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Absent Friends
Lead by Argan, the
group of runaway gladiators marched on, each step taking them farther and
farther away from their previous thralldom.
They had moved with
the utmost care, hiding in the thick green of the forests whenever Arrakur´s
patrols were nearby. It had been Argan´s careful planning of their route and
his rigorous leadership of the pack following him, that had saved them from
being recaptured.
Not so few of the more
brutish fighters had openly vocalized their intention to plunder a few of the
solitary farms along their way for drink and food.
Argan´s harsh words
had put most of those endeavors to a halt, before they were brought into
action. Most of the time.
One those occasions,
were words were no longer sufficient to subdue the lust for pillaging; he put
his iron fists to use. So far, they had kept the loudmouths of his company in
line.
Although he could
understand his mens` dissatisfaction to some extent, he insisted on living of
the food they hunted and slew themselves.
As the company settled
for the night, Strymon approached Argan standing at the edge of the sorry
excuse of an encampment.
Argan looked at his
friend. Strymon´s bearded face was mostly blazoned with a slight, good-natured
smile, as if life itself was all in all very amusing. Now his face was darkened
with concern.
Being almost a head
taller then his life-long friend, Strymon looked down at Argan and sighed
wistfully.
“The men grow more and
more discontent, my friend. If you will not let them plunder on the farms
nearby, they may be off quite soon.”
Argan sighed as well,
gazing into the dark of night.
“I know. But I will
not have it.” He turned his head to look at his friend, his eyes blazing with
cold fire.
“Strymon, I don´t
intend to run from Arrakur´s tyranny much longer. I intend to take these men to
the mountains. Many of fled there from Arrakur. It is there I will build an
army…an army to battle this swine that destroyed our village and almost killed
all of our tribe. And if we do return, I don´t want to face a band of enraged
farmers and villages, whose crop had been stolen, whose men had been killed and
whose daughters and wives had been ravaged.”
The everlasting grin
returned to Strymon´s face.
“I suspected as much.
I thought you would let us escape slavery and leave it at that. By the gods,
Argan, I am with you. Let´s gather an army and fight back at this pig!”
Argan tipped his head,
acknowledging his friend´s consent to his plans. Then he gazed back into the
darkness and sighed again.
“I just whish, she
could be here!”
Strymon did not have
to ask, whom Argan was speaking of. He too grieved for his friend’s lover,
who´d died in battle defending their village from the marauders.
But his mourning could
not compete with the anguish his friend must be feeling.
Nothing they did could
bring Amethea back from the dead. But they would avenge her dead.
It would take weeks,
maybe months before they would return to battle Arrakur´s tyranny. But they
would make him pay for the death of Amethea and all the others of their tribe.
The squealing hinges
of her cell-door wakened Amethea as it was opened.
Four guards entered
and pulled her on her feet then dragged her out of the cell and down the hall.
She had no idea, how
long time had passed since she fell asleep. She surmised that no more than a
few hours could have elapsed, though, since she neither felt particular rested
nor strengthened by her reprieve. The food and water had added a bit to her
amenitious vigor, but her body and mind still felt fatigued and enfeebled.
Her unfavorable
condition was compounded by the dull, aching pain that still resided in her
breast-globes and womanhood. Amethea dimly tried to recall the feeling of her
body not aching. But the constant, nagging pain in her tits and cunt seemed to
have evaporated any other natural sensation; her nerve-endings were designed to
transmit to her brain. Each step she was forced to take, send a piercing,
stabbing pain into her beaten crotch. The slightest swaying of her brutalized
tit-cones caused them to send tiny lightings of pain through her chest. She was
tempted to yelp and gasp in pain with each and every step that she took but
managed to suffer in silence. She was determined to offer her captors as little
display of her agony as possible. Each scream unuttered, each tear unshed was a
small victory over those, who enjoyed hurting her, and she drew strength from
those puny triumphs.
And she doubtlessly
would need all the vigor she could muster since she was surely taken to the
torture-chamber for another bout with that twisted, little dispenser of pain.
Amethea grind her teeth as her hatred mounted, focusing on that dwarfish pig
awaiting her. She would not talk, she vowed. He would make her scream; he would
even manage to make her cry. This she could not prevent, she knew. But she
would not betray the rebels. They were the only chance they got.
But far back in her
mind, there was that mocking voice of another Amethea.
