"Mandrasat" is a continuing work of adult fiction; any similarity to persons, places, or events present or past is unintended and purely coincidental.
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After some moments letting the two slaves writhe in their bungee-cord union, their cocks and balls stretched obscenely long and purple, Kasim stepped between them, and Bret's eyes bulged in horror; already crushed by unbearable pain, he screamed louder and longer into his gag. The overseer was holding two black leather straps, one of which he handed to a grinning Nubian.
In terrifying detail, Bret remembered the first time he saw the fighter pilot in this room with Kasim, chained upright and spread eagle, the overseer flogging his ass with a black leather strap from behind while he was forced to suck the screaming man's cock in front.
Kasim stepped behind Bret as the Nubian stepped behind the other slave; instantly, claws of fire ripped across the slaves' buttocks, and Bret watched, screeching in pain, as the Navy pilot received the same lashing as he.
Witnessing each other's agony, both slaves convulsed under this new and monstrous brutality, amplifying the devastating shock to their genitals, their shrieks exploding across the room. On a totally instinctual level, they realized they would have to remain still inspite of the flogging or risk tearing one another's cocks and balls out by the roots. As a second tongue of flame raked their buttocks, they again screamed and convulsed under its blistering swath, but quickly fought to regain control of themselves.
Again and again, Kasim and the Nubian lashed the slaves flaming red buttocks; the victims able only to cry out and gasp into their gags as the straps whipped back and forth across their naked flesh, but, by sheer force of will, they made themselves move as little as possible, as little as their agonies would permit.
Feeling as though they were being torn to shreds, there was no way either slave could have heard the workroom door slide open, nor, drenched with pain as they both were, would their minds have been able to react to the sight of Dr. Katib entering the room.
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MANDRASAT Chapter Two: Zarak! (cont'd)
Katib stood momentarily at the workroom door dressed in his sleeveless, white, ankle length robe and barefoot in slip-on sandals; a small black case hanging from his right shoulder. He savored the thrill of watching these two slaves strung up and stretched taut between ceiling and floor receiving lash upon lash across their deeply crimsoned buttocks from the naked overseer and a naked Nubian slave. A cruel and hungry smile spread across his face as he stepped into the room and sauntered toward Kasim and the body of Zarak's beauteous slave hanging in front of him.
Standing directly behind the roped and manacled slave and mes-merized by the sharp definition of his vertebrae and the rippling of his shoulder and back muscles as he hung writhing in midair, Katib cupped his hands roughly around Bret's fiery red ass.
"Nice and hot and ripe for fucking," he rasped with a throaty chuckle.
"Help yourself," Kasim laughed. "I know you have already steamed through this one's juicy canal before, but you must sample it now that it is as hot as boiling oil."
"First things first," Katib responded pinching and sliding his hands painfully over Bret's inflamed ass. "We want to make sure these two baby slaves of yours do not come down with any kind of infection."
He stepped around and stood in front of Bret, yanked forcefully on the bungee-cord, sending explosions of pain through both slaves' genitals, then smiled his malevolent smile. Opening the case hanging from his shoulder, he removed one of the two syringes inside, held it before his face, smiled more fully at the sobbing slave hanging helplessly before him, then drove the needle into his navel.
A horrified, agonized gasp erupted from Bret's throat into his rope gag. A battering ram had exploded head on into his guts, sending shock waves of excruciating pain through his body, his convulsions involuntarily jerking and crushing his own and the other slave's cock and balls. Katib pulled the syringe slowly out of Bret's belly, adding another layer of agony to Kasim's hideous game.
All of Shareem's slaves came to know intimately the bestial quirks of Mandrasat's Dr. Katib. 'Painless' was a word that did not exist in his vocabulary or in his method. Shoulder or butt inoculations were too boring for him. Plunging a hypodermic into a slave's belly, or into a bulging vein in his cock, or between his toes, or into his armpits or the bottoms of his feet never failed to exhilarate and excite the good doctor, especially when his ministrations were accompanied by screams for mercy from some extraordinarily handsome and muscular slave.
'How delightful," he cooed, watching Bret howl and fight to control his body's agonizing convulsions.
After he had inflicted the same pain on the fighter pilot, Katib removed the small case from around his neck and gave it to one of the Nubian slaves, then pulled his robe over his shoulders and let it drop to the floor. He wore no undergarments and, as he stepped out of his robe and sandals, standing completely naked, he said to Kasim, "Where do I begin, my friend? With your delectable slave or with Zarak's?"
"Ah, Katib," the overseer replied flippantly, "life is full of choices, but in this case, each hole possesses its own tasty pleasure; both are equally luscious, so I would say, fuck the one that's closest."
