Date: Thu, 4 Dec 2003 03:13:21 EST
From: Pete Brown <petebrownuk@yahoo.com>
Subject: Mandrasat - 17

"Mandrasat" is a continuing work of adult fiction; any similarity to
persons, places, or events present or past is unintended and purely
coincidental.

-0-

	After some moments letting the two slaves writhe in their
bungee-cord union, their cocks and balls stretched obscenely long and
purple, Kasim stepped between them, and Bret's eyes bulged in horror;
already crushed by unbearable pain, he screamed louder and longer into his
gag.  The overseer was holding two black leather straps, one of which he
handed to a grinning Nubian.
	In terrifying detail, Bret remembered the first time he saw the
fighter pilot in this room with Kasim, chained upright and spread eagle,
the overseer flogging his ass with a black leather strap from behind while
he was forced to suck the screaming man's cock in front.
	Kasim stepped behind Bret as the Nubian stepped behind the other
slave; instantly, claws of fire ripped across the slaves' buttocks, and
Bret watched, screeching in pain, as the Navy pilot received the same
lashing as he.
	Witnessing each other's agony, both slaves convulsed under this new
and monstrous brutality, amplifying the devastating shock to their
genitals, their shrieks exploding across the room.  On a totally
instinctual level, they realized they would have to remain still inspite of
the flogging or risk tearing one another's cocks and balls out by the
roots.  As a second tongue of flame raked their buttocks, they again
screamed and convulsed under its blistering swath, but quickly fought to
regain control of themselves.
	Again and again, Kasim and the Nubian lashed the slaves flaming red
buttocks; the victims able only to cry out and gasp into their gags as the
straps whipped back and forth across their naked flesh, but, by sheer force
of will, they made themselves move as little as possible, as little as
their agonies would permit.
	Feeling as though they were being torn to shreds, there was no way
either slave could have heard the workroom door slide open, nor, drenched
with pain as they both were, would their minds have been able to react to
the sight of Dr. Katib entering the room.

-0-

MANDRASAT Chapter Two: Zarak! (cont'd)

