Note: For a unique experience, check out Jardonn’s own excellent website that shares the hero-in-distress fantasy; I especially enjoy the audio story files. —Aquadude
A DAY FOR FAMILY
They have told me you are stronger than most. Seeing is believing, but I already knew before my arrival that you must be a man of high quality. How did I know? Because the Tribunal only requests my assistance when they lose patience. Only when they have tired of watching their interrogators apply standard methods and get nowhere do they summon me.
I am here. You must now deal with me, but first allow me some time to read the decree pertaining to you. Matthew Dowler… guilty of plotting rebellion against the King… King’s Tribunal orders you be put to torture… confess your crimes… name your co-conspirators… so on, so forth. Very standard fare, and too bad for you.
They also told me you have yet to utter one single word. Most impressive, Dowler. So far, so good for you. Now, it is my turn to ask some questions, but I really don’t care whether you answer them or not. What do you think of my dungeon? Every device you see is my idea, and you probably have noticed that I prefer a tact of less is more. Keeping things simple. That defines me.
Take, for instance, that wooden bench you are on. A fine example of simplicity, don’t you think? Perfect height, elevating you to just below a standing man’s waist level. Notice how the bench is of length so that the edge at one end cuts into your buttocks, while at the other end it slices into your shoulder blades. Appropriately, your head is not supported by the bench. That way you can let your head fall so you can see the chain wrapping your wrists together, along with the chain connected to your wrist chain as it travels a straight line to the floor, where it winds around a hand-cranked turning axle bolted to the floor, where a locking pin can keep the chain at a tension of my choosing, thus stretching your arms beyond your head and pulling them down toward the floor. Is that simple enough for you, Dowler?
Of course, since the bench does not support your head you must strain your neck if you care to see the rest of your body. But then, why would you bother? Surely you can feel the metal rings clamped to your ankles. Sense that the rings are bolted to the floor and positioned so your heels nearly touch the floor, and your legs are wishboned far apart. Do you wonder if your leg bones might separate from your hips? Does it make you hope I will further stretch your arms and give you some relief in your hips?
Difficult decision for you, I suppose, but I’m sure you can at least admire the simplicity of my bench device. Oh, and one more set of questions regarding my bench. How do you like its height? Is two and a half feet about right? Does it sufficiently put pressure on your backbone, considering your hands and feet are so near the floor? For you, Dowler, emphasis on backbone; for me, elevation of your chest, abdomen and groin. My bench conveniently lifts your torso, making it available to me so I don’t have to bend over. Why, even the simplest of simpletons should appreciate the simplicity of my back-breaking stretch rack bench, Dowler, so would you like to commend me, or should we move on?
Silence is fine for now, so let me read of what has happened so far. No, wait, before we get to that let me ask you this. Don’t you find it odd that the Tribunal keeps a detailed list of the tortures perpetrated upon their victims? It is all here. What the interrogators do. What they say. What their prisoners say. The sounds they make, and anything else worth noting.
I suppose the Tribunal needs their writings for when they report to the King, and I know those three men are devoutly committed to their Christian faith, but do you suppose one or more of them might revisit the diaries from time to time? Say, in private? Say, when not outfitted in sanctimonious robes? Perhaps when memories of certain victims can stimulate a form of self-satisfaction? Should I take my thought to its end, Dowler? No? You turn your head no? Well, I am pleased we are beginning to have some form of conversation.
Yes, I will grant you that each member of the King’s Tribunal takes his religion quite seriously. Takes his piety to ridiculous heights, which is why they had their interrogators spread a hanky over your genitals. The rest of you is laid bare, but not until your penis was covered did the Tribunal enter the room. To them, your peter is evil and they do not want to see it. Silly, isn’t it? You have soaked your hanky with urine, so I can see what’s under there as clearly as if you were uncovered, and yet, the hanky remains.
I suppose they feel safer when your tool of the devil is under wraps, but no matter now. They are no longer here. The dungeon is cleared. They have turned the process over to me, and this brings me to the point of my argument. Why do they not continue to sit on their altar looking down at you? Why will they not be here to witness and write down what happens to you from here on? Why do they expect me to remember what is done, how you react, what you say?