Really? It whispered. My, we are brave and strong,
aren`t we? You really think you won´t talk when that swine gives you another
hell like the previous one? Your breasts still hurt, don´t they? And it hurts
down there, as well, No? Think you can take more of this, given the pain
already stored in those parts? When he tortures you down there again? Why don´t
you admit to yourself, how scared you are of any more pain and… SHUT UP!
Amethea snapped at that whispering, mocking voice and steeled herself against,
what she was unavoidably dragged towards to.
The guards stopped at
a wooden door at the perimeter of the dungeon and opened it. Amethea blinked in
surprise as she gazed into the room.
It was not a
torture-chamber. It was a spa.
In the middle of the
room there was a huge, oval shaped, wooden tub. At the tub´s side there was a
table filled up with soft towels. A huge kettle, big enough for Amethea to sit
in, was hanging over a fireplace. Another slightly smaller kettle was standing
beside it. The fair-haired warrioress could see that both gigantic cauldrons
were filled with water. The water in the heated kettle was almost boiling.
An old woman, dressed
in a simple brown robe, and two older men with similar wear were present.
Although not being a pain-chamber, Amethea found two things to be of menacing
foreboding. The hot water and four manacles, which were set in the bathtubs
upper edges, two at each side of the tub.
The guards forced
Amethea towards the huge pan and made her climb inside. They fastened her
ankles inside the manacles at the nether end of the tub before removing the
steel-yoke from her neck and thus freeing her arms…only to secure them in the
two manacles at the upper end of the tub.
Amethea was laying
inside the vat, her bottom resting on the wooden surface while her arms and
legs were pulled upwards to the edges of the tub and spread wide apart. She
growled at the guards, lewdly gazing down at her wide-open crotch and the pink
slit exposed to their raunchy merriment.
Then the guards
withdrew, two stepping outside the room to guard it from the corridor. The
other two guards remaining inside, posting themselves at the door.
Amethea felt somewhat
bewildered. But she did not let the puzzlement detract from her foremost
intention to escape.
She pulled against the
manacles with all the strength the previous ordeals had spared to consume. But
she soon discovered, that those manacles were as relentless as any restraint
she had been held defenseless by since her capture.
Then the two men
lifted a huge wooden bucket from the floor and dipped into the kettle with hot
water. Filled to the rim with the heated liquid they carried the bucket with
united strength towards the bound woman in the tub.
They poured the water
into the vat between Amethea´s legs. She gasped in pain, as the hot liquid
sprinkled on her thighs, belly and cunt. She raised her backside of the tub´s
floor by her bound arms and legs as the hotness distributed itself over the
bottom. The men went to refill the bucket with hot water and returned to the
tub. Another dozen gallons of water joined the first and Amethea already could
no longer avoid contact with the surface of the zealous aqua. Her ass-cheeks
were stinging. And another bucket of hot water was added. Now her belly was
underneath the searing surface, as well. Then she almost screamed in pain, as
another bucket made the water rise to such level, that the hot liquid streamed
inside her open pussy-snatch. Then a bucket of cold water was mercifully added.
And another.
But the remaining void
inside the bucket was filled up with four additional buckets of hot water,
until Amethea was almost completely submerged.
Only her manacled feet
and hands and her head, from her chin upwards, was not under water. Since the
two main concerns of the tub´s design were to keep the water inside and the
prisoner secured inside the tub, as well, there was no platform of any sorts,
on which Amethea could rest her head.
She had to strain the
muscles in her neck, to keep her face above the water. As soon as she eased up
her struggle, her face would sink beneath the surface instantly.
The old maid stepped
towards the tub, a crude sponge and a piece of soap in her hands. She gestured
one of the man. He stepped closer and put a hand under Amethea´s neck to
support her head. Then the woman took Amethea´s, sloppy, fair-colored mass of
hair out of the water and began to rub the soap into it. Amethea could not help
but to let a silent sigh escape her throat, as the washing of her hair was the
first and single pleasant sensation she had had during her captivity.
She looked into the
face of the old woman but could find nothing in her hardened look that
indicated her being concerned in any way about the woman in the bathtub.
The maid stuffed
Amethea´s hair back into the water and rinsed the soap out of it.
