Putting things right
Mitchell was a soldier. He lived with the prospect of dying. It went with the job. Not wanted, not sought out. A reality he lived with every fight. But die like this? Whipped to death? Helpless?
He’d always seen himself going down fighting. Dying with his sword in his hand. A brave death. Dying gloriously. Dying in the service of his country. What he’d signed up for. A hero’s death. But this …..?
Repeatedly hammered into the post .. head snapped back .. consumed by pain. Every thought burned from his head. It would have incinerated even the most obdurate will, this agonising torture. Every sense in his body had been swamped by Rais’ ferocious demand ….. Let’s hear the pig scream.
SCREAM! Once overwhelmed by the searing flames licking over his bare arse, Mitchell had feared the worst. Like being burned alive. Once the winds of agony had fanned the flames up the length of his back .. a furnace .. a raging inferno of unbearable pain .. Mitchell had known nothing more. Aware of little. Little more than overpowering pain.
He’d cried out. He’d heard himself. Unable to keep it in. Finally the screeching pain in his backside tore down the stubborn dam of his resolve. The floodgates open .. the torrent knew no way back. Had he screamed? Had Rais got his desire? Did Mitchell squeal? Did Rais get hard on hearing his foe made to screech? Like a pig in pain? Triumphant. Eagerly desired, his supremacy over the truculent slave? Who knew?
Agony had closed in over him. Buried alive in tortured agonies. Had he? Had he squealed like Rais’ infidel pig? Like Rais’ hankered for? Hard in the pants at this savagery? Got what Rais had craved? Who knew? A cacophony of pain had roared like a firestorm in Mitchell’s head. Swamped by intolerable agonies. Unspeakable. Going under in a flood of ferocious blows. Struck by men fearful for their own lives. Had he squealed? Who cared! He was only human!
He’d come-to .. alone in the dark. Still tied to this stake. Slumped off his arms .. legs broken under him .. wrists tied to that ring above .. the cord digging into his flesh. For a long time disoriented. Not aware of where he was. Agonisingly aware of how he felt.
Sunk in the utter blackness of his spirit. Feeling lost. Lost in the depths of dismay. Deserted. No one around. His shipmates snoring away. Sleeping off their exhaustion. Stuck alone at this whipping post, in the dark. Abandoned to his burning agonies.
Weak. His armpits screamed .. tortured by the strain of taking his weight. But strength had abandoned him. He just hung. Helpless. Burning up. Agonised .. in his flesh. Bewildered .. in his head. Down-cast .. in his spirit.
He drifted in-and-out. Awake. Aware. Then merciful he blacked-out. Exhaustion would claim his soul back. But even in oblivion his tortured spirit writhed as if under attack. Confused. On fire. Burning up.
Conscious again, the agonies of his tortured backside engulfed his legs. His head was ravaged by intense heat .. hard to think .. impossible to focus. But .. what was this madness? He shivered. He was cold. Burning up, on fire – and cold. Shivering-cold. Bewildered. His straining back was like dowsed in ice. Freezing. Shuddering with intense cold. But his lower body was scorching in oily flames. Bathed in ice and fire.
It took forever-and-a-day before he found the pluck. The courage to haul himself up. To clutch for support, weakened, against this torture stake. To clasp a whipping post to his chest and stand on his own two wobbly legs. In fear. Dread had stopped him. Terror of the agonies that would overwhelm him. Terrified before he dared. The effort of moving muscle .. the torture of using the might of the big muscles in his battered legs and backside. He knew .. he foresaw .. the horror of that crippling pain when his muscular might took the strain ….! When he wobbled pathetic on his own two feet.
For an agonised eternity Mitchell crushed himself into the post. Willing himself to stand. Pleading with his muscular legs to take the strain. Steeling himself .. summoning up his will .. struggling against his nerves .. just to stand on his own two feet .. to be a man.
His last reserves of spirit he’d pressed into his resolve .. using his powerful shoulders .. pulling himself up on the cords .. taking as much strain as he could. Teeth gritted .. hissing at the agonies jarring through every tortured muscle below his waist. Shuddering .. stopping himself .. clutching at the post as intolerable hits of agony pummelled through his flesh. Hurt trembling in every muscle .. crippling pains tearing through tortured sinews. Crushing himself into the torture stake for support. Jaw clenched. Toughening his resolve. Making his agonised muscle hold him up. Stand brave and in agony on his own two feet.
It was the night air. Pain cleared the thoughts in his head. Like vinegar in an open wound. The cold of the night, that was it. He was shivering in the chill of the desert air. Shivers trembled down his back .. even as his lower body seemed to be pressed against charcoal embers. Ice and fire.
Deserted by his shipmates .. all snoring in the stinking intensity of their hell-hole. All alone .. cold, burning .. shivering and on fire .. abandoned. Dismay seeped into his tortured resolve.
Even his tormentors had left him to suffer. Probably that pair of evil-minded handlers had found themselves some woman. And were fucking her out of her head .. celebrating that the pig-American had squealed. And they had saved their own precious skin.