Kasim, his cock embedded in Bret's ass, grinding hard against his hole, rammed himself forward, fucking his way deeper inside. He shoved his arms under Bret's, and, reaching around both slaves, took hold of the shackled prisoner's nipples, pinching and twisting them, delighting in the rapid succession of his muffled cries.
Bret knew the explosive end was near; Kasim's ass was pumping faster, and he was gasping raggedly. As he surrendered himself to Kasim's thrusting thigh muscles, his own shaft strained desperately against the powerful walls of the prisoner's gut muscles clamped tightly around it.
Then the white hot eruption. Cum ripped through the burning length of Kasim's cock chute and exploded into hidden chambers deep inside Bret's gut. Their cocks were one, one spike, one shaft, one searing tongue of fire. Bret unleashed barrage after barrage as the prisoner, crying into his gag, shot long white ropes of cum out of his own fiercely tormented cock.
Convulsions rocked all three; sweat streamed down their bodies, gluing them together and puddling under their toes and around their feet. They groaned and shuddered for several minutes after the last of their cum had been spent, then Kasim dragged Bret to the floor, turning him over and rolling on top of him, seeking his mouth.
MANDRASAT Chapter Two: Zarak! (cont'd)
Bret, furiously tongue fucking Kasim, lay on his back, his arms spread wide, his hands clutching the spread eagled fighter pilot's ankles; Kasim, lying face down on top, clasping the slave's head between his hands, his mouth sucked in tight, his tongue savagely attacking Bret's, slid wildly on the sheet of sweat coating them both. Like two serpents writhing on a hot griddle, twisting and coiling around each other, their minds consumed with the feel and smell of sweaty flesh, growled and snarled like beasts.
Bret fought the voices screaming condemnation in his head with a fury equal to his grasping, clawing battle for dominance over Kasim. He was not fighting to escape the overseer; he was fighting to subjugate him. The slavemaster had unleashed a primal entity hitherto unknown, residing in the shadows of Bret's mind and body. No memories of privilege, of right or wrong, of vows taken and shattered could barricade the roar and rush of violence that had commandeered his soul, and the lust that fueled it.
As strong as he was and as driven as he was, in the long run, Bret was no match for Kasim's experience, weight, and strength. The overseer played with him, twisting him, bending him, doubling him over, biting and slapping him until he was ready to claim him one more time. Clamping a full nelson on his fuck toy's neck and shoulders and wrapping his powerful legs around Bret's, he drove his cock full force deep into his ass, and both cried aloud as Kasim shot a second load of cum to mix with his first.
After their gasping subsided and their shaking bodies quieted, silence hung in the air along with the smell of sweat and cum, then Zarak strode across the room to the tangle of arms and legs heaped underneath the spread eagled prisoner and, grabbing Kasim by the ankles, pulled him off and away from Bret. Bending over, he scooped Bret up with his arms, dragging him to his feet, holding him tight against his body, and sliding his hands over his sweat streaked torso.
"Let me have your slave tonight," Kasim growled, raising himself up on all fours. "You can taste mine," he gasped, "before you have him in front of Shareem."
"You make a generous offer," Zarak nodded, "but this slave and I have a duty to perform tonight. He needs correction and discipline, and I would not be doing Master Shareem's will if I did not administer an appropriate punishment."
"Zarak," Kasim rasped, "it would give me pleasure to punish him for you."
"Thank you, Kasim," Zarak laughed. "I will give him to you tomorrow night, for I will want to be fully rested before I meet with your slave the next morning."
"Then I'll count the hours," Kasim drawled, slowly propelling himself upright and stepping in front of Zarak and Bret. "I have been observing the Nubians playing with this slave of mine," he smirked, "and I'm anxious to do to this one what they've been doing to him."
Bret shuddered with fear and excitement as Kasim took hold of his balls and cock and began massaging them between his hands.
"He has yet another lesson to learn," Zarak said, enjoying the feel of his slave squirming against his body, "but after I teach him the price of disobedience, he will be more than enthusiastic in his duties."
Kasim and Zarak both chuckled at this remark.
"And now," Zarak continued, "this slave needs to learn more today about the ways of Mandrasat."
He ordered Bret to bend over, and, twisting his arms behind his back, snapped on the wrist cuffs, then standing him up straight, he fastened the leash onto the front ring of his slave collar.
