MANDRASAT: Part Twenty
At their first fleeting moments of awareness after being carried from the branding table into Mandrasat's bowels, Bret and Ballard found themselves in a dimly lit cell, lying face down on a cold stone floor, and, except for that circle of fire hammering their right buttocks, their bodies felt cold and numb. Thick swirls of analgesic gel had anesthetized the rest of their battered flesh, and, though they would not have believed it, the horrifically painful scrawls branded into their buttocks were much less intense than they might otherwise have been.
Their breathing was raspy and haggard, and, instinctively, neither moved, fearing an escalation of torment from even the slightest twitch. Slowly, as time inched by, and their consciousness gradually expanded, they became aware of their arms and legs, their hands and feet, their heads and torsos and the aching those parts bore.
Their wrists were still cuffed behind their backs and chained to their slave collars, the endorphin secreting pads still affixed to their sides and to the front and back of their thighs, and, to their shock and distress, they also discovered their cocks were rigid and straining painfully beneath them, oozing fiery precum.
The agony inflicted upon their bodies and the hormones leeching into their blood streams fueled their throbbing cock muscles, stretching and contracting them, puckering the lips of their piss holes and screaming for release.
Their wits not yet fully about them, the two slaves began slowly, mindlessly writhing on the rough cement floor, grinding their burning cocks between its gritty surface and their naked bellies until they belched a stream of scalding cum the length of their fuck shafts and spewed it out in a wild clenching of their pubic muscles. Pain, like a torrent of molten lava surging from their ravaged asses, ripped through their cocks, and drove them to a frenzy.
"Oh, God," Ballard cried, his gut muscles cramping, burning, powering the explosions of boiling cum streaking from his cockhole, up the length of his gut, and splattering his chest. He gasped loudly, digging his toes into the cracked cement floor, as each spasm jerked his buttocks together triggering more violent shock waves.
Such suffering overpowered their minds, and, in a fog of pain, they were only peripherally aware of shadowy hulks hovering over them, moving them across the floor, touching them, pawing at them, but all they could do was moan.
As their moments of awareness slowly, steadily increased, growing longer, merging, they recognized and recalled the function of Shareem's Nubian slaves, to fuck and torture them. But the four Nubians clustered around their bodies were wearing metal sheaths on their cocks and were held in check by two huge, naked overseers planted in opposite corners of the cell, their gigantic cocks standing hard and stiff in front of them, stretched taut by the gilt rings encircling their bases; each held a cattle prod in one hand and Mandrasat's inescapable whip of knotted cords in the other.
They would tolerate no nonsense from any slave. Shareem's orders were clear and immutable, no one fucks a slave's hole who has just been branded, no Nubian, no overseer, no exceptions for seventy-two hours. A slow and grisly death awaited anyone violating this rule, hence the full length steel restraints on the Nubians' cocks.
Shareem's edict was in no way prompted by any shred of compassion for his suffering livestock; he wanted the brands to be crisp and clear, healing unimpaired and well set. The sight of a sharply branded slave's ass would arouse a master's sense of power and domination as he probed and prodded the curves and muscles of its body, increasing that slave's value on the auction block considerably.
Shock and the sudden, excruciating pain from branding most often paralyzed a slave's bowels, and, if unchecked, severe and agonizing constipation could last a week or more, endangering the slave's life. But Shareem forbade administering enemas to the slaves during these first three days, which would be the only respite their holes would have from constant rape.
They were not to be washed, and they lay in their own urine, but anesthetic gel was continually and liberally applied to the brands as well as all other wounds and welts, bruises and abrasions.
They were forced to feed twice a day, water poured down their throats to offset dehydration resulting from trauma and pain. The Nubians hauled them into position and held them, surreptitiously stroking them and rubbing against their bodies as the two moaned and lapped the slave slop, doggy style, chocking and gagging on the nauseous swill that was also laced with antibiotics and steroids.
During the second day of their agonizing recovery, the Nubians pulled them to their feet amid much crying.
"Silence! Stop your whimpering," a snarling overseer shouted, "or I will lay this whip to your butts, on top of your markings, and give you something to cry about."