	Katib stood momentarily at the workroom door dressed in his
sleeveless, white, ankle length robe and barefoot in slip-on sandals; a
small black case hanging from his right shoulder.  He savored the thrill of
watching these two slaves strung up and stretched taut between ceiling and
floor receiving lash upon lash across their deeply crimsoned buttocks from
the naked overseer and a naked Nubian slave.  A cruel and hungry smile
spread across his face as he stepped into the room and sauntered toward
Kasim and the body of Zarak's beauteous slave hanging in front of him.
	Standing directly behind the roped and manacled slave and
mes-merized by the sharp definition of his vertebrae and the rippling of
his shoulder and back muscles as he hung writhing in midair, Katib cupped
his hands roughly around Bret's fiery red ass.
	"Nice and hot and ripe for fucking," he rasped with a throaty
chuckle.
	"Help yourself," Kasim laughed.  "I know you have already steamed
through this one's juicy canal before, but you must sample it now that it
is as hot as boiling oil."
	"First things first," Katib responded pinching and sliding his
hands painfully over Bret's inflamed ass.  "We want to make sure these two
baby slaves of yours do not come down with any kind of infection."
	He stepped around and stood in front of Bret, yanked forcefully on
the bungee-cord, sending explosions of pain through both slaves' genitals,
then smiled his malevolent smile.  Opening the case hanging from his
shoulder, he removed one of the two syringes inside, held it before his
face, smiled more fully at the sobbing slave hanging helplessly before him,
then drove the needle into his navel.
	A horrified, agonized gasp erupted from Bret's throat into his rope
gag.  A battering ram had exploded head on into his guts, sending shock
waves of excruciating pain through his body, his convulsions involuntarily
jerking and crushing his own and the other slave's cock and balls.  Katib
pulled the syringe slowly out of Bret's belly, adding another layer of
agony to Kasim's hideous game.
	All of Shareem's slaves came to know intimately the bestial quirks
of Mandrasat's Dr. Katib.  'Painless' was a word that did not exist in his
vocabulary or in his method.  Shoulder or butt inoculations were too boring
for him.  Plunging a hypodermic into a slave's belly, or into a bulging
vein in his cock, or between his toes, or into his armpits or the bottoms
of his feet never failed to exhilarate and excite the good doctor,
especially when his ministrations were accompanied by screams for mercy
from some extraordinarily handsome and muscular slave.
	'How delightful," he cooed, watching Bret howl and fight to control
his body's agonizing convulsions.
	After he had inflicted the same pain on the fighter pilot, Katib
removed the small case from around his neck and gave it to one of the
Nubian slaves, then pulled his robe over his shoulders and let it drop to
the floor.  He wore no undergarments and, as he stepped out of his robe and
sandals, standing completely naked, he said to Kasim, "Where do I begin, my
friend?  With your delectable slave or with Zarak's?"
	"Ah, Katib," the overseer replied flippantly, "life is full of
choices, but in this case, each hole possesses its own tasty pleasure; both
are equally luscious, so I would say, fuck the one that's closest."
	Both men laughed and Katib moved to stand behind Kasim's slave.
	"I will take your slave first," he called to Kasim, "and it will
give me great pleasure to watch you fuck Zarak's slave while I fuck this
one at the same time."
	Standing behind the fighter pilot, Katib pressed his body tightly
into the slave's back, resting his chin on the prisoner's shoulder,
grinning at Kasim and maneuvering himself into the best position for a
rapid, deep thrust.  As their cocks hardened against hot fiery red
buttocks, they wrapped their arms around the slaves' chests and began to
stroke and fondle their brutalized flesh.
	Relishing the sadistic humor of what appeared to be a competition
between them, Kasim and Shareem's veterinary doctor began to count out
loud, "One!  Two!  Three!" then, as they hard jerked the prisoners' bound
and tortured cocks, they impaled them on their own, viciously pumping and
grinding themselves deep into their victim's bowels.
	Bret threw his head back, sobbed long and low into his gag and
gratefully accepted the thunderous avalanche of darkness that obliterated