"Have you taught him 'salaam' yet," Kasim asked.
"That he has yet to learn," Zarak replied, "but I think we have time now to start his lesson. On your knees, slave, in front of Master Kasim," he commanded and Bret responded immediately.
"Salaam is a sign of respect all slaves show their masters and their betters," Zarak continued gruffly, his eyes fixed on Bret. "You will perform this act of respect instantly whenever you come into the presence of a master or an overseer. Now, do as I command.
"Bend over and touch your forehead to the floor." After Bret complied, Zarak continued, "Now, kiss each of Master Kasim's feet. Raise yourself up and kiss the tip of his cockhead, right on the slit. Then kiss each of his balls.
Zarak ordered Bret to salaam a second time, and then a third, and a fourth, each time making him stand all the way up and drop to his knees, and each time Kasim's cock grew stiffer.
"If any master or overseer wants you to suck his cock, he will place his hand on top of your head and hold it in place. Tell me, slave, do you understand how to salaam," Zarak demanded.
"Yes, Master. I have learned how to salaam, Master," Bret
whispered, his face flushed with humiliation.
"And if your master holds his hand firmly on your head after you salaam?" Zarak further demanded.
"Master," Bret stammered, his words chocking in his throat. "I am to suck the master's cock."
It was one thing to suck cock or take cock up the ass, but quite a different and degrading thing for Bret to admit to it in words. It was as though he had just seen the past three days of his life in the unblinking, intense glare of the searchlight of his training and education, and it was devastating. Tears of anger and self loathing gathered in the corners of his eyes and spilled onto his cheeks.
Having said the words, Bret could no longer ignore the lust he truly had for the taste and feel of cock. From this admission onwards, his choice would not about being raped, but about being part of it, and he knew in that dark, secret place where his being dwells, and where Zarak's cock had buried itself before, what his choice would always be.
Kasim placed his hand firmly on Bret's skull, and smiling malevolently said, "You can suck my cock clean, slave, and take another wad of my cum down your throat."
With no choice possible, his hands cuffed behind his back and Zarak clutching his leash, Bret closed his eyes and spread wide his lips, accepting his fate as a fuck toy, but also floating in ecstasy, his mouth stretched and his cheeks bulging as Kasim crammed his cum smeared cock deep into his mouth.
Bret plowed his tongue into the fleshy triangle underneath Kasim's cockhead, sliding his mouth rapidly along as much of the thick hunk of meat as he could. He whipped his tongue over the cock's tightly stretched skin, milking it, savoring it, delirious at the force of its twitching and throbbing and at Kasim's groans.
Gasping and still sweating, the overseer clamped both hands on Bret's head and furiously slammed his ass back and forth, fucking his cock through the slave's tightly sucked mouth until his cum exploded.
Kasim bellowed in triumph then moaned loudly to his cock's final spasm. He kept it in the wet, warm envelope of Bret's mouth, pulling it out only after it had gone completely soft. He stood for long minutes smiling down at Bret.
"We need to depart," Zarak interrupted, hauling Bret to his feet. "I will deliver this slave to you tomorrow for your pleasure."
Kasim spoke his farewell in Arabic as the double steel door slid open for Zarak's passage. Tugging on the leash, he dragged Bret behind him into the dimly lit corridors.
He didn't speak as he led his slave down several intersecting passageways; Bret tried not to let his mind wander, lest he fail to hear an order from Zarak. There were no clocks in any of the corridors or cubicles Zarak had dragged him to, so it was impossible to estimate the amount of time passed since they left the giant's work room. In Bret's mind, every experience was a jumble, but he estimated that they might have been on the go between three or four hours. In reality, it was closer to six. -0-
"Master Shareem commands that all slaves spend two or three hours a day in this exercise pit," Zarak stated as he led Bret into a large, brightly lit, high ceilinged chamber. "You will spend much time here improving your scrawny body so you look like a proper slave when you are placed on the auction block."
Fear swirled through Bret's innards like a chill wind, and the words, "auction block" throttled his mind. He knew those words had been spoken to him and about him since his capture, but his brain had been too befuddled by the brutality of his abduction to allow him to think about at what had happened to him. He could not even focus on the room he was now in, nor on it's furnishings of free weights and exercise equipment, nor on the overseers, or the dozen slaves engaged in physical training, or the Nubian enforcers patrolling the room, whips of thin knotted cords in hand.