Doesn’t make sense. There will be a huge gap of time and details in their list. I certainly won’t have time to write everything down for them. Not until our time together has ended. Not until you confess. Not until you name names. Those are the only items I will add to their list, so, I ask you, why do they not need the details of what I do to you in between? Shouldn’t they know how I made you talk? Won’t they be curious as to why, after their tortures produced nothing, you were so completely broken — and you will be broken — by the tortures of a fiend?
It is what those three say about me, you know. I am fiendishly perverted. Or pervertedly fiendish. I’ve heard them whisper it both ways, and that, Dowler, is why the Tribunal only summons me as a last resort. Do you have a better understanding of me now? Are you trying to imagine what their description of me might mean for you? Do I detect a tiny tinge of dread on your upside-down face? Is my hard man softening just a touch?
This is promising, but let me get back to the list. Think I’ll sit down to read it. Rest my weary bones. Your stomach should make a nice cushion. I’ll just toss my leg over you and make myself comfortable. Ah, you smell of dried sweat. Freshly made. Not the many-days-layered, nose-burning variety. I am pleased to know my instructions were followed. You were bathed before you were tortured. It is almost as though your aromas belong to me.
Now, let me see… ah, yes, they started you with the belts. Did the taste of leather striking your chest cause you concern? I am told you are a field worker. If so, your labors must be near to that of a beast of burden, because you are built like an ox. Never have I seen a chest so mighty. Your rib cage, so wide, so deep, so handsomely elevated by my bench. I can still see faint lines of red where the belts beat down upon you, but no blood. There will be none, in case you are wondering.
Bleeding does us no good. I finally convinced the Tribunal of this fact. Bleeding will not make a man talk. It only weakens him. Causes him to sleep, or in the worst case, die. Too many have died before they talked, and so our interrogators have strict instructions not to break the skin. Doing so will result in their own torture upon whatever device their victim endured. As a logical man, I insist the rule never be broken. As a fiendish man, I cannot fathom the idea of permanently scarring such masculine perfection. You, Dowler, field worker, are a prime example of why I insist upon the rule. Does this not bring you at least some relief? Knowing that with me in charge your skin will not be broken? No need to express your gratitude. I can feel your stomach muscles softening just a bit beneath me. You have relaxed to the extent your stretching allows. You are grateful, and I say you are welcome.
Since we are on the subject of your stomach, I have another question. I see from my list that at some time while the belts whipped your chest, a club was used on your belly. I am curious. Did your muscles hold up well during this pounding? Perhaps if I reverse my direction by turning around and sitting on your chest, I can judge for myself.
Goodness! Seems as though your yellowed hanky is miles away. Your positioning on my bench separates your rib cage from your pelvic bone as far as humanly possible, and what lies between is quite a sight. Let me press my clawed fingertips into you so I can test your strength. Yes, spongy on the surface, but just beneath is a solid wall of stone. My fingertips can go no deeper. The list says that initially, one club was used, and then a second. Two clubs were brought down on you. Two clubs working in harmony. From the left and down. From the right and down. Ruthless. Relentless. Pulverizing every inch of your abdomen, covering the same territory my kneading fingers now test.
(Note to self: my fingers digging into his gut made his scrotum clench… his penis moved.)
Next, the assault came in fours. Two belts to your chest, two clubs to your belly. Questions asked. Your body besieged by another click of the stretching chain. A period of rest. A drink of water. A dousing of your head with water. Questions asked. Another round of torture. Another rest. Another round, and on and on until all interrogators and all questioners were exhausted, and through it all you uttered not one word. How is it possible? Do you have no tongue? Do you not know our language? Do you come from another world? The animal kingdom? Mount Olympus? Tell me, field hand Dowler, are you more manly than the manliest of all men?
If it were not my duty to break you, I know I’d be happy to praise you. That, I’m afraid, cannot happen, but I do have the means to reward you. I hear gates opening down the corridor, which means soon we will have visitors. Let me lift off of you so you can rest. Bask in your small victory, Dowler, and make ready for your guests.
* * *
It is at this time I exit the dungeon, leaving the door open so that Matthew Dowler, stretched atop my torture bench, can be seen from the hallway. Prison cells line the hallway, and guards stand watch over people I earlier had ordered be brought to the castle. Specifically, Dowler’s wife and children.
My first stop, the cell holding Dowler’s two daughters. Pitiful farming urchins in their feed sack clothing. Their eyes, half-curious, half-fearful, peer from behind dust-caked faces.
