“They’ve raped me. Every night. Repeatedly. Every night.”
Menander was still hugging Maciste around the chest. Face pressed hot into Maciste’s chest .. hiding his face from his shame. His confession coming through gasped intakes of breath.
Increasingly Maciste had got the feeling that Menander needed his strength to keep himself upright. Before his knees weakened. Then Maciste felt Menander crushing Maciste tight to his front .. ….he needed a friend’s strength. Now he knew why.
Menander confessed. He had to get it off his chest. He couldn’t lie to his friend anymore.
“Passed around. These fucking-troops’ whore.”
He was buying his face in Maciste’s armpit. In shame. In pain, physical, personal. The truth had to come out. That thrashing had done for him emotionally. He cried out, he couldn’t keep it in.
Ashamed that he had given in to that pain, red-stinging on his arse. Ashamed at what had become of him. What these animals had made of him. Dreading the weakness he was confessing to his friend. So worked up emotionally Menander felt he was about to collapse. He tightened his grip around his friend’s sweaty torso.
Menander owned up.
“No chance to get away …… Finished sucking off one cock .. a crowd of them were jostling for position .. eager to plug my arse.”
Brutes! Animals! Maciste froze. These soldiers’ whore! His friend! His tough prince, his macho friend .. that all the girls drooled after .. and not because of his title. Eager to feel that muscle-hard body pushed into their soft-skinned flesh.
Maciste felt at a loss. He had to hug his friend. Comfort him. But these brutes had made that impossible. He needed to wrap Menander in a manly clinch. He couldn’t .. hands tied behind his head. But he needed to. Needed to protect. At a loss that he couldn’t show manly concern. Or throw a brotherly arm around his friend. Paralysed by those horrific words. WHORED!
Best he could do. And that impotence only made Maciste feel worse. With fury he threw his gaze over at the sergeant. A beaker to his mouth .. knocking back a celebratory mouthful. For whipping the hell out of their fuck-arse’s backside. A soldier slapped him across the back .. congratulating his triumph .. for getting Fuck-arse to squeal out in pain. Another shared a joke with a brawny whip-handler. Maciste caught them shooting a look at Menander’s bare whiplashed backside. And doubled up with drunken guffaws.
Maciste raged. His blood boiled. At them making a joke out of Menander’s anguish. He felt a shiver pass into his own torso. Menander was still being taken by the tortures. Still shaken by the horrors that had made their home in his burning flesh.
As if the sergeant sensed Maciste’s anger, he turned his head. He caught the fury burning in his eyes. The sergeant saw the curse mouthed at him. And sardonically he raised his beaker. Saluting Maciste. Saluting his powerlessness. Drinking to his proxy’s pain.
“Back to work. Fuck-arse.”
Maciste felt his blood boil every time these animals snarled at Menander like that. Not an insult. Not winding him up. That was how they saw him, derided him. They thought of his friend as less than some beast. Their whore. Useful for just that one thing. His eyes seethed back at the sergeant.
The sergeant had sauntered over, his men cheering him on. The show was starting off again. He yanked Menander by the hair and tugged him away from Maciste. When the shocked Menander did not instantly release his grip .. as if clinging on to Maciste for emotional strength .. the soldier twisted his wrist sharply and yanked. The force could have tugged hair out of Menander’s scalp. Tears of pain burst in the corner of his eyes.
“On ya fuckin’ knees! Down, Fuck-arse!””
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