"Auction Block," he thought in a confused haze of terror, "my God. They're going to put me on an auction block and sell me." And the pit of his stomach collapsed under the sheer weight of his fear and despair.
Zarak suddenly yanked Bret's leash. "I told you often enough, slave, to listen for my orders and not let your mind go its own way, did I not?" He yanked roughly on the leash a second time to emphasize his displeasure. "Did I not?" he repeated angrily.
"Master, yes, Master," Bret cried. "I wait for your orders, Master. I listen for them." He was visibly shaking, overwhelmed by the horrific awareness of his situation and the terror that was ripping away his emotional balance.
Zarak saw immediately that his slave was succumbing to absolute despondency. Whatever resistance remained in his psyche would now be torn away easily with drugs and floggings and further degradation. The overseer would not acknowledge Bret's deterioration, but he would observe it intently, directing it in the ways he had been taught.
"On to the treadmill," he commanded gruffly, pointing to a standard version of the running machine. "You will run ten miles in no more than two hours including warm up and cool down time. A Nubian slave will be stationed behind you and if you do not maintain a run of at least six miles per hour, he will lash your bare ass with his whip until you do. Is that understood?"
"Yes, Master," Bret whispered stepping onto the treadmill. "I understand, Master."
Zarak removed Bret's wrist cuffs and collar leash and shouted, "Run," and immediately a grinning Nubian slave laid his whip back and forth across Bret's buttocks until Zarak signaled him to stop.
Bret cried aloud in pain and shock as the whip bit into his ass again and again. His brain screaming that only by running faster could he avoid this searing pain. He took frequent lashes from the back of his knees to the back of his neck before he adjusted to the way his genitals slapped his thighs and bounced awkwardly between his legs, disrupting his gait.
To maintain his stride, Bret learned, with encouragement from the Nubian whip, that he had to alter the thrust of his hips and elbows to compensate for his wildly bouncing cock and balls, but once he began to focus on that task, and control his body correctly, he missed his stride less and less.
Zarak monitored the mph display screen at the front of the machine, motioning to the Nubian when to use his whip and when to stop. After Bret reached and sustained his assigned speed, Zarak turned and left the exercise pit.
Anytime Bret slipped below six miles per hour, the Nubian was there with his whip, enjoying every lash he applied. Bret's only focus was keeping the pace; now he emptied his mind of all else except the mph readout in front of him. His mind and his legs were one, pistons and engine, with one goal, to stay ahead of the whip.
He sucked in great quantities of air; sweat poured from his body, and he reached his stride before he had completed a quarter of his run. From this point on, his body would function automatically, no extraneous thoughts, recriminations, fears. Driving his legs, slamming his feet on the treadmill, maintaining the read- out well above six miles per hour, those were his only realities, and he fulfilled them expertly.
Zarak returned an hour and a half later to find an angry and frustrated Nubian, his arms crossed over his chest and his whip lying at his feet, and Bret himself running steadily at almost seven mph, and quickly closing in on his assigned goal of ten miles.
"The next time," Zarak thought, "we will do twelve or thirteen miles in two hours." Then he walked across the room, past slaves working machines and lifting weights, past Nubians circulating among them liberally applying their whips to naked flesh, and took a piece of canvas from a pile sitting on a workout bench and returned to Bret's tread mill as a loud buzzer signaled that he had reached his ten miles. The machine itself switched to its cooling off mode, and gradually reduced the speed over fifteen minutes from a six plus, plus mile per hour run to a brisk trot.
When the tread mill stopped, Zarak tossed the piece of canvas to Bret ordering him to wipe the sweat from his body and from the treadmill and anywhere else it might have sprayed. In spite of the burning pain from his flogging and from the serious psychological assault he was experiencing, Bret felt pumped; his oxygen enriched veins and muscles bulged through his skin. He felt invigorated, alive, and energized enough to keep thoughts of his plight at bay. When he had finished drying off and mopping up, Zarak ordered him to place the canvas on the floor and lie on his back on it.
"You will now do twenty minutes of elbow to opposite knee body crunches," Zarak commanded. "This Nubian will insure that you exercise rapidly, with no slacking."