his consciousness.

-0-

	At the same moment Bret fainted under the extreme agonies of
Shareem's slave training program, three thousand miles to the east, across
the Indian Ocean, the USS Everett Ralston departed the island of Diego
Garcia for Maputo, Mozambique to arrive in time for Christmas, then to sail
onward to Dar Es Salaam and Mombasa for two additional good will stops and
extended celebrations of the arrival of the New Year 2002.  With the
U.S. military getting a real handle on the war in Afghanistan and all
branches on high red alert since 9/11, and Iraq being its usual hotbed
self, the guided missile destroyer was on practice-ready maneuvers in the
IO, creating a sense of urgency even about the most routine of ship board
duties.
	Electronic Systems Mate Sean Olivier and his best buddy on board,
Jeremy Posten, were in their own heightened state of excitement, not just
because of the real possibility of launching their arrows at honest-to-god
land based targets, but also because after their stop overs in Africa, the
big ER would be heading to the Persian Gulf port of Qassir City and
coincidentally to an Olympic weight lifting elimination round to be held
there on January 16.  They would be arriving two days earlier on the 14th.
	Although they were from different parts of the country, Sean and
Jeremy had each been avid lifters for over seven years, ever since their
early adolescence, and both of them felt they had a good shot at making the
U.S. Team in 2004.  They were determined to use all their PT and free time
on board to get in the best shape possible.
	Because there would be ships from at least the Aussie, British, and
Russian navies visiting the Kingdom of Qassir at the same time, each
sporting its own weight lifting team, the officers and crew of the ER were
as much a part of Sean's and Jeremy's workout routine as their sweat and
sore muscles.  In addition to shipmates spotting for them in the exercise
area and the duty officer accommodating their schedules, the chef had
worked out a rigorous low carb diet aimed at reducing and maintaining their
body fat at about five percent for the day of competition.  With this kind
of support, Sean was confident no surprises awaited either him or Jeremy in
Qassir City, at least nothing they couldn't handle.
	They had become icons of inspiration to many of the crew, and the
exercise area was usually filled with shipmates enthusiastically grunting
and sweating even when the two of them were on duty and not free to work
out.  With a bit less than a month till the competition, and given the
intensity of their new found zeal for weight lifting, the men of the
Everett Ralston, already in fundamentally, if not phenomenally good shape,
would be a sight to behold cruising into Qassir City on January 14.
	As the final days of December melted toward year's end, no crew
member was unaware of the subtle and progressive changes taking place in
his own body and in the bodies of the men around him.  Many of the ship's
complement adhered to Sean's and Jeremy's strict low carb, high protein
diet as well.  Waists were narrowing, muscles were bulging, and a sense of
shared invincibility permeated the ship; nowhere was this camaraderie more
evident than in the boisterous banter shouted back and forth in the ship's
locker and shower rooms.
	Sean's standard shower room greeting, "Lookin good, babe," always
prefaced a swat to a buddy's wet and soapy buttocks and a quick duck to
avoid a roundhouse punch aimed at his jaw.
	"Faggot!" the accosted sailor would bray good naturedly, his fist
sailing ineffectively through the air.
	"You wish, babe," Sean would call back waving his monstrous hunk of
uncut meat up and down and careening surfer style across the shower room
floor.  In some instances, his reply would be more than a little on target.
He knew that he and Jeremy were objects of admiration and envy for many of
their mates, and for some, of lust.  That made him smile lying in his bunk
at night in the dark, bare ass naked and fingering the fleshy curtain of
skin draping his cockhead.
	He knew he'd never give up cunt, vowed he'd never give up cunt, but
there were times he was curious about what it would feel like to fuck his
cock up another guy's ass or have some guy suck his cock.  Then he'd smile
again, dragging his clenched fist up and down the massive weapon inside.
	"Not in this life," he'd think, "Not in this life."

