To Take Away His Voice

Fire from Heaven

The Warlord Samir was on a mission. He strode up the steps to the top level of the tower. Windows showed darkness outside, but the stairs were well-lit with lights from the orbs.

Tonight, Samir wore dark leathers: gloves, breeches, and shirt. Heavy boots encased his feet. The clothing was for a reason: it was protective.

In his hand, he carried a whip. It was not just any whip, but a bullwhip twice as long as Samir was tall. A steel ball weighted the pommel, and a steel rod stiffened the handle. The tightly-braided leather thong of the whip tapered along its entire length to the fall, a woven, steel-wire reinforced cord attached to a tufted cracker.

It could do significant damage to human skin and flesh. The taper ensured that the generated power wave travelled down the length of the whip with increasing speed until near the end, it became faster than sound itself. This design caused the explosive crack and gave the whip its devastating cutting effect.

He reached the top chamber. Two guards stationed there wrestled open the heavy door. As Samir passed them, they turned and followed him in.

Brynnan, still naked, sat on his floor pallet. His body bore developing bruises from the beating he had taken from the guards earlier that day. He stood up as the Warlord and the guards entered. When he caught sight of the bullwhip, his eyes briefly widened, but that was all.

“I am bringing you the punishment I promised earlier,” Samir told the Bard. “I did not give you permission to attack my henchman, no matter what he was doing to you. He likely will be unable to speak again, and that is unacceptable.”

Brynnan was silent. He had nothing to say to the Warlord’s assertions. They were accurate, and Brynnan could offer no defence, even though he was undergoing rape before attacking his abuser.

“Kneel when I speak to you, Bard,” Samir commanded.

Brynnan promptly sank to his knees. Disobedience was not an option when facing the Warlord’s burning anger.

In the absence of the two torturers, Samir instructed the guards as he unlocked the wooden chest on the heavy table, “Prepare him. Collar him and chain him up.”

Samir held the claw collar out to the older guard, and the man took it. He placed the collar around Brynnan’s neck and locked it. Meanwhile, the other guard rigged a long chain from a pulley on the ceiling hook to the collar. Taking his arms, the guards pulled the Bard to his feet then manacled his hands in the front. They attached a short spreader bar between his ankles that ensured he could not execute a high kick like he had used to disable his rapist. Then the older guard tightened the chain, leaving barely any slack.

The forward binding of his hands was no mercy: it was a cruel reminder that he was unable to grasp the chain above with his injured wrists and hands to prevent the claw collar from piercing his throat. His life would depend on his sense of balance.

The Warlord walked behind the Bard, placing himself at an optimal distance to accommodate the reach of the bullwhip.

“Stand clear,” he instructed the guards, who hurried towards the door.

Brynnan tried to prepare himself, although he knew nothing would help. His two torturers had beaten him daily for the past year with a variety of implements, but he had experienced the bullwhip only once before, and that had been just six strokes. He sincerely had not wanted the experience repeated, but now it seemed inevitable.

“Bard, you will count each stroke. There will be thirty.”

Brynnan heard the number with dismay. He could accept punishment with stoicism, but this was different, chained as he was. He wondered if he would survive and not fall.

The wait for the first stroke seemed interminable. And suddenly, it came in a loud crack and an incredible explosion of pain. It was like a lightning strike; it was Fire from Heaven; it was like nothing he had experienced before, beyond compare with the smaller bullwhip his torturers had used.

He stiffened in shock before he remembered to call out: “One . . .” and his voice shook.

He again heard a howling noise like a sudden wind, and the explosion occurred a second time, the searing pain radiating through his entire body. This time he staggered slightly and caught himself before he could fall, but he felt the warning prick of the claws and could feel a trickle of blood on his throat.

“If you fail to count, I will add an extra stroke,” he heard the Warlord say.

“Two!”

Then without pause, the third stroke arrived.

By the tenth stroke, streaks of blood painted his neck, and Brynnan thought he would pass out. In his previous experience, repeated strokes of a whip had built up a numbing effect as his body’s natural painkillers kicked in. This experience was far different. Each blow of the bullwhip was like the first one in its shock and intense pain. All Brynnan’s efforts were concentrated on staying upright and as immobile as possible; however, Samir cruelly varied the timing of each stroke, so there was no rhythm to help the Bard acclimatize.

By the twentieth stroke, Brynnan was barely conscious but still standing, although his legs were trembling, and he felt on the point of collapse. The blood from the collar’s claw wounds flowed down his chest, just as he could feel rivulets of blood on his back and ass.

By the thirtieth stroke, the Bard was nearly out of his mind with the pain. Tears poured down his face, but he did not beg for mercy; that would have been futile in any case. Brynnan survived to stay upright only because Samir had paused to give himself a break at every ten strokes.

Then the two guards unclipped the chain and removed the manacles and spreader bar. They had to half-drag him back to the pallet, where he sank to his knees and bowed his head. He felt dizzy and weak from the effects of shock and was only dimly aware when they left the chamber and closed the door.

There was silence. Then Brynnan heard the creak of leather and the sharp click of nailed boots on the stone floor approaching him.

