Date: Sat, 3 Jul 2004 08:06:13 -0700 (PDT)
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: Mandrasat Chapter 19

MANDRASAT  Chapter 19

(contributed on behalf of the author by Pete Brown
petebrownuk @ yahoo.com)


Clapping his hands together rhythmically and coughing
slightly, Shareem continued,  "Most diverting, Zarak,"
the strain evident in his voice as he brought himself
and his penis back under control.  "Both slaves showed
improvement over the past five days."  Then speaking
in Arabic, he said to the overseers, "Now we shall
take the next step.  Let the Nubians have the two
slaves for an hour, then take them to the courtyard
and have them branded."
-0-
	Shareem turned and disappeared through a sliding door
in the wall behind him as Zarak hauled himself up from
the floor and Kasim jumped to the storage shelf,
grabbed two pair of handcuffs, spun round, and tossed
them to one of the Nubians.
	"In one hour," Zarak barked as he and Kasim exited
the room into the hallway.
	Grinning hungrily, the eight Nubians circled Bret and
the pilot; neither had any doubt about their immediate
prospects.  Zarak's two brawny escorts and Shareem's
two body slaves suddenly pounced on Bret, dragging him
to the floor.  Knowing the futility of it all, he
still tried fighting against the strength and weight
of the four powerful Nubians twisting and pinning him
into the exact position they wanted.  The pilot fared
no better and, struggling fiercely against his
attackers, fell just as quickly at Bret's side.
	Their arms pulled behind their backs and their wrists
cuffed, both slaves were immobilized.  The Nubians
began greasing their thick, black cocks and exploring
with fingers, tongues, and lips, the two long white
bodies beneath them.  They rubbed the adhesive pads
clinging to the slaves' sides and legs, knowing that
the juice inside would somehow make their prisoners
suck and hump cock like wild beasts.
	Bret had begun almost immediately to shake and moan
as hot, wet, Nubian mouths sought his throat and
nipples, his navel, his balls and cock, his inner
thighs, the soles of his feet.  No part of his body
was left unassailed, unstroked, unmouthed.  Eyes
squeezed shut, the fire of lust pounding in his brain,
incinerating his fear and despair, he surrendered his
body to the hands and arms constraining him.
	His legs were lifted from the floor, bent at the
knees, and pressed back against his chest, exposing
his inflamed hole, craving as much to be speared by
Nubian cocks as it was throbbing with pain.
	The pilot, twisting and fighting with equal futility
against the four other Nubians pummeling him and
slamming his body into the floor, was also locked into
 a doubled over position, writhing in furious
anticipation, his hole and guts still burning fiercely
from Zarak's massive cock gouging.  As Nubian tongues
licked at the lips of his anus, scooping out Zarak's
cum, the pilot howled in anguish at his total
helplessness; he'd been unable to defend his body even
from that first moment when Shareem's slavers grabbed
him outside Qassir City, stripped him naked, and gang
fucked him in a roadside ditch.
	He'd been powerless to prevent his capture or his
transport in a cage to Jakeem Air Base in the Deserts
of Qassir, where he was chained and fucked and
battered continuously throughout the night by the base
garrison.  For almost two weeks after his arrival at
Mandrasat he'd been tortured, raped, and defiled in
ways beyond his wildest nightmares, until the reality
that he was inescapably a sex slave, a fuck toy, had
been beaten into his flesh.
	Shareem's Nubians delighted in playing with their
lean, young, hairless fuck toys.  The contrast between
their glistening iridescent black skin and the white
flesh of the auction slaves tanned a golden brown from
head to foot was hypnotic and mouthwatering.
	Nubian slaves were beyond proficient in stoking their
victims' furnaces, flaming them to a fevered pitch.
They would first assault their prey with  lips, teeth,
and tongues, sucking their throats into their mouths,
thrusting and digging their tongues into their rigid
tendons, then, continuing on, would lather down their
captives' entire bodies.