-0-

	Like fringes of an early dawn, faint streaks of gray against the
void etched the margins of Bret's darkened mind, not light enough to
attract his attention yet, but enough light to begin the remote stirrings
of awareness.  He sensed before identifying the smooth, firm cushion
supporting his back and resting beneath his buttocks and legs; he sensed
before identifying a cool and rhythmic caress against his skin, a gentle
rocking back and forth.  Suddenly, a flash of lightning tore across his
brain, the first sharp bite of pain to reenter his body, jarring him toward
wakefulness.
	Pain, throbbing in time with the pounding of his pulse, throttled
him head to foot, his eyes not seeing, his ears not hearing, awash in
misery across his back and buttocks, a crushing agony in his genitals,
burning welts crisscrossing his body.  How could he be suffering so?
"Why?" his mind cried.  Sobbing, the only sound he could made.
	Suffering consumed his growing awareness until he had to burst its
confines; eyes springing open and mouth gasping, he tried to devour his
surroundings, tried to bring his reeling senses under control.  His mind
was spinning; hysteria battered his consciousness; sounds and images
pummeled him like a rock slide.
	  Was he alive; was he dead; was he insane; was he in hell?  What
happened?  What is this place?  He groaned in shock and despair,
discovering the smooth, firm surface he rested upon was no cushion, but the
hard, muscled body of one of the Nubian slaves, his cock planted deeply
into his ass.
	Bret's fiery buttocks drilled the memory of Kasim's leather strap
into his brain as much as the Nubian's cock throbbing and pounding in his
guts recalled in searing detail his cock ramming his hole.
	Struggling against fear and panic, he found he was immersed in a
large tub of lukewarm water, his wrists cuffed to the rim, his ankles to
rings at the bottom of the tub in front of him, from the back, the Nubian's
arms wrapped tightly around his waist; a second Nubian knelt between his
legs in the chest high water, giggling and screeching and splashing him in
the face.
	Even though a thousand blades of pain stabbed his body, Bret's mind
had separated from his agony.  He could think, could reason, could
question, unlike his conscious mind pulverized by every blow from Kasim's
leather strap, or crushed by his wrenching genital torture, or brutalized
by his raw ass fucking.  Whether or not Bret could grasp the significance
of his functioning mind, he was intact; suffering severely, but intact.
	The Nubian forced Bret's body down to slam into his cock's upward
thrust, then yanked him up as he smacked himself down on the bottom of the
tub, giggling and growling.  Shackled by his wrists and ankles, pinned
tightly around the middle, and with the Nubian's legs coiled around his
own, Bret was helpless to resist the massive cock jackhammering his hole.
	He screamed, not so much in pain, as in desolation.  His cries,
barely muffled by his gag anymore, demanded to know, "Would this ever end?"
His howls, reverberating from wall to wall were pleas for deliverance, but
deep in the very center of his being, down at that hot, explosive spot
battered now by the Nubian's thick black cockhead, Bret knew there was no
escape, knew it in every twist and throb of the monstrous spike plowing his
guts.  Whatever horrors were waiting ahead for him, at this moment, one
thing was true, he was totally helpless.
	For almost five days, he had been used as a cum toilet by anyone
and everyone who chose to fuck his mouth or his ass, and he would never be
able to prevent that; his holes would never escape cock, and his distress
was intensified by the knowledge that some part of him did not want to
escape.

