batak_b
Guard
Part 8/10:
Zorak
While the hangmen readied the contestants for the next stage of the spectacle water sellers appeared on the passages between the aisles and Zorak realized how thirsty he was. He had hardly diverted his eyes from the tortured women on the posts since the beginning of the contest and had barely noticed the burning heat of the afternoon sun until now. Like most men around, he ordered a cup of water. Some shared theirs with their slave girls and as Zorak was enjoying the refreshing cool water he noted Marada’s pleading look. She knew better than to speak up or ask anything. “What do you look at?” he asked her sneeringly, “You already had two drinks and more will follow.” That was true. His manhood had hardened before the back whipping had ended but his self-control and Marada’s experience had slowed down the pleasurable process. He had made her stop for the hiatus.
“Who do you think will be the first to die?” the stocky man next to him asked. Zorak was still considering a response, when another man from below suggested the White slave, his betting choice. “The White one is stronger than she looks,” yet another one commented but did not suggest an alternative. The discussion turned on and he heard suggestions for the green Westerosi and the blue Valyrian as well. Some betting arose again, for smaller amounts without middlemen. “The Westerosi will be the first one,” Zorak said, adding “I’d bet two honors on that.” A few spectators around joined the betting, the neighbour who started the conversation wagered for the Blue slave. “The Valyrians are too strong,” Zorak remarked amidst approving nods, “I had seen many whipped on the square back in the capital. I agree that bitch over there is broken but I doubt she’d be the first to pass.”
Soon enough, after the torturers had had their own share of refreshing, each of them took back the whips and lined up at the right side of their victims, leaving their fronts on full display from the prime seats, including Zorak’s. The pause allowed him to observe that the blazing heat and the merciless flogging had affected the contestants. Judging by the faces, they seemed in pain, fever, thirst and – at the least the White and the Red slaves – arousal. The drum sounded again like a distant thunder, the whips swung in the air and Zorak once again decided to first gaze at his betting choice tracing with immense satisfaction the whip, as it landed with a strong smack across her magnificent breasts in a slight diagonal, while Marada bent over her task. He quickly looked around the other women to enjoy their first frontal stripe amidst their screams and the announcement “Fifty-one!” Zorak turned his attention to the beauty in the middle as the whip sank deep in her generous bust, adding a crisscrossing mark, both globes shaking violently. The cunt of Valyrian slave in blue was shining but Zorak’s trained eye noted that it was rather sweat than inner juices. Apparently her torturer had noticed that as well and the fifty-third strikes slashed through her hips and womanhood, the first one to hit the private parts of any contestant.
The Red slave from Rhoynar was dancing under the lash. Zorak was mesmerized by her flexible wriggling and the almost perverse way the agony and ecstasy ran through her suffering face, as her lustrous body twisted after each vicious hit. Droplets of sweat and blood scattered around with every blow on the defenseless flesh, while a mixture of sweat and juices dropped from her cleft. The fifty-eighth lash struck through the marvelous breasts of the Naathy girl in white and Zorak saw how it licked the erected left nipple, causing her to scream at the top of her lungs. In his experienced opinion, the Green slave was indeed having it worse than the rest. Zorak gleefully observed her full breasts bouncing and her luscious hips curving in an arousing dance, but her blue eyes were wide open in an inconsolable anguish, her mouth was stretched to the limit, her head often bounced back facing the sky. Not that the other girls were not having a similar display of mounting pain and despair, but in Zorak’s mind the Westerosi was indeed approaching her limits.
He enjoyed the sight. The spectacle could not have been any better, despite the countless whippings he had witnessed. Zorak marveled at the five pieces of living canvass that were slowly filling in with red stripes, like precious objects of ever changing art. He thought how glorious it could have been if it were possible to recreate these moments in the arena over and over again, at any time he wanted. Probably the gods could do that. If only he was a god… Suddenly, an idea struck him – when the White slave wins, he would use part of his prize to hire an artist to cover one of his rooms with scenes from the arena. He smiled at the concept, as the counting resounded in the arena along with the shrieks of the suffering women. “Sixty-seven!” “Sixty-eight!”
The fit bodies of the five slaves were moving invitingly, breasts trembling, abdomens convulsing, abs and ribs budging under the skin, hips arching back and forth, cunts glistening in the sun. When the seventieth stroke left a horizontal mark through the aroused fatty outer lips of the Red slave’s oily womanhood amidst an earsplitting howl of pure agony, Zorak finished for the third time in Marada’s mouth. Zorak observed the growing exhaustion of the contestants. The three to his left, including his favourite, were desperately trying to lick the droplets of sweat and tears sliding from their young faces. The Red still appeared intoxicated with pain and lust, while the Valyrian at the right end was taking lash after lash in almost stoic indifference despite her constant screams. Just three strokes on and Zorak felt he was hardening again, while Marada, herself fully naked, was having some time to look in terror and awe at the spectacle on the platform. His manhood jumped up as the seventy-fifth blow hit the breasts of the White slave, her petite body wriggled in the chains and she squirted in agony and ecstasy. As Marada engulfed him again, he noticed that she was wet below and rubbed her sex for a few moments, his eyes once again fixed at the whipped women.
