Date: Wed, 25 Jun 2003 02:58:42 EDT
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: Mandrasat: Part Eleven

	In an angry and foreboding voice, Zarak pronounced sentence on
Bret.  "For your brazen disobedience,  I will punish you myself at the end
of this day, and if I ever hear you speak again without permission, I will
drag you to the kennels myself and have the grooms burn out your vocal
chords.  I may do that anyway as a gift to your future master.  Now get to
your feet; we have tasks to attend to."

-0-
MANDRASAT
Chapter Two: Zarak! (cont'd).

	Zarak pushed Bret ahead of him, out of the shower and into the
middle of the room, then went to the storage shelf on the side wall and
retrieved a pair of handcuffs.  Turning toward his prisoner, he barked
sharply, "Hands behind your back, slave."
	Bret, head bowed, silently complied.  Zarak was none too gentle
snapping the cuffs on his wrists, then, reaching back to the shelf and
taking hold of a long, braided leather leash, the giant stepped in front of
Bret and clipped it to the ring on the front of his slave collar.  Yanking
on the leash, he dragged Bret to the door, and, as it was sliding open, he
grabbed the wall phone and punched in three numbers.
	"We will be there shortly," he said into the mouthpiece, then
slammed it back into its receiver.
	There were no more commands, no more threats; Zarak, his massive
genitals slamming back and forth against his thigh muscles, took long angry
strides down the dimly lit corridor, jerking Bret's leash mercilessly, the
cuffs chaffing against his wrists as he struggled to keep apace, his own
balls slapping against his inner thighs.  He knew now he was hopelessly
lost.
	The stone pavement was cracked, rough, and cold against his feet,
and he tried to resign himself to whatever fate awaited him.  He had had
virtually no time to reflect on his situation, having been raped and
drugged and tortured almost continuously since his kidnapping, now, with
Zarak pulling his leash, his attention and hopes were focused solely on not
stumbling or falling.
	As they rapidly approached a door at the end of a side corridor, it
slid open quickly and silently, and Zarak, not missing a step, stormed into
the room, twisting and pulling down on the leash, catching Bret off guard
and sending him crashing to the floor.  He lay where he fell, afraid to
move a muscle.
	An unseen voice, hovering somewhere over Bret's tangled body,
speaking a language Bart did not understand, said in Arabic, "Now Zarak,
how many times have I told you not to throw your trash on the floor."
	"Ahhhgggh!  Katib," the giant responded disgustedly in their native
tongue, "this worthless piece of dog shit does not know the meaning of the
word obedience.  I should have throttled him before we came."
	"It looks," Katib chuckled, "as though you have throttled him
enough for one week.  Try to be a little more temperate in the use of those
mighty muscles of yours.  Let me take a look at this baby slave and see how
he fares."
	In a moment, Bret's chin was lifted from the floor and he was
looking into the face of a strikingly handsome young Arab man squatting
down in front of him.  He might have been five or so years older than Bret;
his skin, a rich mahogany; his features, finely chiseled, with a long,
tapered nose, deep set, dark brown eyes, full mouth.  His jet black curly
hair, trimmed mustache and goatee announced clearly that this was not one
of Shareem's slaves.
	He wore a white, ankle length tunic, open from neck to navel; his
feet were bare in worn leather sandals, a stethoscope hung around his neck,
and he seemed seriously concerned about Bret who grimaced as he tentatively
probed the sore spots on his face.
	Then standing up, he said dispassionately in English, "Take the
slave over to the scale; we will begin the exam weighing and measuring him
there."
	Zarak, pulling hard on the leash, hauled Bret to his feet, then
snapped his fingers and pointed to a physician's scale standing against a
wall across the room.  Both of them walked to it, and Bret stepped onto the
foot pad, as Katib fiddled with the sliding weights.
	"One hundred ninety-one point five pounds," he said absently.  "A
bit on the lean side for a slave, but certainly a healthy enough weight for
his height, which is," he placed the arm of the measuring rod on top of
Bret's head and pronounced, "six feet, four inches exactly.
	"I will confer," Katib commented in Arabic to Zarak, "with Master
Shareem on a proper diet for the slave.  I think he will want to increase
his bulk by twenty or twenty-five pounds, and it will be your
responsibility," he smiled slyly at the overseer, "to make sure that bulk
is all muscle."
	Both Katib and Zarak chuckled heartily over that statement.
	"Now," Katib continued in English, "Take him over to the table."