“What is your age, child? Twelve? That’s lovely. And yours, my dear? Nine? How precious. Come with me, children,” I take their grimy hands. “Let us visit your father.”
They yank free from my grips as soon as they see him. Running, they enter the dungeon and throw themselves across his chest. Lift his head and kiss his face. Oh, papa this; oh, papa that. Papa boo hoo, what have they done to you? Boo hoo, goo goo, yuck yuck.
I have good reason for tolerating the drivels of snot-nosed children. I thought their presence might soften him. Make him remember that the little humans he helped create depended upon him. At the very least I thought Dowler might speak to them. Words of comfort. Words to allay their fears, but no. This hard-as-nails he-man stays silent, and I have heard all I can endure from his whimpering offspring.
“Guards, bring them to me.” The daughters of Dowler are dragged off of him and presented to me. “My darling children, I do believe your shrieks of horror will work in my favor, so I will allow you to stay in the next room.”
Prison cell number 1. My favorite, because a metal grate in the wall near the ceiling allows sound to pass from dungeon to cell. They will hear, but not see, their parents and me. “Guards, lock them into cell number 1.”
As they are herded away, their crying is already music to my ears. When the guards return I ask, “Are the wife and sons properly secured? No sons? What do you mean? They were not working the fields with the others? Interesting. Never mind, just bring me the wife.”
Enter the sow. A preposterous personage of porcine proportions. Pity the husband. Her appearance in the doorway prompts me to ask him, “Dowler, if the situation is so grim down on the farm, why does your wife carry a width nearly equal to her height? Does she devour your crops before you can get them to market?”
A scowl is his answer, and then he turns to watch his wife struggle toward him.
Since, per my instruction, her wrists were chained behind her back, her ankles secured in leg irons as soon as the castle gate closed behind the wagon they rode in on, the wife can only shuffle to her husband and mouth him when she gets there. Kisses all over his face. Tears dripping onto his chin, his neck, his arm pits.
While she questions him about all that has been done to him, pleads with him to tell what he knows so they can all go home, I tell the guards to leave the room. “Do not bother looking for his sons. Their father will tell me.”
I lock the door. Close the hinged metal plate to cover the door’s window, and we are alone in the dungeon. Just me and the Dowler’s, with their daughters in an adjacent room within ear range.
My first priority is to pick up a club. Even though the woman’s movements are restricted, any freedom of movement is a potential threat to me. With my free hand I grab a bushel of her grease-laden hair and yank, forcing her to stand. We are near his wrists, to his right, and facing each other.
“He will not speak to you,” I explain. “Nor to me. He is a man of exceptional strength.”
My voice has quieted the children in the adjacent cell. Tragic creatures are starved for information and have put on their listening ears.
Speaking loudly, I tell the wife, “The King’s henchmen, of which I am not one, have whipped your husband’s chest with leather belts. They have beaten his belly with wooden clubs just like the one I’m holding.” I wave mine before her eyes. “They have stretched him much worse than the way you see him now, and through it all he has held his tongue. Your husband is an incredible man. You are more than fortunate that he is your man. You are his wife. It is your duty to serve him, and I hereby order you to serve him right now.”
The blank look of cluelessness on her face is priceless. Brings me much joy, and I instill my laughter with a dose of evil. “Woman, I am ordering you to shuffle yourself to the end of the bench. Drop to your knees. Remove that pissy handkerchief from your man’s manhood, and serve him with your mouth. Now do you understand?”
Her cries of protest bring me even greater joy. My laughter this time is overdosed with evil. “You ridiculous sow. What do you mean, not with your children so near? Your daughters will be properly curious. In days to come they will ask you, ‘Mama, what were those sounds you and papa were making? Mama, what did he mean, serve papa with your mouth?’ This incident will inspire you to show your daughters the tricks of your trade. How to hook a man fish. Hook him so he will never swim away. They will someday be wives, and they will be expected to perform the service any time their husband desires it.”
I lean to my side, placing my hand on Dowler’s chest, supporting myself while emphasizing my point. “I, for one, cannot understand why you would not immediately do as I order. He has suffered greatly for you, your daughters, and an unknown number of others. Look at him,” my hand gently squeezes his pectoral. “How could you deny him? Are you as foolish as you look? I should beat you with this club for your being so obstinate.”