Both men laughed and Katib moved to stand behind Kasim's slave.
"I will take your slave first," he called to Kasim, "and it will give me great pleasure to watch you fuck Zarak's slave while I fuck this one at the same time."
Standing behind the fighter pilot, Katib pressed his body tightly into the slave's back, resting his chin on the prisoner's shoulder, grinning at Kasim and maneuvering himself into the best position for a rapid, deep thrust. As their cocks hardened against hot fiery red buttocks, they wrapped their arms around the slaves' chests and began to stroke and fondle their brutalized flesh.
Relishing the sadistic humor of what appeared to be a competition between them, Kasim and Shareem's veterinary doctor began to count out loud, "One! Two! Three!" then, as they hard jerked the prisoners' bound and tortured cocks, they impaled them on their own, viciously pumping and grinding themselves deep into their victim's bowels.
Bret threw his head back, sobbed long and low into his gag and gratefully accepted the thunderous avalanche of darkness that obliterated his consciousness.
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At the same moment Bret fainted under the extreme agonies of Shareem's slave training program, three thousand miles to the east, across the Indian Ocean, the USS Everett Ralston departed the island of Diego Garcia for Maputo, Mozambique to arrive in time for Christmas, then to sail onward to Dar Es Salaam and Mombasa for two additional good will stops and extended celebrations of the arrival of the New Year 2002. With the U.S. military getting a real handle on the war in Afghanistan and all branches on high red alert since 9/11, and Iraq being its usual hotbed self, the guided missile destroyer was on practice-ready maneuvers in the IO, creating a sense of urgency even about the most routine of ship board duties.
Electronic Systems Mate Sean Olivier and his best buddy on board, Jeremy Posten, were in their own heightened state of excitement, not just because of the real possibility of launching their arrows at honest-to-god land based targets, but also because after their stop overs in Africa, the big ER would be heading to the Persian Gulf port of Qassir City and coincidentally to an Olympic weight lifting elimination round to be held there on January 16. They would be arriving two days earlier on the 14th.
Although they were from different parts of the country, Sean and Jeremy had each been avid lifters for over seven years, ever since their early adolescence, and both of them felt they had a good shot at making the U.S. Team in 2004. They were determined to use all their PT and free time on board to get in the best shape possible.
Because there would be ships from at least the Aussie, British, and Russian navies visiting the Kingdom of Qassir at the same time, each sporting its own weight lifting team, the officers and crew of the ER were as much a part of Sean's and Jeremy's workout routine as their sweat and sore muscles. In addition to shipmates spotting for them in the exercise area and the duty officer accommodating their schedules, the chef had worked out a rigorous low carb diet aimed at reducing and maintaining their body fat at about five percent for the day of competition. With this kind of support, Sean was confident no surprises awaited either him or Jeremy in Qassir City, at least nothing they couldn't handle.
They had become icons of inspiration to many of the crew, and the exercise area was usually filled with shipmates enthusiastically grunting and sweating even when the two of them were on duty and not free to work out. With a bit less than a month till the competition, and given the intensity of their new found zeal for weight lifting, the men of the Everett Ralston, already in fundamentally, if not phenomenally good shape, would be a sight to behold cruising into Qassir City on January 14.
As the final days of December melted toward year's end, no crew member was unaware of the subtle and progressive changes taking place in his own body and in the bodies of the men around him. Many of the ship's complement adhered to Sean's and Jeremy's strict low carb, high protein diet as well. Waists were narrowing, muscles were bulging, and a sense of shared invincibility permeated the ship; nowhere was this camaraderie more evident than in the boisterous banter shouted back and forth in the ship's locker and shower rooms.
Sean's standard shower room greeting, "Lookin good, babe," always prefaced a swat to a buddy's wet and soapy buttocks and a quick duck to avoid a roundhouse punch aimed at his jaw.
"Faggot!" the accosted sailor would bray good naturedly, his fist sailing ineffectively through the air.
"You wish, babe," Sean would call back waving his monstrous hunk of uncut meat up and down and careening surfer style across the shower room floor. In some instances, his reply would be more than a little on target. He knew that he and Jeremy were objects of admiration and envy for many of their mates, and for some, of lust. That made him smile lying in his bunk at night in the dark, bare ass naked and fingering the fleshy curtain of skin draping his cockhead.
He knew he'd never give up cunt, vowed he'd never give up cunt, but there were times he was curious about what it would feel like to fuck his cock up another guy's ass or have some guy suck his cock. Then he'd smile again, dragging his clenched fist up and down the massive weapon inside.
