Cesare's exploits with his "Hercules" continue with a brutal torture session of ancient piss waterboarding!
The Papal Bull - Part 3 (Page 2)
by C.S White
Art by Cavelo
Series: The Papal Bull
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"Another weight, torturer," Cesare ordered.
"Yes, Signore!" he replied.
"No!" added the young duke. "Make it two."
Like the true expert he was, the torturer took a lead ball, the hook poised beside the leather strap, and waited for Hercules' current spasm to pass and his breath to begin again before he added it to the others. It would be a waste to pile two waves of pain upon one another. Any good flogger knew it was best to wait for one lash's pain to subside before administering the next. When Hercules' chest rose and he emitted a muffled cry of anguish in his effort to take in air, the weight was dropped. At the exact instant the dagger of agony ripped into his testes, Cesare tilted the jug.
This time, he doubled the length of the admission of piss. Hercules' struggles were so violent that the head brace had to be tightened again.The victim's whole, mighty body was frozen in a titanic struggle for air, for a single, unobstructed breath. Every fiber was contorted and locked in a battle so intense that, despite the lack of oxygen, Hercules' yowls were loud and clear.
If Hercules had only known how much vigor and pure energy his tormentor wrested from his protestations, he would have tried much harder to remain silent. Cesare was like a man transfixed by a celestial vision when engrossed in a victim's sufferings. His splendid face focused upon the job at hand, his every fiber involved in experiencing the intensity of the agonies he and others inflicted. His cock never lessened its rockhard state and great amounts of precum dripped from it, almost as much as a normal man would have ejected in the throes of sheer passion. Still bumping against Hercules' face, neck arms and armpits, the area was slick with the manstuff, which mingling with his terror-born sweat.
Another stream flowed from the jug how Hercules hated that piece of pottery! - and, fight as he might to hide his misery, the animal-strong body he had been so blessed with, which had been his pride and joy, now betrayed him, keeping him blazingly awake and fought like an army of men for a breath of air. He locked eyes with his tormentor; in an odd, dreamlike state, the face bent over his own was not that of a demon indefatigably seeing to his agonies, but seemed extremely comely and affable, a face that could belong to a person you'd like to have as a friend. The smile that so enchanted him was at once open and intense, striking in a distilled way, that the torture he dispensed could only be out of love and concern. Though Hercules had never experienced anything a fraction as ghastly as this torture and despairingly wished it would end, his manhood surged and quivered at the prospect of Cesare continuing to lavish his talents upon him.
When, at last, the fluid passed, Cesare bent down, resting the nearly empty pitcher on his prey's abdominal muscles. "See?" he whispered in the prisoner's ear, his senses reeling from the smell of fear and sweat. "The linen strip in your throat works well, doesn't it? It keeps you from vomiting up the piss." He bounced the jug on the stomach. "E guarda...you're belly is filling with our largesse. Soon it will seem as though you're great with child." The men laughed. "And, oh, my Florentine demigod, if you think you're disquieted now, you simply cannot imagine what it will be like when I allow your friends here to beat upon it!"
For effect, the phlegmatic guard, holding a heavy paddle-like truncheon, slapped his open fist with it several times.
"The agony is simply not to be believed..." he glanced up at his comrades "...Or so I've been told."
At that moment, the cell door opened and two serfs entered, herded by a guard and yet another papal torturer. One serf pulled, another pushed, a huge tub resting on a flat barrow with wheels.
"Ah!" exclaimed Cesare. "I feared we would have to cut this session short for lack of supplies, but I see our friends here have rescued us!"
"Indeed, lord," answered the torturer. "When the dungeon personnel learned of your presence in this chamber, all desired to be of service." Gesturing proudly to the tub, he continued. "Each did his duty to provide you with enough yield to ensure a confession from this dog!"
Cesare laughed. "Look, Florentine!" he shouted, then patted Hercules' face harshly. "Or, rather, if you could look, I should say..." All howled with merriment at the taunt, as Borgia strode to the tub, dipping the jug into it and pouring out the contents several times, the loud splashing sound echoing in the stone room. "Enough piss for days and days...." He cut off abruptly. "What's this?" he said, ominously, staring into the tub. Carefully dipping the jug into the fluid, he then returned to Hercules. "It seems as if someone was very, very generous, gentleman," he announced loudly, and emptied the contents of the jug onto Hercules' face. "mid the golden fluid tumbled three or four fig-sized pieces of excrement, one of which lodged on Hercules face.
The assembled throng, even the serfs, doubled over with laughter. When at last the levity had settled, it was back to work. The serfs, two strapping peasants from hill towns south of the city, moved the tub beside the stretched out victim and awaited further orders. Another weight was added to the already shrieking testicles and the wrist brace was tightened significantly, making it even more arduous for Hercules to manage a free breath. As all of this was occurring, Cesare simultaneously worked his begging cockmeat, mirrored the same strokes for Hercules.
