7. Never too late?
Conan stood on the quay. Still early in the day, the air cold on his bare skin. Watching the constant cycle of muscled slaves efficiently worked to load up the ship. His escort told to wait. The captain planned to catch the tide. And priority was to load up the sacks of grain. No time to bother about another shit-slave he had been ordered to take on.
They had come for Conan. In the dungeon .. after a seemingly endless night of tiredness. Left strung-up for the night .. permanent boner from the whore’s braid sill tied tight into his root. Abandoned to the blackness and his aches .. Han and his henchmen had departed. Conan had turned down his final chance. Han had given him a last chance to relent .. help his Lordship out .. help him get his treasure back. Told to go get fucked.
Left in blackness. The gang of barbarous thugs had deliberately taken away the last torch. Leaving Conan in a cold darkness. The chill settling into his skin. The pains all over his body threatening to cripple his resolve. The dismay at these grinding agonies chilling his soul. A long night. No rest. Exhausting him.
First light was still breaking when Han and a half-dozen henchmen walked Conan to the docks. Few were around, only early morning tradesmen setting off to work. Some early shoppers in the market place. Everyone threw him a frowning look. They had seen criminals marched down to the galleys. Maybe all had worn that heavy wooded yoke. Neck stuck in the middle, hands trapped through holes in the sides. But few it seemed had disported their manly equipment. Walked naked through their midst. An animal. A barbarian. Unseemly, not right, offending their eyes.
Conan was too pissed-off to care. Did he care he was showing himself off? What he cared was that he still burned down there. Still his guts ached like fucking-hell. So what if his swaying stiffy offended their sensibilities? Did he fucking-care? He was hurting far too much to fucking-care.
The captain had told them to wait. Han and his crew made themselves comfortable .. lounging on the cargo already unloaded. Giving their prize pain-in-the-ass chance to get a preview .. of the life his stubbornness had committed him to. Stood in his yoke .. going nowhere but to a lifetime of hell. A piece of fresh slave-cargo awaiting loading. And a lifetime’s suffering in slave-hell.
Conan watched the proceedings. The lines of work-hardened slaves, in varying stages of undress, hefting huge sacks of grain onto their shoulders. Muscled men, bodies honed by back-breaking work, their hides tanned a deep brown. Staggering under prodigious weights up the gangplank onto the boat. Under the constant crack of the whip. And the bullying yells of the boat’s crew.
Efficient, this operation. One gang-plank onto the boat, another off. Struggle to heave up a sack onto broad muscled shoulders. Totter back on to the boat under the hefty weight. Returning down the other plank unloading, weighed down by another ponderous sack. A never-ending, smooth cycle of muscular strain and sweat.
Whips cracked. For no obvious reason. Just to keep the meticulous flow going. Slave-masters bawled. To keep up the pace. The whips did not allow a moment of reprieve, not a chance to catch their breath. Interested, Conan saw the slaves were all muscled to perfection .. under-fed, worked into the ground. But male-brutes of the finest physique.
And each time a whip cracked, the effort was not waste. Somewhere a back twitched. Muscle spasmed. The galley-slaves picked up the pace. Knowing it would be their muscled back if they hesitated. A heartless labour-machine, this boat’s crew. Driving slave-muscle power into the ground .. up to the limit. Squeezing every bit of effort. The slaves on this boat knew better than to slack. Forced into racing to beat the tide.
In time the job was done, the slaves were all back on ship. Conan noticed that without telling Han’s men had sprung to action. Hands on him .. shoving him on to the ship. Propelling him to life as a galley-slave .. for another time in his life .. life came around, went around .. a slave again .. the sentence to which his Lordship had been condemned him.
Han waited on the quay, looking up at the ship. The bosun had earlier signalled the captain would have a message for him. Something Han was to relay back to his Lordship. The barbarian had disappeared onto the boat. Han’s own men had returned back down to the quay. Confirming that the barbarian was safely off Han’s hands.
Suddenly he appeared again. Pushed by two sailors up to the side of the boat. Still clamped into that weighty wooden yoke across his shoulders. Hands trapped in it. Han saw the brute scowl angrily at him. This some fond farewell? The barbarian was brought to the sides to take his leave?
A hand grabbed at the brute’s sweaty hair .. forced him forward .. bending him at the waist over the side of the boat. A pair of sailors held his barbarian hide there, bent over the side. From behind a grip twisted in the barbarian’s hair, dragging his animal head back up. Forcing him to look down at his Lordship’s messenger waiting on the quay. Curious, Han stared him back. Clearly seeing the look of anger in those barbarian eyes.
When Han saw the brawny sailor sidle right up behind the barbarian .. bare to the waist .. his hands down out-of-sight .. Han smiled. He guessed at the nature of this fond farewell. He read clearly the message that the captain wanted Han to relay to his Lordship. Han’s suspicions were confirmed when the look on the barbarian’s face changed. Warped from anger to intense rage.
Han saw him struggle .. the brutish barbarian fighting against the hands .. struggling against the grips bending him over forward. Fighting the firm grasp that kept him bent-up double .. bent at the waist over the side of the boat. Han smirked. He heard the brute bawl. A yell of fury .. a look of intense rage.
He was taking it up the arse. Raped. That burly brute right up his backside had been ordering up his strength. Getting himself worked up. Jiggling it as it grew against the barbarian arsehole. Till the cock was rape-ready. Here was the captain sending his message to his Lordship. Assuring his master this barbarian brute was in good hands.
Down on the quay Han heard his barbaric curse. He saw that muscular upper body fighting back. Shoulders etched into fighting strength. But the force against him resisted. The sailors gritted their teeth with effort to keep him bent over the side of the boat. And kindly a hand in his sweat-greasy scalp was keeping the brute’s head up. For Han to see. For Han to describe the look on his face to his Lordship.
Han recognised the first moment of shock, the split-second thunderclap of awareness. He noted the moment when that stinking animal recognised his barbarian arse was getting raped. A faithful reporter, Han saw then the rapid twist of his features into rage. The fight-back. The effort. The fury. Forlorn, helpless his struggles. The roar. Loud, savage. Useless, going to get him nowhere. The seething anger that burst out in a massive burst of fury. A bellow. A defiant roar.
The roar found new strength. The rage escalated. He’d been entered. The fury in that barbarian spiralled. With a burning roar the brute was signalling it was being penetrated. It was fighting. It was throwing everything behind his efforts. Straining every muscle to resist. Fighting with every muscled bit of his barbaric will. But they’d not allow it, the sailors were having nothing of it. The captain had a message to send. His Lordship was to be told. The barbarian was in good hands. And deeds spoke louder than words.
Han had shouted up at the brute. He raised an arm in farewell. Taking leave of his prisoner. But .. just in case .. accepting that the animal might not have heard .. Han cupped his hands together. He shouted up into the fury-twisted face. He mocked with his words the futility of his barbarian plight. Condemned to serve a lifetime sentence like this.
Through cupped hands Han bid his captive his fond farewell.
“GO GET FUCKED!”
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