"Not in this life," he'd think, "Not in this life."
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Like fringes of an early dawn, faint streaks of gray against the void etched the margins of Bret's darkened mind, not light enough to attract his attention yet, but enough light to begin the remote stirrings of awareness. He sensed before identifying the smooth, firm cushion supporting his back and resting beneath his buttocks and legs; he sensed before identifying a cool and rhythmic caress against his skin, a gentle rocking back and forth. Suddenly, a flash of lightning tore across his brain, the first sharp bite of pain to reenter his body, jarring him toward wakefulness.
Pain, throbbing in time with the pounding of his pulse, throttled him head to foot, his eyes not seeing, his ears not hearing, awash in misery across his back and buttocks, a crushing agony in his genitals, burning welts crisscrossing his body. How could he be suffering so? "Why?" his mind cried. Sobbing, the only sound he could made.
Suffering consumed his growing awareness until he had to burst its confines; eyes springing open and mouth gasping, he tried to devour his surroundings, tried to bring his reeling senses under control. His mind was spinning; hysteria battered his consciousness; sounds and images pummeled him like a rock slide.
Was he alive; was he dead; was he insane; was he in hell? What happened? What is this place? He groaned in shock and despair, discovering the smooth, firm surface he rested upon was no cushion, but the hard, muscled body of one of the Nubian slaves, his cock planted deeply into his ass.
Bret's fiery buttocks drilled the memory of Kasim's leather strap into his brain as much as the Nubian's cock throbbing and pounding in his guts recalled in searing detail his cock ramming his hole.
Struggling against fear and panic, he found he was immersed in a large tub of lukewarm water, his wrists cuffed to the rim, his ankles to rings at the bottom of the tub in front of him, from the back, the Nubian's arms wrapped tightly around his waist; a second Nubian knelt between his legs in the chest high water, giggling and screeching and splashing him in the face.
Even though a thousand blades of pain stabbed his body, Bret's mind had separated from his agony. He could think, could reason, could question, unlike his conscious mind pulverized by every blow from Kasim's leather strap, or crushed by his wrenching genital torture, or brutalized by his raw ass fucking. Whether or not Bret could grasp the significance of his functioning mind, he was intact; suffering severely, but intact.
The Nubian forced Bret's body down to slam into his cock's upward thrust, then yanked him up as he smacked himself down on the bottom of the tub, giggling and growling. Shackled by his wrists and ankles, pinned tightly around the middle, and with the Nubian's legs coiled around his own, Bret was helpless to resist the massive cock jackhammering his hole.
He screamed, not so much in pain, as in desolation. His cries, barely muffled by his gag anymore, demanded to know, "Would this ever end?" His howls, reverberating from wall to wall were pleas for deliverance, but deep in the very center of his being, down at that hot, explosive spot battered now by the Nubian's thick black cockhead, Bret knew there was no escape, knew it in every twist and throb of the monstrous spike plowing his guts. Whatever horrors were waiting ahead for him, at this moment, one thing was true, he was totally helpless.
For almost five days, he had been used as a cum toilet by anyone and everyone who chose to fuck his mouth or his ass, and he would never be able to prevent that; his holes would never escape cock, and his distress was intensified by the knowledge that some part of him did not want to escape.
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Bret's mate in suffering, the Navy pilot, was also shackled wrists and ankles in an identically large tub next to his and likewise impaled on a Nubian slave's cock gyrating beneath him. Bret did not know whether the pilot had passed out as he had at the hands of Kasim and Dr. Katib, but he was clearly aware of the man's loud groans accompanying his own, nor was there any way of him knowing how long he'd been unconscious. It obviously had not been brief.
The water that Bret, the pilot, and their Nubian fuck masters struggled and grappled in was heavily impregnated with thick oily extracts of medicinal herbs to assist the healing process, gradually diminishing, but not totally expunging, the pain inflicted by torture and flogging. No slave's life at Mandrasat was ever at any moment free of pain; it was the condition of their existence, and Shareem contrived ways to make sure they were brutally and constantly reminded of their plight. Bret and the pilot were nearing the cusp of discovering how horrifically Shareem could reinforce that reality in their lives.
The endorphin soaked pads adhering to Bret's and the pilot's bodies were still in place, though waterlogged and separating from their skin around the edges, releasing endorphins into the bath water to be absorbed both by the Nubians and their white fuck toys. While the second Nubian in the tub continued splashing water over Bret's head and into his face, the other played ecstatically with his body, few parts of which had escaped the day's floggings.