	No slave in his life before Mandrasat could possibly
have experienced the full inferno of sexual fire in
every part of his body simultaneously, nor would he
have imagined packs of naked men coiling around his
torso and limbs, sucking and chewing nipples and arm
pits, tonguing his navel and butt hole.  Who could
picture three or four mouths unrelentingly licking,
kissing, stroking,  mouthing cock and balls all at
once?  Shareem did.  It was how he turned men into
slaves.
	Bret offered no resistance as a huge black cock
plowed its way to the back of his mouth, cramming it
full, and stretching his lips.  His hold on
consciousness wavered in the blistering heat of desire
as hard, rough hands grabbed hold of his hips, and
cock that felt like sewer pipe ripped into his hole.
	An explosion of searing pain sliced through his body,
and he sucked in desperation on the massive spike
slamming back and forth inside his mouth.  His body,
saturated with hormones and endorphins and furiously
writhing and tossing, screamed for more pain to fuel
the fire consuming it.  He lusted for the agony that
was pulverizing him.
	On the floor next to him, two Nubians were hard
fucking both of the pilot's holes, slamming their
cocks back and forth in unison, like synchronized
pistons.  The giant straddling his head, held him in
place gripping him by his ears; two others had hoisted
his legs high and wide, shoving his knees back against
his shoulders, and the fourth, crouching into the
slave's ass and screeching ecstatically, his arms
clamped tight around his victim's thighs, drilled his
cock deep into the violently twisting and shaking
body.
	The Nubians had less than eight minutes apiece to
slam their cocks into each slave's ass and throat, and
all eight throbbing cocks were burning to bury
themselves into both warm, wet mouth holes and fuck
chutes.  Bret gagged and gasped for air, sucking
furiously against a Nubian shaft pounding wildly into
the sides, roof, and back of his mouth.  His whole
body bucked and shook as another Nubian drove his cock
in and out of his ass.
	 Through the entire fuck session, neither Bret nor
the pilot could have guessed how many cocks had split
their holes.  The pace was so fast and so furious, it
could have been the same cocks fucking them over and
over; their faces were pressed tight against black,
muscled abs, denuded of hair, their lips stretched
around the bases of thick black cocks.  They would
struggle to swallow wads of hot cum from one cock even
as a second was shoved in to take its place.  In sixty
minutes, sixteen bolts of Nubian nut cream had
exploded out of hot, hard, Nubian cocks, blasting into
the guts and bowels of their captives, splattering
their faces, chests, and bellies, and dripping out of
their butt holes.
	After an hour's time, the door to Shareem's torture
chamber suddenly slid open, too soon for the gasping,
squealing Nubians, an eternity too late for the two
mute auction slaves buried under steaming coils of
black flesh.  Zarak and Kasim charged into the room,
kicking and swatting the Nubians away from Bret and
the pilot.
	"Get back," Zarak roared.  "Your fucking time is up."
	Kasim laughed in spite of himself at Zarak's remark.
"And a fucking good time they seen to have had."
	Zarak was too busy snarling and hurling Nubians out
of his way to respond to Kasim.  He shouted at one of
the black slaves to bring him two choke chains from
the storage shelf, and the cringing Nubian scurried
off, snatching the chains quickly and dropping them
into the overseer's gaping paw.
	The giant stooped over Bret, rolling him onto his
stomach, shoving his wrists up between his shoulder
blades and snapping the short chain to the cuffs at
one end and at the other to the small ring at the back
of his steel collar.  He then dragged the trembling
slave to his feet, and repeated the process with the
pilot.
