Cesare's torture of his childhood friend Carlo and the Dane takes an much more brutal turn in Part 2 of the Papal Bull!

The Papal Bull - Part 2 (Page 1)
by C.S White
Art by Cavelo
Series: The Papal Bull
View this page with a white background and black text!

Clapping his hands, Cesare demanded that the rack be tightened. As the drum turned, Carlo groaned, his body straining to accommodate the torment. Cesare allowed a slight smile, caressing Carlo's cheek with the back of his hand. "Very good, my friend, I know you won't disappoint me."

In the meantime, Squillo had his men loosely fasten a series of leather cords around Dansk's biceps, forearms, chest, waist, hips and two apiece on his thighs and calves. Into the space between flesh and leather, the men inserted a thick iron rod which, when turned, tightened the cord. Twisting the strap ever tauter against a given area, the leather at last bit into the skin with a fierce some sensation. To aid in the gradual increase of agony, one of Squillo's assistants had designed a brilliant refinement to this torture: the man fashioned an iron clip, roughly in the shape of the letter "C". Once a certain level of intensity had been achieved at a given location, the clip could hold the bar in place against the leather strap, allowing the torturer to move to another cord at his leisure.

Cesare stroked his raging manmeat as Squillo's expert team began tightening the leather, beginning with Dansk's left bicep. Everyone present could tell the exact moment when the leather gnawed the first tender tab of flesh. The Dane actually emitted a loud howl, which increased in volume and fervor as the man continued to turn the rod. In order to prevent the pain from ever slackening, but also to ensure that the spasms didn't peak too soon, the torturers knew exactly when to, ever so slightly, loosen the tourniquet. With the bicep clamped off, the thigh was attacked next, then the calf, then the midsection. The giant's body began to distort as the cords did their work. Dansk was able to withhold his yelps for a short while until a torturer began to twist the cord across his chest, the twisting leather catching and pinching the nipple. Repeatedly jerking the rod tighter and tighter over the tit sent jolt after horrid jolt into the flesh; the victim could only mimic the rhythm, his wails piercing the air like so many hailstones. The assembly found such a noise funny and began to mock the Dane's cries until the din was ear shattering. As a reward, Cesare, stroking his roaring meat with one hand, added another stone to the Dane's testicles.

Nodding to his compatriots, the lord bid them continue as he sought to minister to Carlo's needs.

Carlo's face tensed as Cesare approached him, his head slowly shaking from side to side in dread denial. His mouth worked silently at first, but at last found utterance.

"My lord," he pled deeply, "please, I pray you... what have I done?" He managed to swallow, his protruding Adam's apple bobbing. In a barely audible, cracked voice: "Why?"

Had the general been an ordinary man possessing typical emotions, the fervid tone and the look of remorse and disillusionment upon the victim's face would have broken his heart in a trice. But Cesare Borgia was far from usual and the pitiful entreaty merely served to inflame his passions.

Cesare cocked his head to one side and pulled near Carlo, his full lips parted, allowing the slightest glimpse of tongue. "My dearest friend," he cooed, wrapping one arm around Carlo's elongated body and drawing him close, "you ask why?" He sighed. "Well, look at you... how could I not do this to you? You suffer so perfectly. You were made for this. Surely you know that!" He leaned forward, kissing Carlo's sweaty neck, inhaling its manly scent. His bit into the firm flesh, waiting for, and then enjoying, the jerk of displeasure.

"Even when we were boys playing together in the meadows beyond the walls, I knew that God had given you to me for this." With his free hand, Cesare reached behind him, taking from his breech band the concealed iron claw. Without Carlo seeing it until it was poised above his heaving chest, Borgia pressed it into the meaty tissue, raking it downward very, very, very slowly, this time intentionally drawing the slightest trace of blood. As the four fingers bit into his chest, Carlo gasped, at first unsure what was happening. As Cesare drew the implement downward, he pressed the iron deeper into the muscle. Carlo still struggled to catch his breath as he felt the blood begin to trickle down his stomach.