The threat of knotted cords slashing across their branded flesh was sufficient to prompt the slaves to grind their teeth, strangling cries of distress in their throats.
"Start walking," the overseer commanded. "Get those legs moving and I do not want to hear any more crying sounds." To emphasize his point, he snapped the lash hard against the wall, startling all with its explosive crack. "Think about that sound," he growled, "and how this whip would feel ripping across your asses."
With the Nubians jabbing and pulling them, Bret and Ballard stumbled and hobbled around the perimeter of the cell over and over and over, stopping only for watering. -0-
With no windows and a single light fixture dangling from the ceiling of the cell, no point of reference existed to gauge the passage of time. The three days of their isolation could have been a month or two weeks or an eternity; Bret and Ballard had no way of knowing when or even if this hell would ever end, until the door burst open and Kasim strode into the room, looming over the prostrate slaves, legs spread wide, cock jutting out like a battering ram.
"On your feet," he barked, "time for you to rejoin Master Shareem's slave pods."
Three days, and the continuous application of the gel, had significantly reduced the initial severity of their pain; they were now able to stand and walk on their own. As the pair of overseer guards departed, the Nubians pushed and shoved Bret and Ballard forward; neither resisted as they staggered through the doorway into the corridor outside.
"You stink like a herd Egyptian camels," Kasim hissed, leading the way to the latrine, then terror seized the battered slaves' guts as he continued, "your Nubians are going to douche and wash your pretty bodies. They've been waiting patiently for three days to fuck your holes; now it's time for their chastity wraps to come off.
"Remember," he clucked, "to show your gratitude for the way they've taken care of you."
Shaking with fear, their raw and inflamed cocks hard as steel rods, the only thought the two brutalized victims had in their minds was how the Nubians' assaults in the latrine and showers would exacerbate the torment they had already suffered.
Though each footstep brought an eruption of pain, the slaves were no longer crippled by it; they could walk; they could even control their instinct to cry out, but the fire burning in their arms shackled behind their backs was another matter. Each pulse beat sent lightening bolts slicing through biceps, forearms, wrists, and fingers stiffened from three days of bondage. They had no choice but to wince, groan under their breaths, and endure.
The reality of their enslavement and all the pain and suffering that accompanied it had been burned ruthlessly and indelibly into their consciousness, and each uncontrollable spasm wracking their bodies made brutally clear that resistance or escape were not options. Anyone with power over them could as easily thrust them into unfathomable torment as brush away a fly.
"Inside," Kasim snapped, pointing to the doorway of the latrine. The Nubians began to giggle and hiss, snuffling and gurgling as they trundled their two moaning auction slaves into the grimy, dark, and foul smelling toilet. "I want to see you well fucked and well scrubbed inside and out."
Half a dozen additional Nubians were waiting inside, leaping about and screeching with excitement, their thickly veined stiffened cocks bouncing up and down in front of their hairless bodies. With a wave of his hand, Kasim signaled the Nubians to begin, then leaned back against the wall, grinning widely, fingering his balls with one hand and stroking his rigid cock with the other, as Bret and Ballard were pulled howling to the floor. Their former attendants quickly snapped the metal tubes from their own eager cocks and ripped the endorphin pads from their victims bodies.
The ten Nubians fell upon their prey like a pack of hyenas, savagely wrestling them into the positions they wanted, giving neither heed nor response to their cries of anguish. Instead, their instinct, neither to shield the two white slaves from pain, nor to diminish it, was simply to ram their granite hard cocks full force into their holes. Grabbing them by their ankles, they jerked their legs off the floor of the latrine in a cyclone of gut wrenching pain and slammed their knees back against their shoulders.
Kasim guffawed at the scene unfolding before him.
"Fuck 'em good, you donkey dicks," he shouted. "Drill their asses hard and deep."
Both slaves had been so continually ass fucked and mouth fucked over the brief period of their captivity, that the pain now assaulting their minds and bodies did not erupt as much from Nubian cocks as from Nubian hands grasping and mauling their branded buttocks. But there was no random torture, no random rape at Mandrasat.
Every cock gouged into Bret's ass or crammed into Ballard's mouth was part of a well scripted scenario to shatter a slave's will and self-esteem; Mandrasat's slave training program had been created over generations, handed down through the ages and refined by each successive head of the House of Shareem up to the present moment, and it was now time for Kasim to play his part.