Her blank-faced bewilderment when I use a big word makes it difficult for me to remain stern, but I do soldier on. “You should be thrashed for your disobedience, for your sheer stupidity, but unfortunately for him that is not how it works. This is what happens when you refuse to do as I say.”
I storm past her. Move to the crank. “Watch and listen, you ungrateful pig.” I turn the crank. The locking pin clicks… one: Matthew Dowler moans… two: he groans… three clicks, he howls and growls. Teeth clenching. Muscles straining. He struggles to hold his joints together.
A sight to behold: his magnificent muscles withstand horrific stretching. A concert to absorb: his masculine voice sounds the charge to do battle. Contrasting his music, the shrieks of his terrorized daughters echo stone walls and nearly pierce eardrums. And for comedic relief, his wife, in her haste to obey me and save her husband, forgets that she is shackled in leg irons. She stumbles and tumbles to the floor face first.
I guffaw. I nearly fall to the floor myself, so weakened are my knees with laughter, but once I get myself under control I grab her hair and pull her up so she can kneel. Fortunately, the flab of her gut and cushion of her humongous breasts have protected her face and nose from damage. “Go, woman. Walk on your knees. Hurry, before he rips apart.”
More hilarity. Her garment extends past her knees, and with each knee-step she pulls it further down. Breasts pop out. The thin fabric rips in back, from the neckline down, until her entire outfit falls to her knees in a heap. As she makes the turn past his right foot, she manages to knee-step over the rag, dragging it at her ankles when she finally arrives within range of his pissy hanky. Her knees are in his puddle of pee, but I doubt she notices or cares. She is on a mission to save him from being torn asunder, and she deftly grabs the cock-covering cloth with her lips. Yanks it aside. Drops it to the floor, exposing her husband.
“No, Melissa,” he shouts. “Don’t do it.”
At first startled, I am tempted to dance a joyful jig. He has spoken! A stunning accomplishment on my part, and now it is my turn. “Woman, I will count to five. If your man is not in your mouth by then, I will turn this crank three more clicks. Then you will take him home to be buried in pieces, and we will know who is to blame. One… two…”
That does it. She opens her jaw wide and engulfs his flaccid peter, frantically bobbing her head up and down like a seed-pecking bird.
Dowler says nothing, but then, he has been dealing with the severe anguish of a severe stretching for nearly ten minutes. Between his gasps for air and groans of resistance, he has little incentive for gab.
True to my word, I run to the crank. Give back three clicks, lessening his stretching from agonizing to lightweight. His head falls. Flexing muscles relax. His mouth is agape, eyes closed, as he pants like an overheated dog. One sound, low tone, repeatedly and rapidly exhales past his lips: uh… uh… uh, more air than voice.
While he recovers, I stand to his right and admire my creation. This man, with his barreled chest projecting so gloriously into the air, his rising and falling belly so dramatically dropping a steep decline from his sternum, presents a scene far more exciting than any who have come before him. Add to that the simple fact he is a man stripped naked, chained and helpless, while a slavish female exploits his defenseless manhood, and I must fight the urge to expose my own penis and bring myself to climax.
As I expected, the woman has never before sucked peter. She slobbers. She makes gagging sounds. She wrenches her neck to a frazzle, and his cock is at best half-interested. “Woman,” I instruct, “continue serving him. I can hear your slurping, so try no trickery while I speak with him.”
With that I toss my leg over his chest and sit myself down. Atop his chest. Facing him. Reaching for his hair, I raise his head. Wedge my club behind his neck and atop his triceps, giving him support. Forcing him to look at me. “Now, Matthew Dowler, field worker, strong man, bull ox, I will ask the questions you must answer. That is, if you want to leave this room in one piece.”
He looks at me with anger, but just behind the mask is a trace of dread. His sense of vulnerability taking effect. “Why are you doing this to me?”
“I’m not doing anything to you. She is trying to do something, but with little success. The rest of it you do to yourself.”
“What must I do to make it stop?”
“Name names. Most of all, now, tell me the whereabouts of your sons. The King’s registry has you listed as a family of six. Son Thomas, age sixteen, and son Mathias, age fourteen, have disappeared. Tell me where they are. Tell me where the forces planning this rebellion are gathering. Tell me their plan, and give me names of those involved. It is as simple as that. Remember, Dowler? I keep things simple.”
