Cesare continues to torture "Hercules" and soon drags in Carlo to join in the festivities. (Page 2)
The Papal Bull - Part 4 (Page 2)
by C.S White
Art by Cavelo
Series: The Papal Bull
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The moment he had longed for was upon him, and Borgia was breathless.
Squaring his shoulders, he positioned his heaving cock, savoring the writhing man before him. Plunging his pole into Carlo's tightness was a celestial event, more perfect than Borgia could imagine. The hot flesh enclosed the giant tube, squeezing its moist firmness around the pulsing organ. Jamming his eager insistent pelvis into the twin cheeks was delight enough, but it was only heightened by the twin cries and screams of the men as their tender flesh was ripped into by the whips, and, of course, Carlo's all too sweet flailing and flinching and twisting as he reeled from the flogging and the violation. He pled for Cesare to stop, his voice wild with pain and degradation.
"Yes, oh, yesssss," Cesare whispered, throatily as he jammed his cock home. How the cries for mercy pleased him! Cesare's breath caught in his throat, his heart smashing savagely in his heaving chest. Glancing down at the torchlit back, reddish gold with the scourges prints, he watched, transfixed as if in a pious ecstasy, as Carlo's muscles rippled and rolled beneath the beating. Each stroke sent waves of the precious tissue roiling and bunching, extending even up into his shoulders and arms. His beautiful head tossed and jerked about as it strove to cope with the havoc and disgrace.
A few feet away, Hercules' body was a vision of thrilling, mindless agony, as every ounce of his strength fought to bear the bull's bite. As the stinging blows fell on every inch of his exposed torso, the savagery ripped bitter yells from his throat, his voice now gutted and hoarse, sometimes allowing only hollow air to pass into the room. His violent struggles sent his bent body careening about on the chain tether resulting in added agony from the ball weights, all clacking percussively in accompaniment to the vocal duet.
The torturers had, almost unconsciously, set up an alternating rhythm of strokes upon their victims' bodies, coinciding perfectly with their lord and master's pelvic thrusts. Across the room, the guards and idle torturers massaged their own meats, and each others, one of the guards falling to his knees, swallowing a monk's considerable meat with expert ease.The assembly's added grunts and moans filled Borgia with a special, unnameable pride. It was his will that created this world, and he pronounced it perfect.
Carlo, exhausted, his baser brain now controlling his battered body, cared only to stop the pain, contorting and flailing in helpless, wailing contortions. Despite the torturer's best efforts, the already fatigued flesh of Pompino's back had given way to a steady flow of blood, some of it splashing Cesare's person, but the lord of pain did not care. Licking drops of blood from his face where his tongue could reach it, the metallic taste fired his loins all the more and his thrusts became manic. Bellowing a roar of all consuming passion and satisfaction, he felt his mighty cockhead tense and swell. Packing his abundant rod into Carlo's now-bloody hole with short, sharp ramming motions, the great Cesare Borgia tossed his head back and screamed his full release. The torturers knew their master's needs well, it was time and began battering their subjects with enough frenzy to send their howls screeching into choirboy ranges. The bench beneath Carlo groaned and creaked ominously as his rage and desire to quit the pain nearly ripped the thing apart.
But none of this happened before Cesare exploded into him, the searing seed filling the cavity. So much of it squirted into him that the cum slid from between Cesare's cock and Carlo's ass, striking Borgia's chest. Breathless and spent, Cesare slung his head to rid his eyes of his heavy sheen of sweat, pumping out a few final moments of the sheer elation the climax had given him.
His chest heaving, with shimmering beads of cum mingling with the flows of sweat sliding down those curving contours, Borgia motioned the flogger away and he collapsed upon Carlo's battered, slashed back The victim's bellows declined to muffled cries and moans, while Hercules' suffering ended, too, the torturer laying one final, memorable blow to the weighted balls. The man could yelp no more, his vocal cords bruised and useless, but his heaves and sobs were audible. Cersare glanced at the Florentine, his undulating body swaying, hanging limp and heavy from the bar. The body rotated slowly, lazily, allowing Borgia to view the red hatching of the flogger's art covering Hercules. The exhausted victim's head hung back, and Cesare shivered with desire as he glimpsed the handsome face; even in the spent moments after his explosion inside Carlo, the master's prick shifted, awakening, hungry for more. He had not forgotten his pledge to the prisoner.
