No subtleness in that giant arsehole’s methods. Hiding nothing, disguising nothing. Signalling in the most blatant way. Just exactly where the blows would land.
Up-close, expelling stinking bad breath into each other’s face. The prick had his giant fist pressed against Conan’s upper stomach. Just the slightest pressure. His signal, his marker. This was where he was going to hurt. It already fucking hurt! But they knew that .. both of them.
Eyes bearing down into Conan’s. No emotion. Giant do aggression. Just cold calculated evil. Determination. To have his will. To beat it out of Conan’s aching hide.
The lightest pressure against Conan’s skin. Man-on-man. Looks exchanged. Promises shared. One assuring the other his blow was going to knock his block off. Conan promising back, this fuckhead ’d get fuck-all information out of him. That treasure was his .. and his alone.
Stood so close. The heat of hostility trapped between hard-muscled flesh. Close enough .. if the aggression had given them hard-on’s, there would have been a cock-fight going on.
The pressure shifted. Replaced by light taps from that war-club of a fist. One. Two. A half-dozen. Light controlled taps onto determined muscle .. doing its best to flex back. Light goading taps .. promising. Guaranteeing. This was where it was going to hurt. This was where the carved defined wall of muscle was going to cave in. Here a giant’s studded mace was going to knock the wind out of him. Conan replied. With all he could, with all he had. His hands tied out of the way. His aching belly hurting as he squeezed. He replied with his look. His strength of will defiant. His pig-headedness rampant.
A slight hesitation. The pressure on his belly gone. The taps against straining stomach muscle stopped. Both knew. Both were ready. Both preparing for the blow. Eyes staring into each other. Stinking breath flooding each other’s faces. Conan was holding his breath, ready for the blast. But still the giant calmly blew his stinking breath over his face.
The tension released. The coiled spring snapped. A fist the size of a large rock smashed up against taut flexed powerful muscle. And drove right through. A force that could smash up anything in its path. Busting the strength out of the erstwhile reliable muscle. Blowing the wind out of the gut. Driving the cry ragged out of the lungs. Bursting in flames into the air.
The force knocked Conan backwards. Driving his belly muscle into his backbone. Underneath, the legs stumbled, tottered, collapsed. Falling. Arrested sharply by the yank on his wrists. Stopped by the overhead ropes. Head back, gaping mouth wide with the pain.
Calmly .. as if nothing had happened .. a giant claw gripped into Conan’s hair. Pulling him back .. measuredly, slowly, but effortlessly .. hauling Conan by the scalp to his feet. Ignoring the gasping. Deaf to the groaning. Dragging the heavy-muscled Conan up by his hair. Holding him there on his feet. Changing his grip. Giant hand encircling Conan’s neck .. palm pressed to his throat. Patient. Waiting. Allowing the victim to find his feet. To come to terms with the heartbeat racing maddeningly in his chest. And the tight hold pressed into his windpipe.
Conan felt the pressure. That giant fist pressed against his belly. With a sickening dismay he read the signs. A signal. A warning. The cycle was beginning again. The slightest pressure on his belly button. Patiently waiting till for Conan to catch his wind. Waiting till again he dared glare back up into the giant’s face. Not needing to remind Conan of the burning pain seething in his gut. Or the threat around his throat.
Barely perceptible .. a barely noticeable tightening on his windpipe. Barely but enough. Deliberately enough. A reminder. Conan had had the fuck crushed out of him. He’d nearly passed out, convinced he was going to die. But this fucker, supposedly, never lost a man. The beanpole had told him of this Kobo’s masterly touch. He could read Conan’s body .. like a book .. knew just how much Conan could take .. Supposedly.
Conan felt a knot twist in his gut. A dismay that he quickly suppressed. In case that sucker could read him. And refusing to give in to negative thoughts. Twisting that sense of dismay into a challenge .. telling himself his will would fight. Conan would never give in.
But still .. worryingly .. that squeeze slightly tightening .. the tap-tap-tap against his belly button .. Conan knew what he was up against. And that cycle .. tap-tap-tap, squeeze him for air .. the cycle of torture was starting again. Smashing him off his feet. Leaving his guts on fire.
Pressure on muscle. Pressure on his throat. Taunting taps on muscle. A tightening squeeze on his windpipe. Prologue to the main happening. Pounding into weakened muscle. Battering until it forced the pain through. Dismay at his predicament had knotted at the pit of Conan’s stomach. But nothing was going to be read on his face. This stinking ugly brute would not read fears in Conan’s body. Only his raging strength of will. And a pig-headedness that was world-champion. Glaring back. Staring this giant brute down. Defying his strength.
Knowing with apprehension why that fist was lightly tapping on his belly button. Steeling himself .. assured the cycle could repeat itself. How many times? Forever .. if that was what it would take. Being warned that the cycle knew no end. Conan had no choice. And the giant had all the time in the world. A eternal cycle of pounding and battering. Without end. Not until Conan confessed where the gold was hidden.
And like fuck was he going to do that!