	Both auction slaves were streaked with Nubian cum,
dribbling from the corners of their mouthes to their
chins to their chests and down their bellies; it
leaked out of their fuck chutes and ran down the backs
of their legs.  The heavy taste and acrid smell of
semen enveloped them, but they were by no means free
of their Nubian tormentors.  The three who had entered
the room behind Zarak brandishing lashes of knotted
twine, retrieved them from where they had been tossed,
and, while the other Nubians punched and shoved Bret
and the pilot through the doorway and into the
corridor outside, they brought their whips slashing
down across the shoulders, backs and buttocks of the
two screaming slaves.
	Surrounded by a ring of howling Nubians, Bret and the
pilot, beaten with fists and whips, were driven like
animals through Mandrasat's corridors, crying aloud in
shock and pain, the horrors of their enslavement
unending.
	Zarak and Kasim trotted behind the crush of
screeching  Nubians and wailing prisoners, two naked
drill sergeants shouting curses at the top of their
lungs.  The insane tumult echoed along side corridors,
reverberating off ceilings and walls until the jumble
of bodies exploded through a huge double wooden door
into a blazing desert noon.
	Bret and the pilot stumbled hysterically into a
large, paved courtyard, hardly able to remain upright,
blind to all sensations save the shrill hissing and
squawking of their Nubian tormentors and the slash of
knotted twine raking their  shoulders and asses.  The
rough pavement scoured the bottoms of their feet, and
they were shoved and beaten across its cracked and
broken surface until they fell against the centerpiece
of Mandrasat's heritage of suffering, the instrument
of pain beyond all pain.
	It was six feet wide and nine feet long, standing
just over a meter in height, constructed of thick
wooden planks heavily reinforced and bolted to eight
vertical support legs which in turn were bolted to a
gigantic stone slab in the center of the courtyard.
Three legs at each end and one at the middle on either
side bore the extraordinary weight of this trestle.  A
dozen thick leather straps were affixed securely
across its length and width.
	Four Nubians leaped onto the top of the apparatus,
and, as the pilot was thrown across its surface, two
pinned him in place.  The other two seized Bret,
dragging his shoulders and torso down onto the table
and kneeling on his back; another two strapped the
pilot to the outer support leg by his left ankle,
knee, and thigh;  the remaining two strapped Bret's
right ankle, knee, and thigh to the opposite outer
leg.
	"Now the fun begins," Kasim gloated.  "Strap them to
each other," he ordered, "nice and snug," and the
Nubians quickly bound the pilot's right ankle to
Bret's left, then their knees and thighs together at
the center support leg.  Their hips and shoulders were
strapped tightly against each other, their sides so
squeezed together, they could feel each other's blood
pounding, each other's flesh coated with the cold
sweat of terror, and each other's spasm's of pain.
	Shock from the hour long gang fuck and the savage
lashing through Mandrasat's dark corridors, had all
but disabled their minds; their fear was primal,
instinctive, reflexive, and it hung as a curtain
between their senses and their reason.  But that
curtain was about to be ripped apart and their brains
thrust into acute and horrifying awareness.
	Through a broad archway in the wall opposite the far
end of the table and facing the terrorized slaves, two
overseers entered the courtyard, each carrying a thick
leather glove.  One was Jullah, the tall, lean, black
who spoke with a British accent and whose genius lay
in his effective use of electro-torture; the other, a
squat, bulky Asian.
	As they strode across the pavement, their gold
collars, nipple rings, and genital cinches glinted in
the desert sun and flashed in the prisoners' eyes.
Behind them, two giant Nubian slave beasts were bent
over a wooden crossbar, dragging a heavy metal cart
behind them.
	The pilot slave began to scream and struggle
frantically against his bonds when he saw the brazier
bolted to the floor of the cart, the mound of red hot
coals, the super heated air rippling above the
cauldron, and the two andirons plunged into its fiery
heart.
	Bret screamed also, not because he understood the
horror that had entered the courtyard, but because the
of pilot's violent, hysterical outburst.  He saw the
overseers, and recognized Jullah, remembering
instantly the searing pain he had wreaked upon his
body; he saw the Nubian slave beasts, and the cart and
its cargo, though it all did not register immediately,
but, in a moment, everything fell quickly into place,
and he knew.
