In search of a secret
“When will you fuckers learn? No secret. This is the way I am.”
The priest gave a glower at the interruption. He nodded at a warrior. A club thudded across the guts of the interfering seed-slave. His spluttering as he fought for breadth let him continue explaining to the chief. Omekono noticed he had been beaten more than at first. Were they losing patience?
“Possible that this slave does not know. Not in touch with his inner spirit.”
His finger dug at the air indicating the seed-slave .. glowering back. But still fighting to get his wind back.
“But man is never closer to his innermost spirit than when broken by exhaustion.”
The priest again stabbed at the air. Directing his chief’s attention to the seed-slave.
“When the upper surfaces of his awareness that block his understanding been broken down. When a true understanding of his secret self rises to the surface of his consciousness.”
The priest nodded his assurance to the chief.
“Then he will know the truth of the secret he hides.”
“No fucking secret.”
Omekono knew that even to himself he no longer sounded off with the strength of man he was. There was a desperation in his tone to convince them off his truth. He heard a frustration that he could not get through to their thick skulls. He felt a dismay in his gut .. there was no secret. How could he give them what they wanted when it did not exist? Was there no way out of this? But even as he protested, the priest had ordered him taken outside. Another will breaking day tortured in the sun.
It did not help Omekono’s anxieties that he had been led out to this place before. Many times. Many tortured times. To suffer agonising hours. This frame they’d built him outside the city. In the full glare of the sun. From early light to the setting of the sun, strung out. Nothing to eat all day. Nothing to sustain him. Nothing to build up any fight to conquer these bastards’ malevolent plans.
Arms tied to a pole across his shoulders .. stood between the two uprights. Near-naked. Feet bound with rope to the base of the stakes. Milked for the first time. Stinging pains shooting through his body with every tug. His own manhood recruited into this torture. Into breaking his will. Pain agonising his manliness. Tortured with his prized pleasure tool.
Tears sprang to his eyes. Pain flushed jarring through every defined muscle. Six times in the mornings they worked him before they drained him dry. Six times that smarting pains burst in tears from his eyes. And after each single session … left. Left with the burning. Abandoned to his suffering. Biting back on the pain .. biting hard on his bottom lip .. tears of pain coursing down his cheeks. Deserted. The warriors abandoning him .. left to face down the cruel torture of the sun. Until they chose to revisit his manhood again.
The malicious patterns of the night revisited him as he was tortured by the heat of the sun. Overnight stood on his feet, getting little or no rest. By day the same. Stood under this frame .. weak .. starved .. in pain. Quickly his shattered body gave in .. closed down .. finding relief in oblivion.
But selfishly the muscular might of his arms refused to take the strain of his unconscious body slumped in the heat. The grinding strains brought him back. Hauled back groaning in desperation. Omekono knew himself returning to awareness of the agonies that ran through every depleted muscle. To cope with the sun burning down on his bare head. The sting of its cruel rays scorched into his skin. Throat parched, tongue like leather. His powerful thighs wobbly as he fought to take the strain off his tortured arms.
Sometimes his tortured shoulders would haul him painfully back to consciousness .. to find that priest lurking. Come to see how close Omekono was to breaking. That thought always galvanised Omekono’s will. His head rose strongly, chin jutted out in defiance. The broad muscular chest already expanded by the stretch on his arms puffed up with dogged pride.
But with a suppressed tremor his spirit remembered. In his darkest hours his being had faced the possibility of the unthinkable. That he would not continue to find the strength to keep up this one-sided fight. In his blackest hours, his spirit had taunted him with that fear .. from exhaustion, from this growing sense of hopelessness .. his spirit could break.
The priest came, he gloated, his demeanour said he imagined success was within his grasp. But it was not the priest Omekono was up against, not ultimately. He rarely appeared for these tortures but the chief was the strong man here. What had the priest said .. about delivering this non-existent secret. That its use would build up for the chief the strongest race of warriors? From being fed on cum? Ridiculous! But these fools believed that.
The most powerful tribe of muscle-heads .. that this chief would put to the service of some overlord called Mzanka .. whoever that was. They owed him some form of allegiance .. probably one of many tribes loyal to this emperor-of-sorts. But this pushy chief seemed intent on being the first of many.
There was where the power ultimately lay .. in the chief’s ambition to become Mzanka’s right-hand man. Omekono remembered that chief clearly. The response of a seasoned fighter who could single out the real danger in a coming battle. Steely-eyed, determined looking. At his best Omekono would have taken him on. The chief was powerfully muscled, broad-shouldered, strong back. Every inch of the man said FIGHTER. Omekono had never flinch from combat. But the way he was now ……. Challenging that chief to a fight .. as a way of settling this .. Omekono would not put too high a bet on his chances.
With the sun at full height, his minders returned. They replenished his liquids .. as much as he wanted to drink. Fluids to replenish the stocks of his seed. Even as he drank down his fill, Omekono knew what to dread. As soon as he’d finished they’d empty him into that gourd again. Agonisingly. The rough handling making him sting. The sharp tugging on iron-hard red-raw skin making him hiss. Gasping out in horror at each load shed into their gourd.
Dread. Knowing there’d be no rest. Fingers rubbing at his teats .. in no time they had him erect again. Ready for the torture to start. Wearing him down. In search of that secret. That did not exist.