But his tormentor was not done. Holding the claw up to Carlo's wide, beautiful eyes, he allowed his victim to see the slick metal tips, red with his blood, and repeated the action on the other heaving pectoral. Cesare thrilled now as Carlo flinched and shuddered, writhing to avoid the iron and the pain, but his boyhood friend held him fast. The claw traced down the meaty thickness, trailing all the way to the man's ribs. Cesare pulled the dripping rake away, watching transfixed as the tiny, hot blood droplets trailed to the floor. Carlo was panting now, the claw had not gone deep, but the pain was more than real, the trauma sending waves of nausea through his belly.

One of the torturers now stood next to Cesare, holding a cask of salt. The general reached in, drawing out a handful of the white powder. Making certain Carlo saw it, he smiled broadly. "The scientists say salt keeps away the festering sickness, Carlo. I would hate to lose you to such a thing, when I have so very much more planned for you!" With that, he rubbed the mineral into the bloody wounds. The victim flailed in his bonds as the burning began, so intently, his vision blurred. He opened his mouth to cry out, but the cavity was filled with another handful of salt. Cesare and his men were beside themselves as the general clamped his hand over Carlo's orifice, the man neither able to swallow, cough or breathe. As an afterthought, like a schoolboy showing off, Cesare threw a small amount of salt into the air just above Carlo's eyes. As the salt bit into the tender ovals, he released the mouth. a billowing puff of the white stuff flew into the air and Carlo's lungs tried to draw in a fresh, clean breath, agonized body whipping and heaving in the tight constraints.

As the searing saline dissipated from Carlo's eyes, his tormentor was ready with another two handfuls of salt to rub into his wounds. The poor nobleman was not aware that a body could feel such intense pain. He became dimly aware of his own cries, hearing them as from afar, as if it were someone else were suffering. He only wished for the pain to stop. He didn't care how.

Great jagged surges of light filled his vision and he was only dimly aware of his captor moving toward a brazier. He imagined Cesare drawing something from the fire, something with a glowing end and two long handles, another tool of his trade. As Carlo gazed down at his mutilated body, scarcely believing his eyes even as the deep-set pain entered his consciousness, Cesare lifted the tightly packed sac of Carlo's balls; the victim's heavy cock lifted, falling to one side. In a deft move, Borgia held his new implement where Carlo could see it. Even Carlo's pain-rattled brain could comprehend the pair of long crocodile- mouthed pincers Borgia held, their flaming hot teeth glowing an angry red-orange. He barked a distressed cry as his beautiful torso, bleeding, sweat-drenched, aching from head to toe, thrashed about like a worm dropped onto a sizzling skillet.

"Cesare!" he shouted, no longer fearing what penalty his words may bring. "Please!" His struggles caused his wounds to open and the bleeding worsened. "Cesarino caro," he called, using the affectionate boyhood name he used to call his friend, "please, for the love of God!"

A quizzical glow filled Cesare's eyes, and his mouth cocked into a sidelong grin, as if, for a moment, the two were boys again, wrestling for the prize of an extra apple. He paused but for the briefest moment, saying, "God's love has nothing to do with this!" Borgia then pulled the tortured nutsac toward him, the cock trailing behind.

Carlo had no choice but to watch in horror as the general, his own "dear little Cesare", caught the thick tube of meat between the gaping monster teeth. For the slightest instant, the pincers felt almost icy, but the searing jolt was evident soon enough. Sizzling sound, the steam and smoke and the smell of burning flesh all filled the room as Carlo's whimper turned to a cry of pure agony. In a flash his body, reacting of its own accord, caused him to whip about upon the rack, but Cesare tightened the teeth, gripping the burning cock. The master's own meat surged as he imagined what Carlo might be feeling at that instant. He could see the back of the man's throat so wide was the mouth held open as he screamed. The prolonged howl collapsed into a shattering series of strangled yelps as Cesare repositioned the teeth, this time gripping the once-flawless, flaring cockhead. Carlo again tried desperately to pull away, but Borgia merely squeezed more intently on the handle to keep matters well in hand. His aristocratic cock surged again, signaling urgently, that a climax was near.