All of Mandrasat's Nubians delighted in manhandling and fucking Shareem's beautiful young auction slaves, and in their eyes, Bret was a particularly appetizing morsel. He was one of the most recent arrivals at Mandrasat, so his lean and firm body was still smooth to the touch, not yet hardened by heavy and forced labor as it would be over the next several months, not yet dark brown as it would be after weeks of slaving naked under the hot desert sun. His skin was still soft, and his hairless body milk white head to foot, something every black Nubian found maddeningly exciting. His nipples were large, pinkish brown ovals, their thick hardened nubs exploding through his skin, begging to be pinched and sucked.
The few years difference between Bret and the Navy pilot evidenced themselves in the hardness of the pilot slave's muscled body; he was certainly an exceptionally exciting fuck in both his holes and would remain so for many years, otherwise Shareem's slavers would not have gone to the extent they had in order to capture him, but physically, he had evolved beyond the shiny gleam and sheen of youth still much a part of Bret's body. Both slaves' aching and sensitive cocks were hefty, long, and solid, and each captive squirmed and groaned as the Nubians slowly dragged their clenched fists along their full rigid lengths.
Restrained and pinned as he was, Bret could do little more than gasp and grind his teeth against the rope gag as the Nubian continued to tickle his still burning cock and tug at his tortured scrotum. The second Nubian moved himself up between Bret's legs, kneeling almost flush against his body and, reaching behind Bret's balls, began working a finger into his hole next to the Nubian cock embedded there.
Bret's body stiffened and he began to pull against his wrist and ankle restraints and screech into his gag. The grinning Nubian jabbed his finger ever deeper into Bret's ass, then, smiling broadly, his face and body flat against Bret's, he shoved a second finger from his other hand along the opposite side of his asshole, pulling and stretching its lips. Eventually, he forced four fingers into Bret's hole, encircling the thick cock pounding his ass.
Bret had been fucked so many times in his sore ass since his capture the previous Saturday, that his butt hole was both inflamed and incredibly more pliable than it was when Tariq claimed it for the first time that night. It still hurt to have cock split it open, even though it was lubed most of the time, but that was a flash of pain, an instant, followed by exploding waves of delirium.
Even now, encased as he was in an envelope of suffering, and inspite of the burning, throbbing pressure from the Nubian's massive stalk grinding its way through the walls of his fiery tunnel, the ecstasy of spasms surging from his aching groin through his guts sweeping every shred of pain and suffering together into one swirling, searing, unquenchable furnace gave outcome if not reason to his agony.
Shareem's regimen of torture was not without purpose; he sought no confession with it, nor admission of any kind of guilt, and though it was tailor made for the victim, it was not in the least way personal. Shareem derived great pleasure and satisfaction from the screams and pleas of his slaves, of course; he was only human, but that was not the point of the exercise either; that was honey on the cake. The whole purpose behind the House of Shareem's centuries' old program of pain and terror was to shatter forever whatever spirit or mindset had accrued within the slave prior to his delivery into bondage and to eradicate whatever cultural, racial, or ethnic inhibitions resulted from the slave's former conditioning process.
The fear of pain is a great neutralizer of conditioning processes, and the fear of great pain is the absolute deterrent to them. However much Bret or the Navy pilot or Isam or any other auction slave is suffering at any given moment, the totality of the slave's consciousness must be focused on this one fact; it could always get much worse. In effect, Shareem's torture declares to each slave that as much as you think you are suffering now, it is a mere shadow of the agony that can be inflicted, and he would demonstrate that time and time again accompanied by wails of great misery.
Shareem's slave training program is directed to create a product without memories or thoughts, that has been stripped of its awareness of its own nakedness, responsive only to its master's commands.
In a time shorter than he could possibly imagine, Bret, as all auction slaves had before him, will feel normal only with slaves like himself, naked, submissive, mute, and purposeful only in fulfilling commands given. All that he was before will be like a vague dream evaporating quickly in the light of day.
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"Nubians up!" Kasim's voice exploded across the room to the crack of his leather strap against the stone floor. He shouted his command again, his strap repeatedly striking the sides of both tubs, unleashing all the pain and terror Bret had experienced since his capture. He shook with fear as the Nubian quickly unwound and uncoiled himself from his body, leaned against the back of the tub, and, gingerly working himself up onto his feet, slid his softening cock out of Bret's hole.
Kasim ordered the Nubians to empty the tubs and release Bret and the pilot. When the water had drained to ankle depth, the Nubians snapped open the restraints on both slaves and hauled them out, letting them slide to the floor. Kasim's leather strap quickly found and sliced across the buttocks of the Nubian nearest to him.