The Nubian, a lewd snear twisting his mouth, licked his lips in anticipation of crisscrossing his whip again over this comely slave's white skin.
"Begin!" Zarak barked, and the Nubian's whip raked Bret's shoulders as he began his vigorous workout, crying aloud in pain.
Zarak controlled the Nubian's whip as easily as he controlled Bret's workout rhythm. He sustained his slave's pace by clapping his hands, and whenever Bret fell out of sync, the razor sharp claws of the whip slashing across his neck and shoulders spurred him back. Sweat poured over his body adding to his misery, biting and intensifying the burning welts and stripes from the whip. His lungs were aflame as he labored to suck in greater and greater quantities of air, his muscles, liquid fire.
When he had achieved his twenty minutes of torture, Zarak permitted him to lie for two minutes spread eagle on the sweat soaked canvas, his body twitching from the slash of the whip and the salt bite of his sweat. His only hope was that this agony would end soon, but Zarak was not finished. He commanded his slave to perform twenty minutes of push ups, and the Nubian slave took great enjoyment in applying his whip to Bret's shoulders, ass, and thighs when Zarak permitted him.
After a second all too brief two minute rest, Zarak ordered Bret to stand, then reattached his wrist cuffs and leash, then instructed the Nubian slave to dispose of the canvas and marched Bret back into Mandrasat's hallways. The overseer had Bret on the go now for almost nine hours, and still had more "duties" to attend to. -0-
Bret was afloat in pain from the lashing he'd received in the exercise pit; none of his wounds were serious, but all were raw and throbbing. Mandrasat's overseers and Nubian slaves were accomplished practitioners of the whip and could apply this instrument of discipline without permanently scaring or damaging their victims. This, however, was never any consolation to the generations of slaves who fell under Mandrasat's lash.
Zarak informed Bret that dinner would not be forthcoming as a result of his disobedience this morning and his continuing lack of attention throughout the day, but he would, of course, be spending time with his Nubian grooms.
"They have been anxiously awaiting your return to the showers," he laughed as he dragged Bret through the decrepit courtyard and into the latrine, and as he said, the Nubians were waiting anxiously and pounced as soon as Bret entered the door.
Zarak roared commands and threats at the Nubians as they tried to wrest Bret's leash from his hand; he landed severe blows on the nearest Nubians with his free hand while Bret, startled and shaken by the chaos around him, tried to pull away from the overseer's grip. By the sheer force of his size, his earthshaking voice, and his fist slamming into Nubian guts and jaws, Zarak cowed the unruly mob into a corner of the latrine.
"How dare you slaves try to tear my slave from my hands." Zarak was purple with rage and the Nubians huddled together on their knees, terrified to look at the ferocious giant towering over them.
"Get out of my sight," he roared, sending the Nubians sprawling with a vicious kick. "I will see all of you on the rack for this; get out!"
As the Nubians fell over themselves trying to escape Zarak's furious visage, he turned his attention to Bret, pulling him to the latrine's line of shit holes and ordering him to his knees. When he had him positioned the way he wanted, he went to the utility cabinet on the side wall and retrieved several enema bottles and a jar of lubricating gel. It took the better part of half an hour for the giant overseer to administer three douches to his groaning slave.
When he had finished flushing Bret's rectum, he removed his leash and wrist cuffs and ordered him into the showers to wash himself, then returned the empty bottles and the jar of lube gel to the cabinet, ignoring his slave's loud cries and groans. Even a lukewarm shower aggravated the excruciatingly painful welts covering most of his torso.
Bret began to see clearly that he had no more status at Mandrasat than a mute animal to be trained by flogging. He could not imagine a greater degradation than to be whipped for no reason or for any reason whatsoever; everything about his condition reinforced the horror of this realization. He was naked like an animal in the midst of a herd of naked slave animals; his name was never spoken; he was simply called, 'slave,' and one day, he would be dragged before Shareem's clients and sold to the highest bidder. Wrapped in pain, he shuddered at what had become of him. It was as if he had truly died and would never be heard of again.
When Bret emerged from the showers, Zarak was waiting in the middle of the latrine, bucket, brush, and snap on goggles in hand. He was now to be doused for the second time with Shareem's special depilatory gook.
