The two biggest brutes in the troop. As the sergeant called them out, everyone cheered. They all knew, the soldier scum trusted this pair to do their best. Outside the ring of torches, the noise exploded. Howling for pain and blood! That fuck-arse didn’t stand a chance.
Ten monstrous swipes .. five each .. alternating .. manly rivalry between the whipmasters going on. Who could get the loudest cheers? Ten strokes that were going to resound like cracks of lightning on that itsy-bitsy tight-muscled arse.
Toying .. goading .. the brutes were swishing their springy canes in the air. They turned to their mates .. muscle power poses. Showing off the strength in their arms. Whipping their canes up and down .. in anticipation of making that arsehole scream.
Only questions were, How soon would Fuck-arse squeal? Which would first make that well-used arse wail with pain? Who’s laying bets?
Maciste felt the first cutting bite into Menander’s backside. It sizzled like a flame into his own front. The sting drove Menander’s crotch into his hips, making him take a step back. Maciste felt the shudders tremble against him. Pain crackled into his own front. He trembled himself at the tremors shuddering into his groin. Nothing compared to the sting on Menander’s backside. A thwack that had his friend trembling on his front.
A grunt from the other brute heralded another stinging bite. Meander jerked, again Maciste felt the shock sizzle into his own flesh .. tremble down his legs. They’d made a whipping post of him. Fashioned for Menander’s pain.
Calls from beyond the torches demanded more. They wanted to hear it. Get turned on by the squeals of pain. Bawling to encourage their mates to put their backs into it. Menander was still holding in his cries. But the mob wanted none of it. They demanded to hear it. Urging their mates to go for him. Howling on that moment when their jeers erupted with the pain breaking free from Menander’s tortured arse.
The time would come .. inescapable .. when Menander’s strength of will could not take another crippling slash biting into his backside. Then they’d roar. These Parthian brutes would jeer. When pain and hurt conquered his manly spirit. When their Fuck-arse could not stop himself. Giving them what they ached to hear.
Maciste too was suffering. Tortured through his own front with every pained tremor that shot from Menander’s torso. His tightly packed lean-muscled physique passed his pain through to his friend. Down his front Maciste felt drenched with the man’s suffering. His own head was beginning to feel swim .. dizzy with the intoxicating power of this sick spectacle .. maddened by the drunken screams .. howling like mad dogs for Menander to break down and squeal.
Heat glued together their bare chests, tortured sweat. Five times now Menander had taken it. Five times his whipmasters had taken it slowly. Squeezing every bit of torture out of every strike. Then, ready for their next hit, they screwed up the strength. And blasted with all their gut-wrenching might agony into Menander’s tortured arse. Five times hit with mind-crippling force, vicious, savage. Tortured with the stinging pain from every body-breaking blow.
Six. Not many more to go ….. Maciste was counting. He was willing to friend to hang in. Stay true to himself. Foil these bastards. Hold in his pain. He himself had suffered the force, each blistering thwack. Menander’s bare front slammed by body-crippling force into his hips. That last one, Menander’s naked groin driven so hard into him Maciste had to step back. This hefty pair of Parthian thugs were taken turns .. playing to the mob .. good-natured rivalry competing .. who could hurt the most. And which one was going to make Fuck-arse howl first.
After each vengeful strike Maciste felt the pain ricocheting against his front. Drunk with anxiety for his friend. His own fists clutched tight. Willing Menander on. Yet battling for his own will with each-and-every strike. Anger, fear, hate. His head in a spin. Madness. Bloody-mindedness. Worry. A sickening maelstrom in his head spinning out of control. As another bolt of lighting tore down his own legs.
Guilt befuddled him, this should be him taking these strikes. A wild need to protect. Help. Maddened that he couldn’t do a thing. Menander was tough, he was brave. But these suckers had set out to make him bawl.
“Pick on someone your own size.”
Maciste blurted it out. Furious that Menander was taking this for him. Feeling guilty. Supposedly Maciste’s own “royal” hide was too precious. He belonged to their emperor. So Menander was getting all the heat.
“Take ME on.”
He bawled his anger at the sergeant. Furious. Protective. Guilty. A heady mixture. Not fair that Menander was getting it. Because of this lie he had spun.
The sergeant raised his hand. The next swipe was already poised. The whip-handler had his arm up .. priming himself .. sights on that taut reddening arse. Groans went up. Men arguing back.
“Ignore the fucker, sarge!”
“Give it the prick!?
But the sergeant didn’t. Instead he strode up to Maciste. He slithered his arm up Maciste’s anger-sweaty back, slid his hand up behind and grabbed Maciste by the hair.
“Let’s get something straight …..”
The hand tugged in the hair. Yanking the prince-slave’s head hard backwards. Then with a rush of domination to his loins the sergeant wrenched Maciste’s face into his own.
“YOU .. ya’r princely Highness-motherfucker .. YOU is destined for greater things.”
Gloatingly he blew Maciste a mock-kiss. Both of them knew how “great” those things would get.
“And seeing as ya’r goat-shagger dickhead-subject here .. is putting hissen out .. pissin’ hissen with the honour .. privileged to show ya’s how fucking great ya’r future is gonna be ….. least thing ya can do …… show the fucker some respect!”
He yanked Maciste’s head outwards. Displaying him to the drunken troops.
“What ya’s say, men? This fucker, this prince-slave of ours …..? D’we give the arsehole a second chance?
An extra hard tug in Maciste’s hair forced out a grimace of pain. The sergeant was grinning into Maciste’s face. Maciste fancied he could sense the domination expanding at the tops of the sergeant’s legs. Getting off on this rush of power.
“What ya’s say, guys? Another ten?”
Maciste swore. But the sergeant just grinned. A leer lit up his face. He planted a mock kiss on Maciste’s cheek. Sadistic he whispered into Maciste’s ear.
“Or ya wanna make it ten more after that …..?”
Maciste was furious. Guilty. But helpless. All at the same time. Enraged. But for Menander’s sake he kept his big mouth shut.
The drunken mob beyond the torches erupted. Cheering their sergeant on. This was what they had come for. Jeering the stupidity of the goat-shagger prince.
“TEN MORE! TEN MORE! TEN MORE!
Teaching the arsehole-prince a lesson. Learn the fucker to respect his subject’s sacrifice. To honour the prize offered by a goat-shagger’s arse.
And for Maciste himself .. a lesson to keep his big mouth shut. It was Menander paying the price.
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