“What will happen to my sons? And the others, what will happen to them if I tell you?”
“Well, it is good that you at least admit you know something. I can feel our newfound friendship growing by leaps and bounds. As far as what happens, they will have a trial before the Tribunal, same as you.”
“No! No! I cannot give you my sons. I cannot bear the thought of them suffering here as I have.”
“Not just you, but your wife and daughters suffer as well. Correct? You have dragged them into your hopeless situation, have you not?”
“No. You did that.”
“No, Dowler. You did that by defying first the Tribunal, and now me, but that will soon change.”
“What could you possibly do to us that is worse than this?”
“Do you really want to know?”
His eyes look away. He knows he has erred in asking.
“Believe it or not, Dowler, I truly do not wish to hurt you. Frankly, I have grown to admire and respect you throughout this ordeal. You are far greater than any man with whom I have ever dealt in my torture chamber. But the reality is, I must continue to torture you by any means I deem necessary, until you give me the information the Tribunal insists be written into the records. There is nothing I can do for you, other than to complete my mission.”
“Please sir, do not force me to give up my sons. I would rather die than to live knowing I betrayed them.”
“You betrayed them when you included them in this mess. I am afraid you leave me no choice but to force your tongue.”
He looks away from me. Toward the wall, but really to nowhere. Weighing his options. Trying to decide whether to end it here, or prepare himself for whatever comes next. With his glare returned to me, he takes a deep breath. His arms flex, lower jaw juts forward, chest expands. He strikes a pose of strength, and is ready to fight. “Get on with it, then.”
I rise, remove myself and stand beside him. “Speaking of tongues, your wife is uselessly slurping herself to exhaustion.” After removing my club from behind his neck, I use it to knock loose a chain hanging above him. It falls, striking his arms on its way to the floor. “Perhaps you could be of better service to her. Time will tell.”
The fallen end of the chain has a hook. The other end runs through a pulley mounted on the ceiling, and then to a hand crank mounted on the wall. Moving to the end of the bench, I grab his wife by her hair. “That is enough, woman. Release him.” She spits him out and I force her to stand. “Now, go to the other end and kiss your husband on his lips. Take your time. Do not stumble.”
She shuffles slowly, her tattered garment hanging on her leg irons and dragging the floor. She bends down as he lifts his head. Their lips are joined, as I retrieve a key from my pocket and unlock her leg irons. “All right. Step over your husbands arms. Straddle him and face him.” She steps out of her leg irons, leaving her torn cloth on the floor. Once she is in position, I hook the overhead chain to her wrist chains, move to the wall and turn the crank. Slack disappears. Her arms are pulled upward behind her back until she is forced to lean forward on her tip-toes.
Picking up her garment, I tear off a strip of cloth and step behind her. “Open your jaw.” The cloth is her gag, and after I tie the knot at the back of her head, I am finished with her.
“There you are, Dowler. Your wife is available for your service.” With her legs spread on either side of his arms, her vagina (and its putrid odors which have permeated the room ever since her garment fell)dangles inches from his face. His tongue can invade with barely a lifting of his head, and I explain to him, “I am not ordering you to serve her. It is for you to decide.”
Three tasks remain for me. Near the center of the room sits a barrel full of fresh water. I dip the drinking ladle, take a sip, dip again, and deliver water to man and woman. Returning the ladle, I fill up a bucket. Take it to the foot end of the bench and douse his groin, washing away her snot and spit, and whatever remains of his urine.
My second task involves the degree of his stretching, and I tighten him one click. He groans a bit, and I notice he is not licking his wife, but it is of no importance to me. “Dowler, I give you my final words.” Third task. I remove two items for which I paid many a penny to a talented woodcarver. Two plates. My false teeth, and I do so while standing where Dowler can see me. “You mush tell it all. I will hear nothing elsh you shay.”
His eyes widen as I plop my plates into my pocket.
* * *
In the adjacent cell there is silence. Perhaps the daughters have become bored, or have covered their ears preferring to shut out the groans of their father. His sounds are low-volume and breathy, rhythmically humming with his every exhale. He cannot lift his head without bumping into his wife. Her spread-open vagina is readily accessible to his mouth, but he leaves her untouched. His penis, a limp noodle, rests comfortably upon his testicles, his pee hole peeking out from inside his hood. A few droplets of water cling to his skin from belly button to groin, beads of it hide in his pubic hair.