Groaning deeply in intense pleasure, Cesare murmured to his desolate game, "See, Hercules? It doesn't have to painful...wouldn't you rather have more of this..." he closed his fist over the darkening cockhead, working it slowly, deftly, hack and forth, causing it to harden and grow, "...instead of swallowing a hundred men's piss and dung?"
But it was all a moot point. Cesare was enjoying it ' all too, too much. Even if the torture was legitimate and the man truly confessed to the accused crime, Borgia would have continued the ravishment, so pleased was he with the victim's reactions.
The master prepared to begin again, he eyed the two serfs, standing with hands behind their backs and heads bowed, their brawny figures evident I through their simple overshirts. Nodding in their direction, Borgia called to the master torturer. "Brother Prospero, what of these poor creatures?"
"They are serfs, Signore, nothing more. I'll send them away..."
"No, no!" Cesare said. "We wish to see their bodies. Have them strip for us."
As if this were nothing unusual, it wasn't, the men were ordered to remove their clothing; they obeyed without hesitation or shame. Both were finely made, their stocky forms thick with rough-hewn sinew, one dark with masses of hair covering his meaty form, the other fair-haired and virtually smooth .Their cocks were average, but both were found to be rather excited by the situation. Their meats jutted out and throbbed in response to all the attention.
"Turn around, pigs!" ordered Prospero. "Let the Signore see your better side!"
The brother was not inaccurate in his assessment; the asses were truly astounding. Cesare was told that their legs and asses were developed from lifting marble blocks being plundered from the newly excavated old Forum in the center of Rome. Their broad backs glistened in the torchlight. the With an impatient gesture, Borgia snarled, "Bend over!"
As if tutored in such a move, the duo moved as one, bending at the waist and, grasping their firm cheeks, spread them for an unobstructed view of their goods.
Borgia sucked air through his teeth. "Surely someone should be taking advantage of this!" he chided, eyeing the two fine ports of storm, as a man's hole was called at the time.
Prospero smiled broadly, knowingly. "Indeed, my lord!" He glanced questioningly at the torturers and guards in the room. "Have at them men," he said but raised a cautioning finger, "but, prego, signori, one at a time!"
A senior torturer and a guard were the first to take advantage of the situation.
The torturer pulled the dark haired fellow over to a table laden with torture implements, forcing him over it and plunged into him with gusto, ignoring the man's pained grunts at the dry intrusion. The fair one was told to grasp his ankles and the guard fingered the tight hole first, feeling its sticky warmth before entering it with a growl of pleasure.
"Ancora, amici!" Cesare called, satisfied with the heady aroma of man musk and the grunts of pleasure and sounds of belly slapping against assflesh filling the room. Scooping into the tub, he topped off the jug with fresh urine. With all in their places, the master scanned the room for an instant, smiling. "Incominciamo!"
He gently fingered Hercules' lips, gazing into the beseeching eyes, pouring an ample, steady yellow stream into Hercules mouth.The splashing mess dislodged the stray turd, hut enough entered the mouth that the by now familiar reaction was the same. Another jug, another weight, another tightening of the wrist brace...
A series of satisfied moans and a gasp of delight signaled the moment of the guard's bliss as he shot his hot seed into the serf, who struggled to maintain his balance as the man added a few final thrusts into his ass. Pulling out, the guard wiped his brow, shaking off the last drops of cum before he stuffed his spent tool back into his uniform breeches. "He's a tight one, signori!" he pronounced tapping his comrade on the shoulder for his turn at the man.
Cesare had begun another jug when the torturer finished with his serf. His body shuddered violently as he exploded into the hot hole with an almost violent ferocity. The brother always felt a peasant gave the best fuck, though he didn't know why. It was just a fact and it had proven true in this case. He had barely pulled out before one of the other torturers had taken his place, but chose to employ a few strokes of a short riding crop on the man's back. The serf whimpered appropriately as the blows fell and proved a pleasing counterpoint to Hercules' gurgling groans and writhing.
Night passed into day, the violet fingers of dawn coloring the tiny slice of sky Hercules could see out of a window from his vantage point. Seven more pitchers of piss entered him, his belly swelling dreadfully at each cycle. Though Cesare allowed little time for him to do so, Hercules managed to make some sound whenever he could, but it was to no avail. Part of him wanted to rip apart his bonds and slaughter his tormentors, part of him desperately wondered why God had allowed him, an innocent man, to endure such a thing, and part of him wanted to die, to end this horrible suffering.
A still larger part of him, a strange, emphatic, undying urge he had never experienced, demanded release from the pounding swirl of hunger and lust his pulsating manhood required. Though his body begged for air, for just one sweet unencumbered breath, his inner being wished his tormentor would plunge his heaving cock into him and satisfy his gaping ravenous hunger.
But Cesare, ever patient, ever happy to stand and inflict delicious, passionate suffering, poured yet one last jug of piss down his throat.
