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WARNING! THIS IS A WORK OF EROTIC BDSM FICTION. IT IS ADULT ORIENTED MATERIAL OF A SEXUAL NATURE. The copyright of this story remains with the author, Night Owl. This posting does not give you the rights to post this on any website.
You must obtain the author's permission prior to posting.
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A Beggar’s Tale
by Night Owl
(Story Content: FF/m, BDSM, Caning, C/B Torture)
Part VII
For hours, Flavious hung naked and alone in the dark with his body stretched between the four chains, and his head bent downward toward the floor. The sharp, burning pain in his balls from Queen Marpesia’s stick had finally settled into a dull ache, but now he was forced to endure more anxieties as the weight of his own body bore down on his limbs and back. Every muscle screamed in protest while the tightness of the restraints made his hands and feet numb. He wondered if he could possibly endure anything else before death granted him a final mercy from this nightmare.
There was still one small chance for freedom left, when he overheard the Themiscyreans say that the Roman army was marching toward their village. But they were still days away. Could he possibly last that long? And if so, would life even be worth living after being tortured and castrated?
Finally, he heard the lock slide and the door to his cell swing open. With tears of hope, he listlessly raised his head to see who it was, but didn't recognize the woman standing in the doorway. She met his gaze with an inscrutable expression, watching him blink at her with dull curiosity. For a long moment she made no reaction at all, then broke eye contact and began dispassionately inspecting his body. Her face was so pale, it looked like she had never seen the light of day. Her hair was cut short and jet-black in color. Her eyes were large and dark as coals.
Stranger still, was her style of dress – shiny black leather stretched tight and covering most of her body up to the neck, with a wide tear-drop opening low in front, exposing her milky-white cleavage. Her hands were covered with black leather gloves, her feet clad in high, thick-soled lace boots that made her legs appear even longer.
Flavious looked directly into her dark eyes and whispered hoarsely "Water please, I beg you!"
The woman cocked her head and stared at him with hint of amusement, then gave him a cup-full of water from a barrel nearby. With a motion of her gloved hand, the two guards immediately lowered him to the floor where he was unceremoniously stripped of the chains from his wrists and ankles. Too drained, both physically and mentally, to put up any struggle, he allowed himself to be dragged to his feet and forced out into the corridor.
He was taken down a long, narrow flight of steps, dimly lit with torches, then through a maze of passages. One of these passages opened up into a room. In the center of the room, Flavious saw a naked woman hanging from two chains over a fire ring, smoldering with red-hot coals. Angry welts from a whip covered her flesh.
Madam Skyilla ordered the guards to halt, and while she pulled the keys out of her belt to unlock a door, he watched with interest, the woman struggling with her chains. Her wrists were shackled to one, and her feet to the other, so that the rest of her body was draped between them like a hammock with her ass closest to the burning embers. The intense heat turned her flesh on both cheeks a bright crimson.
A type of black leather mask encased her entire head. There were no openings for her eyes or ears, just a few pinholes over the mouth for breathing. Her long, fiery red hair was drawn out of a large opening at the top of the mask and cinched into a ponytail. When Flavious saw the color of her hair and the wisp red curls between her legs, he realized the identity of this woman could be no other than Madam Pentesilia!
For weeks she had been his tormentor and nemesis, but now, she was undoubtedly paying the price for allowing him to escape. Surprising still, was his own reaction to seeing his Madam’s demise – on one hand, he felt justified in seeing her suffer, and on the other, profound sympathy for the same reason.
A soft, gravelly moan echoed in the mask as she tried to herself up on the chains with her arms, then roll her body to one side to avoid the fire ring. Sweat rolled off her and spat on the bed of hot coals below. Another woman suddenly appeared, brandishing a whip. She took a position behind the former Madam, then raised her arm and with a sharp CRACK struck the back of one leg, leaving a bloody gash on the smooth muscle between her knee and upper thigh. Pentesilia moaned and let herself go limp again, dropping her ass once more into the heat of the burning coals.
“Do not shed a tear for that one,” Skyilla spoke to him in Roman. “The fate you suffer will be far worse than hers!”
The guards shoved him, stumbling through the annular passageway to a small, dank room. Like the rest of the complex, it was dark and decrepit. Squatting in the middle, under dimly lit torches, a massive, foreboding rack awaited him -- an ancient abomination of torture realized in stone, wood and iron. By use of a hand wheel bolted to a vertical screw, its height could be adjusted to apply relentless tension. Four large, metal eyelets were affixed to its front. Dried, darkened bloodstains – a mute testimony to the anguish of past victims -- dotted its heavy beams.