"Stand over here," Zarak barked, indicating the space immediately in front of him, communicating clearly that he would tolerate no reticence from his slave.
He handed Bart the goggles ordering him to snap them on and spread his legs and arms, then beginning with the top of his skull, he lathered the hair remover over every curve and crease of his slave's body. The first sensation was a wintry chill that Bret knew would quickly turn into a wrap of fire. He gritted his teeth and clenched his jaw in anticipation of the pain to come, but it never arrived. Not trusting his senses, he was afraid to move, afraid of triggering the shift from ice to flame, even after Zarak ordered him back to the showers to wash off the sludge.
Moving tentatively, still expecting an eruption of agony, he reentered the shower room and began to plane the goo from his body, enduring the pain of standing under the beating shower for many long minutes before risking removal of his goggles. The stripes and welts from his lashing still throbbed, but his elation at escaping the fiery pain of the depilatory foam diverted his attention for a few moments; however, upon exiting the showers a second time, he was sickened to see his skin was again a bright pink. -0-
Zarak commented neither on the flamboyant color of his slave's skin, nor on the web of flaming red welts etched over it. He wasn't simply silent; he had shut his voice off, hardened his face, extinguished all traces of light in his eyes, and Bret was terrified. He knew in the pit of his stomach that Zarak was steeling himself to administer whatever punishment was in store for him. Slave and slavemaster completed their day long trek in silence.
For Bret, the sensation of moving from the latrine, through the courtyard, and back into Mandrasat's grim corridors was like viewing a grainy video in a smoke filled room; it wasn't real; it was a madman's hallucination. He was being led to punishment like a condemned prisoner to his execution, and the insanity of it all made sense only if he accepted the premise that he was a slave, and slaves are severely punished for disobedience. His predicament had become more than his system could bear, and, as Zarak dragged him steadily through Mandrasat's bowels, Bret began sobbing uncontrollably.
Zarak did not slow his stride or glance back at his weeping slave; he knew Bret was at the edge, and the punishment he was about to undergo would render him helpless, totally passive and compliant. He had seen it many times before in every slave he had broken, and it was vital that they be totally overwhelmed lest a chance to recuperate or to be devastated completely by despair arise.
It was a fine line that Zarak had to trod, but that was what Shareem had trained him to do, to use the tools of torture and terror to overlay the slave's psyche with the dictates and demands of slavery, so that he would never look elsewhere for any meaning or purpose to his life.
Bret's mind was numb as Zarak pulled him into the work room; he saw, but he didn't think about what he saw. Zarak's massive bed had been moved several feet away from the wall, and a lithe, muscular, tall black overseer stood next to it, his arms behind his back, his legs spread, his gold nipple and ear rings bright against his gleaming ebony skin, his gold genital cinch thrusting his cock forward in a constant semi erect state.
"Jullah," Zarak addressed him, "this is the one who has been willful and disobedient the entire day. See, even yet his brain is somewhere else," he said yanking the leash and jerking Bret to the center of the room.
"Salaam, slave, to overseer Jullah," Zarak commanded, and Bret quickly dropped to his knees in front of the black slavemaster.
Without hesitation or a second thought, Bret did as he had been trained, kissing Jullah's feet, then the tip of his cock and each of his testicles. He remained on his knees in front of the overseer.
"At least," Jullah said with a deep, resonant, British accent, "he has learned how to salaam correctly. What have his crimes been today," he asked smiling.
"As he attended me in the shower this morning," Zarak answered, "he refused my direct order to wash clean my butt hole; he spoke without permission, not ceasing even when ordered to; he has not paid attention to my orders throughout this entire day."
Bret tried in vain to force his conscious mind to block out Zarak's words, and thoughts of their inevitable outcome.
"Have him on the bed on his back," Jullah said continuing to smile. "I think we can convince the slave to be attentive and obedient in the future."
Zarak pushed Bret to the bed, undid his wrist cuffs, removed the leash, and ordered him to lie on the bed on his back as Jullah had requested. As he lay on the bed staring at the ceiling, his guts constricted with fear, the two overseers shackled his wrists and ankles by chains to the corners of the bed, then Jullah climbed on to and straddled his chest and pulled a black hood over the slave's head.
"Close your eyes," Jullah ordered as he stretched the hood down to the bridge of Bret's nose. It fit snugly, covering his eyes and cheek bones in the front and his head to the nape of his neck in back.
