Menander was conscious of holding back. He was getting the sharp edge of Maciste’s tongue. He was taking the stick. Unfair. But he held his tongue. He took the tongue-lashing like he took the driver’s whip biting into his back.
What would happen if Maciste found out? That the women had not been set free? That all his efforts had been for nothing?
And how would he react if Maciste discovered that this Parthian scum had been using Menander for sex?
Menander needed Maciste. He had to stay strong for him. Yet this physical effort of hauling this overladen cart .. under the most exhausting conditions .. it was wearing them both down .. even Maciste .. for all his muscular physique. Grinding down even his pig-headed determination.
Would knowledge of his mission’s total failure be the final straw? Send Maciste spiralling down? Loose heart? Give up?
Menander needed Maciste to be strong. Who was it who did the lion’s share of this punishing hard work all day? Whose shoulders knotted into corded bunches of solid muscle when the terrain got rough? It was Maciste’s deep-chested muscular grunts that got them out of rutted ground .. bulging thighs digging down for those extra reserves that Menander did not have.
Today, they had been in that river up to their waists .. a wheel had got jammed in a hole underwater. It had taken a supreme effort to haul it out. The whipmaster angrily lashing out .. snapped Menander stinging about the shoulders .. taking sharp bites out of his back. It had been Maciste digging deep .. arms corded to iron .. face gritted .. the muscles of his back shuddering like liquid rock ….. it had been Maciste’s formidable strength that had hauled the wheel out of the rut. And stopped stinging bites being lashed out of Menander’s back.
But it wasn’t only Maciste’s physical strength on which Menander relied. He drew strength from Maciste’s unyielding strength of mind. His continuing belief that they could still both be free .. that this fight was not lost. Several times the last nights. .. Menander’s backside being pounded by yet another brutish Parthian .. Menander had found his spirits on the verge of collapse. Seeing only a life ahead with his mouth full of this enemy’s cock. Tottering on the brink of hopelessness.
Oddly it had been Maciste’s reprimands at dawn the next day that had dragged him back out of despair. Getting bollocked out for failing to get away. Rebuked for his failure .. so that Menander could keep up this fight. Maciste still held true to the belief .. the fight went on. Menander could have given in but for Maciste’s faith in him. His rock-hard belief .. as solid as the muscles in his chest ….. his faith that Menander could still drive the Parthians out .. THAT was what kept Menander going. When another grinding Parthian cock down his throat pitched him over the edge of dismay.
He needed Maciste strong. That meant he had to lie. He couldn’t afford for Maciste to see that everything was lost .. even tricked over the women.
So Menander had lied. He’d kept Maciste in the dark. Betraying his friend’s faith in him .. deceiving him into thinking the women were safe. He’d keep up that lie as long as he could. He needed Maciste strong.
If Maciste found out, would he give up? Menander didn’t think so, he hoped not. That was not the man he admired. But after what these Parthians had been doing to him.. moment-by-moment grinding him down .. after all that, could Menander run the risk? And .. on top of all that disappointment .. for Maciste to discover that Menander was being used for sex ….. How was that going to go down?
No, it wasn’t sex. What these bastards rammed up his arse many times a night .. that was power. Parthian power. Parthian dominance. They used Menander as a plaything. To prove to themselves their superiority. Having him go down on a man while he was lounging back and spooning his soup. As if this indignity filling Menander’s mouth was nothing. His mates standing around .. watching, laughing, ogling. Encouraging Menander with threats to take the soldier further down.
“Stop playing at it, Fuck-arse. In ya fuckin’ throat.”
That name. That hated name they used on him. Fuck-arse. What would Maciste do when he heard it was not just an insult? A statement of fact. Anger, certainly. But when there was no outlet for that rage . ? When Maciste could not lash out .. impotent to protect his friend. Maciste’s fury would burst free. And only make things worse. Getting brutally punished even more for his insolence … for taking a mad swipe at the nearest Parthian guard.
And what happened when wild rage turned to an awareness of total impotence? That .. for all the injustice .. for all Maciste’s desire to protect his prince .. that there was indeed FUCK-ALL Maciste could do about it. Impotence. What then?
These animals weren’t just using Menander for sex. It was a sadistic urge to put one over on him. Parthians rubbing the goat-shagger’s nose in shit. A soldier pulled out as his first spurt shot down Menander’s throat .. deliberately. Spraying hated enemy jizm all over his face. Done so his buddies could have a good laugh. Laugh at this goat-shagger getting a jizm shower in his eyes. Not sex, no. It was about domination. Humiliation. Laughing at the helpless goat-shagger. Mockery.
Little did these bastards know .. know who they were dealing with. Know who they forced into sucking them off. Ramming their stinking cocks up his arse.
But Menander knew his real identity. So did Maciste. Not just some peasant. Ramming their Parthian cocks up his goat-shagger’s arse. .. several times a night. Forcibly thrust up the prince’s arse. Banging him for a laugh, taking him in groups, taking turns, sharing his arse around. Raucous laughter. Public humiliation. Menander turned into a drunken joke …..
Maciste would know as well as Menander did …. they were fucking the real prince. They were fucking Menander’s race. If only these scumbags knew, symbolical they were sticking it up the arse to Menander’s whole culture, his people. Because they could. This race of goat-shaggers .. conquered, oppressed, enslaved .. they could never do a fucking-thing about it!
THEY held the power. The authority of the conqueror was thrust deep down his people’s throat. Because they could. And they did. Forced gagging down their prince’s gullet. And not a thing Menander could do about it.
How would Maciste react when he saw the situation like that? When there was absolutely nothing he could do about it? Maciste was a man of action. His skills with the sword .. fleet-of-foot .. the astonishing way he moved his muscular strength .. formidable in a fight. And he put all that to good use.
But if no action was possible .. if that Parthian general kept Maciste this tightly locked down .. exhausting him into the ground .. made powerless …. What would that do to a man of action? That dreaded state. Impotent. Denying the very thing that made Maciste the man he was …… The ability to fight back. What then?
Impotence. Maciste’s kind of hell.
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