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'The Discipline of the Lash'
Part II
The desire to cry out for mercy was like gorge rising in her throat, but Conine clung to the last shreds of her pride, as tattered as her smooth skin, and denied the urge to plead.
She heard the man behind her preparing to renew the torture, and she prayed to the Goddess that she might find blessed oblivion this time, if only for a brief while. She tried escape by remembering Satyra' soft, skilful hands caressing her, the pleasure of her lips as they had roved over her, her tongue laving against her own in the warm cavern of their mouths, circling her nipples with impudent affection. Delving into her navel, across her flat belly, over her thighs and into the wet warmth of her feminine centre. Licking her. Loving her…
Abruptly Conine realised that more than memory was stirring her inner fires. There was a physical presence as well, a touch between her legs that bespoke an intimate understanding of a woman's centre of pleasure.
Shaking the sweat form her eyes she looked down and saw the face of beautiful young woman between her tapering thighs. The girl was dark eyed, with a foaming pile of brown hair piled up with a gold cord and lustrous red lips. Conine realised that this must be one of the Roman's female slaves, no captured Chevaan warrior or even priestess but a woman raised in servitude by the Romans, knowing no other life that to serve the will of her masters, however vile or degenerate.
The girl was clad in a set of gold chains that accentuated the arch of her full breasts, and a thin wisp of silk between her legs, which barely concealed the dark patch of trimmed fur beneath. Her eyes, large and brown as a young doe, were fixed on Conine's with a mixture of sadness and resignation, and the Chevaan realised that this girl would do nothing to help her, could not even conceive of it as a possibility. She knew no other life than to obey her masters, and to that end would even work to participate in the humiliation of a captive who would have spilled her own blood freely to liberate her from slavery.
However that might be, the girl's Roman-warped outlook did nothing to diminish the skill with which she employed her full lips between Conine's splayed legs. As she had hung swooning from the pain of her cuts the soldiers had again fastened her ankles to the shackles on the floor, and now there was nothing she could do to close her sex to the degrading stimulation of the slaves girl's ardent tongue.
Gently the girl used her fingers to part the soft outer lips to show the pink splendour beyond, and Conine was burningly aware of Gracus' hungry gaze resting on her revealed womanhood. Then those red lips were kissing, nibbling, nuzzling; waves of pleasure rolled outwards from the Chevaan's warm pussy, but a horrible pleasure, a lewd and perverse intimacy, made rotten and corrupt by the men watching who had arranged this interval in the physical pain of her whipping only to further torment her proud warrior soul with the sight of her trembling and moaning softly in unwanted rapture, a spectacle for their voyeuristic entertainment.
Without pause the girl used her tongue to probe Conine's wet channel and tease the hooded button just above. She tried to remember Satyra, in her heart to stay true to her lover. The tears in her eyes were tears of shame now – shame that even after the brutality Gracus had subjected her to he could still force her to wriggle in sexual abandon, that her very womanly centre could so betray her into the hands of her torturers. Her pride stripped away, the only thing left to sustain her was the remembrance of Satyra's touch, her gentle love…
…then that memory of pleasure exploded into agony as the whip crashed mercilessly into her exposed and helpless twat.
As Gracus watched the exhausted warrior-woman whole body convulsed in a paroxysm of agony. The slave girl, at his silent signal, had leaned back just far enough to escape being lashed across the face as the whip darted forward to savage the pink swollen mound between the prisoner's legs. Conine was blind with pain, her mind almost shutting down as it was overloaded by the signals exploding from her pussy. Only the shock of the blow, coupled with the indescribable torture of having her stimulated cleft turned into a fiery torment, saved her from giving up a blood-curdling scream. Instead her head snapped back and her mouth was stretched in the silent wail of a damned soul.
Only her warrior training and Chevaan discipline allowed her to recover from a torture that would have left a lesser woman a mindless creature of spasming agony. Even so, she had barely enough time to steel herself as much as was possible for this new horror before the whip struck again, ripping at her labia and the exposed softness beyond, again driving the young beauty to the brink of madness as her womanhood shrieked its terrible message into her reeling mind.