-0-

	Bret's mate in suffering, the Navy pilot, was also shackled wrists
and ankles in an identically large tub next to his and likewise impaled on
a Nubian slave's cock gyrating beneath him.  Bret did not know whether the
pilot had passed out as he had at the hands of Kasim and Dr. Katib, but he
was clearly aware of the man's loud groans accompanying his own, nor was
there any way of him knowing how long he'd been unconscious.  It obviously
had not been brief.
	The water that Bret, the pilot, and their Nubian fuck masters
struggled and grappled in was heavily impregnated with thick oily extracts
of medicinal herbs to assist the healing process, gradually diminishing,
but not totally expunging, the pain inflicted by torture and flogging.  No
slave's life at Mandrasat was ever at any moment free of pain; it was the
condition of their existence, and Shareem contrived ways to make sure they
were brutally and constantly reminded of their plight.  Bret and the pilot
were nearing the cusp of discovering how horrifically Shareem could
reinforce that reality in their lives.
	The endorphin soaked pads adhering to Bret's and the pilot's bodies
were still in place, though waterlogged and separating from their skin
around the edges, releasing endorphins into the bath water to be absorbed
both by the Nubians and their white fuck toys.  While the second Nubian in
the tub continued splashing water over Bret's head and into his face, the
other played ecstatically with his body, few parts of which had escaped the
day's floggings.
	All of Mandrasat's Nubians delighted in manhandling and fucking
Shareem's beautiful young auction slaves, and in their eyes, Bret was a
particularly appetizing morsel.  He was one of the most recent arrivals at
Mandrasat, so his lean and firm body was still smooth to the touch, not yet
hardened by heavy and forced labor as it would be over the next several
months, not yet dark brown as it would be after weeks of slaving naked
under the hot desert sun.  His skin was still soft, and his hairless body
milk white head to foot, something every black Nubian found maddeningly
exciting.  His nipples were large, pinkish brown ovals, their thick
hardened nubs exploding through his skin, begging to be pinched and sucked.
	The few years difference between Bret and the Navy pilot evidenced
themselves in the hardness of the pilot slave's muscled body; he was
certainly an exceptionally exciting fuck in both his holes and would remain
so for many years, otherwise Shareem's slavers would not have gone to the
extent they had in order to capture him, but physically, he had evolved
beyond the shiny gleam and sheen of youth still much a part of Bret's body.
Both slaves' aching and sensitive cocks were hefty, long, and solid, and
each captive squirmed and groaned as the Nubians slowly dragged their
clenched fists along their full rigid lengths.
	Restrained and pinned as he was, Bret could do little more than
gasp and grind his teeth against the rope gag as the Nubian continued to
tickle his still burning cock and tug at his tortured scrotum.  The second
Nubian moved himself up between Bret's legs, kneeling almost flush against
his body and, reaching behind Bret's balls, began working a finger into his
hole next to the Nubian cock embedded there.
	Bret's body stiffened and he began to pull against his wrist and
ankle restraints and screech into his gag.  The grinning Nubian jabbed his
finger ever deeper into Bret's ass, then, smiling broadly, his face and
body flat against Bret's, he shoved a second finger from his other hand
along the opposite side of his asshole, pulling and stretching its lips.
Eventually, he forced four fingers into Bret's hole, encircling the thick
cock pounding his ass.
	Bret had been fucked so many times in his sore ass since his
capture the previous Saturday, that his butt hole was both inflamed and
incredibly more pliable than it was when Tariq claimed it for the first
time that night.  It still hurt to have cock split it open, even though it
was lubed most of the time, but that was a flash of pain, an instant,
followed by exploding waves of delirium.
	Even now, encased as he was in an envelope of suffering, and
inspite of the burning, throbbing pressure from the Nubian's massive stalk
grinding its way through the walls of his fiery tunnel, the ecstasy of
spasms surging from his aching groin through his guts sweeping every shred
of pain and suffering together into one swirling, searing, unquenchable
furnace gave outcome if not reason to his agony.
	Shareem's regimen of torture was not without purpose; he sought no
confession with it, nor admission of any kind of guilt, and though it was
tailor made for the victim, it was not in the least way personal.  Shareem
derived great pleasure and satisfaction from the screams and pleas of his
slaves, of course; he was only human, but that was not the point of the
exercise either; that was honey on the cake.  The whole purpose behind the
House of Shareem's centuries' old program of pain and terror was to shatter
forever whatever spirit or mindset had accrued within the slave prior to
his delivery into bondage and to eradicate whatever cultural, racial, or
ethnic inhibitions resulted from the slave's former conditioning process.
	The fear of pain is a great neutralizer of conditioning processes,
and the fear of great pain is the absolute deterrent to them.  However much
Bret or the Navy pilot or Isam or any other auction slave is suffering at
any given moment, the totality of the slave's consciousness must be focused
on this one fact; it could always get much worse.  In effect, Shareem's
torture declares to each slave that as much as you think you are suffering
now, it is a mere shadow of the agony that can be inflicted, and he would
demonstrate that time and time again accompanied by wails of great misery.
	Shareem's slave training program is directed to create a product
without memories or thoughts, that has been stripped of its awareness of
its own nakedness, responsive only to its master's commands.
	In a time shorter than he could possibly imagine, Bret, as all
auction slaves had before him, will feel normal only with slaves like
himself, naked, submissive, mute, and purposeful only in fulfilling
commands given.  All that he was before will be like a vague dream
evaporating quickly in the light of day.

