Date: Wed, 30 Apr 2003 22:27:11 EDT
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: Mandrasat: Part Seven

MANDRASAT
Book One. Chapter One (cont'd): Real Time - January 18, 2003

	The reality of Mandrasat burst across Sean's consciousness like a
tidal wave, battering him against the bars of his animal cage and tossing
him about in confusion, anger, and fear.  His mind and body were pounded by
barrage after barrage of ice cold water so completely disorienting him that
his inability to move enraged his still inoperative brain.  Blindly he
struggled against his restraints and howled into his gag.  After an icy
drenching from five additional buckets of water, he began to remember, and
the pit of his stomach imploded.
	He remembered Shareem and the cattle prods.  He remembered the
guards, and the Nubians purging him and shaving his head and body, and with
a groan of anguish, he remembered fucking Jeremy in the ass for the
amusement of Shareem and his men.  He remembered the slave collar, and the
cage, and the ankle and wrist cuffs he bore.  Now he was back, fully awake,
remembering it all, naked and caged like a wild beast, still living a
nightmare he could not bring himself to accept.
	A dozen Nubian slaves were shrieking and dancing wildly around his
cage, dousing him with more buckets of water, shaking the cage violently
until the top was yanked open and a hail of grasping hands clawed at him,
ripping open his ankle cuffs, dragging him out of the cage and spilling him
onto the ground.  Pandemonium sledge hammered his senses from the bellowing
and the frenzied gyrations of the Nubians surrounding him; fingers dug into
his flesh, and he was hauled to his feet, the gag ripped from his mouth,
not so he could speak, but so he could scream.
	In a brief and confused flash, Sean saw Jeremy and the other
captives; they had also all been dragged from their cages, wrists still
cuffed behind their backs and chained to their slave collars as his were;
all encircled by knots of naked black slaves gone berserk.  There was no
escape for any of them.
	At the periphery of his awareness, Sean was barely conscious of a
dark, massive shadow towering over him and receding into the distance;
unknown to him as yet, he was standing in the shadow of Mandrasat.  Fists
beat on him, shoving him forward; he was drenched, smeared with dirt and
sand, then, without warning, a searing, razor sharp pain slashed across his
back and bare ass.  He cried aloud and received a second lash across from
the opposite direction, and then a third.
	In his panic, he spun around, trying to flee the pain and saw gangs
of screaming Nubians flailing whips through the air, leaping and roaring
like animals, scourging his and the other slaves' backs, shoulders,
buttocks and thighs, while others kept shoving them forward with their
fists.  Sean ran as best he could, screaming as a maelstrom of knotted
cords lashed his body.
	None of the slaves could outdistance the rampaging Nubians, nor
their whips that whistled through the air, spewing layer upon layer of fire
across their skin.  They were aimed not just at their backs, but also at
their chests, bellies, and genitals; the searing pain, like scalding acid
sprayed over their bodies, ate into their flesh.
	The captives were herded together, howling in agony and driven
through a wide opening in the dark wall that loomed above them, and into a
large paved courtyard where dozens more bellowing Nubians awaited. Nealy
hysterical and screaming mindlessly, the six were inundated by a flood of
stampeding, screeching black slaves and hurled to the ground.  Their bodies
twisted and stretched, their legs wrenched apart and their genitals
brutally jerked and crushed.
	Sean stared in wild-eyed disbelief, screaming at the top of his
voice, as a giant Nubian crouched at his splayed buttocks, grabbed his
hips, his thumbs pressing hard on either side of his pelvis, and wedged his
cockhead firmly in his asshole.  Sean could not move, could not struggle;
he could only through his head back and scream through clenched teeth when
the Nubian rammed himself fully into his ass.  He impaled Sean on his cock,
then pulled it back, almost completely out before ramming it in again, and
again, and again.
	After four of the Nubians had fucked Sean's ass, one of them
dropped down and knelt onto his chest, grabbing his ears and yanking his
head up.  The Nubian's cock, rigid and glistening, jutted straight out from
his crotch scant inches from Sean's lips.  Sean tried in vain to resist,
but his impotent attempt resulted in a convulsive explosion of pain as his
balls were again jerked and squeezed tightly.  He opened his mouth and a
thick hard shaft was crammed in as a fifth one fucked its way into his
other hole.
	The gang rape of the new slaves continued for more than two hours.
The pain and shock and trauma battering his body and mind were almost too
much for Sean's consciousness to bear; he seemed to be watching himself on
the ground, as though looking down from overhead, down on the horrors
below.
	It was the same scene over and over; his legs bent and spread wide
apart, a Nubian, crouching at his hole, grasping him by the hips, his ass
pumping like a piston, ramming his cock in and out of his hole; a second