Bret twisted, grinding his teeth as Jullah wiped a frigid gel over his nipples and underarms, around and into his navel and his anus, on either side of his scrotum, and on the soles of his feet.
"Open your mouth, slave," Jullah ordered, and forced a large cloth gag into Bret's mouth, fastening it behind the back of his head.
After moments of absolute silence, Bret suddenly cried into his gag as rows sharp teeth bit into his nipples, sending shock waves of pain through his body. As much as Bret could, he struggled against his restraints, screaming as other saw sharp teeth clamped shut on his underarms. He could not fathom the reason for the pain streaking out across his chest or into his shoulders and arms. It was as though wild animals were gnawing on his body.
A large metal probe was forced into his navel and more needle sharp teeth clamped onto the four sides of its rim. He writhed on the surface of the bed as the tenderest parts of his body were tortured.
A hard, thick spike was rammed into his anus, corkscrewing its way agonizingly into his guts, metal straps snapped shut at mid thigh to secure it in place. Additional sets of sharp toothed clamps bit into the soft fleshy pits on either side of his balls, while other teeth snapped shut on cockhead and testicles. Crisscrossing metal straps held biting clamps secure to the bottoms of his feet, and Bret could not imagine what the overseers were doing to him or were planning to do.
Had he been able to see Jullah and Zarak about their task, he would have watched in horror as they fastened alligator clamps to the various parts of his body, all of them connected to each other by electrical wires emanating from a terminal attached to a laptop computer resting at the bottom of the bed between his outstretched legs.
When he was satisfied that all the clamps and connections were secure, Jullah tapped a sequence of keys on the computer, then hit the 'Enter Key', and Bret went into convulsions, thrashing against his shackles, screaming hysterically, wildly into his gag. He was ablaze with pain.
The morning's torture session with Doctor Katib's cattle prod could not come close to the agonizing eruptions of pain ripping Bret's body apart tonight. Even when Jullah cut the electricity, excruciating spasms continued to wrack the slave's body. Only when his screams subsided did the overseer punch the Enter Key again.
Zarak watched impassively as Jullah played his macabre computer game, sometimes activating only some of the electrodes; sometimes all of them, and sometimes just one. Bret could never know where or how his body would next be lashed with pain. He screamed until he was hardly able to scream at all, as needles of fire tore through his nipples and testicles, raking his leg and armpits, searing the bottoms of his feet, his anus, and his cockhead.
Jullah effectively balanced periods of torture with brief pauses to achieve the extreme of agony and terror. Bret was reduced to mindless suffering, with no awareness of anything other than bolts of pain lacerating his flesh. After an hour and a half, the overseer switched off the laptop and began disconnecting wires. The residual pain was so intense, so firey, that Bret was hardly aware of the clamps being removed from his body.
He was drenched with sweat, shaking violently, chocking and sobbing and moaning; when Jullah finished packing away the laptop, the terminal, the wires, clamps, and electrodes, he wiped Bret dry with a towel, but left him shackled, gagged, and hooded on the bed for the time being.
"If he has the memory of a pomegranit," Jullah commented to Zarak, "you can be sure he will never run the risk of repeating this punishment. I think," he continued, "from now on, he will be attentive to your every word and responsive to your every wish."
"Indeed, that is good news," Zarak responded. "This is one of Shareem's most valuable possessions. He expects him to fetch a king's ransom the day he is auctioned off."
"I have heard rumors, my friend, about this slave; some overseers think he is the wayward son of a head of state or of a corporate giant. Have you any ideas about what makes him so valuable?"
Zarak responded with a grin, "Only if you promise not to repeat what I know to anyone."
"Consider it promised," Jullah replied. "Consider it promised."
Zarak led the other overseer through the door and into the corridor outside the work room.
"The slave may be still feeling the effects of his punishment, but I do not want to run the risk of him hearing us discussing him or of Master Shareem's cameras recording us."
"Understood," Jullah answered gravely.
Zarak leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest, looking intently at his black counterpart.
"I only know fragments of this one's story. From what I heard, Master Shareem met him on an airplane and was so intent on capturing him that he had the airplane make a fake emergency landing at Colonel Mustafa's airbase in the desert and grabbed him there."
