Cesare continues to torture "Hercules" and soon drags in Carlo to join in the festivities.
The Papal Bull - Part 4 (Page 1)
by C.S White
Art by Cavelo
Series: The Papal Bull
View this page with a white background and black text!
These were words Cesare could bear. He loved to hear a man succumb to his mastery and his own meat spasmed. Moving forward, Borgia pressed his insistent cock into that of his victim, bucking his hips slowly and methodically. He passed his palms over the wide and meaty mass of Hercules' chest, fingering the wide nipple discs. The victim groaned.
"I'm going to torture you," Cesare murmured, pinching into the pithy nipples' center. "I'm going to break you until you are a quivering mass of begging, sniveling, crushed pulp, unfit to lick the shit off of my stableboy's boot."
Hercules arched his back, pressing his groin forward to assent to Borgia's desire.
"I want to hear you beg, to make you scream and writhe until you can bear nothing more." Cesare gazed into the solid, deep centers of Hercules' eyes. "And then I will begin again." With that, Borgia backhanded the man a dozen times, until blood sprayed from his lips.
Hercules could only bow his head, averting his eyes from his new master. "Thank you, Signore..."
Cesare could barely contain his eagerness to enter the man, but that would have to wait. Waiting would make the victory all the more sublime. But now he wanted - needed - to make the man feel pain, to make him scream, to make him wish he'd never been born.
Pulling away from the prisoner he announced his wishes. "Il Nodo."
"As you wish, Signore! The Knot is an excellent decision!" said the master torturer. The See knew what to do.
Hercules was forced to sit on the floor, and his wrists were tied together, as were his ankles. One of the men presented an iron shaft longer than Hercules' shoulders were wide and as thick as a man's wrist. The shaft had been formed with four sides, with crisp, sharp edges, not round like a pole; a length of chain hung from an iron ring at each end.The prisoner's knees were drawn up to his chest and his arms forced down over them, encircling his legs. The cramps slashed through Hercules' limbs, and he fell onto his side in an attempt to ease them, but the torturers forced him upright with an swift open-fisted blow against his face. The shaft was inserted above the arms and through the space behind the man's bent knees, thus securing all four limbs and holding him in a tightly packed hunch, or nodo, a knot. Thick chain with a sturdy hook was lowered from the vaulted stone ceiling and the two chains on the rod's end were attached. All was in readiness.
At Prospero's signal, two of the assistants turned a crank, and Hercules' massive body was lifted from the floor until the bulk of his form came parallel with Cesare's chest.. The prisoner moaned loudly, unprepared for the severity of pain his heavy form would cause and his knee quickly rioted at the treatment. The rod's edges bit into him and the swinging ball weights were tossed to and fro until his body stopped swinging.
Cesare stepped forward, caressing his victim's compact and solid form. "How you will beg," he softly warned. The master motioned to the men manning the crank. A special feature allowed the shaft to skip loose from its ratchet teeth and to jerk to a stop a few or several inches downward. The first drop was a very short one, only two or three teeth's worth, but the abrupt stop wreaked havoc on the Florentine's limbs. He shouted a cry to heaven. Even in the midst of his moan, the men raised him again and dropped him, a few teeth further. Cesare's intent was to make a mountain out of countless molehills, building the agonies one upon the other, never very large, but constant.
The demons returned, their leathery wings rustling noisily in Borgia's head, swirling about him like poisonous flies, yet he welcomed them with joy. Cesare's mind filled with the heady smells of the torture chamber. It had been a very long day; his sister's wedding, the glamour of the salon, the naked, screaming men in his mind, the restless hours driving him to further torments cascaded all at once, colliding in a violent, sweet, erotic whirlpool within him. Borgia's two worlds became one, that world of before and the one in which he labored now, Hercules hung before him, full of agony with much, much more to come, and yet he could not forget who had he afflicted last, the Castillian? The marble cutter? Carlo?
Carlo. Past and future were one now. While the torturers were involved in their work, and Hercules' cries slammed into the chamber one after another, Cesare's passion flared, burning deep into his being. He summoned his adjutant. "What of Pompino?" he inquired.
"Signore, my last check was but an hour ago and he was awake and very alert, obviously in much pain, but no worse for the wear."
"Bring him to me," Cesare ordered.