	"Oh God," he cried.  "Oh God no.  Please no."  He too
fought uselessly against the leather straps binding
him to the pilot's body and against the weight and
force of the giggling Nubians pinning him to the
table.
	Kasim stood behind the two writhing, sobbing slaves
and scratched his fingers across their reddened
buttocks.
	"Now, now, little darlins," he cooed, exaggerating
his drawl.  "We just don't want you to suffer any
identity crisis."
	"Leave that to us," Jullah shouted over the din
bouncing off the walls of the courtyard.  "If they
ever forget what they are, all they will have to do,"
he laughed, "is look at their arses."
	Kasim stepped aside as Jullah and the Asian, pulling
on their gloves, took their places behind the slaves.
The Nubian slave beasts maneuvered the cart behind the
overseers so they need only turn slightly to their
right and grasp the handles of the andirons.
	Bret and the pilot, now hyperventilating, gasped for
breath, their screams of terror reduced to a hoarse
in-sucking of air.  Strapped tightly to each other
from their shoulders to their ankles, they shook
violently, anticipating a   desecration of their minds
and bodies beyond imagining.
	The two overseers planted their left hands squarely
on the slaves' left buttocks, then, with gloved hands,
reached behind themselves, grabbing the ends of the
andirons' long handles and wrenched them free from
their bed of red hot coals.  	With the irons trailing
a shower of exploding sparks, the overseers raised
them above their heads, and, with experience drawn
from hundreds of such rituals,  brought them down
forcefully into the slaves' right buttocks, vaporizing
skin and burning through layers of flesh.
	For Bret and the pilot, it was as though they had
been struck by a massive sledgehammer that drove them
into the leather straps binding them to each other,
then, a split second after impact, a blinding,
searing, mind crushing pain ripped through their
bodies.  No sound came immediately from their throats,
but every muscle, every nerve, every fiber of their
being shrieked in agony.  This inner scream coalesced,
and,  with eyes bulging and bodies convulsing, burst
through their lips, shattering the desert heat.
	Over and over, the horrific pain from molten iron
searing human flesh hammered them, throwing them
screaming into paroxysms of agony and torment.
Suffering excruciating pain, perhaps especially
suffering so unbearablely, the human body and mind
seek the only respite open.  In the midst of their
overwhelming agonies, Bret and the pilot passed out.
Their bodies twitched and unrelenting pain throbbed
even in their darkened brains.
	Zarak stood impassively beside Bret's unconscious
body, then turned and exited the courtyard; Kasim,
arms folded across his chest and smirking, watched in
amusement as the pilot's back and shoulder muscles
writhed in uncontrollable and unconscious spasms of
pain.  The four Nubians leaped off the top of the
branding table and joined the other four, grinning and
gibbering among themselves.
	"We will leave them just as they are for a couple of
hours," Jullah said removing his leather glove.  "Let
the brandings air dry before applying any ointment."
	The Asian overseer and Kasim nodded approvingly, as
Zarak, re-entering the courtyard carrying two large
cylinders, called out to his comrades, "These water
jugs will keep the two of them from dehydrating too
badly."
	He slammed the jugs down on the table, one beside
each slave's head, then he and Kasim unhooked lengths
clear plastic tubing connected to the bottoms of the
jugs, each tipped with a rubber nipple, and placed
them next to the unconscious slaves' mouths.
	Jullah, releasing the strap that bound the slaves'
shoulders together, turned to confront the Nubians
gathered at the far end of the table, still salivating
over their fuck session with the two auction slaves
and anticipating another, and snarled, "If any of you
even approach either of these slaves, I will
personally castrate you on the spot.
	"Do you understand me," he roared, and the Nubians
who had hoped to fuck the auction slaves while they
were strapped helpless to the table, fled the
courtyard in panic.