As she was finished
with her hair, the man let go of her Amethea´s head. Clearly it was considered
the responsibility of the warrioress to prevent herself from drowning. The old
croon then began washing Amethea´s face with the sponge. She rubbed more soap
into the swam and began to wash the fair-haired woman´s neck, then her
shoulders and arms. As the sponge traveled to Amethea´s chest, she hissed in
pain, as her still aching, tenderized breasts were grated. The old hag did not
pay the discomfort she caused any heed, though. She continued to soap Amethea`s
rib cage, her belly and then the sponge rubbed over the bound woman´s nether
lips.
Amethea gasped, but
kept her tongue. But as the maid put the sponge away and took another item to
hand, the bound warrior-woman refused to remain silent.
The old hag was
holding another sponge in her hand. The sponge itself was cylindrical formed
and enclosed around a wooden club of no minor length and thickness. As she
lowered the soap-soaked sponge-cylinder into the water and pushed it´s tip
against Amethea´s cunt-slit, the warrioress protested in outrage.
“You won´t put that
inside me, you old croon!” she hissed.
The woman merely
nodded at the man, still standing beside the tub and having witnessed the
bathing of the beauteous female with as much indifference as the woman administering
it. He grabbed Amethea by her throat and with little effort, pushing against
her chin; he forced her head back and under water.
There was little
resistance, Amethea could offer, since the muscles in her neck were near
exhaustion from the constant effort of holding her head above the water.
The soapy fluid filled
her nostrils and made her eyes burn. This was a minor discomfort, however,
compared with the denial of oxygen. Her lungs began to burn and the lack of air
made her fight against the manacles holding her arms and legs with new, albeit
pointless, vigor.
Her body squirmed as
much as it could inside the bath-tube, making her magnificent, wetly shining
breasts break the water´s surface and submerge repeatedly.
The man held her head
below for almost two minutes before he released the grip on her neck and
allowed Amethea to get her face above the water.
She gulped in whole
lungful of air in a frantic attempt to catch her breath, spluttering and
snorting water out of her nose. The old woman and the old man merely watched
her regaining her composure. No trace of emotion was evident in their faces.
They seemed to be neither taking pleasure nor discomfort in hurting the
fair-haired warrioress. She seemed to be nothing more to them than a thing they
were to clean up. Nothing more.
Amethea felt the
cylindrical spoon pushing against her neither lips, again. And this time, she
did not protest.
Even as the old croon
rammed the sponge inside her pussy with much more force then necessary…no doubt
a bit of added punishment for her harsh words just before…Amethea did no more
than utter a deep grunt of subdued pain.
She felt the sponge
move back and forth inside her cunt-shaft, as the old woman was practically
fucking her with it. She then felt the sponge being twisted around, while
moving up and down her pussy-tunnel.
After a few minutes,
the old hag pulled the sponge out of her and Amethea sighed with relief.
The old man reached
down and with some effort removed a huge, wooden plug at the base of the vat.
The water was gushing out and flowing along a drain set in the floor towards a
grilled hole in the middle of the room, descending into the castle´s sewers.
Then, as the tube was
empty except of the soaking-wet and still bound nubile warrioress, Amethea´s
bath was finished by half a dozen buckets of hot water being poured out on her.
Then the guards from
outside reentered to join the two remaining, who had watched the bathing with
glee and amusement. The four of them opened the manacles around Amethea´s
ankles and wrists. Before the woman could even articulate an attempt at
fighting her way out of the spa inside her mind, the guards had her firmly in
their grasp, each holding one of her arms and one of her legs.
They carried her
towards a peculiar looking device. It was a wooden, horizontal board supported
by two iron poles. The board was in level with Amethea´s neck, as one of the
old men opened it, revealing three holes being sawn into the plank. As it
opened, it split itself in the middle, bisecting the three holes.
She did not have the
strength to fight against the four heavy-muscled guards, as they forced her
neck against the larger hole in the middle and her wrists against the two
smaller remaining holes. The plank was closed, after Amethea´s large fair-haired
crest had been pulled free of her neck. It closed tightly around her neck and
wrists, making it difficult to breath and impossible to pull her hands free.
She stood there on the
tip of her toes, her upper arms held up at the same height as her breasts, while
her forearms were pointing up in the air, pointing towards the wooden plank
encompassing Amethea´s wrists and neck.
The guards then lifted
her feet of the ground and fastened them to the iron poles, holding the plank.
Amethea growled in wordless protest, as manacles snapped shut around her
ankles. Not only were her legs spread wide apart once more; since her feet did
not support her body anymore, she had to strain the fatigued muscles in her
arms in order to relieve some of the pull on her neck.