My heels tap the stone floor as I pace beside him. Back and forth from his head to his foot, I torment him by making him wait and wonder. Wondering what I will do next. Wondering how much longer he will have to endure his agonizing position. Or more importantly, how much longer he will be able to endure.
Imagine it. More than two hours have passed since I entered the room, and even though I have not stretched him to any degree near what was done to him before I arrived, the backward arching of his spine alone would have broken most men long ago. My bench and chain device creates plenty of discomfort as is. Never mind the stretching. As I walk beside him observing his elevated chest and compressed middle, I wonder how he can breathe at all.
Nonetheless, here he is, still struggling.
Since I am a compassionate man, I will now convince Matthew Dowler it is time for him to save himself.
A storage bin in the corner contains tools for repair and other items, including my small collection of cushions. I grab one. Drop it on the wet floor at the end of my bench. Drop to my knees on my cushion and take his penis inside my mouth before the woman’s protests can garble through her gag.
From him, appropriately, “Oh, my God.”
I see him raise his head for a look, but he can’t. His mighty, thrust-upward chest is in our line of sight. All I can see is his head hair. In front of that, objects much more attractive. His nipple tips stick up like tiny nail heads.
I don’t look up again. I hear no more of their words. It is a consistent occurrence with me that once a man’s cock is in my mouth, everything else becomes background noise. A far away buzz. I am in a tunnel. All activity, all sounds around me are miles away. Until I have extracted his seed, my entire world is my mouth and his pecker. Nothing else.
His penis fills with blood. They all do, regardless how the owner feels about it. His is a swollen slab of pork fat for me to hungrily gnaw with a powerful jaw. I maneuver him to where my molars used to be. I chomp down on his meat, chewing his fat as it gets fatter, and I repeatedly crush it down to skinny. A constant battle — he swells, I squeeze, manipulating between gums of my molars, left side and right. The sloshing of my spit is all I can hear, while far, far away is the faint buzz of some man making manly sounds. Man-to-animal sounds. Dominant beasts. Lions and tigers and bulls and bull elephants.
He is caught in a euphoria never before felt. The tightest of tight vaginas, but one that fights back. One that chews on him. Chomps down on him. Gnaws away and mangles him, but with no damage done. And when the inevitable time for his climax approaches, I use what I learned, (the belly makes scrotum clench observation) and push him to the edge of the cliff. His nuts and his peter are on the brink of explosion, so I dig my clawed fingertips deeply into his hard belly and he gives me the flood I expected. High quality man. High volume output.
Now comes magic time.
My ears, and all senses have returned to the dungeon. I absorb the sounds of his crash. How quickly a man’s emotions tumble. From ultimate high of sexual climax, to sudden realization that I have no intentions of stopping. He would jerk away if he could, but he is caught. His cock, like the rest of him, is defenseless. On the rack he will remain. In my mouth he will stay, and I will torture his cock with my incessant gnawing and chewing until he climaxes once more. I will expect no discharge. I will expect him to break. I will expect him to understand that I will torture his manhood until he talks. If it takes three climaxes, four, eight, or eight hundred, I do not care. I feel no pain. I can cause him no damage. My gums are velvet sponges, hot and wet, and his pecker is my multi-course meal. Number of courses are up to him.
The agonized groans he makes now truly do terrorize his children. Their shrieking voices, asking their mama what’s happening to papa, motivate me to frantically knead his belly and trigger another load. A one-drop load, and as I continue my assault toward climax number three, Matthew Dowler knows he fights a losing battle. His nuts ache. He is certain he cannot go again, but realizes he has no choice. Unlike with the stretchings, or the whippings, or the belly beatings, none of his muscles can help him now. A powerfully built, alpha male manly-man no longer feels dominant. No longer feels he has a fighting chance. Fully understands what I meant when I told him he MUST answer my questions.
He is at my mercy. Clearly defeated, but still, this rough, tough, man-god he-man withstands five dry orgasms before giving up. Too bad, because this particular man is a man I could gum non-stop until the end of time and never tire. Pity me, or don’t, but finally, Matthew Dowler chooses himself over his sons. Over his companions. Over his misguided agenda, and whatever other foibles brought him to my dungeon.
