Date: Sat, 21 Nov 2020 12:44:39 -0800 From: thomas Subject: Deconsecration Chapter 9 DECONSECRATION CHAPTER 9 A young man, his broad back covered with welts from a recent lashing, comes in carrying a St. Andrews cross. He places it in a deep set receptacle in the floor, comes to me, strips me expertly of my meager clothing and straps me to the arms of the cross. When I am secure, he looks to Balor and the Master. They both nod and he turns to me, makes a fist and smashes me in the balls and cock from below my groin. I scream but he continues his assault with both fists until my balls ache all the way into my stomach and my cock is rock hard. Tears run down my face and precum from my eager cock coats the fists that mercilessly pound me. At Balor's sign he stops his pounding as suddenly as he began and leaves the hut, returning shortly with another cross, and then yet another. The crosses now form a triangle, with one off my left shoulder and the other my right. Two men, one a black robed and shackled priest, the other wearing the combat kit of Legion etrangere, the French Foreign Legion, are pushed into the room by the intern. Their wrists and ankles are bruised and bleeding from their heavy iron restraints. The black robe is led to the cross to my right, the legionnaire to the cross on my left. Both are passive as the chains are removed from their limbs and they are stripped of their clothing in preparation for mounting their respective crosses. Balor attaches them to their temporary homes with the leather arm and leg restraints that are part of the cross' construction. The priest is small, dark skinned and quite handsome. His face, though, is a beacon of cruelty, his work etched into his countenance by years of torturing the faithful, and the not so faithful. Aside from the scars of the whip, his body is smooth and perfectly proportioned, his hairy V shaped torso ending is a smattering of dark curls above his genitals. His cock is ample but curiously, given the time in which he lived, marked below the glans by a dark circumcision scar. Balor notices my curiosity and says, "This one was from North Africa, a Muslim convert to the True Faith. As you can see, he was once uniquely beautiful, a street boy who earned a few pennies selling his favors to a certain type of traveler. He was born and lived in a port city, making his home in the waterfront alleys with the dogs and other strays. It was there that an important cleric, sent temporarily from Rome, fell in love with the beautiful eleven year old. After only one encounter with the boy's particular talents, Father Marcus knew the boy would return with him in a fortnight to Rome. And so the good Father did return, taking the boy, renamed Titus, back to Rome with him as his personal servant, a practice not uncommon among the more powerful clergy in those days." "Titus became a fanatical convert," Balor continues, "praying the Rosary constantly, even when Father Marcus was filling his mouth and backside with the holy fluid. But by Titus' fifteenth birthday the good Father had tired of his well used backside and replaced him with a nubile ten year old purchased behind a particular stall at the market in Padua. A bright, if disturbed young man, Titus was packed off to a seminary near Barcelona, to be further educated far from where he might cause problems for his righteous sponsor. "Titus' slight stature and increasingly aggressive surliness earned him few friends and occasioned more than one rough fucking, coupled with a severe caning by Aras, the Dominican seminarian master of discipline. It seemed to Titus that his stunning looks invited first the cock and then the cane. He began to think of them as interchangeable, and finally, indistinguishable. He took holy orders at nineteen, and, having been ordained by an inquisitor who could sense his innate talents, was invited to join the priest's order, those holy men who asked certain questions. Being a soldier in the the holy war on religious dissension appealed to Titus' religiosity as well as to the cruelty he acquired in the course of his apprenticeships. He honed his skills in the lower chamber of the basilica where the tools of his trade had been housed for the past two hundred years. They had been used by others, of course, but seldom with the skill and singular focus Titus brought. His reputation grew, as did the number of potential penitents brought to his attention." "Among his peers," Balor continues, "Titus was known as "the cutter" for his particular knife skills. His inclination to exercise these skills was rooted in a nickname given him by the other young men at the seminary chosen for him by the Roman priest. Because he was slight and foreign born, he became the object of their derision and bullying. Perhaps, too, they envied his large, if circumcised, penis which they saw when the boys were sent to bathe in the river. The first one to see it laughed and said, 