After almost an hour watching one thick, black Nubian cock after another fuck ball deep into both slaves' holes, Kasim sprang forward, dropping down and crouching behind a Nubian who'd just slung Bret's legs effortlessly over his shoulders and had begun machine gunning his cock up his cum chocked fuck chute. The overseer slammed himself into the Nubian's back wrapping his powerful arms tightly around Bret's upended thighs and squeezing them tight against the Nubian's chest. Roaring at the top of his lungs, Kasim rammed his cock viciously into the Nubian's ass, propelling him full force into Bret's hole.
Bret, in a barely coherent haze of rape shock, instantly felt the abrupt and massive explosion of the Nubian's cock bulldozing through his guts and focusing his paralyzed consciousness on the thick, hard fuck muscles pounding deep into his ass and mouth and hurling him wildly across the floor. His vision was blocked by the pitching, rolling, flat muscled belly of a Nubian hunched over his head and shoulders, trying to keep his balance while stuffing his cock into his throat, but he heard Kasim's howl of triumph as he ramrodded the other Nubian's fuck hole. He was now virtually upside down, squeezed onto his shoulders and the back of his neck, with Nubian cocks plunging vertically into his mouth and ass.
Kasim, convulsively spearing the Nubian's ass, roared ecstatically as his fuck tube blasted wad after wad of scalding semen deep into the gasping slave's guts. The Nubian himself, screeching deliriously as ropes of the overseer's hard driven cum splattered against the lining of his bowels, shot his own massive load into Bret's belly, grinding his cockhead abrasively into his prostate nodule, driving him to suck furiously on the other fuck shaft wildly reaming his mouth.
Kasim hurled the writhing foursome across the floor, digging his cock into the Nubian's ass in front of him as another slave beast dropped to his knees behind, clasped his massive hands around overseer's hips and buried his face deep between his sweaty, rock hard buttocks, tonguing deeply past the firm pliant lips of his ass hole.
As Kasim squirmed furiously on the fleshy wedge of tongue digging into his ass, the Nubian slid one hand around the overseer's balls, rolling them together and rubbing them against the underside of his chin, across his bobbing Adam's Apple, then squeezed the other hand around his own cock and began hard jerking it savagely.
Howling at the top of his voice, Kasim worked himself toward a second volcanic orgasm thrusting mercilessly back and forth onto one Nubian's tongue then into the other's fuck chute. Two more Nubians joined the twisting writhing coil of bodies, sucking their mouths over Kasim's back and shoulders, up and down his neck, forcing their tongues into his armpits, humping their cocks against his straining thigh muscles; reaching around the first Nubian's body they jerked Bret's cock and twisted his balls with tightly clenched fists.
Bret, embedded in this sweat drenched mass of flesh, helpless against the waves of pain exploding from his tortured cock and balls and flaming out from his jaw and ass hole, struggled to suck air into his lungs around the thick shaft hammering his mouth. The Nubian spike driving into his ass, grinding his prostate, flung him again into a swirl of pain and madness and blistering lust for a harder, deeper gouging.
Kasim roared loudest as seven fuck shafts exploded at the same moment, blowing geysers of cum in every direction, up fuck holes, onto bellies, chests, and thighs, exploding in Bret's mouth and down his throat. The latrine's own fetid atmosphere now hung heavy with the acrid stench of cum and sweat. Seven bodies, convulsing and coiling around and over and under each other, finally collapsed into a mound of writhing arms and legs and twisted torsos.
Long minutes of clenched gut muscles and cock spasms passed before silence replaced sharp cries and moans.
Five Nubians also lay sprawled over Ballard's body, all panting heavily, gasping for air. Nubians exercised no control over their cocks, wanting only to fuck as hard as they could and blow cum as often and as quickly as possible. They had ridden Bret and Ballard's holes mercilessly as their part in Shareem's plan called for. They knew well how to batter prostate knobs with their cock heads and shafts, hurling any auction slave's body into mindless spasms of lust and euphoria.
