Cesare's exploits with his "Hercules" continue with a brutal torture session of ancient piss waterboarding!

The Papal Bull - Part 3 (Page 1)
by C.S White
Art by Cavelo
Series: The Papal Bull
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At close range, even as he stood over Hercules (Borgia hadn't cared to learn his real name), Cesare was even more delighted with his choice. The man's skin - something he couldn't fully discern from his high loge location was utterly unblemished, a dark honeyhued expanse of smooth, tight perfection, a consummately suitable tablet upon which to engrave Cesare's lascivious appetite.

As for the torture equipment itself the priests had done a fine job, their designs as sleek and efficient as anything Bramante or da Vinci had produced in their architectural draftings. Anchored fast in the center of the dungeon was a waist-high wooden wedge, its narrow, biting edge worn smooth by use. The victim was positioned, face up, on the thin wooden fulcrum. This in itself was agonizing enough as the prisoner's bodyweight pressed the back, about kidney level, onto the knife-like edge, but then the feet were spread as far apart as possible and tied to posts. The arms were stretched tightly past the head and the wrists placed in a wooden armature affixed to a pulley system similar to a rack, the intent being that the agony could be intensified by stretching the victim while the water was being forced down his throat. This ordeal was most effective when the head was kept slightly lower than the wedge's fulcrum. To assist in this refinement, from within the wedge's center sprouted an iron limb with an adjustable brace to keep the victim's head at the correct level and the face upright. Again, it was possible to tighten the brace to excruciating levels.

Cesare watched with mounting arousal as the torturers went about the preparations as if choreographed. The rattle of chains and the creaking of tightening ropes sent shivers of anticipation through his body, his anxious cock thrumming and pulsing. Hercules' muscle slid and moved beneath his velvet flesh as his form was pulled tighter and tighter over the wedge. His eyes betrayed a mixture of anger and fear as they darted about. Only when the head brace was clamped into place did he truly set about struggling, his huge planes of muscle rippling and flexing to no avail.

The victim's manhood hung low between his outstretched legs. Borgia walked between the god's mammoth tree trunks, lifting the balls and cock in both hands. Pursing his lips, his own meat jumped. The combined weight of the sexual equipment was substantial. It was always at a moment like this that Cesare experienced a feeling of utter elation and peace; something he rather imagined Heaven to be like. There were so many things he could do to a fresh, strong prisoner like Hercules, and the plethora of choices made Cesare feel secure and fortunate. The exhilaration of seeing a beautiful form lying beneath him, stretched out, struggling, thoroughly helpless induced a giddiness that bordered on euphoria. That was always the moment, unbidden and unsolicited, that his Powers spoke to him, guiding him to the first deed.

In a stroke that would become a standard component of any session with Borgia, Cesare called for a leather strap, which he quickly tied around the base of Hercules' scrotum, to which he added hefty lead weights. Hercules groaned at the sharp stabbing pains shot up into him. When Cesare attached the sixth lead ball to the strap, the man coughed out a cry - his first of many. His victim's voice was rich and deep and Borgia was satisfied for the moment, but he was vigilant to systematically add more weight throughout the entire session, which now began in earnest.

Cesare smiled benignly as he pulled back Hercules' foreskin, exposing the pinkish head beneath; longer than it was wide, and narrower than the thick limb of meat to which it was attached, the glans resembled an arrowhead morn than anything else.

"So this is what a demigod's sex looks like?" queried the master. "I thought it would somehow be more ominous." The assembly laughed, but Hercules remained silent, Cesare stroked the shaft, vigorously pulling the foreskin back and forth. Even with the thudding fear slamming in his chest, Hercules was helpless to prevent the thing from pulsing to life. An attentive assistant torturer presented a pot of grease normally used for roasting a prisoner, from which Cesare scooped a bit, slathering the engorging tool. The lubrication sent the cock bulging in Cesare's fist to a much larger size than he would have imagined regarding it in its flaccidness; he let out a little whistle of admiration. "Now this is more Olympian!"

Cesare nodded to a court secretary who stepped forward. "Of what is this man accused?" Cesare boomed out.

Grandly unfurling a blank scroll bedecked with large official-looking wax seals, the secretary replied. "Signore, the man here accused , a Florentine, has been arrested and detained on the charged of treason and conspiracy to commit murder."

Hercules sputtered. Here was his chance to prove there had been some mistake. "My lords!" he called out. "This is a lie! I am innocent!"

Cesare relished the game. Of course, in his position of complete power, there was no need to present these trumped up charges, but it added to the theatricality of the spectacle.

Borgia grasped the bloated cock in his fist, pinching he smallest tab of flesh on the head's flaring edge with the other. "So, you are a Florentine?" He bore down on the head.

Hercules' breath caught in his throat at the sensation. "Y..Yes, my lord, but..."

Bearing down with all his weight, twisting toward he accused, Cesare brought blood. "Silence!" he oared. Hercules barked in pain. "It's evident you were up to no good..., just look at you!" He dropped he cock, striding to stand beside the victim. "A large man like you, taking part in a wedding feast...that would allow you to come very close to any number )f the Pope's family. You could do your dark deed at any moment you chose and all would be powerless to stop you! Escape would be very easy in such a large crowd!"

A heavy sheath of sweat had now encased Hercules and his handsome face contorted in earnest distress. "My lord, I beg you... I may be Florentine, but I have chosen Rome as my home!"

Cesare ran his palm across the tensile stomach muscles . Hercules flinched at the touch, expecting pain, not gentleness. He rested his hand on the deep, thick hillock of the victim's chest. The orbs quivered and tensed and Cesare had no trouble feeling the insistent heartbeat below. His cock jammed sideways in his breeches and chills flashed across his flesh.