Leaning froward hungrily on his throne Gracus licked his lips in anticipation. She must break soon now, he knew. The agony tearing at her brain as the cords tore at her essence was a pain no woman could withstand, especially after the stimulation of the slave-girl's adept tongue. It was only a matter of time before the Chevaan warrior was begging for his mighty phallus inside her, a request the general would happily grant. He savoured the for-knowledge of how she would weep and scream as his member worked in and out of that whip-slashed channel. He had ordered his man to shift to a smaller instrument, with cords of silk instead of leather. Leather cords would have quickly reduced the woman's soft pink quim to bloody rags of flesh, and Gracus wanted his cock sheathed in that wet warmth while it was still firm and tight.
As the brutal torture went on Conine felt her hold on sanity slipping away under the merciless punishment. Her wrist and ankles were bleeding freely where the convulsions brought on by the pussy flogging had caused her to strain violently against her bonds. High-pitched sounds of wordless agony emerged from between her clenched teeth.
The whip struck again, forcing its way deep into her intimate self and setting her nether lips and the soft-hooded clit above ablaze, and Conine knew that she could die. The agony burning through her mind was like a white-hot blade; searing, unendurable, inescapable. She had only to focus on that pain, concentrate all her will upon it, and the experience would destroy her nervous system, shutting her off like puppet with its strings cut. Conine had never accepted the idea that any of her sisters should willingly seek the release of death, no matter what the torment they faced, but now under the terrible fury of the Roman lash she experienced a level of suffering she had never imagined. Death would be a merciful release from the horrible, never-ending pain as the cords cut again and again, each time deeper and deeper into her now swollen mound and pouting girl-slit. The chance to be free danced before her like a taunting demon, offering her the chance to end the horror.
Only one thing stayed Conine from that final course: Satyra. The battered, bleeding warrior knew that somewhere in the Roman fortress the beautiful young priestess was also a helpless prisoner, like herself facing unimaginable torments at the hands of her sadistic captors. To give in to the final release of oblivion would be to abandon her to face that agony alone. Conine knew in her heart that the chance she would ever see her lover again were small, and even smaller the odds that if they did meet that she would be in any way able to prevent her companion's suffering. But while there was even the slenderest chance that Satyra might somehow be spared Conine could not abandon her. Even in the face of such horrible torture, the Chevaan warrior would struggle for life, for the possibility that she could somehow help her friend to escape pain of the kind she was forced to endure.
The whip lashed between her nether lips again, and her swollen clit fairly exploded under the latest stroke. The cord had curled up from below with a deft flick of the Roman's wrist and landed its devil's kiss on the exposed nubbin of flesh. Conine's back arched until her magnificent breasts aimed their rosy nipples at the ceiling, the muscles of her flat belly seeming ready to explode through their sheath of welt-striped flesh. For one endless second her brain was a breeding place for a million tiny demons, each with their red hot spears stabbing into her brain with malevolent fury, her tall, ripe body almost tearing itself apart as it heaved while her mouth was clenched so tight it seemed her bared teeth must shatter under the strain. Then her tortured mind finally succumbed and she slumped exhausted and senseless in her bonds.
Gracus sat back in his chair, privately surprised at what he had just witnessed. He had fully expected the Chevaan bitch to scream for his cock, for his to do anything he wanted to stop the terrible pain, but instead the woman had ridden to the point of death without breaking. He had known the bitch-race was stubborn, but this went beyond anything he had witnessed.
For a moment he considered having the torturer douse the unconscious beauty in salt water and listening to her screams as the brine burned like acid into those welts before the flogging recommenced. But no; in her weakened state she might not survive another round, however careful his men, and he did not intend for her to experience the sweet release of death just yet. Also, her prideful resistance had earned form the general a grudging respect, and he had decided for such a warrior a new and entirely different level of pain was called for.
Signalling to the whip-master the session was ended, Gracus waved the young slave girl over to him. For a half-second he thought about having her chained against Conine and whipped while he watched her wriggle against the Chevaan's exquisite frame, as a way to gratify his still throbbing member. But the girls tongue had proved most adept between the prisoner's legs, and Gracus was minded to sample its skill himself. The girl nodded obediently at his direction, and soon her tongue and red lips were working up and down the generals gorged shaft, while her would be saviour hung limp, battered and bleeding ten feet away.
Gracus sighed with pleasure. It would be a long night, but an eventful one. While one of his torture physicians prepared to dress the prisoner's wounds, Gracus settled back and enjoyed the slave's sucking while his eyes drank in Conine's sweaty, battered, gently swaying body. 'Prepare the table,' he ordered one of the guards, then waited to wave for the physician to begin his work as soon as the dark haired slave-girl had brought him to his climax.
NEXT - THE RACK!!! >:)
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