The torturers began to lower Hercules, but Cesare stopped them. "Let him hang another day." He smiled to himself rubbing his hands across Carlo's back, reaching down to the man's shoulders, feeling the victim shudder beneath him. "We'll finish with him then. I'll be sure to wear my studded boots for his miserable tongue to lick."
Cesare sighed deeply, his dark angels speaking to him still. He was in another world, one colored by power control, pain and shattered bodies. This was his heaven. Here he was God.
THE GUARDS APPEARED WITH THE Castillian, his long, lanky form thick with ropey, virgin muscles. His juicy, Spaniard meat hung low and thick, waving heavily as the men held him before their lord. The man's eyes were arresting, so blue, so very, very blue, hiding behind a shock of jet black hair. Hiding. Afraid.
Afraid of him, Cesare Borgia. And the papal bull shivered in impatience and expectation. What would he do to this man? What would his cries sound like? There was only one way to find out.
Though prodigious in his enthusiasm and stamina for his specialized interests and could go for extended periods without sustenance -- his victims' misery was nourishment enough --from time to time, even the forbidding Cesare Borgia had to take food and drink. Extensive kitchens had been constructed near the papal dungeons expressly for Cesare's lengthy sessions in the fortress, assuring that food would be available at an hour. His adjutant saw to it that a wide array of hot food was in readiness at all times for pauses in the course of a day's torture.
Taking the opportunity to enter with the jailers delivering the Spaniard, the adjutant preceded a pair of servants, each carrying a giant silver salver heaped with the most savory of delicacies.
The rich aroma filled the chamber and the master turned, suddenly realizing that he was, indeed, ravenously hungry. Standing naked before the husky servants, who were bidden to fall to their knees, avert their eyes, but above all, hold the unwieldy platters stock still as their master chose his meal, Borgia picked his way through an abundance of meats, cheeses, fruits and breads, all washed down by the heady Tuscan wines he so favored.
In the corridor a pair of jailers escorting a prisoner past the chamber opening caught Cesare's eye. Borgia called to them, and they ushered their captive into the cell.
Cesare clapped his hands together, rubbing them vigorously in excitement. "Ah, I though I recognized this vile dog!" he exclaimed. Even in his idle mealtimes, Borgia had the will and mettle to afflict enemies of the State.
The vile dog to which Cesare referred was Tomaso Martinelli, a former member of the valiant and legendary Papal Guard. Chosen from among the best of the Ecclesiastical Forces protecting the pope's domain, the Guard was stringently exclusive and promotion to such rarefied levels virtually ensured a man's success in any future endeavor he chose. Martinelli had been considered by many as the chosen successor for the post of captain of the guard, and would have been one of the youngest men to achieve that rank, had not scandal tainted his rise. Few could believe it when Martinelli, a ravishingly handsome young man with a profile virtually impossible to ignore, was arrested by Cesare's men on the charge of embezzlement and blackmail.
Of average height, but with strapping broad shoulders, the guard turned all heads as he processed with the Papal party. When all eyes should have been upon the Vicar of Christ, they were all instead following the stunning youth whose ample brawn filled out the retinue uniform.
Convicted even before his trial began, Martinelli was condemned to servitude and imprisonment within the Castel Sant'Angelo, the better to keep him where Cesare could view the former guard in degrading circumstances; the sentence length was never determined in the "trial". That detail would be left up to Cesare himself. Never too busy to personally see to such minutia, the papal son decreed that Martinelli's punishment would be to wear a huge wooden yoke for one year. The yoke was a disc, cut in equal halves and hinged at one end with a hole in the center for the neck, and two more positioned close to the edges for each wrist. At four feet in diameter and nearly four inches thick, the oak circle was onerously heavy. Resting on Martinelli's shoulders for only three weeks, the device had already scraped away the top layers of skin and had exhausted the naked young man to distraction.With his hands fixed tight, part of the torment was the inability to feed himself or to see to his sanitary needs, both a great humiliation to someone like Martinelli. Depending on the mercy of the papal employees within the fortress, his food intake was generally nothing more than a few scraps of bread tossed close enough onto the yoke for him to tilt into his mouth.The jailers were careful to give him just enough water to keep him from collapsing completely.