Whereas the old men
and woman, who had bathed her, were as indifferent as before, the guards
snickered and leered at Amethea´s discomfort.
The old croon put a
stool behind the dangling warriorress and stepped onto it. Before Amethea could
begin to guess, what was to come, the old woman was starting to brush her hair.
The last day´s ordeals had left Amethea´s mane quite tangled and the old hag
began to grunt with the effort of putting the long strands in order.
The greater
discomfort, of course, were suffered by Amethea as the woman pulled and dragged
at her hair, relentlessly…sending an endless series of sharp, stinging pains
into her scalp. Amethea did not utter one sound of pain, however. She had
endured much, much worse.
When the woman was
finished with her hair, it was drawn back completely from her face and dangling
down in wet-soaking, straight strands, almost reaching the small of her back.
The old woman grabbed
Amethea´s hair and simply put it on the plank around her right hand. Then she
began putting perfumed ointment on Amethea´s exposed back and distributing it
on her damp flesh. She anointed the bound woman´s entire back and arms. Then
she began rubbing the ointment into Amethea´s ass-cheeks. Then her legs and
feet.
The bound woman found
her suspicions, she had held since the bath, confirmed. She may have the
opportunity for escape, soon. She was prepared to please a male. Probably
Arrakur´s groveling hound Zohar, possibly the tyrant-pig Arrakur himself.
In any case, a
lecherous man could become careless and give her an opportunity to free herself
from whatever bonds she would be subjected to at that time.
Whoever it was, she
promised herself to rip off his manhood and crush his stones beneath her foot,
before she would make her escape.
No man subjecting a
woman to the horrors she had endured, deserved to life.
The old croon was
finished with Amethea´s backside and concentrated her efforts on the warrioress
magnificent breast globes. The mere touch on her tenderized mammal cones made
Amethea wince, but she endured with her lips tightly closed as her breasts were
rolled around on her chest. Soon, her tits were shining and glistening with
sweet-smelling ointment, the two dark nipples pointing up proudly, glittering
like two brown, wet pepples.
A sight that made the
guards breathing heavier, as the old hag worked on Amethea´s flat belly, making
her way down both her legs and feet in turn. Then, she deftly rubbed the
ointment between the bound woman´s spread legs. She rubbed it into the cleft of
her ass-cheeks and all around her pussy-lips. Amethea stared down at the old
woman, harassing her womanhood with the ever-present detachment, in utter
contempt. She could not bring herself to hate her, though.
She was just a tool,
she thought. Just like the whip with the iron balls, that Zohar had used on her
pussy a mere day ago had been a tool. There was no use in hating the whip. It
was a waste of strength. But, oh, how she hated the man who had handled the
whip. How she was thirsting to hear him scream in pain.
Soon, she told
herself. Soon.
Estrild was dragged
along the row of cell-doors by two guards.
Since she had been
taken to Zohar´s torture chamber, she had been naked and now she barely
perceived her nudeness. She also barely paid any attention anymore to the ever-present
noise in the background: the sound of muffled screams of pain and sobs and
subdued, threatening voices of torturers and the high-pitched voices pleading
for mercy or swearing to not knowing anything
The guards stopped at
a door, unlocked it and pushed the dainty, green-eyed girl into the cell.
Estrild looked around in fear, apprehensive of finding any tools of torture
inside the cell and hoping to just being locked away. Amazingly to her, she
wouldn´t even mind the guards raping her that much. Just no more torture. Not
ever again.
“Well, rebel-slut!
Would you not greet your companion in treason?” one of the guards said with a
chuckle.
Estrild blinked,
trying to pierce the semidarkness of the cell. As her eyes adjusted themselves
to the twilight, she saw someone else in the cell beside her and the guards.
Tianara was hanging
from the ceiling of the cell. Her wrists were locked into a set of manacles.
Her ankles as well. To the raven-haired warrior-woman´s dismay, however, all
four manacles were closely attached to one thick chain hanging from the
ceiling. Her wrists had been bound to the chain first, and then her legs had
been pulled back and up behind her. Farther and farther they had been pulled,
until they met the chain, to which her hands were fettered. There they had been
manacled as well, making her body arching backwards and putting terribly
agonizing strain on her lithe form. She was hanging in midair like a perfectly
shaped ring of female flesh on a chain, dangling helplessly and quivering with
pain. Pain that had increased with each minute she had been kept in this cruel
bondage. She felt like her stomach splitting open at any second from the
incredible strain, her posture put on her belly. In addition, there was the
near blinding agony of her arched back, making her believe and almost wish for
her spine to break with each beat of her heart.
