Tiradates had been curious. He’d come to watch the preparations to take his prisoner away. Still bitter at the court politics that was robbing him of his prize. A problem he’d sort when he was back in court. But this prisoner WAS his. And he couldn’t stop himself from watching him readied for getting taken off.
Hellgate. Tiradates didn’t know too much about the place. Any who did was there. Suffering the lord emperor’s wrath. And few were ever seen again. Tiradates wasn’t too eager to find out more. But one thing was certain … his prisoner was going to regret he was ever born.
He smirked at the futility of the sucker. This prick-of-a-prince .. he still couldn’t get it into his head. The Hellgate guards were securing him for the journey, the prick kept up the pretence. Resisting. Fighting back. Where-the-fuck did he think he was going? Escaping? Surrounded by a thousand enemy troops?
Those Hellgate guards, they knew their stuff. Armed with clubs. Thwacked in the guts. Stomped in the nuts. He was a stubborn motherfucker, this rebel prince. But …. Escape from getting sent to Hellgate? No fucking-chance.
Eventually Tiradates just couldn’t stop himself. He mounted the cart to bid a fond farewell. The kind their relationship justified.
“We’ll meet again. You can count on that. Slave.”
Toyingly Tiradates was goading him .. a finger running down the deep cleft in his chest. Twirling annoying in his belly button.
He was still sweating from his struggles. Tiradates could feel the heat from those thwacks to his belly radiating into his hand. Needless to say this prick-of-a-prince hadn’t given in easily when his Hellgate escorts had been securing him on the cart.
“Move ya fuckin’ arse!”
One of the escort had grabbed Maciste by the scruff of the neck. But Maciste’s hackles had been up. At getting roughed up. Tiradates had grinned watching. The prick should have got used to it by now. He’d certainly be roughed up a lot more.
He’d held back .. refusing to move his arse .. snarling furious into the rough henchman’s face. But the ugly brute didn’t flinch. His other hand slapped Maciste. Catching him with the full force of a forearm punch across the chest.
“Ya hear me? Slave.” The grip in Maciste’s neck let go and gave him a good slapping him hard across the back of the head. Watching Tiradates had grinned to himself. These Hellgate guards didn’t mess around. And from what Tiradates knew, Hellgate was going to a hell-lot—worse.
“Shift your fucking arse ….”
Another humiliating slap across the back of Maciste’s head.
“Plenty more where that came from.”
Possessively Tiradates had stood watching the preparations for HIS prisoner to be escorted away. Overnight joiners had mounted a sturdy post on the waggon. After a lot of shoving and pushing, numerous punches thrown, finally the Hellgate guards had Tiradates’ prisoner fastened to the ring on the post .. hands up behind his head. He was no longer resisting, bowing to the inevitable.
Had he seen how inescapable his position was? Or how vulnerable he was to those clubs with his hands secured away? Giving up the fight, saving his strength. And saving himself from more brutal thuds into his gut. But still not knowing what he was in for.
Tiradates had smiled to himself at the look of protest when the slave had his meagre covering whipped away. The only rags he’d had to cover himself with since he’d started hauling that cart back to this border.
At the fun and games entertaining the troops the previous night, Tiradates and his men had seen this cock in enough states. The men had cat-called and heckled when he’d had his bare arse striped. And they had jeered when the prisoner had been forced to rape one of his own countrymen.
No need to look shy when the guards ripped the rags away and he stood there naked again. They’d all seen enough of him like that. But what really got up his nose was getting fitted up with the slave pouch. He wriggled, he fought to avoid having a slave’s pouch threaded around him.
His escort might as well not bothered, it was hardly hiding a thing. But it was symbolic, Tiradates knew. The prisoner knew that too. That was what he was fighting against. The minimal covering that declared to the world this once-time prince, this stubborn-as-an-ox prick …. He was slave to the Empire. That miniscule pouch confirmed it … he was condemned to life as slave of the Parthian Emperor. For as long as Vologases allowed him to draw breath.