the table, flailing against his restraints, that Zarak, bringing his full weight and strength to bear, forced one of his giant hands down on the middle of Bret's chest and the other on the middle of his belly.
Katib, standing between Bret's shackled legs, leared hungrily, dragging his tongue slowly back and forth along his upper lip, watching Bret writhe in torment before him. He enjoyed the feel of this slave's cock in his fist, and jabbing and twisting the plastic catheter back and forth down his cock chute to trigger louder and longer screams sent a chill of ecstasy up his spine. That sense of power he loved so much surged through his body, inflaming his guts, pounding in his head and tightening his own cock as he orchestrated Bret's agony. Suddenly a stream of urine gushed through the tube and into the balloon. Bret moaned in pain and shuddered as a great quantity of piss was discharged from his bladder.
After several minutes, Katib squeezed his fist tight around Bret's grievously sore cock and drew out the tubing; he clipped the end of the balloon shut then took it and the tube back to the counter.
Bret lay groaning on the table, streaked with sweat, his breathing ragged; he shook from fear and residual pain from his ordeal. Returning to the examination table, Katib removed his stethoscope, then took a second, smaller envelope from the tray, tore it open, and pulled out a syringe filled with a pale green fluid. Stepping next to Zarak, he placed his hand on Bret's belly, and plunged the needle directly into his hip.
As Bret howled into his gag in shock and pain, Katib joked that now the slave would be able to ward off any urinary infections that might develop for any reason. He stood beside the table for several long minutes, stroking Bret's trembling body, dragging his finger tips lightly across his belly and groin until the slave had become calm.
"Shhhhh, slave," he whispered, "the first part of your examination is almost over; there's just one more thing we have to do today."
He turned to Zarak and nodded, and the giant unclipped the leash from Bret's collar, turned and left the room to the faint 'whooshing' sound of the door opening and closing. A warm smile spreading across his face, Katib leaned over, and, fingering his prisoner's nipples, began to kiss his cheeks and neck.
Bret pulled his head away violently, and for the first time since his devastating flashback two days before to the grandeur of his ordination at St. Peter's in Rome, an explosion of resistance detonated within his mind and spirit. He pulled furiously against his wrist and ankle restraints, wildly banging his feet against the legs of the table and his arms against its leather surface. He screamed and howled into his gag and threw his body around maniacally. Katib jumped back from the table, a look of shock and amazement on his face.
"My baby slave wants to play hard to get," he said. "Well," he continued smugly, "I think we have an antidote for that."
Hollering into his gag and straining against his restraints, Bret watched Katib saunter back to the counter. Standing momentarily in front of it, he stepped out of his sandals. then pulled his tunic down over his shoulders, letting it drop to the floor. A white linen pouch, held in place by a drawstring wrapped around his hips and tied in front, housed his genitals, and before he moved again, he untied the string and let the pouch drop to the floor also.
Katib, bending over and pulling open the bottom drawer, displaying his naked buttocks and hole to Bret's view, extracted a long metal rod. He stood up and turned, facing Bret for a moment, smiling, holding the metal rod with one hand and stroking his amply long and thick cock with the other.
Continuing to smile, he said, "I have just the thing to help you struggle against those nasty cuffs." He walked to the side of the table and, placing his hand over Bret's left nipple, looking down into his face and smiling, drove the cattle prod into his flesh, midway between his armpit and chest.
Bret felt the entire universe explode into a flaming sheet of unbearable pain, a wave of searing hot lava slammed across his body; he could not hear his own shrieks, nor see anything with his eyes but a red explosion of agony. Katib's next target was Bret's flank between his chest and hip, next he jabbed the prod into Bret's navel, then midway to his genitals, all the while his victim convulsed violently, his body raising up and crashing back down onto the table, his screams too loud for the gag to muffle.
Katib struck Bret's penis and each testicle, then the inside of his upper thighs. He squatted down at the lower end of the table and tapped the prod into the soles of Bret's bare feet, then continued his torture up the right side of Bret's body. When he had finished, Bret's eyes were bulging, he was shaking totally out of control, blood seeped into his gag and dripped out of the corners of his mouth, he was soaked with sweat, and each breath sucked through his gag was a raspy scream; his body, however, bore not a single mark from the prod.
Zarak had reentered the room and stood by the table opposite Katib.