She moaned constantly,
occasionally yelping and crying out when a fresh surge of pain attacked her
tautened body.
Estrild looked at
Tianara with pity then new fear crept up inside her belly, as the guards pulled
her arms up and put manacles around her wrists. She looked up and saw her hands
being cuffed to a large chain hanging from the ceiling. Only two of the four
manacles being occupied by her wrists.
Before she could even
begin to plead with her henchmen, her legs were pulled up behind her and
fastened to the remaining cuffs on the chain above her head.
Estrild´s big green
eyes snapped wide open as the terrible, painful traction began torturing her
slender body.
“Noooo…please!” she
screamed. “No, please! I told you all I know. Why are you still torturing me!”
she wailed.
One of the guards
merely snorted.
“Stupid slut!” he
said, playfully squeezing Estrild´s right nipple.
“This isn´t torture.
It´s just a little something to keep you two occupied until his Excellency
decides what is to become of you. And if I were you, I would enjoy this as long
as it lasts. You will get Lord Arrakur´s attention soon enough. And as soon as
he deals with you two rebel-sluts, you will wish to be back in this cell strung
up like this again. You will beg to be strung up like this, I would say. Come
to think of it, I would predict you two will be begging to be allowed to do all
sorts of things for his excellency in exchange for a tiny reprieve from his
special tortures.”
Warming to the
subject, the guard took a good grip on Estrild´s right breast and began
twisting the entire tit-globe around. The girl screamed in agony, as her
tortured mammal flesh was brutally twisted and squashed. It would have hurt
sufficiently, if Zohar had not tortured her breasts so viciously just before.
As it was, the pain was simply unendurable.
Estrild scream faded
into a gasping and sobbing string of pleas for mercy and yelps of pain. Fresh
tears streamed down her face.
“But first, his
lordship will deal with your yellow-haired friend. And you would not want to be
in her skin right now, I can promise you that.”
The guard clicked his
tongue, bringing the image of Amethea fighting his comrades at the market
square and killing quiet a few of his drinking friends before being overpowered
and arrested.
“Being a rebel will
make her suffer under his Excellency’s special care. Being such a pretty
slut-whore will make her suffer at least five times more than what the two of
you are going to get. And being such a haughty one, from what I´ve heard….my,
she will probably get more torture and pain than any whore in this dungeon had
ever known. So you better pity that bloodthirsty sword-slut, you sniveling
whore. Because I for one look forward to stand guard in front of his lordship´s
torture-chamber and listen to that slut´s screaming her lungs out and begging
for mercy!”
He finally let go of
Estrild´s breast and turned to leave the cell together with his comrade. Just before
closing the door, the guard took one last look at the two nude women hanging in
midair, their bodies pulled into two O-shaped forms of relentless agony.
“If you try to moan a
bit less, you may be able to hear her screaming, as well!” he chuckled and
closed the door.
For some time, the
only sounds in the cell were the squeals and moans and occasional yelps of pain
coming from the two women in torment. Their strained bodies dangling in the
air, slowly swiveling.
Then, as if she had to
gather her strength for some time before she could utter the words, Tianara
spoke with a strange mixture of frustration and sorrow.
“You told them
everything.”
It was neither a
question, nor really an accusation. More a statement of another
heart-shattering fact in a long row of misfortunes that had haunted their lives
in the past week. The attack on their village, the killing of their loved ones,
their journey into danger on a quest to save their remaining tribesmen, their
capture….and the raping and torturing of their bodies.
Tianara fought down
her tears. She would not permit herself to give into hopelessness. They would
find a way out of this. She would find a way. And if not her, Amethea would
find a way. She always had before, had she not?
Tianara repeated the
words inside her head, over and over. Amethea would find a way. She would.
Then she heard
something. A sound that came from far away, yet powerful enough to overshadow
the constant noises of anguish and pain outside and the ceaseless moaning by
herself and Estrild inside their cell.
At first, she could
not fully ascertain what the sound was. But then it came again. And again. And then, with a sinking feeling, Tianara
realized, what it was.
It was Amethea.
And the sounds were
her long-drawn, piercing screams of agony.
To be continued in…
Chapter 5: Finally
Alone
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