Warrior of The Chevaan

Warrior of the Chevaan

Conine

"The Discipline of the Lash"

In the dungeons of the Roman fortress Conine stood silent, her wrists held close together before her by the manacles and the connecting length of chain.  Her face was a mask of clam, but inside the proud warrior woman raged at herself for allowing herself and Satyra to be taken unawares so easily.  She had not seen the beautiful half satyr since the two of them had been set upon by the Roman soldiers, but her mind crowded with imagined horrors that the her recent lover might be enduring, adding to her shame. 

  The room in which she was imprisoned was large, about 30 feet square, and lit by the flickering red light of torches – no windows onto the outside world were present.  She was bound in roughly the centre of the space; on one side there was a low dais, upon which sat a chair backed by a purple and gold tapestry.  At the other end was a heavy wooden table or platform, fashioned in the shape of an X sitting parallel to the cool flagstone floor, and adorned at each corner with heavy iron manacles which were attached to lengths of chain running into grooves in the dark wood.  Conine had no problems imaginings the grim implications of such an adornment. 

 Her only company in the room was a pair of heavily muscled Roman soldiers, dressed in their tunic bottoms, sandals and helmets, but bare-chested.  The soldiers were obviously well trained, for they made no attempt to take advantage of her bondage, but their eyes did take the opportunity to rove over her unclad figure, 6 feet of exquisitely sculpted womanhood mixed with the firm lean musculature of the warrior. Starting with her well toned arms with their smoothly undulating biceps, the soldiers eyes would travel down to a proud and beautiful face, steel blue eyes with long lashes and a straight nose above and generous red mouth and firm jaw line framed by a square-cut halo of straight raven-black hair. Those tresses were cut at shoulder length so it rested about her strong deltoids, her shoulders wide for a woman, again speaking of her unusual strength. Further down the Romans eyes enjoyed lingering on the swell of her magnificent bosom, nipples hardened by the dungeon chill, rising and falling rhythmically in the torchlight. Beneath those impossibly firm orbs her waist tapered until her hips flared invitingly, the space between breasts and pubis a washboard rigid plain, flat and smooth. Her legs were long and well proportioned, muscular and yet distinctly feminine, the dark patch of trimmed fur between her strong thighs not quite concealing the pouting cleft of her womanhood. 

 Abruptly a noise outside the heavy wooden door, and the two guards either side broke off their inspection and snapped to alert.  The door was swung open by another guard dressed as the firs two, and followed in by a man of slightly lesser build.  The newcomer was also older than the others, his hair and neatly kept beard steely grey, and his tunic was richly woven.  Nevertheless, he carried himself with the same rigid posture and proud bearing, and Conine could tell with a practiced eye that his body retained the athletic qualities of a seasoned warrior.  This man was a warrior as well as a leader, and that meant Conine knew who he had to be; Gracus, general of the Roman army that had recently hunted and slain so many of her fellow Chevaan.  

 Gracus took his seat on the dais, facing the young woman chained before him.  He was impressed with her courage, as eh was with all Chevaan warrior women, almost as much as by her stunning physique.  The fire in her eyes was unmistakeable; she was not afraid of either him or his men, even though she fully understood the fate they had planned for her. 

Or thought she did, Gracus thought with a smile.  

The general took a cup of spiced wine offered by one of his guards and sipped it thoughtfully as he studied her proud carriage.  'You have been quite the criminal, my dear, with your mistreatment of my men I the forest.' 

Conine faced her captor without flinching, and the thought of the blood from the men who had raped Satyra running down her sword game her a feeling of warm satisfaction.  'I had no idea it was a crime among your people to butcher vermin,' she replied softly. 

 Some of the guards muttered darkly, but the General only smiled again.  'I can see that we will have to be quite harsh with you, dear girl.  But you are young, and we may hope to educate you in proper manners before you pay in full for your crimes.'  He signalled the men near the door.  'Prepare her; the lash first, I think.'  

 The men moved forward and took her roughly by the arms, detaching the chain from the brace in the floor and forcing her hands up over her head.  A hook hung from another chain running to the ceiling, and her manacles were attached to it, keeping her arms raised.  That done, the men signalled to one of their companions who worked a winch mechanism, near the wall.  Quickly the hook rose so that Conine's wrists were dragged upwards, until her arms were stretched either side of her beautiful face and her heels were just clear of the floor, her weight supported by the front balls of her feet.

 The whole time, Conine never let her proud stare waver from the grinning Gracus.  