Barely conscious, Bret and Ballard lay side-by-side on the latrine floor, groaning under the weight of the Nubian bodies and feeling globules of thick, sticky cum from Nubian cocks draining out of their sore and burning holes, their bellies filled with an equal amount of semen and well into the process of digesting it. The wads of cum blown into their ass holes and down their throats were becoming part of their living flesh. Their bodies were literally feeding on it.
"Get the fuck up," Kasim shouted, kicking the Nubians and dragging them to their feet. "I want these two slaves douched, cleaned, and groomed, and I want it done now!" He emphasized his demand by grabbing the largest Nubian's cock and twisting it. "I said now," he screamed above the cries of the yelping Nubian giant.
Bret and Ballard were dragged moaning to the line of shit holes along the far wall. They knew what to expect; they'd gone through this every day since their capture and were paralyzed at the thought of a long sharp applicator shoved repeatedly up their burning asses and discharging liters of abrasive cleanser into their guts, but neither had the strength to struggle. In seconds, they were on their knees, their foreheads slammed to the floor.
The pain was so sharp as their buttocks were split apart that their holes puckered like women's lips causing the Nubians to giggle uproariously and finger the two slaves' cum choked asses. It took only one low rumble from Kasim's throat to bring the Nubians back to their task at hand.
Bret and Ballard were each worked on by five Nubians, four holding them in place and one ramming the enema bottle's elongated tip deep into their guts. The churning foam spewing from the bottles burned their bowels, compounding the agony brought on by a barrage of violent cramps.
The heads of the enema bottles were kept wedged tightly into their chutes until their cries and moans reached the right pitch, then they were yanked out and the two slaves thrown bodily over the shit holes. A sharp punch to their stomachs unleashed an explosion of shit, foam, and cum.
This tortuous procedure was repeated twice, then the Nubians uncuffed Bret and Ballard's wrists, unchaining them from their slave collars and inflicting the pain of a thousand needles stabbing their arms and shoulders, another searing torment in their crucible of suffering.
They were dragged like rag dolls into the showers; crying and begging for mercy, they were lathered and scrubbed until Kasim, attended to himself by three Nubians, was satisfied, then like kept animals, he ordered their teeth flossed and brushed.
He demanded they walk on their own from the showers back into the latrine where two Nubians waited with cans of gel to cool the livid scars on their buttocks and the burning column of pain up their asses. He then ordered the Nubians to scrub the latrine.
"It reeks in here," he barked, punching Bret and Ballard in the shoulders, shoving them back into the dank corridors outside. He continued jabbing them in the back, snapping commands, "Turn here!" "Left." "Right here." "Faster."
Before they were even aware of where they were, Kasim had led them back into the courtyard where their agonies had begun. The square was now filled with black Nubians and white auction slaves and overseers of every color, but, after three days buried within the darkened confines of Mandrasat's walls, Bret and Ballard were blinded by the glare of the desert's morning sun, able to distinguish only darkened shapes. Not until their eyes adjusted to the harsh sunlight were they hit with the sight of the branding table in front of them and overcome with fear.
A huge wooden gate in the courtyard's eastern wall had been thrown open, and carts of various sizes were lined up around it and on the dirt road outside, and slaves were being yoked to them as draught animals. Remembering the horror of his first experience harnessed to a farm cart in a pod of Nubian slave beasts, Bret felt his consciousness crumbling and could only gasp, "No," over and over.
Kasim shouted at the two slaves to follow him and led them to a rickshaw style buggy, sprouting three instead of the usual two long dark wooden shafts, a handle bar running across in front, connecting them. Four shackles hung on short chains from it.
He forced Bret and Ballard to stand behind the crossbar on either side of the middle shaft, ordering them to lift and hold the bar in place as he snapped the shackles onto their wrists.
"You'll just be pullin me today," he drawled maliciously, "instead of one of them big old heavy farm carts." Then stepping behind the two slaves he reached into the carriage and pulled out a wickedly long, thin, buggy whip.
Standing again in front of them, he sliced the whip back and forth through the air, grinning broadly at its whistle. Suddenly, without warning, he snapped the end of the whip savagely into each slave's navel, bringing forth sharp cries of pain in response. The two tried to pull away, stumbling over their feet as Kasim slashed the whip over their nipples and back across the base of their cocks. Cuffed as they were to the crossbar, they could not escape or cover themselves.