The heavy blows continued to fall on the chained contestants with unrelenting strength. The hangmen were indeed the very best in their craft to have such a skill and endurance. Zorak had rarely observed slave girls showing such virility at so many strokes, or men that were able to apply the whip with seemingly the same strength as the first lashes. The count was growing higher and higher and so were the intricate webs of bloody stripes on the five bodies. “Eighty-six!” Slash! “AAAAAAA!” “Eighty-seven!” Crack! “AAAAAAHH!” Torsos were dancing, blood and sweat was splashing. Zorak felt saliva oozing from the tip of his lips and sucked it back.
At the eighty-ninth stroke he saw the eyes of the Green slave whiten and she fell unconscious hanging numbly from the chains. The drum did not renew the regular rhythm as the torturer put down the whip and pulled out a red hot iron rod from the brazier behind. When he applied the glowing metal to the inner part of the blonde’s inner thigh, her eyes opened in wild terror and her howl of agony echoed around the arena. Zorak focused on her for the next two strokes that hit her red-striped body, her round-shaped breasts bouncing violently, her agonizing screams ever less viral. She was a goner and would not survive the hundredth lash, Zorak realized, satisfied with his unerring judgment. He was admiring the writhing slim body of the Red slave, showing unmistakable signs of exhaustion, when the ninety-fifth blow cause the Westerosi to collapse again. This time the hot iron failed to revive her. “The Green slave has passed!” announced the heralds. Her torturer raised his whip amidst the ovation from the public and then stepped down from the platform, leaving the lifeless body between the two posts.
The drum sounded the resumption of the ordeal and whips continued to mercilessly thrash the remaining four contestants. While watching the large pair of globes of the Yellow slave in the middle quiver under relentless succession of vicious strokes on the cocoa brown skin and the dark areolas, Zorak ejected his sperm in Marada’s warm mouth. “Ninety-seven!” “Ninety-eight!” The bound women were gradually wearing off, even the Red slave, he observed. The White appeared somehow disorientated, the Yellow barely reacted to whip, the Red had lost any trace of sexual heat, the Blue’s stoic endurance was fading. Yet, they were still dancing, their bodies were still wriggling sensitively. “Ninety-nine!” “AAAAAAH!” “One hundred!”
Zorak
While the hangmen readied the contestants for the next stage of the spectacle water sellers appeared on the passages between the aisles and Zorak realized how thirsty he was. He had hardly diverted his eyes from the tortured women on the posts since the beginning of the contest and had barely noticed the burning heat of the afternoon sun until now. Like most men around, he ordered a cup of water. Some shared theirs with their slave girls and as Zorak was enjoying the refreshing cool water he noted Marada’s pleading look. She knew better than to speak up or ask anything. “What do you look at?” he asked her sneeringly, “You already had two drinks and more will follow.” That was true. His manhood had hardened before the back whipping had ended but his self-control and Marada’s experience had slowed down the pleasurable process. He had made her stop for the hiatus.
“Who do you think will be the first to die?” the stocky man next to him asked. Zorak was still considering a response, when another man from below suggested the White slave, his betting choice. “The White one is stronger than she looks,” yet another one commented but did not suggest an alternative. The discussion turned on and he heard suggestions for the green Westerosi and the blue Valyrian as well. Some betting arose again, for smaller amounts without middlemen. “The Westerosi will be the first one,” Zorak said, adding “I’d bet two honors on that.” A few spectators around joined the betting, the neighbour who started the conversation wagered for the Blue slave. “The Valyrians are too strong,” Zorak remarked amidst approving nods, “I had seen many whipped on the square back in the capital. I agree that bitch over there is broken but I doubt she’d be the first to pass.”
Soon enough, after the torturers had had their own share of refreshing, each of them took back the whips and lined up at the right side of their victims, leaving their fronts on full display from the prime seats, including Zorak’s. The pause allowed him to observe that the blazing heat and the merciless flogging had affected the contestants. Judging by the faces, they seemed in pain, fever, thirst and – at the least the White and the Red slaves – arousal. The drum sounded again like a distant thunder, the whips swung in the air and Zorak once again decided to first gaze at his betting choice tracing with immense satisfaction the whip, as it landed with a strong smack across her magnificent breasts in a slight diagonal, while Marada bent over her task. He quickly looked around the other women to enjoy their first frontal stripe amidst their screams and the announcement “Fifty-one!” Zorak turned his attention to the beauty in the middle as the whip sank deep in her generous bust, adding a crisscrossing mark, both globes shaking violently. The cunt of Valyrian slave in blue was shining but Zorak’s trained eye noted that it was rather sweat than inner juices. Apparently her torturer had noticed that as well and the fifty-third strikes slashed through her hips and womanhood, the first one to hit the private parts of any contestant.