 Behind her one of the Roman soldiers took from the wall a coiled whip, a length of leather platting eight feet from handle to tapered end, tipped with three thin cords which would flick their target with the speed of a crossbow bolt when the heavy hide behind snapped around it's victim.  He let the weapon skitter across the stone floor as he uncoiled it, and the spectators were rewarded with an almost but not quite invisible flinching of that magnificent form as the leather hissed softly across paves.   Watching, Gracus allowed the prisoner before him a little time to anticipate what was to follow, as arranged with the whip-master outside.  Her gaze was still defiant, but now the Romaner could almost believe he saw a slight strain of fear creeping into those cold blue eyes. 

 Alert as a young deer in the forest, Conine heard the first stroke coming before she felt it.  She tensed for the inevitable pain, and was not disappointed when a burning line of fire blossomed between her shoulders.  She grunted, and closed her eyes, the muscles of her back tensed.  She drew a slow breath, and when she knew she was again in control, opened her eyes slowly to again gaze with loathing at Gracus. 

 For his part, the general smiled appreciatively.  His slave girls at home would have been crying like a baby under that first stroke, and even some Chevaan sluts too, he knew from experience.  But he had never had the joy of finding a woman who could so endure the lash with such control.  Her arrogant posture and the hatred burning in her eyes fairly cried out to be broken.

 The whip-wielder drew back his arm and again the leather cord flew forward.  This time the lash curled slightly about the victim's slender waist, causing her to jerk sideways and leaving a bright red weal on the smooth skin.  Once again, Conine gritted her teeth against the desire to cry out with pain, but there was nothing she could do to prevent the tears welling in the corners of her sky-blue eyes.    

 With callous precision the man continued his flogging of the chained warrior, concentrating on her curved back and broad shoulders.  Up and down the length of her spine he worked the pitiless leather, so that soon a fine sheen of perspiration silvered the prisoners skin.  Conine bore the torment a silently as she was able, but before long found she could not entirely subdue the moans and soft whimpers of anguish welling with her.  She had to blink to clear her eyes from the sting of sweat and tears, while on her back she could feel the trickle of blood from some of the deeper cuts of the lash.     

 After five minutes the soldier with the whip paused to rest his arm, and Gracus took time to notice how the warrior woman's spirit continued to sustain her through the torture.  No cry of pain had she given, only tiny groans, but somehow Gracus found them more arousing than full-throated screams for mercy.  He found the notion of hurting such a powerful, strong willed woman compelling, much more so than the torture of mewling, easily subdued slaves.  He had hoped that this girl's endurance would be a match for her stubborn pride, and it seemed he would not be disappointed.       

Conine heard the soldier whipping her quenching his thirst with a cup of water near the door, and licked her lips enviously.  Her back was a fiery ordeal; the slightest movement bring unrelenting burning pain.   The salty perspiration stung the open wounds where her skin had been broken by the leather and blood oozed to the surface and trickled down towards the curve of her buttocks.  She blinked again and shook her head a little to clear it, and tried to stand a little straighter in the chains holding her.     

She heard the man picking up the whip again, and lifted her head to maintain her proud bearing under the flogging.  She was surprised to feel the chains on her ankles being removed, but had no chance to try and take advantage of the fact.  No sooner had her legs been freed of their pinioning to the stone floor than she heard the crack of the leather again and felt its cruel caress, only this time the target was the soft but muscular pads of her full buttocks.    

 'AAAAhhh,' Conine gasped in pain and jerked forward, more tears instantly springing to life. 

 The whip cracked anew, this time just nicking her left ass cheek but filling it with pain.   The right soon suffered a similar fate, and the Chevaan was force to dance uncontrollably as the man alternated the slow flaying of her backside.     

 Gracus sipped spiced wine as he enjoyed the second stage of the flogging.  With her feet freed the tall, muscular prisoner was able to jerk more fitfully in her bonds, and under the encouragement of his whip-master was soon dancing with abandon.  She hopped frantically from one long leg to the other, twisting and turning as the leather sometimes stayed up about her waist again, so that her full rose crested bosoms bounced and danced erotically.  Her moans were fuller now, and spaced with hissing gasps of agony and frustrated anger.  Her eyes, which previously had been fixed defiantly on his own, now squinted shut with the effort of holding back the cries and screams Gracus knew where building inside her with each razor slash across her exposed ass cheeks.       