The metallic glow was beginning to fade, but it was clear there was still life left in the pincers. Almost instinctively, Cesare released the ravaged cock and bore down upon the thickest section of the captive's balls. Jammed as they were by the stone weight into a tight knot, their compacted aspect gave the teeth perfect purchase. It was more the pain caused by the added crushing of the pincers than the actual branding heat that renewed Carlo's pleas for mercy. Great tears of utter misery coursed down his face as he shouted his laments to heaven.

Cesare released his grip around Carlo's waist, bringing both fists to bear upon the pincers. His cock jerked and spasmed with a familiar urgency B his time was near. Shifting his balance so that his full weight was behind him, Cesare gave one final, mighty press. The teeth had nearly bitten through the pulpy testicular mass as the torturer's determined manhood gave forth with a geyser of achingly hot fluid. In that strange way the body reacts to its sexual release, Carlo's feral shrieks suddenly seemed very far away to Cesare and he gave in to every single scintillating gobbet that shot forth from his body.

When he was spent, every inch aflame with delight, Borgia dropped the pincers with a loud clatter. Almost instantly, Carlo's throat seemed to snap shut and his poor, battered form collapsed like a wilted leaf in the sun. Only the labored heaving of his chest, glinting with sweat and blood in the harsh brazier light belied that he yet lived. As he always did in such a situation, Cesare milked his meat of the last strands of his essence, rubbing his sticky palms across his flat, sectioned belly.

He turned to the assembly, who bowed reverentially. They were awestruck with a deep admiration for his abilities and a fear of the same. Someone handed the lord a cloth to wipe himself with, followed by a large tankard of ale to slake the monstrous thirst he felt. Cesare noted that more than one man standing before him sported a hard tool and he smiled. He nodded to the men. "He is still alive, my friends," motioning to Carlo, who had taken to emitting a low groan. "It would be a shame to waste a tight hole for sake of modesty!" One of the apprentice torturers moved to rub his raging hardness; the movement caught Cesare's eye. "You," he said, pulling the man forward, "you begin--the others will surely follow!" With that, Borgia ripped the leather apron from the man, whose meat sprang forward like lightening. Unable to defy his lord and master, the man complied, entering the dismal Carlo with brutish and satisfying grunts.

Squillo offered to summon Cesare's horse for his return to the Vatican, but Cesare waved him off. "Master Torturer," the captain admonish him, "am I an old man? Do I seem weary?" Shrugging off the now sopping rag, his manhood dared to stiffen yet again at the sight of the still dangling Dane. "We still have work to do!"

A tremendous bellow signaled that a new phase of Dansk's torment had begun. To prohibit the premature permanent destruction of the giant's limbs, Squillo had his men systematically release the cords. Blood suddenly surged unrestricted through his body, exciting the damaged flesh. "5 if this were not enough, the torturers produced small wooden paddles roughly the size of a man's hand and began slapping at the angry, red welts. It didn't take much force to induce an alarming amount of pain at the affected areas. Even with the tremendous weight pulling down on his body, Dansk managed to buck about with serious fury. Gritting his teeth, he growled madly at his captors, his frantic movements effecting waves of stabbing pain in his groin and joints as the stones clacked together.

Watching the Dane contort and writhe sent Cesare to the brink of passion. His manhood hardened, turning deep purple. He was close. So close!

But the lord loathed to blast his seed so early in what was proving to be a most prodigious effort. Focusing his will, he allowed his loins to relax and worked his massive rod less intently. Slowly, steadily, he felt himself pull back, his urgency fading until he was ready and able to continue. Cesare had waiting all evening to see the man's huge flaccid cock in full glory and wondered if the thing could be enticed to a proper engorgement in the midst of his pain. Wiping his palm across his own sweat drenched torso, the lord grasped the Dan's meat, manipulating it masterfully. Cesare watched Dansk's pain-racked face as he growled and groaned, still torquing about in his chains. Standing directly in front of the victim placed Cesare quite near the blazing coals, but he barely noticed the raging heat as Dansk's cock began to stir. The already immense thing thickened before it achieved any real length, growing in girth until even the general's large hand couldn't fully encircle it. In the very midst of the intensifying agony the torturers were inflicting with their paddles, Dansk focused his flashing eyes upon Cesare, suddenly aware of the new sensation. The cock's girth crested; only then did it begin to lengthen, bending upward, lifting its plumy head from its warmth prepuce sheath.