'Look, he has been cut. We shall call him descubierto, the uncovered one.' And so they did. On every occasion the boys were alone with him he was pushed, slapped and otherwise humiliated to the tune of the hated name. In the shallows of the river, two of them would hold his arms painfully behind his back while a third stroked, slapped and twisted his penis until, to his shame, it hardened and quickly and painfully ejaculated. This abuse continued until he was sent to Barcelona, though the nickname seemed to follow him, as did the increasingly bitter memory of his humiliation. Even Aras, the seminary's Master of Discipline came to call Titus by the hated nickname as his cane struck the surly youth's back and ass. Following the caning, Aras would sometimes roughly fuck Titus, pressing his chest against Titus' bleeding back as he forced his immodest organ into Titus unwilling hole. Though Titus was dripping cum from the constant friction against his prostate, Aras could seldom attain orgasm from the painful foreplay and rough butt fucking. On these occasions Aras took to Titus' mouth. Aras had and extremely long foreskin which he would force over Titus' tongue and masturbate himself until he came, anal mucous, shit, smegma and cum flooding Titus' mouth which Aras would hold closed until he swallowed the foul elixir. " "And so it happened that the uncircumcised became anathema to Titus. This hatred was often aroused, as the penitents who came before him for questioning were almost all intact. When he stripped them in preparation for the inquiry, this would become obvious to him and he would shout all manner of slander at them and their penises, accusing them of being innately and unforgivably filthy. After his harangues and a few turns of the rack's wheel, all were ready to repent of their foreskin's disgusting presence and beg him to remove the evidence of their foulness in God's sight. He was pleased to oblige." Balor's story continues and he says, "It happened this way. The penitent would be chained naked to the rack. When stretched to the first limit of his endurance, Titus would begin with the cane, smack, and smack again to the man's chest and genitals until they were on fire and his cock a mass of black and blue welts, his balls swollen and aching beyond bearing. Only then would Titus offer to remove the source of the penitent's displeasuring God, his filthy foreskin. Titus had a special curved blade he kept for these occasions and he would bring it to the penitent's face and ask if he was sure he wanted to please God with this sacrifice. When the man in his agony nodded in the affirmative, Titus would grasp his foreskin, pull it two inches past his glans and start sawing, slowly and deliberately, always watching the eyes of the sufferer. Depending on the particular anatomy of the subject, Titus was generally able to relieve the man of at least half the skin of his cock, leaving a bleeding mess that Titus' assistant staunched with a handful of salt from a bucket next to the rack. Titus would generally force the subject to watch the assistant consume the foreskin before continuing his questioning. Unsurprisingly, he received many quick confessions following these small meals. Most of the confessed were later burned at the stake, but the few who survived told this tale to no one except the wives who had to bear witness to their husbands' modifications. Titus alas, suffered multiple stab wounds on a winter evening at the hands of one such wife as he returned to his quarters from the cathedral. He joined us shortly thereafter and has remained for the past thousand years or so. " Balor shifts his gaze to me and continues, "You'd think we might tire of each other after such a time, but no such thing has happened. I am endlessly creative, as you shall soon see, and Titus has the consummate patience of the doomed soul. Witness now our dance of love." Just then, the Master steps up from the shadows, gazes upon our triangular montage, proceeds to touch his forefinger to each of our cocks. His beautiful face is inches from mine as he touches me and the electric jolt of his finger tip is stunningly painful and, at the same time, unimaginably pleasurable. He looks, with his unique and curious smile, at our now rock hard cocks. He motions with his hand to Balor who says, "The Master has insured that your organs will remain erect for the time of our encounter, no matter what pleasure I may take with them." Our three grotesquely swollen cocks are bouncing to the rhythm of our heartbeats as we helplessly await Balor's pleasure. "This time I will begin with you, Cutter, my little descubierto," says Balor. "Perhaps a large dose of your own medicine is in order today." Titus tightens his wiry body against the cross and musters a look that combines hatred and defiance, as Balor approaches him, his right hand empty and extended. As I watch in breathless anticipation, I notice that