"Just so you know this buggy whip ain't just for show," he sneered. "I know how to use it, and I will. Where I use it on you," he smirked, climbing into the carriage, "depends on how good you pull."
Bret knew exactly what to expect and, bent over the crossbar, grasping it in a death grip, tightly squeezed his eyes shut. Ballard, tensing his body, knew they were going to be whipped, but he didn't know where the crop would bite first.
"Now git," Kasim barked snapping the whip across their shoulders and backs. "Move your asses."
-0-
With centuries of experience to call upon, Shareem's slave training program always unfolded flawlessly. Mandrasat's reputation for offering the finest, most obedient, best trained man-flesh in the world dates back millennia, and the Masters had long ago learned that the first month of captivity was the most crucial time period of all, whether training hard labor slaves, body slaves, or gladiators. Each had to be brought to the brink of physical, mental, emotional, and psycho-logical annihilation. With explosions of pain detonating throughout their bodies and no hope of escape, Bret Hauser and Jonathan Ballard teetered on the edge of that abyss.
Terror had always been the primary tool of Mandrasat's Masters, capitalizing on a slave's blinding fear of imminent obliteration, and Kasim was Shareem's instrument of terror and torture. He fed on the agony he inflicted on his hapless victims, knowing instinctively how deep to plunge them into the fires of hell and how long to keep them there. He never failed to pulverize the minds and wills of even the most resilient and stubborn slave delivered into his hands. Hauser and Ballard would be no exceptions -0-
Kasim aimed his buggy whip at the back of Bret and Ballard's necks, at their shoulder blades, their left buttocks, even at their ears.
"Faster," he shouted. "Faster you fuckin slaves," and his whip bit deeper into their skin, as their lungs burned and minds dissolved.
Bret already had the agonizing experience of a day yoked to a farm cart to draw on, and, even though his mind was shattered by the pain raking his back, his body adjusted quickly to his wildly flailing cock and balls; Ballard's body had no such ordeal to remember and struggled vainly trying to out run Kasim's whip at the same time trying to avoid crushing his balls between his pounding legs.
Kasim whipped his slaves along the broad dirt and gravel road, past Mandrasat's fields and orchards, luxuriating in the pain they were suffering and contemplating their oh-so-fuckable bare ass bodies bent over the front crossbar. He could almost taste the pleasure he would suck from all the ways he'd make them beg for mercy.
For a quarter of an hour they ran, legs hammering the road like pistons, tears streaming down their faces, mucous draining from their nostrils mixing with saliva and spilling out of their mouths. Their heaving chests aflame, sand and gravel biting the soles of their feet, fire crisscrossing their backs and legs from Kasim's slashing whip, the two slaves who less than two weeks before were known as Navy Lieutenant Jonathan Ballard and Father Bret Hauser plunged forward, oblivious to themselves, oblivious to everything except for the bite of Kasim's whip.
They'd run just a mile and a half, much less than they would have achieved running freely and competitively as the lean hard bodied triathletes they were. Kasim began shouting, "Slow down," repeating his command over and over, restraining his inclination to use his whip, until finally his words broke through the roaring in the slaves' ears.
As their senses began to resurface and the fiery tracks laid by Kasim's lash across their backs roused their consciousness and focused their attention on the overseer's voice, their pace slowed, their gasping grew louder, and Kasim snapped the tip of his whip at at their ankles and heels. "Slow down," he continued to shout.
Half a dozen Nubians carrying large buckets of water came running from the fields at the side of the road, giggling and chirping, their cocks bouncing up and down, balls swinging side to side.
"Stay standing, you fucking slaves," Kasim roared. Bret and Ballard, shaking, on the verge of collapse, muscles on fire and throbbing could not focus their eyes or their minds. They were on the brink of hysteria and losing their footing fast. The buckets of water hurled over their bodies did not refresh, nor were they intended to; their sole purpose was to sharpen the torment the two slaves were suffering and to make avoiding Kasim's whip their only goal.
As spasms of pain ripped through their bodies, Kasim exited the buggy and freed a long rectangular box from its rear luggage rack.