	Zarak tugged on the leash and led Bret back across the room to an
oversized, black leather examination table.
	"Have him sit on the end for now," Katib said, walking to a large
cabinet on the opposite wall.
	In the few moments he had, Bret could see the room was much like
any doctor's examination room only with considerably less equipment.  A
counter ran half the length of the wall opposite him with drawers
underneath and boxes, files, and bottles cluttering the top around a
strangly out of place tomato red telephone; next to the counter, a deep,
dark granite sink with two faucets, and next to that the tall medicine
cabinet standing by a door open sufficiently for him to see parts of a
toilet and sink.
	The walls and ceiling of the examination room were a cement gray,
illuminated by three bare florescent light fixtures.  The leather surface
of the table he sat on was ice cold to his butt; his legs dangled over the
edge at the knees, but his feet did not come near touching the floor.
Zarak removed his wrist cuffs then stood beside him, the leash firmly in
his grip.
	Katib, whom Bret decided was a doctor, stood tall and slim, perhaps
two or three inches shy of his own height.  He moved with athletic grace
back and forth in front of a long wooden counter, opening drawers, removing
items and placing them on a metal tray, then pulling open the doors of the
ancient, five shelved, glass fronted cabinet, he collected what looked like
medical supplies.  After a few moments, he turned and walked back to the
examination table carrying a number of items on the tray which he placed on
the table next to Bret's thigh.
	The next part of the examination consisted of taking Bret's blood
pressure and temperature for which Katib used an oral thermometer.  The
doctor next tied an elastic band tightly around Bret's right bicep, causing
the veins in his arm to bulge.  Then came the needle, a large, intimidating
thing; he took three vials of blood quite painfully from Bret's arm, each
vial bearing a label in Arabic.
	For the most part, it was a routine exam; the kind Bret was used to
for his annual seminary physical and before some triathlons, the cursory
ear, eye, and throat inspection, the rubber hammer to his knee and the sole
of his foot testing reflexes, the stethoscope to chest and back, coughing
as the doctor fondled his balls.  Finally, Katib told Zarak to have Bret
stand on the floor and take three steps away from the table.  Zarak, still
holding the leash, took the steps with him; at this point, the exam became
bizarre.
	Katib took a pair of calipers from the tray, and while Bret tried
to distance himself mentally from the exam, he was unnerved when Katib used
the instrument to measure his nipples.  He shuddered and gasped slightly as
the points of the caliper pinched the sensitive base of each nipple.
	Speaking in Arabic, Katib said, "These beauties are very good.
Thick and strong.  They will easily carry the heaviest gauge rings you
have."
	Zarak grunted in response.
  	Continuing to smile at Bret, Katib, speaking now in English, said,
"Just a few more measurements and we are almost through."
	Stooping slightly, he took the measure of Bret's navel, then
stepped back to the examination table and, taking a pen from the tray,
jotted the measurements on a pad.  He returned to Bret and, squatting down
in front of him, placed one point of the caliper at the base of his cock
and the other at the tip of his cockhead.
	"Impressive," he said as Bret flinched.  "Somewhat over nineteen
centimeters" Then looking up at Zarak he said, smiling broadly, "Would you
make it stand up please."

	Zarak smirked in reply and stepped behind Bret, and, reaching
around his waist and pressing their bodies together, took hold of his cock
and said, "Behave yourself, slave.  I warn you only once," then began
jerking it with his fist.
	Sweat broke out on Bret's forehead almost immediately as he
squirmed involuntarily against Zarak's body.  He felt more humiliated and
demeaned by this violation of his person than by the gang rapes he'd
already been subjected to because he desperately wanted the feel of Zarak's
fist pumping his cock, and the electric thrill of arousal shooting though
his body.  But his self-loathing intensified too, the more he wanted these
sensations to continue.
	He ground his teeth together, his groans locked in his throat;
shifting his weight back and forth from his left foot to his right, he
rubbed his buttocks up and down on Zarak's thighs and felt the giant's cock
rapidly hardening in the crack between them, until he straddled it, fully
hard and rigid and jabbing into his scrotum.
	As Katib widened the caliper's arms, he felt his own cock harden
and press painfully against the confines of his garments.  He measured
Bret's thick, rigid, blood red cock by sticking one of the points at the
underside of its base and the other at the tip of the twitching cockhead.
	"Almost twenty-five centimeters," he chirped enthusiastically.
"Once Master Shareem's clients see this, there will be no end to their
bidding.  Do not let him shoot yet," he said as he stood up, turned, and
stepped quickly to the medical supply cabinet.