"Fuckin Nubians! If I'd wanted those slaves on the floor I'd have told you to drop them there. Pick them the fuck up!" The strap sailed through the air once more, and once more found black flesh to sear.
Two of the Nubians were ordered to return the pilot slave to their pen for the night, "And make sure," Kasim snapped, "that he's clean and presentable for Master Shareem tomorrow morning, and that he's ready for Overseer Zarak."
In spite of the painful welts blossoming on their ass cheeks, the Nubians smiled and shook their heads vigorously, leading the pilot slave to the workroom door. Kasim tapped his finger against the front of golden ring hanging around his neck, and the door slid open. A move seen, but not for the moment registered by Bret's mind.
Kasim ordered the remaining Nubian to follow him, assisting Bret, for whom the movement back into the corridors of Mandrasat was painful in the extreme. His sore and aching body throbbed in unison with his pulse, the crisscrossing tracks from the day's floggings burned and bit into his skin, but with the Nubian's arm supporting him, he was able to follow Kasim, at a distance.
Kasim did not seem unduly upset that Bret could not keep pace with his strides, and it appeared the Nubian knew where they were all heading anyway. After traversing several dimly lit corridor intersections, they approached a door that slid open to allow Kasim and the two slaves admittance into what Bret had come to recognize as a typical overseer's room, a large, dingy, cement cubicle, containing the enormous bed, a large double granite sink, an open shower, and a long storage shelf. The only accouterments overseers seemed to need or require in their spartan living quarters were the naked bodies of handsome, young auction slaves.
The Nubian helped Bret hobble to the bed.
"Lay him on his stomach," Kasim ordered, "then get out."
As Bret sat on the edge of the bed, the Nubian took hold of his legs, swung them up and rolled him across the mattress onto his stomach. Bret did not see the Nubian depart; he did so quickly and quietly.
Kasim removed a large can from the storage shelf, stepped to the bed and bending his left knee back, sat down, holding his left hip and thigh against Bret's side and letting his right leg dangle off the side. He slowly began to draw his finger tips along the welts across Bret's shoulders. He clucked his tongue as Bret shivered and moaned at his touch.
"There, there, darlin," he whispered. "We'll take some of that hurt away."
He placed the can on the mattress next to Bret's shoulders and scooped out a handful of thick brown gel, then began applying it in even and gentle strokes across Bret's back. The gel dissolved immediately into a liquid, and its initial chill at first stung Bret's wounds, but almost instantly transformed into a cooling, numbing wrap like a second skin. The gel contained a strong analgesic compound, and Bret's groans changed from ones of pain to ones of relief and release. Even his burning buttocks quickly cooled as Kasim layered the gel over them.
Kasim coated him completely from the top of his head to the bottoms of his feet, pressing his fingers lightly into Bret's skin, stroking his sides and legs. He maneuvered Bret onto his back, and, beginning with the welt across his chest, he worked the gel over his skin, paying special and gentle attention to Bret's cock and balls.
"Isn't that better, darlin," he drawled stroking Bret's inner thighs. "Aren't you startin to feel better?" He bent over and kissed Bret's right ear. "Aren't you?"
"Master. Yes, Master Kasim. Thank you, Master Kasim." Bret's mouth and throat were so dry he could only choke the words.
"I have a little something for your throat, too," he chuckled getting up from the bed and retrieving a ceramic pitcher and bowel from the shelf.
"Raise yourself up a little bit, darlin," he said, "so you can drink some of this."
He poured a yellowish green liquid from the pitcher into the bowel and held it to Bret's lips. "Just a little sip at a time," he continued solicitously.
The liquid was thick, warm, and tasted like licorice; it contained among other ingredients, herbal sedatives and a sizable dose of rohypnol, guaranteeing a malleable, pliant, disoriented slave for the rest of the night and into the following day.
"Just lay back, darlin. A couple more sips of this roofie highball, and your holes won't be able to get enough of Kasim's cock."
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Kasim's analgesic gel would not erase the inevitable bruising that would shortly appear over most of Bret's body; it would, however, in conjunction with the rohypnol and the natural sedatives Bret was imbibing reduce significantly the pain he would otherwise feel. It would also help in decreasing any temporary skin discoloration.
The overseer replaced the can and the pitcher and bowel on the storage shelf and returned to his bed, lying down full length on it, facing Bret and resting his head on his right arm. He said nothing for a few moments, simply tracing the finger tips of his left hand across Bret's chest and belly.
"You are a pretty, pretty slave," he finally whispered. "I can see why Zarak might hate to share your holes with anyone. But." he smiled, leaning over Bret's face and kissing his lips, "I'm not anyone."
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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