 Sensing it was time to take the lovely prisoner to a new level of pain, the soldier with the whip moved froward a few feet and sent the lash whistling forward.  Moved closer the cord could now curl more fully around its lithe target, wrapping about her narrow waist and smacking hard across her taught belly.  As the leather was dragged back it pulled at the broken skin and left a red smear on the lightly tanned skin.      

 Conine moaned softly as the leather worked its abrasive charm on her, then yelped as it leapt out again to blaze a new trail around her other hip.  She knew that her writhings were arousing the Roman general directing her torment, but could do nothing to prevent them, a torture in itself for the proud beauty.  Before long there were angry red weals crisscrossing her abdomen and the tops of her shapely legs, each one a burning fire set in her flesh.  The wounds on her back throbbed steadily as she moved and weaved to try and ease some of the force of the blows.  She was drenched with sweat now, her black fringe matted to her forehead while tiny rivers ran down over her breasts as they heaved up and down with each shuddering breath. 

 There was another pause in the proceedings, and this time Conine did not even try to hold herself erect.  Instead she slumped forward limply, held upright only by the thick iron manacles about her wrists.  Every inch of her body from her sternum to her knees felt raw and exposed.  The cool air of the dungeon chilled the film of perspiration covering her and despite the ever-present heat of the whip marks that coursed through her she shivered uncontrollably.  The world swam about her and she felt sick.       

 Gracus took another sip of his wine and fondled himself unashamedly at the site of the Chevaan warrior thus humbled.  He did not fool himself into thinking she was broken, but knew her pride must be suffering almost as much as her firm young body to be forced to show him such frailty.  

  Standing behind the chained prisoner the whip-master took another swig of water and surveyed his efforts.  The warrior-woman seemed near to exhaustion, her hanging form drenched in gleaming sweat mixed with blood oozing from the more damaging welts, but so fat she had not given up the screams that would show he had truly broken her.  The soldier grunted, at once impressed by the bitch's stamina, but also professionally offended.  Did this slut think to embarrass him in front of his commander by withholding that sweet music?  Well, fortunately he had left the most tempting targets on her luscious body until last.    

 Conine was still struggling to regain her strength when the lash curled around again, the leather giving its fiery caress to the tender flesh of her full breasts.   

 'AaaaaAAAAhhhh!!'  

 The pain was horrible.  The torment of her previous wounds did not disappear, but in a spit second it was pushed to the back of her mind by the agony blossoming in her tits.  The half-cry was accompanied by her whole body convulsing as the plated cord was dragged back against the soft skin, leaving a burning trail of pain traced across the tops of the quivering mounds.    

 The whip curled around her ample breasts again, and a louder moan of pain bubbled from the red Chevaan lips. 

Again and again the coarse leather stroked the full mounds of soft flesh, so that tears streamed unceasingly from the beautiful warriors crystal blue eyes, and her agonized groans echoed off the stone walls.  The whip-master was a veteran, and despite the obvious temptation did not focus solely on those tender orbs.  Up and down her body the leather roved, leaving its red weals in its wake.  He varied his targets, giving her no chance to predict whether the nest stroke would sear her already bloodied back…

 'Nnnnnhhh.'   

 ...leave a trickle of blood from some new cut across her abdomen…    

 ' Ohhh haaamm.'   

…kiss her heaving tits and firm nipples with its acid fire…   

 'uuUU nnhhh !'   

 …or add new heat to the reddened, bleeding globes of her tightly clenched ass…. 

NNnnnniiahhHHHH!!! '    

 Gracus felt his manhood swollen to the point of bursting as he played spectator to the whipping.  He could imagine what it would feel like to plunge his rampant member into that tight young body hanging helpless in it chains and felt her write under the lash while impaled on his jutting manhood.   But the warrior woman had yet to give him the full blooded howl of anguish he craved from her full lips, despite being flogged almost unconscious, and it appeared she had no intention of doing so without the most extreme persuasion.  The whip-master was looking over at him, the man's energy visibly flagging.  He sighed.  It seemed his coupling with the stubborn whore would have to wait a little longer.  

 Conine's whole world had been reduced to the stripes of anguish crisscrossing her back, legs, stomach and breasts.  The heat from the welts burned its way into her, leaving feeling like one vast, quivering, raw wound, but the sweat soaking her pale skin left her shivering.  Tears seeped from the corner of her blue eyes and her breath came in shuddering sobs, but still she would not surrender her ultimate self to her captors.  The desire to cry out for mercy was like gorge rising in her throat, but she clung to the last shreds of her pride, as tattered as her smooth skin, and denied the urge to plead.   

To be continued…