Nubian kneeling on his chest, pinning his head between his massive thigh
mussels, his cock buried deep inside his mouth.  Sean's face, neck, and
chest were coated with semen, spurting from his mouth after each discharge
and below, streaming out of his rectum around every new cock that slammed
its way in.
	When this seemingly unending rape of their bodies and minds came to
an end, the six were dragged to their feet, chocking and crying out in
pain. Completely savaged, barely able to move, each was grabbed by several
powerful Nubians and hauled to the center of the courtyard where in front
of them stood a device of unknown purpose, the sight of which nevertheless
overwhelmed their already fractured minds with intense fear and panic.
	Shareem had been standing in an open archway, two stories above the
melee in the courtyard below, still wearing his battle fatigues, fists
planted on his hips, a mike and earphone set fitted on his head, binoculars
hanging around his neck.  Shareem's father had instructed him, as his
father had done, and his father before him, in the ways of terror in
breaking and controlling his slaves.  "A submissive slave will always
command the highest price," was the motto of Shareem's family, and these
six slaves, gripped by panic the likes of which they had never known
before, were about to taste the true depths of terror.
	Shareem spoke a single word into the microphone at his lips, and a
giant overseer called Kafir standing in the middle of the courtyard turned
instantly and looked up to the archway.  The naked, brutish slavemaster
bowed toward Shareem, spun around and pointed to one of the white slaves,
and a dozen shrieking Nubians hauled him to the device at the center of the
courtyard.  Shareem had chosen one of the construction workers from the oil
fields to be the first to experience the horror beyond imagining.
	The slave had been dragged to a large, heavily reinforced, four
legged wooden trestle, with heavy straps and cuffs attached by bolts all
around.  There was no mistaking it for anything other than an instrument of
torture.  The Nubians slammed the slave face down across the table, his
feet flat on the ground, and strapped his legs by ankles, knees, and thighs
to one end's braced supports, spreading his buttocks wide, Nubian semen
dribbling from his hole; his wrists were not uncuffed, but thick straps
were tightly drawn across his shoulder blades and waist.  Two Nubians
leaped onto the table, one straddling the prisoner's middle, pressing his
weight down on his shoulders; the other, twisting the slave's head to the
right and pinning it in place.
	Shareem spoke again into his microphone, and the overseer in the
courtyard bowed a second time and pointed again into the crowd.  Whistles
and catcalls erupted from the mob as they parted to make way for a small
caravan led by a lumbering Asian overseer followed by two Nubians rolling a
four wheel cart bearing a large cauldron filled with white hot coals.  Six
andirons jutted out of the cauldron, shimmering in waves of superheated
air.
	At the sight of the cauldron and the andirons, the slave strapped
to the trestle began screaming.  Some of his youth had been spent working
on a cattle ranch in Texas, and he recognized immediately the kind of gear
used for branding.  Even without the weight of the Nubians pinning him to
the trestle, the slave was strapped so tightly, he was unable to move, or
even struggle against his fate.
	The Asian overseer stood just under five and a half feet tall, his
body, barrel chested, was one slab of bulging muscle upon another.  He
carried a thick leather glove in his right hand; large gold rings pierced
his nipples, a gold slave collar hung around his neck, and a gold cinch
encircled his genitals, pushing them up and forward, forcing his stubby,
fat cock into a permanent, bouncing semi-erect position.
	He snarled directions at the Nubians as he pulled on his glove, and
they maneuvered the cart next to the trestle, in full view of the slave,
then the overseer slowly removed one of the andirons from the coals as the
wretched victim cried and wailed hysterically.  He dramatically held the
iron in front of the screaming slave's face, then stepped back to the rear
of the trestle.
	Shareem watched the events below through his powerful binoculars,
not wishing to miss a single facial expression as these arrogant,
self-indulgent Americans received the mark of a slave.  He whispered a word
into his microphone, and Kafir the giant nodded to the overseer standing
behind the slave.  With one hand firmly planted on the slave's left
buttock, the overseer expertly drove the branding iron into the flesh of
the other.
	Pain, like a battering ram searing its way toward the trestle
through his flesh, vaporized the slave's reason as well as layers of
tissue.  The scream that erupted from his mouth, piercing the bedlam around
him, seemed to split the very molecules of air apart and ricochet from one
ancient wall to another around the courtyard, then, abruptly, he fell
silent, motionless, unconscious to everything except the pulverizing agony
from the branding iron.
	The two Nubians pinning him to the trestle, jumped off and began
removing the straps from his trembling body.  As they did so, a large farm
cart rumbled into the courtyard driven by a lean and muscular black