	He hurriedly opened the cabinet doors and removed a long necked
flask and, upon returning to Bret and Zarak, squatted down again giggling,
"Your slave likes the way you play with him, Zarak; perhaps I was too quick
in judging your disciplinary tactics.  Point his cock into this beaker; we
want to be sure to catch every drop."
	As directed, Zarak aimed Bret's cock into the glass jar and
tightened his grip on it, squeezing their bodies together and eliciting
from Bret a loud groan and more intense writhing.  The giant overseer was
in the heat of arousal himself, ready to ram his cock full throttle up his
slave's ass and into that waiting paradise within, but he would not allow
himself to plunge over the edge no matter how close he might be.  Katib had
not give him permission to fuck the slave, and this was his work room, not
Zarak's.
	Suddenly Bret gave a loud cry as fiery hot semen blasted it's way
up the full length of his tightly squeezed cock and erupted in long, thick
white cords that splattered against the sides and bottom of the Katib's
flask.  Zarak's massive arms crushed Bret back against his body at each
salvo.  Again and again, Bret's cock shot streams of hot cum driving him to
a frenzy Both of them were drenched with each other's sweat; Bret, gasping
for air, and Zarak grinding his teeth.  Katib was delighted at the quantity
of semen accumulating in his jar.
	"Excellent!  Excellent," he enthused as Bret shuddered breathlessly
from excitement and exhaustion.  "Master Shareem will have his Russian
brood mares pregnant in no time."
	The last of Bret's cum dribbled down over Zarak's clenched fist
which he then dragged along Bret's cock and shoved into his mouth ordering
him to suck his fingers clean.
	Katib's eyes still glistened as he placed a plastic cover over the
container, and standing up, walked back to the counter and placed it there.
Then, over his shoulder he said to the overseer, "bend the slave over; it
is time to measure the golden portal."
	As Katib went from the cabinet to the examination table to retrieve
the calipers, Zarak commanded Bret to bend over and grab hold of his
ankles.  Then, standing to the side of Bret's smooth, dimpled buttocks, he
grasped them and held them spread wide apart.
	"Delightful," Katib giggled as he tickled Bret's hole with the tips
of the caliper's arms, then after a few moments of amusement, he cleared
his throat and said, "to business."
	The sides of Bret's head were pounding in his upside down position;
blood pressure and humiliation flushed his face almost purple.  He grimaced
and coughed as the tips of the calipers measured the length and width of
his anus.
	"Still nice and tight," Katib laughed as he rubbed his fingers
across the lips of the hole, "but something tells me it has gotten much use
these past few days.
	Zarak arched an eyebrow and chuckled himself.
	 "Take the slave to the table, Zarak, and have him lay back on top
of it."
	Zarak pulled on the leash again, dragging Bret back to the
examination table, ordered him to sit down and lay back until, from his
knees up, he lay flat on the table, his lower legs hanging over the edge.
	The doctor took a large green and white envelope from the tray and
tore it open, extracting a long plastic tube; one end of which was tapered,
the other fixed to a clear, transparent balloon.
	"It might be wise," Katib said again in Arabic, "to restrain the
slave and gag him."
	Without speaking, Zarak stepped to the head of the table and
dragged a manacle and chain from under the right corner, then pulling
Bret's arm above his head, snapped it onto his wrist, he then repeated the
process on the other side of the table for the left wrist.  While the
doctor waited, holding the plastic tube in his hand, Zarak cuffed Bret's
ankles to the legs of the table, took a roll of gauze dressing from the
doctor's metal tray, and, stepping back to his starting place, shoved the
entire roll into Bret's mouth.  Bret immediately began to groan and squirm,
not knowing what to expect but fearing the worst.
	Katib's warm hand closed tightly around Bret's cock, still hot and
sore from Zarak's fist, and began twisting and stretching it, and, while
this sensation was uncomfortable, it was not particularly painful, until an
agonizing fireball exploded at the lips of his cockhole.  His body went
rigid and his muffled screams filled the room.  A searing hot poker was
plowing its way down the length of his urethra; the pain was mind crushing,
excruciating.  He slammed about so violently on the table, flailing against
his restraints, that Zarak, bringing his full weight and strength to bear,
forced one of his giant hands down on the middle of Bret's chest and the
other on the middle of his belly.