-0-

	"Nubians up!" Kasim's voice exploded across the room to the crack
of his leather strap against the stone floor.  He shouted his command
again, his strap repeatedly striking the sides of both tubs, unleashing all
the pain and terror Bret had experienced since his capture.  He shook with
fear as the Nubian quickly unwound and uncoiled himself from his body,
leaned against the back of the tub, and, gingerly working himself up onto
his feet, slid his softening cock out of Bret's hole.
	Kasim ordered the Nubians to empty the tubs and release Bret and
the pilot.  When the water had drained to ankle depth, the Nubians snapped
open the restraints on both slaves and hauled them out, letting them slide
to the floor.  Kasim's leather strap quickly found and sliced across the
buttocks of the Nubian nearest to him.
	"Fuckin Nubians!  If I'd wanted those slaves on the floor I'd have
told you to drop them there.  Pick them the fuck up!"  The strap sailed
through the air once more, and once more found black flesh to sear.
	Two of the Nubians were ordered to return the pilot slave to their
pen for the night, "And make sure," Kasim snapped, "that he's clean and
presentable for Master Shareem tomorrow morning, and that he's ready for
Overseer Zarak."
	In spite of the painful welts blossoming on their ass cheeks, the
Nubians smiled and shook their heads vigorously, leading the pilot slave to
the workroom door.  Kasim tapped his finger against the front of golden
ring hanging around his neck, and the door slid open.  A move seen, but not
for the moment registered by Bret's mind.
	Kasim ordered the remaining Nubian to follow him, assisting Bret,
for whom the movement back into the corridors of Mandrasat was painful in
the extreme.  His sore and aching body throbbed in unison with his pulse,
the crisscrossing tracks from the day's floggings burned and bit into his
skin, but with the Nubian's arm supporting him, he was able to follow
Kasim, at a distance.
	Kasim did not seem unduly upset that Bret could not keep pace with
his strides, and it appeared the Nubian knew where they were all heading
anyway.  After traversing several dimly lit corridor intersections, they
approached a door that slid open to allow Kasim and the two slaves
admittance into what Bret had come to recognize as a typical overseer's
room, a large, dingy, cement cubicle, containing the enormous bed, a large
double granite sink, an open shower, and a long storage shelf.  The only
accouterments overseers seemed to need or require in their spartan living
quarters were the naked bodies of handsome, young auction slaves.
	The Nubian helped Bret hobble to the bed.
	"Lay him on his stomach," Kasim ordered, "then get out."
	As Bret sat on the edge of the bed, the Nubian took hold of his
legs, swung them up and rolled him across the mattress onto his stomach.
Bret did not see the Nubian depart; he did so quickly and quietly.
	Kasim removed a large can from the storage shelf, stepped to the
bed and bending his left knee back, sat down, holding his left hip and
thigh against Bret's side and letting his right leg dangle off the side.
He slowly began to draw his finger tips along the welts across Bret's
shoulders.  He clucked his tongue as Bret shivered and moaned at his touch.
	"There, there, darlin," he whispered.  "We'll take some of that
hurt away."
	He placed the can on the mattress next to Bret's shoulders and
scooped out a handful of thick brown gel, then began applying it in even
and gentle strokes across Bret's back.  The gel dissolved immediately into
a liquid, and its initial chill at first stung Bret's wounds, but almost
instantly transformed into a cooling, numbing wrap like a second skin.  The
gel contained a strong analgesic compound, and Bret's groans changed from
ones of pain to ones of relief and release.  Even his burning buttocks
quickly cooled as Kasim layered the gel over them.
	Kasim coated him completely from the top of his head to the bottoms
of his feet, pressing his fingers lightly into Bret's skin, stroking his
sides and legs.  He maneuvered Bret onto his back, and, beginning with the
welt across his chest, he worked the gel over his skin, paying special and
gentle attention to Bret's cock and balls.
	"Isn't that better, darlin," he drawled stroking Bret's inner
thighs.  "Aren't you startin to feel better?"  He bent over and kissed
Bret's right ear.  "Aren't you?"
	"Master.  Yes, Master Kasim.  Thank you, Master Kasim."  Bret's
mouth and throat were so dry he could only choke the words.
	"I have a little something for your throat, too," he chuckled
getting up from the bed and retrieving a ceramic pitcher and bowel from the
shelf.
	"Raise yourself up a little bit, darlin," he said, "so you can
drink some of this."
	He poured a yellowish green liquid from the pitcher into the bowel
and held it to Bret's lips.  "Just a little sip at a time," he continued
solicitously.
	The liquid was thick, warm, and tasted like licorice; it contained
among other ingredients, herbal sedatives and a sizable dose of rohypnol,
guaranteeing a malleable, pliant, disoriented slave for the rest of the
night and into the following day.
	"Just lay back, darlin.  A couple more sips of this roofie
highball, and your holes won't be able to get enough of Kasim's cock."

-0-

	Kasim's analgesic gel would not erase the inevitable bruising that
would shortly appear over most of Bret's body; it would, however, in
conjunction with the rohypnol and the natural sedatives Bret was imbibing
reduce significantly the pain he would otherwise feel.  It would also help
in decreasing any temporary skin discoloration.
	The overseer replaced the can and the pitcher and bowel on the
storage shelf and returned to his bed, lying down full length on it, facing
Bret and resting his head on his right arm.  He said nothing for a few
moments, simply tracing the finger tips of his left hand across Bret's
chest and belly.
	"You are a pretty, pretty slave," he finally whispered.  "I can see
why Zarak might hate to share your holes with anyone.  But." he smiled,
leaning over Bret's face and kissing his lips, "I'm not anyone."

-0-

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>