Delighted, mystified, thrilled, and curious, Cesare ordered more weights to be added to the man's balls and for Squillo's troupe to increase their efforts. He wanted the man to feel urgent distress, true agony In an instant, the Dane was mad with raging torrents of searing pain as the men attacked him with blows hard enough to bruise. The manful growls were now loud barks of distress. He pleaded with the men in his native language to stop, but the beating continued.

Borgia could barely fathom it, but the cock continued to harden and enlarge, the heavy head bobbing and throbbing up past the Dane's navel. It now took both of the royal hands to manage the prick as a copious stream of precum spilled from the gaping headslit. Cesare's mind reeled at the mixture of sight and sound; the slapping of the paddles contacting with the taut flesh, the howls of misery, the rattling chains, the rich, musky scent of manhood, sweat and blood, all of it collided inside his brain, sending him back to the edge of delirium. This time it was perfect. Borgia pressed his groin into the writhing giant. The torturers watched their lord intently, knowingly. As he shuddered in the throes of a tremendous climax, they rained savage, wildly frenzied blasts upon Dansk, who now could barely comprehend the level of agony he felt. Delirious, desperate to end the pain, his deep voice rang out in the chamber with long wails of misery.

As the cries reached their peak, Cesare stepped over the edge of the chasm. Grunting, pumping, he leaned against the tortured form, feeling the yells vibrate from deep within the victim. As they passed into him, Cesare's enraged cock jerked madly in his fist, blasting a massive spiral of seed onto Dansk. The torrent increased, the pearly juice jetting in a seemingly endless cascade about the room. In the midst of this passion, Borgia lifted his head slightly, realizing his mouth was perfectly poised to take Dansk's right nipple in his mouth. As he bit down, incising the thick mound of flesh between his front teeth, he could feel the Dane flinch and buck. The howls never slackened, but it was then that Cesare felt the massive captive cock swell. He bit down, feeling his teeth slice into the teat; he tasted blood. The cock responded. Another bite, another throb. Even as the last silver vines of manjuice streamed from him, Cesare rocked the tit between his teeth and careened dizzily as Dansk's hips pressed forward once, twice and then pounded against the royal chest, the cock ripping forth with a scalding flood of slaveseed. Borgia could feel it concuss against him, forcing its sticky path between them. The cock seemed a living thing, a giant, angry serpent covering its foe with its deadly venom. The Dane's discharge was so thick and abundant it ran in globules down both men's bellies, dropping from their thighs in coagulase gobs upon the flagstones.

Panting against the spent victim, Cesare lifted his hand, signaling a halt to the heating. It took several moments for Dansk to realize that the men had ceased; the raging traces of pain coursed slowly through his tissue, ending in a bitter trail of lingering discomfort. He slumped forward in his bonds, his giant body sagging, his head bent almost to his heaving chest.

Cesare pulled away, dumbfounded by the experience. The Dane's shouts of agony still echoed beckoningly in his ears and his body trembled from the delicious explosion he experienced. Almost affectionately, he patted Dansk's chest, absentmindedly wiping a trace of the man's blood dripping from his nipple.

"Signore?" Squillo inquired, awaiting his master's instructions concerning the Dane.

Borgia nodded, his fist encircling his own spent manhood, wringing the last precious drops of fluid from himself, luxuriating in the thick silkiness. "Yes, Squillo," he said, lazily "Cage this one. Give him food, water. We'll have at him again when he grows strong again."

Cesare now accepted a beaker of wine offered to him. He strode around the room, a hand on his hip, breathing deeply of the scent of conquest. He gazed over at Carlo, his dark body hanging heavily from the rack and watched as Squillo's men took Dansk's unconscious body down from the chains.

Downing the wine in one rapacious quaff, Cesare smiled, swearing to himself. Every fiber twitched as his mind whirled maniacally, his blood pounding in his ears. I'll be damned and glory be to God, he thought. Damned if his cock didn't raise again, eager to ferret out more traitors.

"Squillo," he called, "give me that list of prisoners!"


1 Comment

  1. 31118azti - June 11, 2020, 9:49 am

    Egads, what a story…couldn’t help but feel a little rise down south!

Leave a Reply