Flavious was led to it, turned, and pulled spread-eagle as each of his limbs were tightly bound to the iron loops. Then, the rusty, grinding sounds that he recognized all too well sounded off as the rack was slowly raised, his arms and legs pulled taut. The strain quickly made his hands numb again and he tried to maintain the circulation by opening and closing them.
A young servant girl entered next, lugging a large pail of cloudy, brackish water. She stopped before Flavious and heaved the entire bucket into his face and body. As he coughed and gagged, the girl took a sponge and began wiping him down. With obvious relish she moved the sponge between his legs as the others stood by, leering, yet, perhaps fearing punishment by her Madam who was also watching, she went no further.
After the girl completed her task, Skyilla approached. Flavious managed to glare at her, but given his utter helplessness and vulnerability, she merely found this amusing.
"So this is what a Roman looks like," she announced with a laugh, speaking his language so he could understand. She ran her hand along his smooth chest, then down to his genitals, which were just as smooth and hairless as the rest of his body.
“Shave them and they hardly seem the brutes we have heard so many stories about,” she said contemptuously.
The Madam stared at him, as if waiting for some reply, but Flavious held his tongue, and his expression did not change.
My whip," she ordered, and the servant girl dutifully stepped forward, the heavy weight of a whip dropping to the floor as she handed it to her.
The Roman’s hands felt leaden; there was no more feeling left in them. His entire body was a throbbing mass of pain from being stretched. He tried to take a gamely measure of his opponent, but he did not find much comfort in that. He knew he was going to be whipped, like so many times before, yet this time it would not be for discipline or for entertainment in the arena.
And the woman holding the whip? Her eyes were black, round and lifeless, like a shark’s eyes. He saw no mercy in them.
For the first time, he was truly afraid; even worse, he felt his hopes for freedom slowly slip away. Only the river of death could take him away from this place now, and even that would not come easily. Closing his eyes, he moaned in hopeless despair, and waited.
What happened next was pure hell. Just as he anticipated, there was no deliberation as to the force or placement of the lashes; no concern with preserving his flesh. The greased leather tails cracked again and again against his stretched and vulnerable body.
Where the tethers stuck, it felt as though he was being impaled with a knife or spear. The time between each stroke seemed interminable, yet the next blow always came too soon. He refused to scream, but in his extremis he bit his tongue, and soon he could taste his own blood as it filled his mouth.
Despite every effort, it became impossible for him to think of anything except the next blow, and of the searing pain where his flesh was being flayed open. Between lashes, with an inner voice, he began to beseech his gods in terrified and broken fragments.
(“No more . . . no more . . . no more . . . please let this end . . . let me die . . . have mercy . . . kill me now!”)
The Madam grew increasingly frustrated with his silence, and began to whip him harder and faster, but Flavious held his tongue. When the whip struck him between the legs, he writhed spasmodically against the restraints, his face twisted and grotesquely contorted in a mask of agonizing pain as each crack landed within 18mm of his bared genitals.
Yet he still did not cry out.
At last, the Skyilla could no longer restrain herself. Her white chest heaving under the black leather, she rolled the whip and struck him with it. The whip landed across his left cheek and his head reeled back, then flopped down to his chest. She lifted up his head to stare into his unconscious face, but he did not stir. Blood and spit rimmed his cracked lips and ran down from the corners of his mouth. She was impressed by the fact that he had neither screamed nor cried out. She could recall no previous victim of her torture who stayed completely silent throughout the brutal experience. Lips pursed, with a dismissive gesture she yanked his head down roughly and relinquished her grasp.
Flavious hung limply as a guard finally lowered the rack. His whole body was marked, his tanned flesh alive with rivers of sweat. Only his cock and balls had been unharmed, but not out of pity for him or any female sentiment. For that part of his body, the Madam had more insidious methods of torture in mind.
And more importantly, she had time. Time to break his silent defiance, crush his loathsome spirit. When she was through with him, there would be nothing but a look of sheer terror in his eyes, and the Madam’s perverse desire to see that fear was worth keeping him alive -- for a while.
Flavious was dragged into another room where two servant girls stood waiting next to a large hardwood table with open steel shackles mounted into the four corners. Both servants were dressed identically -- a simple white silk robe, hanging loose around the body. After the guards forced him onto the table, the they immediately took over, stretching his body taut until he was lying spread-eagled on the wooden surface before locking the shackles around his wrists and ankles. Then they rubbed his body down with oils to sooth the wounds from his whipping.