	Katib, standing between Bret's shackled legs, leared hungrily,
dragging his tongue slowly back and forth along his upper lip, watching
Bret writhe in torment before him.  He enjoyed the feel of this slave's
cock in his fist, and jabbing and twisting the plastic catheter back and
forth down his cock chute to trigger louder and longer screams sent a chill
of ecstasy up his spine.  That sense of power he loved so much surged
through his body, inflaming his guts, pounding in his head and tightening
his own cock as he orchestrated Bret's agony.  Suddenly a stream of urine
gushed through the tube and into the balloon.  Bret moaned in pain and
shuddered as a great quantity of piss was discharged from his bladder.
	After several minutes, Katib squeezed his fist tight around Bret's
grievously sore cock and drew out the tubing; he clipped the end of the
balloon shut then took it and the tube back to the counter.
	Bret lay groaning on the table, streaked with sweat, his breathing
ragged; he shook from fear and residual pain from his ordeal.  Returning to
the examination table, Katib removed his stethoscope, then took a second,
smaller envelope from the tray, tore it open, and pulled out a syringe
filled with a pale green fluid.  Stepping next to Zarak, he placed his hand
on Bret's belly, and plunged the needle directly into his hip.
	As Bret howled into his gag in shock and pain, Katib joked that now
the slave would be able to ward off any urinary infections that might
develop for any reason.  He stood beside the table for several long
minutes, stroking Bret's trembling body, dragging his finger tips lightly
across his belly and groin until the slave had become calm.
	"Shhhhh, slave," he whispered, "the first part of your examination
is almost over; there's just one more thing we have to do today."
	He turned to Zarak and nodded, and the giant unclipped the leash
from Bret's collar, turned and left the room to the faint 'whooshing' sound
of the door opening and closing.  A warm smile spreading across his face,
Katib leaned over, and, fingering his prisoner's nipples, began to kiss his
cheeks and neck.
	Bret pulled his head away violently, and for the first time since
his devastating flashback two days before to the grandeur of his ordination
at St. Peter's in Rome, an explosion of resistance detonated within his
mind and spirit.  He pulled furiously against his wrist and ankle
restraints, wildly banging his feet against the legs of the table and his
arms against its leather surface.  He screamed and howled into his gag and
threw his body around maniacally.  Katib jumped back from the table, a look
of shock and amazement on his face.
	"My baby slave wants to play hard to get," he said.  "Well," he
continued smugly, "I think we have an antidote for that."
	Hollering into his gag and straining against his restraints, Bret
watched Katib saunter back to the counter.  Standing momentarily in front
of it, he stepped out of his sandals. then pulled his tunic down over his
shoulders, letting it drop to the floor.  A white linen pouch, held in
place by a drawstring wrapped around his hips and tied in front, housed his
genitals, and before he moved again, he untied the string and let the pouch
drop to the floor also.
	Katib, bending over and pulling open the bottom drawer, displaying
his naked buttocks and hole to Bret's view, extracted a long metal rod.  He
stood up and turned, facing Bret for a moment, smiling, holding the metal
rod with one hand and stroking his amply long and thick cock with the
other.
	Continuing to smile, he said, "I have just the thing to help you
struggle against those nasty cuffs."  He walked to the side of the table
and, placing his hand over Bret's left nipple, looking down into his face
and smiling, drove the cattle prod into his flesh, midway between his
armpit and chest.
	Bret felt the entire universe explode into a flaming sheet of
unbearable pain, a wave of searing hot lava slammed across his body; he
could not hear his own shrieks, nor see anything with his eyes but a red
explosion of agony.  Katib's next target was Bret's flank between his chest
and hip, next he jabbed the prod into Bret's navel, then midway to his
genitals, all the while his victim convulsed violently, his body raising up
and crashing back down onto the table, his screams too loud for the gag to
muffle.
	Katib struck Bret's penis and each testicle, then the inside of his
upper thighs.  He squatted down at the lower end of the table and tapped
the prod into the soles of Bret's bare feet, then continued his torture up
the right side of Bret's body.  When he had finished, Bret's eyes were
bulging, he was shaking totally out of control, blood seeped into his gag
and dripped out of the corners of his mouth, he was soaked with sweat, and
each breath sucked through his gag was a raspy scream; his body, however,
bore not a single mark from the prod.
	Zarak had reentered the room and stood by the table opposite Katib.
	"You see, Zarak," he said sounding a little more than slightly
sarcastic, "it is possible to discipline a slave without breaking every
bone in his body.  This lovely baby slave does not look any more the worse
for wear than he did when you dragged him in here."