Balor's right index finger is tipped by a long, fiercely sharp looking claw. He grasps Titus' rigid penis with his left hand and slowly draws the claw along the line where the remnant of Titus' inner foreskin joins his cockhead. The flesh separates easily and remains joined to the glans only below his urethral opening. Balor quickly inserts his middle finger into the gap he has created and loosens the cock skin from around the shaft, leaving a kind of skin bag covering Titus' bloody cock. Titus winces and moans during this procedure but gets less pain than I imagined he'd receive from Balor. Never a man to disappoint when it comes to pain, Balor has another demonstration for the Master. He rummages through a pile of his tools of the trade and comes up with a small vial which contains what appear to be a couple of dead insects. (author's note: this next bit involves a stinging insect; an introduction to the bullet ant and a cute anthropologist who takes a painful dare can be found here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gAg6v9KYtXk) Balor takes the vial, opens it and shakes two fairly large inert black ants on to his palm. "They are sleeping", Balor says. "The heat of the priest's body will awaken them. Observe." Balor carefully peels the loosened cock skin back from Ricardo's shaft, exposing the white inner sheath of his cock then places the ants on the shaft's surface and pulls the skin over them. "He is so noisy when I do this," Balor says with a chuckle, as he places the ball gag in Ricardo's mouth and attaches it securely to his head. "Now he won't distract us from our work with Odran, the legionnaire on your left. " I see a slight movement under Titus' cock skin and hear a tightly muffled scream on my right that announces the ants' awakening. It seems that every muscle in his slight, well muscled body spasms as Titus strains against the cross and writhes in apparent agony, doing his best to scream or otherwise distract himself from the intensity of his pain. He shakes his head and tears fall profusely from his eyes, mingling with the rivers of pain induced sweat that drenches him and forms small puddles at the foot of his cross. Balor and the Master exchange knowing grins and the Master says, "Excellent work Balor. I am well acquainted with those little fiends. It's quite surprising, really, that they are a natural phenomenon, and not something specially crafted on these premises to meet your needs for new sources of torment." Balor bows his appreciation and the master turns his attention to the handsome ginger hanging on the cross to my left. "Now, what do we have over here, this tall, lean young redhead. I don't think I've seen him on my earlier visits to your operation." No Master, you have not," replies Balor. " Let me introduce you to Caleb. He has come to us from Ireland via Southeast Asia, arriving I believe in May of 1954, following his death during the siege of Dien Bien Phu, the French' last stand in Indochina. He was an interrogator with an intelligence unit and specialized in, among other things, creative uses for the field telephone. As you know, when wired to parts of the body and cranked, a field telephone can create quite a painful jolt, though one has to be careful not to burn the tissue. Honestly, though, the possibility of that happening wasn't high on Caleb's list of concerns." "Caleb left his impoverished family in Dublin at seventeen. He found himself a few months later on the streets of Paris, cold, hungry and, though he'd not have ben able to describe it as such at the time, in search of men and of pain. He let a legionnaire blow him for a few francs one late evening and got, with his small payment, the address of the local etrangere recruiter. He had the look of a Legionnaire, tall, lean, hungry and haunted by a past needing to be forgotten, so he was offered an enlistment and, because he had graduated from high school, the rank of corporal. Bright and inquisitive, he was assigned to interrogation school after basic training in Algeria, and thence to Vietnam where a communist peasant army was handing the French defeat upon defeat. Dropped by parachute into Diem Bien Phu, he joined an intelligence unit which had established itself in a commandeered Catholic church. He was the sole interrogator. He was busy, as you can imagine, and under considerable pressure from command sources. The perimeter around the encampment containing thousands of French troops was shrinking daily and there was a desperate need for information about Viet Minh positions and intentions." "The utility of the field telephone was known theoretically to him from his schooling but was first demonstrated to him by his Indochine interpreter, Gai Tung, who, small and pock marked, seemed to have an insatiable need to inflict pain on other men of his ethnicity. In the end, they became quite a team, Gai Tung screaming questions and threats at a prisoner