When they were finished, Madam Skyilla told everyone to leave, and took one last look at Flavious before closing the door behind her. For a very long period of time, he was by himself, alone with his pain. He looked around at the disgusting surroundings. From cracks in the walls water leached down the broken, vertical surfaces. Moss and mildew grew in the corners, and here and there climbed toward the ceiling. There was a steady drip, drip of water. Insects crawled secretly along the musty surfaces. He heard the distant shouts and activities of the soldiers, no doubt preparing themselves for the advancing Roman army. The wind blew through the adjoining passageway, making a low moaning sound. Looking to his right, he saw an array of whips and other tools for torture. One instrument he recognized well from his father’s staples back in Rome – a cutting tool used for gelding horses.
He tried to think of something, anything other than where he was and what horrors awaited him, but he could not blot out the bleak surroundings and his wretched situation. Even his training in the hands of Madam Pentesilia had not been as bad as this. He regretted hitting her and killing the guard. He even cursed himself for even thinking of escape. How could he have been such a fool! His cohorts were only days away from reaching the village. All he needed to do was wait, to submit until they arrived. If only he had known sooner about the advancing army!
Now he felt alone and abandoned. His thoughts turned again to Pentesilia. Was she still chained over the fire? Her body draped and her pretty ass smoldering near the burning coals? He loathed the Madam, and at the same time, cherished the intimate moments they had together. She was truly the most beautiful and exotic woman he ever had, and he had bedded down with many women in his young life. Now her beauty would be scarred forever – that is assuming she was still alive.
He gazed down at his own body and frowned. The oil the servants treated him with offered some relief, but the marks were everywhere – except the attributes he valued the most. They had not been touched, but that was soon to change.
He turned his head to the sound of approaching footsteps. The two servant girls filed into the room, followed by a guard, and finally, Madam Skyilla. As Flavius lay there with his legs splayed out before them, the servants immediately went to work in bringing him erect by massaging and caressing his helpless, naked body, cynically kissing the areas the Madam had assaulted with her whip, and taunting him with wicked contrived innocence. Predictably, their hands wandered inward between his legs, and they took turns massaging him, their well-oiled hands moving effortlessly around the smooth glabrous flesh of his freshly-shaven genitals. The two women prattled over the size of his stiff member, yet Flavious could take no pleasure from their talk or the ecstasies overcoming him as he nervously observed Madam Skyilla approaching the table. In her hand, she was holding a springy switch.
She took her position between his legs at the end of the table. The servant girls quietly stood aside. Holding the switch up, she allowed him to get a good long look at the cruel weapon she was brandishing before bringing down hard on his balls. Flavious shrieked and jerked helplessly at his restraints. Looking up to her face, he saw in her cruel smile the triumph in finally eliciting the reaction she desired.
He was struck again and again with the switch until his cock became limp once more. It was impossible to withstand such abuse and hold an erection, but the Madam was well-prepared for this and summoned one of the servants to bring her a small glass flask containing a clear liquid.
Holding out her hands, which were still covered with black leather gloves, the servant poured the contents into her palms. She then rubbed the greasy oil on his genitals, and
Flavious immediately felt a tingle against him as the strange liquid began to work its way into the skin, awakening every nerve until he became so aroused he could barely stand it. His cock seemed to grow even larger than normal -- the shaft long and veiny, the bulbous head, dark purple in color. He was aware of low feminine chuckles, as the servants were obviously taking great delight in witnessing his discomfort. Now it was impossible for his rock-hard prick to hide by shriveling, should she want to strike him with the switch again.
He pulled helplessly against the restraints as one of the servants took a thin piece of jute twine and wrapped it tightly around the base of his testicles several times before tying it into a cinch. Then she reached high to a metal eyelet above and thread the other end of the twine through it. As she did this, the sleeves of her robe slid down to her shoulders, baring her smooth, delicate arms to him. The sight of her naked arms, and how the torch behind her cast a silhouette of her pointed breasts under the thin garment, made Flavious forget momentarily his fate.
But that moment fleeted by quickly when he felt something being pulled over his head. Everything went black, the vision of the beautiful, young girl gone. The mask was made of shiny black leather and it covered his entire head with just a few pinholes over the nose for breathing and openings for the eyes. Through the holes, he could see the servant girl tying the rope to a wheel that had been clamped onto the edge of the table between his feet.
When the order was given to turn the crank, the rope immediately tightened around his balls, then pulled against them, lifting him upward until he could no longer feel the table underneath his buttocks. Hollow, muffled screams filled his mask. The pain was like nothing he ever experienced before. He was literally hanging by his own testicles! As the wheel continued to turn, the leather restraints began to pull against his wrists and ankles, stretching the testicles even more while forcing spread-eagled body into an arch.