The final flow was a copious one, nearly stopped Hercules' heart. He struggled for breath as long as he could, and was grateful for the dusky grayness that flooded him like a fog. But it lasted no longer than it took a knowledgeable torturer to merely slacken the arm restraints, allowing Hercules' torso to be slanted downward, thereby lessening the pressure on the lungs. In a flash, as if the blackness had never happened, Hercules was awake and alert. Then the threatened beating began.
At first it was merely a torturer pressing down upon his bulging belly. The pain was exquisite, enormous. But then the punches began, sending radiating jolts of obscene agony into every corner of his body. With ever increasing severity the men pounded upon Hercules, no longer concentrating on just the abdominals, but even releasing his head from the brace to strike his face, sides, arms and legs. His head jerked about like a doll's as the men at last took to using the paddles, each blow echoing through the chamber like a shot.
After the beating had continued to a point where Hercules thought he would go mad at the pain, the master torturer deemed it appropriate to remove the linen strip. Cesare slowly ever so slowly pulled the linen out of Hercules' throat. The strip was encased in piss and mucous and blood, but its removal was a moment of marvelous relief for the giant. He tried to take in a breath, but the men beating him wouldn't allow it. Increasing the fury of their blows, it wasn't too long before a gush of piss and vomit cascaded from Hercules' mouth. It came in great, heaving waves, each one agony of unbelievable intensity, but each one relieving the pressure inside him.
Morning was full and bright by the time the last trickle of ooze had emptied from the Florentine. Still, his manhood remained hard, insistent.
Cesare was impressed. He had chosen well. "So, Hercules," he said, removing the mouth wedge, "save yourself from further misery. Will you confess?"
The man was silent for a long moment as he tried to form the words. His throat was slashed and raspy sore from the hours of abuse, and he coughed up bits of debris from the ordeal. "My lord, I..." prodigious round of coughing seized him and his battered torso wrenched about in almost as much agony as he had endured before. Slowly gathering his wits, he realized he didn't know what to say "Tell me the words, Signore, and I will say them."
The assembly roared with laughter. They had heard such a desperate plea for mercy before, but it was always met with derision. "That is no answer" Cesare said. "You'll have to do better. Will you confess?"
"If that is what you desire, lord!"
Cesare's manhood jerked, eager to release itself from so many hours of teasing lust. What Borgia desired was to fill this demigod's manhole with his hungry cock. He smiled wryly, shaking his head slowly. "I have not the time to play games, Florentine," he warned. "Look at you! Your bullocks are black and bruised, your limbs are torn from stretching and we haven't even begun to empty this tub of shit and piss and yet you refuse to confess. What sort of man are you?"
In a peculiar semi-wary state, Hercules felt as though his body was floating above the misery he felt. He lived for Cesare's voice. The very vibrations of the deep toned utterances came close to delivering his twitching cock to the point of orgasm. He found himself panicking at the thought of saying the wrong thing, saying something that would cause Borgia to release him.
Then Hercules had it...
"An innocent man."
Borgia's face belied a flickering smile. He was delighted to continue dealing with this, his first true victim, but now he had a different treat in store. It was time to treat the demigod to a taste of Borgia's personal attention.
"Release him," Cesare ordered. "Have him stand. But leave the weights on his balls."
"Yes, my lord," said the head torturer motioning his men into place. When the men lifted Hercules oft the wooden wedge, blood raced into the bruised area of his back that had supported his substantial weight for so long. The muscles of his joints and his stretched arms and legs were extraordinarily sensitive now and his stiff sinew rebelled; Hercules groaned loudly, but the sounds fell on accustomed ears. Forcing Hercules to his feet, two guards held him up, keeping a tight lock on his arms. Cesare stood before him.
"Ah, my Hercules," he said, playfully. "How brave you are! But, I wonder how is your belly?" He pushed on the anguished abdominal muscles with his palm.The pain was revolting; the squares sections of tissue cramping, seizing viciously compelling the prisoner to double up. It required two additional guards to bring him upright.
"And this..." he continued, grasping the demigod's still firm cock. It gave a compelling leap when the master touched it, increasing in girth and firmness. Cesare's eyes widened. "What a wonder you are, Hercules!" He stroked the meat, feeling it quiver and pulse. "What is it you want, I wonder?"
Swallowing to rid himself of the wave of nausea, Hercules dared to speak. "My lord, great Cesare Borgia..:' He gasped as another ripple of muscle cramps engulfed him at the same moment the duke squeezed down upon his manhood. His head fell back in a swirl of pain and ecstasy. Were they the same?
"Yes, Hercules, son of Zeus....continue."
"Signore, I pray you, please....pl..please do with me as you will..."
Cesare cocked an eyebrow. "That is a strange request, indeed, Florentine." He pursed his lips. In an unexpected move, he yanked on the straps holding the weights onto his balls, causing them to swing and clack together. Hercules yelped, his massive legs moving in a little jog of agony "Perhaps you're enjoying all of this a bit too much, eh?"
When Hercules could catch his breath, he continued. "My lord, you are sovereign here. I can do only as I'm bidden. I am your slave."