while Caleb spun the crank of the telephone faster and faster, in agonizing harmony with the height of his partner's voice. They experimented with water boarding and assorted other tortures periodically but all proved too slow and too messy. Eventually they settled on the field telephone which provided them both a satisfying cross culturalexperience." https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Field_telephone#/media/File:Tel-312A H-latrun-exhibition-1.jpg "You were devoted to your telephone, weren't you Caleb, " Balor queries. "Perhaps you will provide us a demonstration in real time." Balor produces the modest instrument and sets it one a table next to Caleb. He places a spool of thin copper wire and a long thick sewing needle of the type used by shoemakers on the table by the telephone. "Now," Balor says, "shall I do the honors or will you?" Caleb replies, "I have pledged my pain to the Master's pleasure. I will offer it of my own volition to him so he may see the depth and breadth of my love and loyalty." "So you will, then," replies Balor, unstrapping Caleb's hands from the cross and handing him the needle and copper wire. With steady hands, Caleb threads the needle with the thin wire, securely knotting it at the needle's eye. He looks down at his half dollar size nipples with their dusting of fine strawberry blonde hair and pushes the needle first through his left nipple, wincing as the wire knot pulls slowly through his flesh. He continues through the right nipple, the copper wire becoming taunt across his chest. Loosening the tension, he pulls several feet of wire through the torn and bleeding tissue, allowing sufficient length to complete his project. He wraps the wire several times around his testicles, tightening it to the shape of a fist. Holding his foreskin back with his left hand, he pushes the needle into the shaft of his cock just below the glans. His rock hard cock resists the needle, the shaft protesting at each millimeter of progress, the needle eventually getting stuck halfway through its three inch journey. "Help your friend out, boy," the Master says. This is turning into quite a good show." Balor releases my arms and legs so that I may augment Caleb's efforts, as the Master has requests. I kneel to the level of Caleb's penis. It is a beautiful and well formed cock, ivory white in the manner of true gingers, blue veins pulsing with the regularity of a neon sign up and down the length of the shaft. His needle has pierced one of the veins and a large bruise spreads across his inner foreskin as I grasp the instrument's pointed end and pull as Caleb pushes. You know, when your car is stuck in the mud and it finally gets a grip? This was like that. Once moving, the needle slid through to the other side of Caleb's cock and beyond, trailing a foot or more of wire. Balor snips the wire first off the needle then off the spool and attaches the latter to the ground terminal of the phone. The other, much longer end, is wrapped around Caleb's genitals, first tightly around his balls, making a fist like bundle of them. He continues, wrapping the wire around Caleb's cock several times, the last loop below the cock head, then to the phone's second terminal where it is attached. The Master looks eagerly at Caleb, awaiting the fulfillment of the boy's pledge. Caleb takes the phone in his hands and begins to slowly spin the hand crank. He winces and makes a small moan as the first surge of electricity flows through his nipples and to his cock and balls. Still, and in spite of the increasing increments of agony, he spins faster, his cock jumping with each rotation. I am watching the Master's face and groin. Both reflect the boy's rising pain and ecstasy. The Master's face contorts, as if he shares Caleb's pain and I detect an enlargement of his usual bulge. He rubs his cock through his denim in the same rhythm as the spinning of the telephone. "Faster," he screams at Caleb, "faster, make that fucking cock burn for me." Caleb goes from moaning to screaming as his spinning increases, his hand and arm a blur of motion, wisps of smoke slowly rising from his nipples and then his cock. Seeing this, the Master can resist himself no longer and pulls his cock from his 501s. I have never seem the Master aroused before. Nor have I seen his cock. It is, of course, like the rest of him, beautiful, perfectly made, proportionate and a translucent black. It is a shade darker than his skin and crowned with a head like a perfect, juicy summer plum. A dark red inner foreskin, which he moves slowly back and forth over the head, connects the glans to the shaft. He stands over Caleb inhaling with great pleasure the intoxicating smell of the boy's burning flesh and pubic hair. His slow hand movement soon produces a crystal emission of precum that begins to fall in an elongated drop from his piss slit toward Caleb's ravaged cock. When the string of precum touches Caleb's