Martinelli's main duties consisted of turning a millstone from dawn until midnight; the thick pole jutting from the mill's center stone was chained to the prisoner's waist and he dragged the thing behind him in endless, maddeningly similar circles. The weight, combined with that of the yoke, was nearly immovable, but a slave driver, armed with a wicked whip, drove him onward. It was a hard, bitter life.
"So, Martinelli," sneered Borgia, "I see you're still with us." He grasped the yoke's edge, jostling the thing about; the still agile prisoner moved with the yoke, something he had learned very quickly, to lessen the discomfort. Cesare was impressed with his deftness. "You seem to be having little trouble with your new friend. Perhaps I should see to it that it's made a bit heavier." He motioned about the room. "As you can see, His Holiness would not begrudge the use of some of his ballast stones."
Careful not to look his tormentor in his eyes, Martinelli spoke softly, though the underlying edge of acid hate was evident. "Signore, prego..." he began, licking his dry lips, "Having displeased His Holiness and yourself is punishment enough."
Cesare arched an eyebrow. "Well spoken, Martinelli!"The master could not help but notice the prisoner eyeing the laden platters of food. "But you must be famished after nearly a month of this .."
Martinelli swallowed hard, and nodded. "Yes, lord, but I will survive."
Cesare patted the man's sculpted cheek. "But you're getting thin, Martinelli. Mere survival for a former member of the Guard is unacceptable. You should work harder at your daily duties. Only by hard work are you to free yourself from your dishonor." Taking the prisoner's chin in his hand, he turned the face back and forth. "And you were once so handsome... it's a pity to see such a visage waste away."
"Yes, Signore. Thank you."
"But I see my meal has distracted you. How careless of me. Here..." Borgia idly passed a finger over the trays, searching for something to give the young man. "Ah! Here is the perfect thing..." He plucked something from the horde. "Squillo!"
"Signore!"
"Bring nails and a hammer."
"At once, Signore."
Borgia held up a perfectly roasted chicken, plump and juicy, its golden skin fairly glowing in the torchlight. The aroma caused Martinelli's taste buds to flare painfully. His eyes widened. "Yes, I see that you're hungry, guard," said Cesare. "Would this suit you?"
Martinelli scarcely knew what to say, but managed to nod gratefully. "Signore, yes. If it please you."
"Well, it would please me, Martinelli, really, it would. But, as you know, I cannot contradict my sentence by actually giving you food. What kind of precedence would that set, you see?You must fend for yourself." The prisoner's heart sank. "Instead..." Borgia slapped the chicken carcass on the yoke in front of Martinelli's mouth, horribly, achingly close, but just far enough away for the guard to have no hope of reaching it, however he might strain. Cesare had Squillo nail it there.
"Now... it's up to you, brave guard. You may eat your fill of all you can manage to reach. Do your best."
The smell of the meat was heavenly and devilish. It made Martinelli's knees weak to imagine what a single mouthful of the chicken would taste like, so very near...
He moved his head forward a bit, then a little more, trying to tilt the yoke to best advantage, but it did no good. He pushed his tongue out, hoping to at least taste the food. It was just beyond the organ's reach. Cesare laughed at the eager, useless attempts. He knew he had just discovered a new misery to add to his list. He decreed that some freshly prepared meat should be attached to Martinelli's yoke every few days until his sentence was up.
"Ah, my dear Tantalus!" Borgia sneered, referring to the mythic king of Lydia sentenced by the gods to have food and drink forever just beyond his reach. "How pitiful you are!" Such derision was the hardest for Martinelli to bear and his face reddened. "Guards!" Borgia called, "away with this man. His duties will be doubled for today, since he is late getting to work."
One of the guards bowed. "Yes, lord." The men pushed Martinelli toward the door.
"And don't be sparing of the lash for him today!" Borgia called after them.
The guard assented and the sweet sound of leather against flesh echoed through the corridor until the trio had vanished.
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