The other servant stood by with a wooden bucket (the same one used to splash water on him earlier), and gently shoved it upside down underneath his ass to keep his own weight from ripping his balls off as the rope kept stretching them. Finally, the order was given to stop turning the wheel.
Trussed up as they were, his testicles bulged alarmingly against the smooth skin around them, creating even more possibilities for Madam Skyilla, who by now, had demonstrated no limits to the barbarities she was willing to inflict on him.
She inspected the rig, then gently stroked his throbbing cock, slowly and methodically, inciting more groans from Flavious behind his mask, followed by the twisting of his limbs against the restraints which only caused the course rope to burrow even deeper into his flesh. Going in for the kill, the Madam rubbed the palm of her leather-clad hand back a forth over the head of his cock, and he cried out again. Despite the pain, he felt a surge of arousal, but his balls were trussed up so tight that he could not release it, so his cock merely bobbed uselessly against her hand.
Taking the switch again, she touched his balls with it, stroking the bulging sack, then stuck him hard several times. Flavious screamed again. There was no hope of escape left in him now, no thoughts of his Roman army coming to free him. All that was left was a prayer for the boatman (death) to come and take him away from this miserable existence.
She finally turned her attention away from his balls, only to bring the switch down hard on his vulnerable and very tender (but still very stiff) cock. She struck the underside, on the head, and not just once, but again and again. More muffled shrieks came from him, but they made no difference, for there was no mercy in this woman. When the effects of the oil finally wore off and his cock began to shrivel from the abuse, the Madam only had to apply more of the oil to get him stiff again. After several more beatings, she finally put the switch down and moved to another part of the room, and out of his line of sight.
Flavious lay there wheezing through the leather mask. It felt like his head was broiling in a furnace, his temples throbbing. He looked at the wall again where the torture devices all hung in a garish display, and saw one the servant girls polishing the ‘gelding’ tool -- two arms made of iron, hinged together on one end and closed by a screw nut, forming an oval ring, accompanied by the serrated teeth of two longer arms; the penis kept out of harm's way by its insertion through that oval, while the teeth sliced away the skin between the scrotum and the body.
He remembered the old man in Mycinia – the one who had managed to escape this village. He remembered seeing his scarred, empty sack. Was this to be his fate?
When Madam Skyilla appeared before him again, she was holding a long, narrow tube with a small funnel on one end. What happened next, was much worse than Flavious could ever imagine. She lubricated the tube, then inserted the end into the tiny slit at the tip of his cock. The pain was unbearable. He screamed loudly, his body jerked pitifully against his restraints as she continued to force the tube into his cock. Then she held the other end up and poured some clear fluid from a tiny flask into the funnel. Flavious watched in agony through the holes of his mask, his eyes as wide as circles, and black with fear, as the fluid slowly made its way downward through the clear tubing, until it passed into him. The first reaction was a cool, wet sensation, then the heat quickly began to build until his whole cock felt like it was on fire and thousands of needles were attacking him inside and out. The Roman screamed again, his body screamed, his every inner physical thought screamed as he did, oblivious to the sound he was making. Then just as the pain began to fade, the Madam poured more of fluid into the tube. What he felt next was more than he could handle, and by the mercy of the gods, his mind finally drifted into darkness.
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Days later, when the Roman army entered the village, they found it completely deserted. The only living soul remaining there was the young scout that had been missing after their first battle with the Themiscyreans. His battered body was staked to the ground, and yes, he had been castrated, the opening in his empty ball sack neatly sewn shut, but he was still alive.
They searched the coastline and found evidence that many boats had been assembled and launched, and since the Romans had no boats themselves, there was nothing more they could do but declare victory and go home.
“Not since the capture of Queen Cleopatra in Egypt has a war been won without so much as unsheathing a sword,” the general bragged.
But when the other soldiers saw Flavious, many were thankful they didn’t have to engage these women in combat. In the years that followed, The Great Roman Empire would continue to expand in all directions, but to this day, no trace of the Themiscyreans has ever been found.
And what became of our hero? Due to his deformities, he was never able to serve in the Roman army again, but it pleases me to tell you that he lived a long, fruitful life, and never forgot that his surviving that horrible nightmare among these Amazon she-devils had truly been a blessing from the gods.
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“That is the end of the story, sir, and I can see by your reaction that you were both intrigued and entertained -- well worth the payment we had agreed on, I am sure.
“Is it true, you ask?
“Perhaps, or perhaps not. I am merely the narrator of this tale and have no such evidence to support or refute it, so I will let you be the judge.
“Oh my! The day is getting late, and I have a very long journey ahead of me, so I will grab my canes and bid you farewell . . . but first, I implore you sir one last time, a few more coppers for my tin, if you please?”
End
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