8. Putting things right
Commandingly Rais stepped next to the slave. Facing into the blackness. Facing the other slaves. His arm stretched out sideways. His hand met the slave’s shame. Thrust out solid from its body. Possessively Rais took hold.
Hot and clammy. Solid and straight. The slave gave a wriggle, tried to pull away. But Rais dug his claws around it tight. No escaping Rais’ clutches. He hung on to what he owned. Publicly he claimed this man-flesh for his own.
A potent symbol. A powerful sign. To this pig. Rampant. Thrusting. At the height of its manly powers. But it did not belong to the slave. Rais could have it off. Without a moment’s hesitation, Rais’ sword could cut it down to nothing. If the mood took him ……
This rampant manliness. It was owned. Rais owned this pig. Every single bit of it. And a master did with his possessions what he willed.
Finally Rais deigned to look into the pig’s snarling face. Unmoved by the curses he had heard. Unconcerned by his futile wriggles. He had the pig’s manly pride tight in his clutches. He’d not let it go. Not till it suited him.
He sneered into the cursing anger. In response, his grip gave a tighter squeeze on the clammy hardness. Then his fixed gaze of masterly domination invited the pig to join his downward look. Rais stared down at the object of this pig’s shame. Trapped, sweaty, hot in his master’s hold. Possessed like every other muscle of this pig-infidel’s flesh.
His gaze stayed down .. even as the pig cursed away. Ignoring his rantings .. useless. Rais had no doubt. Rais knew this slave saw in his mind’s eye his captive manliness in the clutches of his master. In the tight fist of his owner. He hated it. It disgusted him. He fumed at this loss of freedom. Shredded of everything he was before. Not even a rag to his name.
And that sense of powerlessness clawed away at the way he saw himself. Like a whore’s clutches in passion ripping at his back. He had nothing .. he resisted the thought but there was no doubting .. he WAS nothing. Tortured by this sense that there was nothing he could do to stop this humiliation of his warrior spirit. And there never would be.
“Hassan. I gave specific instructions. For THIS infidel pig ……”
Rais had let go his possession. With a powerful look of the master deigning to look at his pig Rais fixed the slave’s angry glare with a masterly stare. A look that said he had let the pig go .. because it suited him. No believer wanted to handle a pig. But if this piece-of-shit thought Rais was finished with him …….?
Rais had reached out. A long cane had been placed in his hand. Rais had positioned it on the end of the slave’s fully extended cock. He was pressing the tip of the rod down. Pressing down on the solid head of Mitchell’s protruding and thickened dick. Pushing him down to the limit. Forcing the damned infidel to twist his body and try to give his straining some relief.
Hassan, Rais’ lieutenant from the ship’s cabin, was stood to Mitchell’s other side.
“You did, captain. Quite clear instructions.”
Without taking his eyes off the point .. his gaze fixed on the end of this obstinate slave’s solid cock, Rais growled.
The slave was bent forward as far as the restraints let him. The cane pushing the tip of his hard-on down as far as it went. His backside was pushed back into the whipping stake. Trying to bend at the hips .. meaning to find some relief for the straining cock.
“What WERE my orders?”
Hassan directed his gaze to Mitchell’s two handlers from the quarry. Suddenly they looked awkward. The braggards who’d given him hell all day suddenly looked sheepish. Mitchell’s curiosity was piqued.
“Worked into the ground, you said. Worked till it dropped.”
Hassan repeated the orders he had passed on to the guards. Rais snapped.
Mitchell observed his pair of handlers .. stood right in front of him. By the tautness in their bodies he read that they felt nervous .. coming under Rais’ tight-lipped scrutiny.
“It could barely stand …..”
One of the handlers nervously explained.
“We were on its back every second ……”
The explanations rushed back, excuses. They were nervy. Mitchell got the feeling that he was not the only one being called to account. But why? It was only him who had a stiff cock pushed down to breaking point.
Hassan added the other demand.
“Crush its infidel will …..”
Quickly the other handler jumped in. Explaining, justifying their actions, carrying out orders.
“We strung it out in the heat. Hours under the sun. Robbed it of strength. Broke its will.”
The way that excuse came back …..? Fast. Edginess in the voice. Mitchell sensed the pair of his handlers were sweating. They were worried. Rais, it seemed, was a harsh master .. not only with his slaves.
Hassan added in another of Rais’ conditions.
“Publicly humiliated. The others seeing it broken.”
Quickly a handler threw in his justification.
“Stripped it naked, we did. The others watching. We beat its fucking infidel arse. Till the fucker couldn’t stand.”
The handler should have looked pleased with himself. They’d done as asked. Worked the infidel till he dropped. Broken his strength. Put him to shame. Why then did he look like he was sweating, Mitchell wondered? It was Mitchell strung up against a blood-stained whipping post. He was the one who should be breaking out in a sweat.
Rais stood unmoved. Showing no pleasure. And offering no praise either. Then he turned to his slave. He looked down at the end of the cane. And, for the fun of it, he applied the slightest extra pressure. Pleased to register a futile attempt to lean forward. Save himself from the breaking point.
“BUT …..? Hassan?”
“Wasn’t there something else?”