“Look up!” Samir’s voice commanded.

Brynnan did so, meeting the Warlord’s eyes. The cold gaze pierced him.

“Have you learned to obey me, Bard?” Samir asked softly.

“Yes—Lord.”

“In future, whatever anyone does to you, I want you to endure it. I will not countenance such behaviour from you again. I will deal with the consequences, not you. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Lord.”

“You did well to hold up,” Samir said unexpectedly, “and you can still speak.”

Confused, Brynnan did not know if this was dark humour on the Warlord’s part. He said nothing. Then he felt a leather-gloved hand in his sweat-tangled hair, pulling him in towards Samir’s crotch. Only then did he notice the bulging hard-on as the Warlord slowly unpacked his meat.

Brynnan took the large and stiff cock in his mouth and sucked. He directed his remaining strength into satisfying the Warlord, despite the pain in his throat and the black spots that danced in his vision. He could not rush this occasion but tried to give all the pleasure he was capable of providing through the miasmic curtain of pain. He concentrated on the aroma of leather and sweat that assailed him. He registered Samir’s grunts of satisfaction and continued his efforts, willing away his exhaustion.

Samir wound his fingers tighter in Brynnan’s hair and fucked his mouth. Then he released a hot, spurting load of cum with a groan, and Brynnan swallowed all of it.

The Warlord left after that, leaving the Bard naked, shivering, bleeding and agonized. Eventually, crouched in a fetal position, he drifted into an uneasy semi-sleep.

He roused late in the night to the sound of the door opening again. A tall, cloaked, shadowy figure moved to stand over him, dimly illuminated by the soft light of a single lamp. Brynnan felt his heart beating in fear.

Samir’s voice reached him, speaking in hushed tones, “Get up, Bard.”

Brynnan tried to struggle upright, wondering what new torture Samir had in store for him. Therefore, he was surprised when the Warlord reached down and helped him to kneel before holding a flask to his lips. Brynnan swallowed the liquor. It tasted bittersweet and intense, flooding his body with a wave of heat and speeding up his heartbeat.

The Warlord assisted him to his feet, with Brynnan clutching the thin blanket around him. The blood had dried, sticking the covering to his back. He half expected Samir to rip it from him, but the Warlord instead guided him to the door. There were no guards present.

They made their way down one flight of stairs to the next level down, with Samir supporting the Bard. Several doors opened off the hallway, and they entered the bathing room door.

Brynnan was allowed to piss before he sank facedown onto a bench and watched as the Warlord stripped himself of his clothes. The light of the orbs revealed his powerful and muscular body. Brynnan noticed the thick, greying hair on his chest and the scars: Samir had plenty of them from conflicts he had fought. His heavy cock hung down, resting on substantial balls.

When he turned his back, Brynnan started in shock. The Warlord bore the unmistakable scars of a bullwhip. They were old; they were white, slightly knotted seams crisscrossing the flesh. At one time, had Samir been a prisoner himself? The Bard abandoned the mystery for now. He did not have the energy to pursue it.

Samir turned a lever on the wall, and a narrow waterfall began to pour down from a high ledge. He brought the Bard under the water’s stream. It was warm, but Brynnan still cried out aloud as the water touched his raw wounds. But Samir took a sponge and began to remove the stuck-on blanket with unexpected gentleness.

Brynnan knew from firsthand experience that Samir was a competent field surgeon: a warrior had to be, on the battlefield with wounded comrades. The Bard had once taken an arrow in the back as he performed a dangerous mission for the Warlord, and Samir had tended it with skill. But this present gentleness of touch had the Bard unsettled and off-balance. He endured more pain as, despite the care, the soaked cloth peeled away from his torn skin. Nevertheless, the water began to revive him.

After Samir had finished, he took one of the stacked towels and dried the unmarked areas of Brynnan’s body. The wounds were left to air dry.

They entered the upper chamber again before Samir spoke to him. “We will wait some days for you to heal before I continue your torture. It will take weeks for full healing, but I only need you to be able to lie on your back. This is necessary for your next session. In the morning, I will send someone new to attend you—” He gave Brynnan a knowing look, “—and you will rest and prepare yourself mentally for a submission the likes of which you have never before dreamed of.”

Samir pulled the bloodied sheet from the pallet and tossed it aside, motioning for the Bard to lie down. Brynnan did so, easing himself onto his stomach and shivering against the cold.

The Warlord turned to the table and took items from a packet he had brought. He opened a jar of salve, knelt beside Brynnan, and gently applied some to the wounds on his back, sides and ass. Next, he covered them with large pieces of gauze: the ointment would prevent them from sticking to the cuts. To the Bard’s surprise, Samir then took his own long, wine-dark cloak from his shoulders and carefully laid it over Brynnan.

“I may get blood on it, Lord,” he protested.

“It has absorbed more blood than yours,” Samir retorted, “Rest now.”

Samir left him, and Brynnan wondered what the Warlord meant. However, he did not dwell on the mysteries for long before drowsiness overtook him. This time, he managed to sleep.

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