I listen, continuing to gnaw until he answers all. The information is mine, game is ended. I spit him out. Leave his exhausted cock and shrunken nuts to rest, and then, I quickly move to the hand crank and loosen his stretching chain.
* * *
After inserting my false teeth, I unlock the dungeon door and summon a guard. Easier for me to tell him what Dowler told me than to write all that shit down. After giving him special instructions regarding Dowler’s sons, I send him on his way to the King, and then I gather two more guards. They release the wife, provide her a robe for clothing, and take her to cell number eight, the cell furthest away from my dungeon. Her daughters are then transferred there to join her.
Time for my male prisoner and me to have a private conversation.
“All right, Dowler, your recovery will need to be a gradual task.” He still lies prone and bound upon the bench. Slack in the chain allows him to bring his hands to the back of his head. Circulation returns to his arms, slowly, as I release his left foot from bondage.
Circling the bench to release his right foot, I tell him some news. “First of all, I have ordered your sons be brought to join you here inside the castle. By my command, they are fully pardoned from whatever traitorous actions they were tricked into undertaking.”
He brings his legs closer together, but doesn’t bend his knees. Leaves his heels on the floor.
Standing to his right, I massage his belly, causing him to lift his head and look at me. A look of puzzlement with a bit of skepticism at first, but then a slight grin appears as he speaks. “Thank you, sir.”
Since I don’t know if he’s thanking me for the belly rub, for releasing his ankles, or for pardoning his sons, I move forward. “Second of all, it will no longer be safe for you to live amongst the peasants. You and your family are betrayers to them. That is how they will see it, and your lives will be in danger.”
“But… where will we go?”
“Here. You will be given duties inside the castle walls, and here you will live.”
“Does… does this mean I am pardoned as well?”
“Is this also by your command?”
“Oh, sir.” He relaxes his arms, allows his head to fall, and I feel the tension in his abdominals tighten. A series of convulsions indicate he is fighting back tears. “Thank you, sir,” his voice squeaks, as though in transition from boyhood to man. “Thank you so much.”
Seems to be an odd twist of events. Matthew must have assumed he would be executed whether he confessed under torture or not. Now that he knows his torturer has arranged his pardon, he, in turn, forgives his torturer for torturing him. Works for me. “You are welcome, Matthew. My name is Leonard Trammel.”
He again lifts his head so our eyes meet. “I owe you everything, Leonard Trammel.”
“Leonard will do.”
“You owe me nothing.” My fingers massaging give way to palms and fingers rubbing. My territory includes his chest, as well as his abdomen. “You have challenged me on this day like no other man. You have earned my admiration, and, since in the end you re-confirmed your loyalty to the King, I consider you to be my trusted friend.”
“My family and I will always be loyal to you, and the King, but there is something I don’t understand.”
“It’s about the Tribunal. I thought I was given to them for trial and interrogation. Will they try to reverse your pardon?”
“They hold no sway over me. The king and I are closely bonded companions, and have been since childhood when he was the Prince. He values my advice, my judgments over all others. What the Tribunal decrees can be overturned by me at any time, regardless of circumstances.”
“Then I do owe you the only thing that matters. My life,” he watches my hands massage his chest, and he smiles. “I am a poor man. All I can give you is me.”
Hmm, he must have enjoyed my oral services, although I imagine he’ll want me to scale it back next time. “You are poor no more, Matthew. You are under my protection. All of your needs will be provided. Are you ready to try sitting up?”
“No, Leonard. Your hands comfort me. I think I will lie here a bit longer. Like you said, this will need to be a gradual task.”
“Should I close the door?”
“Yes,” he extends his arms toward the wall, stretches himself while yawning. “There is a draft. Do you want me to take a sickness?”
I am dumbfounded. How could he possibly wish to stay on the torture bench? He truly is a rare breed. “No, I want you strong and healthy. I will lock the door to completely shut out the draft.”
“What is that X shaped device over there by the wall?”
“It is a Saint Andrew’s cross,” I answer while turning the key and closing the plate over door window. “It dates back to Roman times.”
He continues to stretch, groaning as if in pain. “I sometimes dream that I am Roman. Perhaps someday you will let me test this Saint Andrew’s cross of yours.”
“Perhaps someday will be any day you like, for as long as you like.” I drop the key into my pocket, along with two plates of wooden teeth.
* * *