"You see, Zarak," he said sounding a little more than slightly sarcastic, "it is possible to discipline a slave without breaking every bone in his body. This lovely baby slave does not look any more the worse for wear than he did when you dragged him in here."
"The proof is in the results, Katib," Zarak responded smugly. "And you know I get results."
Katib grinned and held the cattle prod in front of Bret's face. "Shall we go again?"
Instantly, and inspite of the pain still crackling through his body, Bret began to shake wildly, screaming into his gag, his eyes wide with horror. He could not take any more.
"There, there," Katib cooed soothingly. "I would never hurt you unless it were for your own good; we doctors do not cause pain indiscriminately. Pain tells us," he continued as he brushed his hand across Bret's forehead, "that the body is attempting to correct its sickness, and your body is sick, slave. Sick because it does not yet know how a slave body is to act. That is what Zarak and I will teach you."
Handing the cattle prod to Zarak, Katib leaned over and began kissing Bret's cheeks and neck again and massaging his nipples. He did not resist; he knew that regardless of Katib's intentions, he would survive.
Zarak took the prod to the counter top and laid it down then removed a large jar of petroleum jelly from the cabinet; returning to the table, set the jar down and released Bret's wrist and ankle cuffs. Katib hoisted himself onto the table and knelt down straddling Bret's chest, sliding his cockhead across Bret's mouth, while Zarak, standing at the foot of the table, smeared a thick layer of gel on his cock and the lips of Bret's hole.
Bret knew better than to struggle against Zarak whose promise of severe punishment at the end of the day loomed in his mind. Taking more and more of Katib's hardening cock into his mouth, he realized all he could do was let it happen, and try to convince himself he did not enjoy it as much as he did. Katib pressed his hands against the sides of Bret's head and slid his cock to the back of his mouth at the same moment Zarak began shoving his cock into his well greased hole.
Katib swayed back and forth, his eyes closed, his head thrown back, pumping his hips, groaning and riding Bret's mouth. Zarak tossed Bret's legs over his shoulders, his arms hammer locked around his thighs, grinding himself hard against his hole, thrusting ever deeper. And Bret, hard sucking Katib's cock and bucking wildly on Zarak's, surrendered to the blistering tide surging over him, letting it hurl him through eruptions of ecstasy, stripping away every sliver of reason, every thought, until, thrown into a mindless, writhing frenzy, he was ablaze in the fires of hell.
Zarak and Katib had exchanged places three times until Katib had drained himself, and lay face down on top of Bret, his tongue buried in his mouth. Zarak sat on the floor, legs drawn up and his chin resting on his knees, his back against one of the legs of the examination table, waiting for Katib to cool down. They had taken forty minutes of pleasure at Bret's holes, and not one movement, not one convulsive spasm, not one ecstatic cry had escaped Shareem's video cameras mounted at the four corners of the ceiling. Katib would relive this morning's delight many times over.
After waiting for what he judged to be a quarter hour, sufficient for anyone to catch his second wind, Zarak finally stood up and began to rub his hands over Katib's buttocks, sliding his fingers along the ridge between them, tickling the lips of his hole.
"You can have this slave any other time for an entire day if you wish," Zarak said, "but I must take him now, and you must prepare yourself for the one that arrived with him."
Katib moaned and raised himself on all fours, then looking down at Bret and smiling he said, "But this one is so delicious."
"As are all of Master Shareem's slaves," Zarak retorted. "I have seen the one that came with this one, and he is a beauty as well."
Katib sighed and looked into Bret's face with resignation, then slid off the table. He walked slowly to the door next to the medicine cabinet, stepped into the lavatory inside, stood in front of the toilet and took a long, loud piss. Then Bret heard the unmistakable sound of a shower, and he envied Katib only that.
"Stay put, slave," Zarak snapped, "it is time for your first meal of the day"
He stepped over to the counter, and taking the red telephone, punched in a series of numbers and ordered Bret's "first meal of the day."
Even though the word 'meal' instigated pangs of hunger, Bret was nauseated at the thought of consuming another bowl of the same slime he sucked down last night. But he had survived, and that would be his mantra, "I will survive. I will survive. I will survive."
His mantra and his sanity would be sorely tried before this week, or even this day ended.
MANDRASAT is very much a 'Work Under Construction,' and I would appreciate hearing your thoughts and suggestions should you choose to continue reading through the story. Please email your comments to Pete Brown petebrownuk@yahoo.com