	Jullah turned to Zarak and Kasim and said calmly,
"Come back in two or three hours; that will give the
brands a chance to set, and you can tend to them
then."
	He and the Asian turned to exit through the archway
followed by the slave beasts towing the branding cart.
	"I feel the need to let off some steam," Kasim
grinned as he turned away from the table.  "How about
we do a couple hours in the exercise pit?"
	"I will join you there," Zarak answered falling in
step beside Kasim.
"I want to make my report on this morning's
activities," he said,  "and you, Kasim, will figure
prominently in it for the good work you did in
preparing your slave for my cock."
	Kasim smiled and threw his arm up and around Zarak's
massive shoulders.  "I love you too, darlin."
	The overseers departed the courtyard without a
backward glance.

-0-

Bret surfaced into consciousness, squirming in agony
and screeching through clenched teeth, each vein and
muscle in his head and neck bulging through  his skin,
tears streaming down his face.  The pilot, gasping for
breath, moaned loudly, not yet sufficiently conscious
to scream.  They were alone in their suffering, the
courtyard empty and brutally hot.
	Like the blistering heat radiating out from the
molten tip of the  branding irons themselves, pain
throbbed and surged through their bodies, pulsating,
devouring, consuming their flesh.  The four walls
surrounding them shimmered in waves of heat.  Bret and
the pilot were being roasted alive in a courtyard
turned oven.
	With the strap removed that bound their shoulders
together, they had some small degree of mobility; this
did not alleviate their pain or suffering, perhaps it
even increased it, but at least, on this small portion
of their bodies, they weren't squeezed together.  This
slight, additional movement also allowed them to
stretch for and close their mouths around the nipple
tipped tubes leading from the cylinders next to their
heads.
	"Water," the pilot gasped barely above a whisper.
He'd worked the nipple into his mouth and had sucked
enough to bring warm water squirting through it.
	Bret imitated the pilot's moves, and in a few
seconds, both were slowly, painfully compensating for
the water streaming out of their bodies as sweat.  The
excruciating heat in the courtyard, the blistering sun
overhead, and the agonizing pain boring through and
pounding their bodies, dragged the two of them into
and out of consciousness.
	A whirlpool of fire ringed the hideous scrawl on each
slave's right buttock, burned black against a canvas
of malevolently reddened skin, a thousand times more
intense than the twisting of a knife through flesh.
When conscious, they sobbed uncontrollably, crying
aloud in near hysteria, their brains and nervous
systems fighting to survive against the massive
onslaught of pain.  For an unending hour, their life
was a tormented struggle to retain their sanity.  It
held, and would continue to hold throughout their
agonies.  That would also be their hell.
	The line between reason and suffering became more
defined to their minds through each excruciating
minute.  This growing awareness did not distance them
from their pain, or diminish it, but simply tormented
them further with self identity in the midst of
blistering agony.
	The human body could never become accustomed to the
kind of searing  pain unleashed by Shareem upon Bret
the the pilot slave, but, for a considerable length of
time, the human mind can function in the face of it,
and that has always been the true object of torture,
that the victim knows he's being tortured, and by
whom.
	The two lay as still as possible, trying to control
even their moans and sobs, any movement intensifying
the pain throttling their bodies, but wailed loudly
when torn by sudden, uncontrollable muscle spasms.
Their bodies bound together inflicted each slave's
torment on the other, a diabolically clever way to
aggravate their suffering.
	 Time and the air hung heavy in the courtyard.  The
pilot twisted his head slightly toward Bret and
gasped, "Name."
	Bret could only moan in response.
	Again the pilot choked, "Name.  What's your name?"
	Bret continued to lay motionless, finally whispering
hoarsely, "Bret.  Bret Hauser," then, inspite of the
pain ripping his body, he began to sob, the sound of
his own name, more than he could endure, his
convulsions inflicting increased suffering on himself
and the pilot.