The adjutant disappeared for few moments, returning with two guards who dragged a naked Carlo into the room by his wrists. His chest and back wounds were red, but the salt had done its job, preventing any major inflammation. The cock's burns were red and had begun to crust over, and the prisoner was careful to keep his equipment free from any leg movement. The guards lifted him, having him face Cesare. His eyes darted in terror to Hercules, whose moans swelled to full-lunged cries as the torture continued. Sweat cascaded from the demigod in sheets and he repeated the word "no" over and over in his misery. He is but he was lifted again, only to be dropped several more times, always a little farther, increasing the strain, and pain, until his manly bellows made ears ring.
Cesare smiled at Carlo, stroking the man's face with the back of his hand. Carlo flinched. "No, my brave soul," he whispered, his cock thumping against his belly, "don't worry. I will spare you this."
He turned to watch the sight for a while, running his hands over Carlo's injuries the whole time. Turning back to his old friend, Borgia noted, "He suffers well, doesn't he? Like you, my defiant companion." Cesare gripped Pompino's nipples, squeezing them, rolling the meat between his thumbs and forefingers. Carlo gasped; the tits were sore and Cesare's fingers had ripped away the scabs, but he gritted his teeth, determined not to make a sound. Sensing this, Borgia gripped hard, bearing down upon the twin points, at last twisting them until Carlo thought they would be ripped from him. Unable to control himself, he emitted a growl of anger and pain, but it was enough for Borgia.
"There!" he exulted. "That wasn't so hard, was it?" He stroked them with the tips of his fingers. "All I desire is a little reaction, a bit of recognition that my attention is not lost on you."
"Signore," Carlo replied, his voice dry and husky, "why? Why are you doing this to me? I know you don't believe I killed your brother. What are you gaining from this?"
Without a word, Cesare grasped Carlo's face in his hands, covering the prisoner's mouth with his own. When Carlo did not respond to the kiss, Borgia increased the kiss' ferocity, biting the thick lips as if he wished to devour the man. Suddenly, Carlo's injured manhood quivered, moved, engorged. As it rose, the skin tightening, he whimpered, the sound filling Cesare's mouth, a sensation which thrilled the general more than he could believe.
"What am I gaining?" he at last answered. "Fulfillment, my little dog, of a long harbored wound in my heart, no! In my loins, Carlo!" He reached behind his victim, filling his hands with the tight flesh of Pompino's ass. "This is what I want, my schoolboy!" He slid a finger into Carlo's hole, finding it hot and wet. "This!"
Carlo arched his back, trying with all his might to pull away from his master, but the guards held him fast. He uttered a low, soft moan as Cesare bit down upon his neck.
Suddenly, a terrifying shriek came from Hercules, who at last reached the pinnacle of what he could bear. Cesare glanced toward the golden, dripping knot of manflesh, smiling. His cock surged. Now was the time,
"Put this man over there," Borgia commanded, pointing to a devilish-looking device, a bench studded with sharp nails over which a man would be bent, his hands tied tightly at floor level, his feet fixed in studded stocks. The studs where his belly lay were larger and further apart, allowing them greater purchase into the flesh. The elevated ass was then perfectly positioned for Borgia's final act.
Deftly, without a single wasted movement, proving what experts they were, the torturers had Carlo mounted and awaiting Borgia's pleasure . Cesare had taken two whips from the table, tossing one to a tormentor, indicating that Carlo be attended to immediately.
"Do your duty, good torturer!" encouraged the general. "Something like this?"
Stroking his hardened tool, Cesare now came forth with a bull's pizzle, a short, deadly whip fashioned from a bull's cock. Tanned and hardened, the leather could be an instrument of death, but Cesare only meant for it to agonize. One of the torturers spun Hercules around, sending him whirling wildly from side to side as Cesare lashed him, the quirt doing it's duty, biting into his already tender flesh. At each blow the man cried out as the burning sensation reached the very center of his tissue. The assembled torturers were amazed at their lord's ability to inflict the utmost pain while flogging without breaking the skin, a desired skill, and one that required many years of practice to perfect. Borgia flailed away at the spinning, howling victim, each blow landing in a different location. Soon Hercules vomited the final remains of whatever piss and blood remained in his belly as agony overwhelmed him. The ooze covered his face and splattered around the room as he spun, but Cesare only doubled his efforts. Soon he was dripping in sweat, his chest and cock heaving mightily.
At last exhausted, Borgia tossed the pizzle to one of the papal torturers. "Do your worst!" he said and strode to Carlo, who already writhed beneath the practiced arm of the first pain-giver. Slapping at Carlo's tight twin cushions, he swiped his palm across the man's perspiring back, lubricating his aching tool, his purpose for being, the thing that had defined him and circumscribed his every thought and deed. It was hungry, ravenous, and now demanded sustenance.
Cesare was only too glad to oblige.