overseer, his gold accouterments glistening against his ebony skin.  He
stood on the front of the cart, legs spread, reins in one hand, whip in the
other, lashing a yoke of eight naked slaves, six Nubian and two white, the
priest slave, Bret Hauser, and the American fighter pilot both of whose
shoulders and backs, buttocks and thighs were fiery red from the blistering
crisscross pattern of welts from the whip.
	As a matter of course, all slaves at Mandrasat are branded with the
ancient symbol for a male slave, and Bret and the fighter pilot had
undergone this hideous ritual strapped to each other side by side on the
trestle, five days after Bret's capture.  Before the end of the following
week, still suffering explosions of pain from the branding, their nipples
were pierced and fitted with large, steel rings, and smaller ones were hung
from their pierced ear lobes.
	They'd spent ten hours a day for five days harnessed in drayage
teams with giant Nubians, pulling farm carts through the fields of
Mandrasat's cultivated acreage and to the citadel's quarries for crushingly
heavy loads of stone for construction and repair, always with an overseer's
whip cracking across their naked behinds.
	Shareem smiled with satisfaction as the first slave was tossed onto
the field cart; the next instruction he issued brought the banker slave to
the branding table howling and uselessly struggling against the relentless
and overwhelming strength of half a dozen Nubians.  He was a beautiful long
bodied, long legged specimen, used to the luxuries of a privileged life
style.
	"But totally worthless," Shareem sneered.  "His body did not come
from hard labor," he shouted over the chaos below, "but from exercise
machines in a gentleman's spa.  No more mirrors to primp and pose in front
of," he roared.  "Now I will fashion your body."  And a high pitched scream
from the courtyard below pierced the sky along with Shareem's hearty
laughter.
	Sean was the last to be strapped to the trestle; he had watched in
horror as the five other slaves were dragged one by one to the branding
table, screaming and shrieking like animals.  His soul dissolved watching
Jeremy, paralyzed by fear, pass out as the iron burned into his flesh.  And
now, Sean himself, strapped to the trestle, his body shaking violently,
stared wide eyed in abject and absolute terror as the Asian overseer pulled
the final andiron out of the brazier, its tip glowing and waves of
pulsating heat rising above it.
	He gritted his teeth, but nothing, not cattle prods, not whips,
nothing could have prepared him for the wrenching concussion of the
branding iron burning its way into his body.  Total powerlessness added to
the horror, as the searing, screaming red pain crushed his consciousness
like the shell of an egg.  He screamed once in response to the obscene
agony that ripped his body and mind, then went slack, mercifully passing
out.
	Shareem watched through his binoculars as Sean was dragged
unconscious from the branding table by three Nubians and pitched onto the
field cart.  The black overseer with whip in hand jumped onto the cart,
roared commands at the drayage team, and cracked his whip sharply over
their backs and bare asses, as they bent over the metal staves in front of
them, screeching like animals and crying out loudly.
	With assistance from other Nubians shoving from the rear and sides
of the cart, the slave team began pushing forward.  Broken pavement grated
against the soles of their feet; their powerful legs strained against the
weight of the cart and propelled it steadily on to a gate in the far wall.
	"All in all," Shareem thought contentedly as he watched the Nubians
in the courtyard move in a silent and orderly fashion back to their labors,
"it has been a most satisfactory afternoon."

-0-

	One hundred and fifty miles above Mandrasat, a `Janus' class
American stealth satellite crossed over the horizon, departing the
citadel's latitude and longitude, it's high resolution digital opticam
adding a final sequence of random shots of Mandrasat and environs as it
moved beyond line of sight and on to its primary target, Iraq.
	The satellite's data stream was directed to a Military Comsat relay
platform in synchronous orbit, twenty-two thousand miles above the earth,
and beamed in turn to a US Army Intelligence communication and evaluation
center outside Washington DC, in rural Maryland.
	Since the Kingdom of Qassir was considered a close ally in the US
government's continuing war on terrorism and was home to several secret and
not-so-secret American military installations, the images of its
countryside recorded by satellites passing overhead were not accessed on a
priority basis.  It would be days, perhaps even weeks, before a mid or
lower level technician would have a look at the goings on at Mandrasat on
this particular bright and sunny desert afternoon.

-0-

This scene concludes Chapter One of Mandrasat.  I hope that you have
enjoyed the story thus far.  I appreciated your many comments,
observations, and suggestions and I hope you will continue to send them
along.  Chapter Two is now "Under Construction" and will soon be submitted
to the site.  Please let me hear from you at
Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>