	The pilot waited until his own pain and Bret's
sobbing subsided, then slowly groaned, "Jon.  My name
is Jonathan Ballard."
	Neither spoke or moved for long minutes, their faces
pressed into the rough wooden surface of the branding
table.  Sporadically, their bodies shuddered, slashed
by explosions of pain and accompanied by
uncontrollable sobs and moans.
	In a gravel voice filled with horror and agony, Bret
gasped, "They branded us.  Oh, God.  They branded us.
How could human beings do such a thing," he sobbed.
	Ballard, again turning his head slightly toward Bret,
whispered haltingly, "We're not human to them.  We're
their property.  And they marked us."
	From that point on, neither had the strength or the
inclination to speak.  They lay in a pool of torment
and suffering, their only relief, the lukewarm water
they sucked through the plastic tubing from the water
jugs, terrified by the unspoken question in both their
minds, "What are they going to do to us next?"
	They felt no passage of time, the moment, always
excruciatingly the present.  They felt no change, only
constant, searing pain, as though a mound of flesh had
been hacked from their right buttocks.  All the
torture and degradation they had endured from the
moment each of them was taken, disintegrated next to
the unmitigated brutality that enveloped them now and
that they could not be rid of.
	Suddenly, shockingly, a new explosion of pain rocked
their bodies, their screams propelled out of
inconceivable agony.  Kasim was lightly tapping his
fingers into the livid wounds on their asses.  Their
cries of torment pleaded for mercy.
	"Time to wake up, my pretties," he chirped.  "We've
got a surprise for you.  Something that'll make you
love us till the day you die."
	Neither Bret nor the Navy pilot Ballard could hear
Kasim's words over their own wails of anguish; they
could hear him laugh, the tap of his finger tip onto
their branded flesh was as devastatingly painful as a
crippling blow with a crowbar.
	Six tall, lean Nubians accompanied Kasim, four
carrying large ceramic bowls filled with Shareem's
specially formulated analgesic gel.
	"These Nubians'll take real good care of you,
slaves," Kasim smirked.
	Bret and Ballard cried out in shock and pain as the
Nubians applied the gel to their blistering wounds,
but an immediate numbing chill spread through their
charred flesh.
	As the four Nubians layered the buttocks and backs of
the two whimpering slaves, the other two Nubians undid
the leather straps binding them to the table and to
each other.  When they had been coated with the gel
from shoulders to ankles, Kasim ordered the Nubians to
raise them up.
	"Upsie dasey," Kasim chortled.  "We don't allow
Master Shareem's slaves to lie about all day doing
nothing."
	The two groaned as they were pulled to their feet.
The branding burns, still excruciating, sent shock
waves of pain through their bodies.
	"Start walking," Kasim ordered.  "Round the
courtyard.  The sooner you get used to your 'brand'
new red hot asses," he laughed, "the better."
	Grabbing Bret and Ballard by the shoulders, the
Nubians pushed them forward, holding them upright as
they stumbled across the pavement.  In spite of the
pain killing gel layered over skin, it was still
virtually impossible for either to put one foot in
front of the other.  They lurched and staggered, their
eyes squeezed shut, gasping, pushed and shoved along
by Kasim's Nubian slaves.
	Every ten minutes or so, the overseer ordered more
gel spread spread on the slaves' bodies.  The agony
from the branding, slashing through their bodies, so
overwhelmed the other wounds they'd sustained, they
had lost awareness of them.
	Where the reservoir of strength was that enabled Bret
and Ballard to hobble around the courtyard again and
again would remain a physiological mystery to them;
they had passed through the pain barrier, and their
reflexes were functioning on automatic, but even
endorphin induced endurance is ultimately drained of
energy.
	As the sun passed over the west wall of the courtyard
and slivers of shadows began to form, the two slaves
collapsed and lost consciousness.  Kasim then ordered
the Nubians to pick them up and carry them into the
fortress.

-0-

End Of Chapter 19