"Time to start teaching you slaves the difference between left and right," he snickered, opening the box and handing it to a nearby Nubian water bearer to hold for him.
"Going to get you hitched up proper," he continued, removing a black rubber cylinder, six inches in length and about an inch and a half in diameter, trailing leather straps, buckles, and rings at both ends.
Stepping in front of Bret, half smiling, half snearing, Kasim suddenly grabbed the slave's nose with his right hand, squeezing his nostrils tightly together and forcing his head back. As Bret gasped loudly, Kasim shoved the cylinder into his gaping mouth, then in one swift, smooth motion, pulled the straps tightly behind Bret's head and buckled them together, leaving the large rings dangling from the ends. Kasim repeated the procedure with Ballard.
With the black rubber bits wedged firmly into the backs of the slaves' mouths, Kasim pulled two tightly wrapped, lengthy braided leather straps from the box, their ends woven onto silver clips. Unwinding the straps one at a time, he snapped the clips onto the rings at the ends of each bit, then, motioning to the Nubian to affix the box back onto the luggage rack, he jumped into the buggy and carefully wound the leather straps around his wrists and through his fingers.
"Pay attention, slave," he snarled. "When I snap the reins like this," jerking almost hard enough to pull Bret off balance, "you turn to the right. Understand?"
When no response was forthcoming from the panting slave, Kasim cracked his whip at the base of Bret's neck and shouted again, "Understand!"
Bret screeched loudly, shaking his head furiously up and down.
"Good. Then let's try it again."
Five times in a row, Kasim yanked the reins attached to the bit in Bret's mouth, driving it painfully into his lips and gums. Bret responded quicker each time, turning to his right at the slightest movement of the bit, as if that would somehow diminish this new arena of pain.
"Both you slaves need to turn at the same time," Kasim continued to shout. "When I pull one set of reins, the other slave'll feel the kiss of my whip, like this," and, as he jerked the reins to Bret's mouth piece with one hand, his whip bit sharply into Ballard's right shoulder. Both slaves cried out as they spun quickly to their right.
Kasim practiced this maneuver again and again until Bret felt he was losing his mind over the pain inflicted on his mouth. Then Kasim changed direction, turning the pair to the left, jerking the reins to Ballard's harness and slashing into Bret's shoulder with his whip. The slaves were shaking and sweating profusely at this additional pain, but Kasim paid no attention to their suffering.
After a half an hour of turning in place to the right and to the left, Kasim aimed his whip at the small of their backs and ordered them to move forward, driving them to the middle of the dirt road. He would make the pair sprint down the road, away from Mandrasat, then make turns onto narrow side roads, sometimes no wider than a foot path, running into the fields. He whipped the back of their thighs as they learned slowly and painfully how to turn the buggy completely around, heading back the way they came.
The sun was well past its zenith and many buckets of water had been thrown over the slaves before Kasim aimed the buggy back in the direction of Mandrasat's walls. -0-
"Sailors, I cannot stress strongly enough how tragically different the world is today from what it was just a little over three months ago."
Captain Roscoe Turner's words were piped over all speakers to all decks on the Everett Ralston as it entered Maputo harbor, Mozambique. Sean Olivier glanced sideways at his buddy Jeremy Posten and rolled his eyes back. Captain Turner felt obligated to give a 'play it safe' speech every time the Everett Ralston pulled into port.
"I don't have to tell you that the continent of Africa has been ravaged by HIV."
"Then why tell us," Sean rasped in a stage whisper which resulted in a swat across the back of his head by a PO3 standing right behind him. "Ouch," he coughed in mock surprise. "What'd you do that for?'
"Shuddup," Petty Officer Ryan Buckley groused good naturedly. "Captain's talkin."
Sean rolled his eyes back again. Jeremy broke up, not able to suppress his laughter. Buckley scowled at them both bringing guffaws from their ship mates standing around.
"I want you to play it safe," Captain Turner droned on. "Even though it's the holiday season, remember HIV never takes a holiday."
Sean, patting his side pocket, winked at Jeremy and murmured the words, "Condoms. Enough for Christmas and New Years."
That earned him another whack from Buckley.
-0-