"Unquestionably, he is a beautiful slave," Jullah interjected, "but all of Master Shareem's auction slaves are beautiful, and all of them have given you and me much pleasure over the years. Something else must be in the picture besides his handsome face and slender body, yes?"
"Yes," Zarak answered. "I am sure there is; in fact, I know there is."
Jullah wrinkled his forehead in eager anticipation of hearing what Zarak knew.
"He is a brand new Christian priest in the Catholic Church," Zarak whispered. "That is why he is so valuable. Many would pay a fortune to exercise domination over such a one. Imagine," he continued excitedly, "having such an exalted one stripped naked for all time."
Jullah's eyes were wide in amazement. "I would never have thought of such a thing," he marveled. "A Christian priest. Any master would have his fill of domination with such a one. Yes, a Christian priest stripped naked for all time. I would have him harnessed to my buggy to pull me all over my estate while I flailed his bare ass with my whip."
Zarak chuckled at that, replying, "I would do that, too, but I would also burn away his voice so that he could never speak again."
"Why would you do that," Jullah exclaimed. "He would not be able to cry out to you as Master for mercy if you burned out his voice."
"Nor would he ever be able to use the vast storehouse of knowledge in his head. Would not that be magnificent domination? All that information, all that education, rotting inside his head like a two week old melon on a garbage heap." Zarak shut his eyes, delighting in his imagery.
"Let us rejoin our priest slave, Zarak," Jullah said in a mock haughty tone, "and ascertain the success of his punishment."
Zarak shook his head laughing, "If I had been your victim, I would agree to anything for the rest of my life."
"That is about what I expect from the slave," Jullah chuckled in reply.
The overseers entered the room and, with Zarak leading, strode to the bed and looked down on Bret in silence for a couple of minutes.
"Would you remove the hood," Zarak asked Jullah, "and the gag as well."
When Bret was free of the hood and gag, Zarak leaned over his face and asked, "Slave, do you accept your punishment for your disobedience to me?"
Chocking on his words, his eyes red from pain and tears, Bret groaned, "Master, yes, Master. I accept my punishment."
"And do you accept that you will receive this punishment and more if you ever disobey me again?"
Squeezing his eyes shut and shaking his head, Bret haltingly responded, "Master, yes, Master."
Zarak stood up straight, turned to Jullah nodding his head saying, "At least for now the slave intends to obey me."
The giant overseer then stepped to the storage shelf along the side wall and retrieved a hand full of wire mesh.
"I have been ordered by Master Shareem to report to his disciplinary room the day after tomorrow, in the morning, to allow Kasim's disobedient slave to show me what he has learned from being stabled with fifteen Nubians all week."
Jullah guffawed and chirped, "That doesn't sound like much of a punishment for the slave to me, just having his holes fucked by a pack of Nubians."
"Oh," Zarak replied good naturedly, "he took five lashes in Master Shareem's neural stimulator. Like this one," he said pointing to Bret, "he agreed to anything."
"What is that in your hand," Jullah asked.
"This," Zarak chuckled, "is my chastity pouch. I will wear it for the next two day."
Jullah roared with laughter. "A chastity pouch," he sputtered.
Laughing in return, Zarak continued, "Yes, a chastity pouch! I am saving myself for Kasim's slave."
By this point, both overseers were shaking with laughter.
"And since I will not be staying with my slave tonight, and I promised him to Kasim tomorrow night, I invite you to be my guest and enjoy the pleasures my beautiful slave has to offer."
"I would be delighted to stay the night and explore the delights waiting in his holes."
"You will not be disappointed," Zarak stated as adjusted his mesh chastity pouch, forcing his monster genitals into its restrictive innards. "He is still tight and shaky, but that makes him all the more pleasurable."
Zarak turned and walked awkwardly toward the door, grunting at the way his pouch pinched, and enduring Jullah's peals of laughter.
After the work room door slid shut after Zarak's departure, Jullah stepped to the side of the bed, and, looking down on Bret splayed out before him, he said, "I can give pain as you know, slave, but I can give pleasure as you will discover."
Jullah hoisted himself up on top of Bret's body, his own body smooth, hard, hot against against the slave's skin. Bret prepared himself to do whatever this overseer demanded of him. He had already learned the price of refusal, and he could not pay that price again.
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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