	"The proof is in the results, Katib," Zarak responded smugly.  "And
you know I get results."
	Katib grinned and held the cattle prod in front of Bret's face.
"Shall we go again?"
	Instantly, and inspite of the pain still crackling through his
body, Bret began to shake wildly, screaming into his gag, his eyes wide
with horror.  He could not take any more.
	"There, there," Katib cooed soothingly.  "I would never hurt you
unless it were for your own good; we doctors do not cause pain
indiscriminately.  Pain tells us," he continued as he brushed his hand
across Bret's forehead, "that the body is attempting to correct its
sickness, and your body is sick, slave.  Sick because it does not yet know
how a slave body is to act.  That is what Zarak and I will teach you."
	Handing the cattle prod to Zarak, Katib leaned over and began
kissing Bret's cheeks and neck again and massaging his nipples.  He did not
resist; he knew that regardless of Katib's intentions, he would survive.
	Zarak took the prod to the counter top and laid it down then
removed a large jar of petroleum jelly from the cabinet; returning to the
table, set the jar down and released Bret's wrist and ankle cuffs.  Katib
hoisted himself onto the table and knelt down straddling Bret's chest,
sliding his cockhead across Bret's mouth, while Zarak, standing at the foot
of the table, smeared a thick layer of gel on his cock and the lips of
Bret's hole.
	Bret knew better than to struggle against Zarak whose promise of
severe punishment at the end of the day loomed in his mind.  Taking more
and more of Katib's hardening cock into his mouth, he realized all he could
do was let it happen, and try to convince himself he did not enjoy it as
much as he did.  Katib pressed his hands against the sides of Bret's head
and slid his cock to the back of his mouth at the same moment Zarak began
shoving his cock into his well greased hole.
	Katib swayed back and forth, his eyes closed, his head thrown back,
pumping his hips, groaning and riding Bret's mouth.  Zarak tossed Bret's
legs over his shoulders, his arms hammer locked around his thighs, grinding
himself hard against his hole, thrusting ever deeper.  And Bret, hard
sucking Katib's cock and bucking wildly on Zarak's, surrendered to the
blistering tide surging over him, letting it hurl him through eruptions of
ecstasy, stripping away every sliver of reason, every thought, until,
thrown into a mindless, writhing frenzy, he was ablaze in the fires of
hell.
	Zarak and Katib had exchanged places three times until Katib had
drained himself, and lay face down on top of Bret, his tongue buried in his
mouth.  Zarak sat on the floor, legs drawn up and his chin resting on his
knees, his back against one of the legs of the examination table, waiting
for Katib to cool down.  They had taken forty minutes of pleasure at Bret's
holes, and not one movement, not one convulsive spasm, not one ecstatic cry
had escaped Shareem's video cameras mounted at the four corners of the
ceiling.  Katib would relive this morning's delight many times over.
	After waiting for what he judged to be a quarter hour, sufficient
for anyone to catch his second wind, Zarak finally stood up and began to
rub his hands over Katib's buttocks, sliding his fingers along the ridge
between them, tickling the lips of his hole.
	"You can have this slave any other time for an entire day if you
wish," Zarak said, "but I must take him now, and you must prepare yourself
for the one that arrived with him."
	Katib moaned and raised himself on all fours, then looking down at
Bret and smiling he said, "But this one is so delicious."
	"As are all of Master Shareem's slaves," Zarak retorted.  "I have
seen the one that came with this one, and he is a beauty as well."
	Katib sighed and looked into Bret's face with resignation, then
slid off the table.  He walked slowly to the door next to the medicine
cabinet, stepped into the lavatory inside, stood in front of the toilet and
took a long, loud piss.  Then Bret heard the unmistakable sound of a
shower, and he envied Katib only that.
	"Stay put, slave," Zarak snapped, "it is time for your first meal
of the day"
	He stepped over to the counter, and taking the red telephone,
punched in a series of numbers and ordered Bret's "first meal of the day."
	Even though the word 'meal' instigated pangs of hunger, Bret was
nauseated at the thought of consuming another bowl of the same slime he
sucked down last night.  But he had survived, and that would be his mantra,
"I will survive.  I will survive.  I will survive."
	His mantra and his sanity would be sorely tried before this week,
or even this day ended.


MANDRASAT is very much a 'Work Under Construction,' and I would appreciate
hearing your thoughts and suggestions should you choose to continue reading
through the story.  Please email your comments to
Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>