It was that same fucker. That leather-clad arsehole from up in the shrine. The muscle-head that had accepted Conan in tribute from the villagers. And then he had had Conan up-ended and lowered down the chute. Trussed up for these monstrous brutes.
Since, the monsters had got him trussed up .. hands tied behind his head to some rope hanging down. The rope disappeared up into the gloom of the cave roof. He’d given it a few hard tugs. Enough to convince himself he wasn’t getting away so easily.
He’d resisted getting roped up like this. When the ogre had slung him off his shoulders, for a few brief moments, instinct had taken over. He head-barged into one of the brutes. It was like banging his head into solid rock. The ogre hadn’t flinched. Besides, his legs were tied together. Where was he going to run?
But then Conan had got his rewards. Another fistful of thuds into his guts. Robbing him of breath. Easy pickings as they roped his hands up behind his head. Crippling his strength, knees wobbly while they got his legs wide-spread. Tied to some pole behind his ankles.
The pair of brutes had withdrawn to the sides. Stood by the flickering brazier. It was cold down here, they were bare to the waist. But Conan got the feeling these brutes did not worry about the chill. He reckoned they didn’t have enough sense to feel at all. Rather they were using the fires to be seen by him. To intimidate him with the sight of them. To scare. All he’d suspected about them in the blackness was true. They were FUCKING huge.
That self-same fucker-from-up-top. The arsehole who’d accepted the villagers’ “sacrifice”. He’d made it down to these caves below the shrine. He stood, arms crossed over a broad muscular chest .. eyeing a helpless Conan up and down.
“What the fuck’s this all about?”
Conan’s protest was ignored. The man just let his eyes roam over Conan’s near-naked torso. Arms up, trapped behind his head. Conan felt the gaze linger on the solid plates of strength emphasised in his chest. Then a touch seemed to be fingering lightly over his belly button and around .. sunk in by his upraised arms. Eyeing over the villagers’ “lunar sacrifice”.
Sacrifice? Conan was not the man to let words like that get to him. He was no goat bleating to have its throat cut.
“What you gawping at?”
The arsehole didn’t bother to answer. But the inspection did not let up. Looking him over. Eyes fingering the muscled strength in his belly. Poking and prodding at the crimson blemishes from a half-dozen hits. Aching from meeting knuckled fists from his monster-thugs.
That muscle-head from up-top had got changed out of his leather soldier-gear. Conan took the chance to assess what he was up against, his preening arrogant foe. Dressed now in a sheer-white shift. Draped over his body .. it clung to him like a second skin. Proud muscled chest. The ridge between solid muscle clearly visible. Further down the cloth hugged to a muscled gut. A fine face. Handsome. But eyes as cold as ice were looking him over. The shift was open to the waist .. and lower.
A poser. Conan knew the sort. Big-headed fucker, flaunted himself. Full of himself. Loving lording it over a captive. Strong when Conan was delivered into his hands, ready trussed-up. Helpless. Strong when he had his monster-thugs to teach Conan a lesson. Trussed-up here, arms above his head, body vulnerable. But when it came down to it …. could all that muscle do the business? Was their anything behind that vanity? Behind that showing off? Conan couldn’t wait to have the chance to test it out.
Meanwhile, his ugly super-sized monsters stood ever-present. THAT was how this muscle-head of a poser could put one over on a stud like Conan. Ugly ogres, humongous brutes .. here attending their master’s bidding.
And Conan’s innards were already aching from what that meant.