cock it acts as a conduit between Caleb's cock and the Master's, providing an enormous jolt of electricity to the Master's cock. The Master bellows like an enraged bull and emits a feral howl followed by an enormous ejaculation. Accompanied by his rhythmic screams, rope after rope of the Master's spunk shoots across the room, burning everything it touches, including huge patches of Caleb's skin, leaving the air filled with whimpers and sulfurous fumes. Leaving Caleb a smoldering wreck at the foot of his cross, the Master tucks himself away, buttons his 501s, and, coming to my side, says, "I've neglected you, boy. Why don't we find you a little action now, hmm? Balor, could I persuade you to fuck this boy?" "Gladly Master," Balor replies. "It is kind of you to share such a lovely morsel with me." Balor drops his loincloth, revealing a rapidly swelling brown penis. The shaft slowly swells to fully four inches across, though the head, once revealed, is relatively small, pink and quite shiny. Enlarged to its broad, eight inch fullness, it begins to grow further in an unexpected way. Near its throbbing dorsal vein, Balor's cock begins to sprout protrusions , small but similar to the hornlike ones across his chest and back. "Lucky boy". the Master says. "He's going to give you the full treatment. That horny spine is going to do things to your prostate you've never dreamed possible. Wrap your legs around him now and prepare for the ride of your lifetime." And so it is. I face Balor, eyeing his huge cock and jump to his waist, wrapping my legs tightly around his back and beautifully defined abs. To this day, I am breathless recounting this experience. "Lean back," he says, and as I do, he takes my right nipple in his mouth, sucking and biting, his sharp teeth piercing the tender skin and offering him a stream of blood for his efforts. He has apparently injected some substance with this bite, for my nipple swells to twice its size and tenderness. He gives the left a similar treatment and in moments my chest is blood covered and enveloped in sensation. Balor switches his mouth rapidly from one nipple to the other, sucking and chewing each in turn, sensation building on sensation to an unbearable peak. He rubs his face on my chest and in my blood before he presses his fanged mouth to mine, sucking my tongue greedily before breaking off to return his attention to my nipples, replacing his mouth on mine with his hand. His fingers seek purchase in my mouth, holding fast to my teeth and tongue. He worries them in cadence to sucking my nipples which continue to swell and harden, beginning to throb in an unfamiliar but promising rhythm. What happens next I can only describe as an orgasm of an entirely different variety. My nipples become huge, hard and incredibly sensitive. They go from throbbing to spasming rhythmically, leaking a sticky fluid and sending waves of sensation through my chest and to my groin. The pleasure I experience is unimaginable, though it is as real as any other orgasm I have ever experienced, but with an intensity I have only known in dreams. Then he fucks me. My legs are still locked tightly around his waist as he wipes a handful of blood and fluid reside from my chest. He shoves this mixture up my ass with three fingers. He finds my prostate quickly with the middle one and massages the sensitive gland until the pleasures opens me up for the entrance of his horned cock. As soon as the small head passes my first sphincter, I begin to feel his dorsal ridges as they slowly pass my engorged prostate. The ridges ripple past my prostate with increasing speed as Balor picks up his pace, hips thrusting heavily against my balls, crushing them against my perineum with his increasingly frantic pounding. My cock begins to leak, first ribbons of precum followed by small spurts of cum, each spurt accompanied by a feeling like a miniature orgasm. Balor's pile driving arousal has the miniature orgasms coming in quick succession, my flailing cock producing rope after rope of cum that coats our chests and runs in rivulets to the floor of the hut. I desperately want the full orgasm that is building with each of Balor's thrusts but the Master has yet to give his permission. Balor in under no such restriction and, with a great shout, begins to cum. I can feel his cock growing to its fullest, throbbing in me as he pumps his load up my ass, groaning and biting my nipples as he does. Exhausted, his softening cock slips from my ass and he sets me on my feet. No sooner am I standing than the Master pulls my backside to his face and begins to suck Balor's cum from my ass. His tongue is in my rectum, folded like an open funnel, suctioning every drop of juice before turning itself on my prostate. His tongue is electric, wrapping itself, a living grasping creature, around my prostate, electrifying it with barely tolerable pleasure. "Now boy'" he says. "Now cum for your Master." And I do.