Assuming an expression of sympathy Borgia replied, "And that was your mistake. We have no stomach for murders here." Stepping aside, he allowed he torturers to continue, while he disrobed. In no time, Cesare had removed his breeches. His monster tool, bucking and hard, was free to thump against his belly as the torture began.

"Please...Please, my lords!" Hercules said. "I am innocent!" His pleas were heard but ignored.

Borgia watched in mounting excitement as the bull as man struggled futilely in his ropes and chains. His fantastic eyes darted madly about the room, fearing the nightmare was all too real. Cesare stood thigh to thigh with the naked torturers, all men of immense strength and size. He himself saw to the final tightening of the head brace.

"Open your mouth," he demanded of Hercules, who, almost comically, clamped his jaws. This always happened; he had never witnessed a torture victim willingly allow water to be forced down his throat under such conditions. "You will regret your decision," he warned. One of the torturers handed Cesare a small device, which he placed over the prisoner's nose. Two small bits of iron with a vise like screw clamped down over the flesh, causing the victim to breathe through his mouth. An assistant produced a tidy, ingeniously carved wooden wedge to hold open the mouth, another readied a length of linen, another drew a sizzling poker from a nearby brazier. He held the iron above Hercules' head, who focused his eyes upon it, but kept his jaws clenched.

"Open your mouth!" Cesare demanded again, to no avail. Borgia motioned to the two torturers. With the precision of a finely-wrought machine, displaying the skill that only comes with repetition, the man thrust the poker into Hercules' ribs. The prisoner growled through gritted teeth, the cry increasing.The torturer pressed the rod harder; Hercules' entire body convulsed and, unable to stand it any further; split the room with a great, open-mouth shout.

In a beautiful display of coordination, the poker was jammed yet again into the shouting man's ribs as a sort of insurance, while the wedge was dropped neatly into Hercules' mouth and adjusted to the perfect position in the blink of an eye. The poker was removed and, instinctively, Hercules bit down on the wedge, which was so perfectly designed that the victim's reaction only served to lodge it more securely in his orifice. With the agility of an artisan, the third torturer stuffed linen into the gaping mouth and down the throat. Hercules' struggles reddened his face; jagged, desperate veins blazed across his forehead and exploded beneath the thin, tight skin across his neck, chest and arms. He began sputtering, his body reacting to the irritating matter forced into it. The brace did its duty and, despite Hercules' best efforts, his head could not move.

Cesare stood transfixed. It was all so splendid! The man's struggles only served to make him more beautiful. Hercules' legs and arms, more or less free to tense and twist agonizingly in their confines, were poems of strength and power; their thick muscles swelling, ripping into finely etched cords of tissue.

But the true misery had yet to begin.

Cesare retrieved a pottery jug, handed it to a torturer, and turned to Hercules. "Now is the last time we will ask you to confess, Florentine," he said, very calmly, idly toying with one of the victim's nipples. "You should have obeyed my command to open your mouth. Things would have gone easier for you then and we would have used the usual ingredient. Now!" He tilted his head to the side in feigned empathy. "Behold what awaits you." He gestured to the one who had burned him with the poker. The man began urinating into the jug, the liquid splashing noisily in the empty container. When he finished, another repeated the act, and then another. Each spit into the vessel as an added gesture of degradation. Even the two papal guards emptied their bladders into it. A heady smell of urine filled the room. Taking the jug, Cesare held it up to a guard whose body had been racked for several days by a dread lung inflammation and had been coughing harshly for the entire time Hercules had been detained, his chest rattling with deep, stiff phlegm. Coughing again, he hocked up a giant wad of mucous, rolled it around in his mouth a bit for effect and let it drop slowly into the jug, the snotty tendrils streaming behind.

Cesare brought the pitcher to Hercules. He was somehow not surprised to see that the man's erection had not lessened. It was often so; men, in the midst of extreme fear or pain would often become aroused. All the better for Cesare's purpose. Tight,hard cock was easier to torture - none of that loose flesh hanging about.

"Confess, Florentine..."

Hercules' ravishing eyes were wide with panic. His body convulsed as he made noise, no doubt protesting his innocence. Once he was silent, Cesare swirled the jug a few times and poured a thin trickle of the fluid into Hercules' mouth. The linen strip did double duty, preventing the fluid from draining all at once into the victim (thus threatening to drown him) and thus exaggerating and prolonging the misery, and kept the tortured from using the tongue and breath to eject the fluid.

Hercules bellowed as the yellow piss filled his mouth, his body again tensing into the astonishing carved sections and striations of before. The sound continued for as long as it took the fluid to reach his lungs and then sputtered out. His handsome face turned a deep red. Cesare stopped the flow and watched, his cock jumping about, actually thumping against Hercules' motionless cheek, and all watched as Hercules' body labored valiantly to deal with the intrusive flow.

Barely had the piss passed safely through the breathing passages when Cesare poured again, followed by the same reaction from the victim. This time, he let the piss-stream increase in volume and duration. Borgia watched intently, as Hercules' eyes glinted up at him, the brow furrowed and heartbreakingly ardent in their pleas for respite. Only when the face had darkened into an intense red bordering on scarlet did his relent. Hercules' mighty hands balled into tight fists and Cesare noted that the man's toes had curled as he struggled to cope.

For Cesare, the sheer genius of the torture was that the victim's body did the true labor; in it headlong hysteria to obtain oxygen, the brain effected the majority of the afflicted's discomfort. The Florentine's cock pulsed with every heartbeat and was tossed about by the frantic, almost involuntary contorting of the legs.


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