The Red slave from Rhoynar was dancing under the lash. Zorak was mesmerized by her flexible wriggling and the almost perverse way the agony and ecstasy ran through her suffering face, as her lustrous body twisted after each vicious hit. Droplets of sweat and blood scattered around with every blow on the defenseless flesh, while a mixture of sweat and juices dropped from her cleft. The fifty-eighth lash struck through the marvelous breasts of the Naathy girl in white and Zorak saw how it licked the erected left nipple, causing her to scream at the top of her lungs. In his experienced opinion, the Green slave was indeed having it worse than the rest. Zorak gleefully observed her full breasts bouncing and her luscious hips curving in an arousing dance, but her blue eyes were wide open in an inconsolable anguish, her mouth was stretched to the limit, her head often bounced back facing the sky. Not that the other girls were not having a similar display of mounting pain and despair, but in Zorak’s mind the Westerosi was indeed approaching her limits.
He enjoyed the sight. The spectacle could not have been any better, despite the countless whippings he had witnessed. Zorak marveled at the five pieces of living canvass that were slowly filling in with red stripes, like precious objects of ever changing art. He thought how glorious it could have been if it were possible to recreate these moments in the arena over and over again, at any time he wanted. Probably the gods could do that. If only he was a god… Suddenly, an idea struck him – when the White slave wins, he would use part of his prize to hire an artist to cover one of his rooms with scenes from the arena. He smiled at the concept, as the counting resounded in the arena along with the shrieks of the suffering women. “Sixty-seven!” “Sixty-eight!”
The fit bodies of the five slaves were moving invitingly, breasts trembling, abdomens convulsing, abs and ribs budging under the skin, hips arching back and forth, cunts glistening in the sun. When the seventieth stroke left a horizontal mark through the aroused fatty outer lips of the Red slave’s oily womanhood amidst an earsplitting howl of pure agony, Zorak finished for the third time in Marada’s mouth. Zorak observed the growing exhaustion of the contestants. The three to his left, including his favourite, were desperately trying to lick the droplets of sweat and tears sliding from their young faces. The Red still appeared intoxicated with pain and lust, while the Valyrian at the right end was taking lash after lash in almost stoic indifference despite her constant screams. Just three strokes on and Zorak felt he was hardening again, while Marada, herself fully naked, was having some time to look in terror and awe at the spectacle on the platform. His manhood jumped up as the seventy-fifth blow hit the breasts of the White slave, her petite body wriggled in the chains and she squirted in agony and ecstasy. As Marada engulfed him again, he noticed that she was wet below and rubbed her sex for a few moments, his eyes once again fixed at the whipped women.
The heavy blows continued to fall on the chained contestants with unrelenting strength. The hangmen were indeed the very best in their craft to have such a skill and endurance. Zorak had rarely observed slave girls showing such virility at so many strokes, or men that were able to apply the whip with seemingly the same strength as the first lashes. The count was growing higher and higher and so were the intricate webs of bloody stripes on the five bodies. “Eighty-six!” Slash! “AAAAAAA!” “Eighty-seven!” Crack! “AAAAAAHH!” Torsos were dancing, blood and sweat was splashing. Zorak felt saliva oozing from the tip of his lips and sucked it back.
At the eighty-ninth stroke he saw the eyes of the Green slave whiten and she fell unconscious hanging numbly from the chains. The drum did not renew the regular rhythm as the torturer put down the whip and pulled out a red hot iron rod from the brazier behind. When he applied the glowing metal to the inner part of the blonde’s inner thigh, her eyes opened in wild terror and her howl of agony echoed around the arena. Zorak focused on her for the next two strokes that hit her red-striped body, her round-shaped breasts bouncing violently, her agonizing screams ever less viral. She was a goner and would not survive the hundredth lash, Zorak realized, satisfied with his unerring judgment. He was admiring the writhing slim body of the Red slave, showing unmistakable signs of exhaustion, when the ninety-fifth blow cause the Westerosi to collapse again. This time the hot iron failed to revive her. “The Green slave has passed!” announced the heralds. Her torturer raised his whip amidst the ovation from the public and then stepped down from the platform, leaving the lifeless body between the two posts.
The drum sounded the resumption of the ordeal and whips continued to mercilessly thrash the remaining four contestants. While watching the large pair of globes of the Yellow slave in the middle quiver under relentless succession of vicious strokes on the cocoa brown skin and the dark areolas, Zorak ejected his sperm in Marada’s warm mouth. “Ninety-seven!” “Ninety-eight!” The bound women were gradually wearing off, even the Red slave, he observed. The White appeared somehow disorientated, the Yellow barely reacted to whip, the Red had lost any trace of sexual heat, the Blue’s stoic endurance was fading. Yet, they were still dancing, their bodies were still wriggling sensitively. “Ninety-nine!” “AAAAAAH!” “One hundred!”
