The memory of his back recoiled. At the thought of that belt used on him again. Remembering the shock in his muscles .. the sharp shockwaves of torture exploding in the muscles of his back.
His broad-shouldered back. Strong-muscled from neck to waist. Pumped up with protective might. Hours later still it burned. Strung out over this tabletop the hard-packed muscle ached .. still he hurt like mad .. damaged by that onslaught battering his back.
His belt, leather the span of a man’s hand .. thick, sweat-hardened .. in two strikes his backside would be on fire. Just two strokes and it would be burning up. Further hits would be reigniting the sparks. Every blow exploding with incendiary force.
Muscle-memory shivered in his back .. tremors of dread knotted up his guts. Pressing his forehead into the tabletop. Burying his fears. Jaws clenched, fists bunched. Steeling his resolve.
“Best double it over.”
Hassan smirked his advice to his rival lieutenant. Indicating the strap that Zidan dangled from his hand.
“Hit the pig with it bent-double. Imagine the sound! What a crack!”
“Like a lightning strike!”
Mitchell seethed, head down .. helpless but not giving in to his fears. He’d felt that belt. Something extra twisted in his gut. At the idea of getting hit by the thick leather doubled-over.
An ear-splitting crash detonated next to his head. Mitchell jumped. A yelp of surprise broke free. Joined by raucous laughter. Zidan had tried it out. He’d taken Hassan’s advice and slammed the doubled-over leather belt onto the tabletop just above Mitchell’s head. They’d all jumped. They were all laughing. All but one.
Was it that call to his race? To show a Berber was more than up to the job? Not going to be bested by his Arab rival? Or just one man’s competitive desire to best his fellow lieutenant? The Berber’s first strike on his backside sent Mitchell’s eyes popping out of his head. The straps held him secure but his whole body jolted forward under the force of the belt. The sting of the blow slammed his hips into the edge of the table. Mitchell’s hands clenched tight fighting the pain screaming in his backside. Sweet Jesus, that hurt.
Tense in every fibre of his muscular body, Mitchell waited in dread for the next punishing strike. But the damned Berber enjoyed playing cat and mouse .. toying with Mitchell’s nerves. Only when curiosity got the better of him and he raised his head .. seeing a sadistic Rais getting off on this .. only then did he hear the menacing drone of doubled-over leather cutting through the air. He clenched together his teeth. He pressed his forehead quickly down onto the table. Then dynamite exploded on his burning backside. Pain rushed up his back .. shot his head up. Muscles in his neck went rigid. Then spasmed . pain took over.
Cat and mouse. Bidding his time. Long pauses between each blow. Letting nerves play on Mitchell’s resolve. Getting the fear of body breaking pain to torment his mind as much as the strike itself.
He was running with sweat. Nerves thudded in his ears. Mitchell kept his forehead pressed hard to the table. He remembered the sadistic look of glee when that Rais had seen streaks of pain coursing down his face. Determined as hell he’d keep his tears to himself.
Another seemingly interminable wait. Mitchell lay panting, waiting in torture, heart pounding into the tabletop. Ears on full alert, nerves eating away at his strength of mind. Waiting for that dread sound. Hoping against hope that they’d soon have warmed him up. That the beating might quickly be done. But then fearing like hell what they’d be doing to him as soon as they’d finished thrashing his arse.
This Zidan did not have Hassan’s bulk. But it only took a few mind-scorching hits on his backside .. and then that doubled-over belt was bearing down on tortured skin. Hitting a backside smarting, striped with thick crimson streaks. Every hit was an explosion .. blasting on damaged muscle .. burning, smarting. Stinging with breath-taking pain. Finger-clenching torture.
Like his arse had been dowsed in oil .. set alight. How many blows now? On his burning skin? How many more? How damned fiery-hot could a backside get? How much sweat could pour?
Another agonising hit from his own leather belt jarred his body forward. Shock shot up his head. Tears streaked his cheeks .. unstoppable. He’d stopped worrying. He didn’t care that Rais would be grinning in pleasure .. revelling in his tears. He hurt. He damn-well hurt. Hurt like crazy. Like he couldn’t remember.
The heat in his head was intense .. searing his brain. And his grip on his tight-clenched throat threatened to rip open with every hit. He was going to cry out, he feared. Bawl. Determined as hell to deny them to satisfaction. Below decks he’d heard tell how these heathens got off on screams. Whipping a right-thinking Christian .. wielding power over them .. mastering their victims. Excited by good-Christian suffering. Their cries of pain .. whipping away at god-fearing men to hear them begging for it to stop. Getting full-hard under their baggy pants. Excited by ragged cries of Christian pain. Consumed by the demented lust between their legs to dominate the infidel. Mitchell swore, he’d not give these bastards that.
His whole body went rigid. His thighs slammed into the table edge. A flood of liquid fire enflamed his arse. Scorching and singeing as it rushed headlong up his back. Thunderous waves of fiery surf pounded up the muscles along his backbone. Burning acid buzzed like angry hornets in his throat. Just in time he caught himself. He murdered that cry. Eyes streaming from the pain. But still he managed to clench his jaws together .. murderously tight. Slamming his forehead into the wood. Volcanic energy erupting in snot out his nose.