“Warlord” – by Amalaric

Attached is something different, just to give the Nights a few days off…     -Amalaric

(Click Images to enlarge.)


‘GET HIM OUT OF HERE!!!’ The wizened old slave was unimpressed, knowing his master very well, in fact, since his birth nearly forty years ago. His face remained, nevertheless, impassive. ‘I thought he would please you, lord…’ he paused, ‘as he has these last several evenings.’ The Warlord, for all of his bluster, was really in an expansive, mellow and, yes, lustful mood and, though he maintained a theatrical scowl, knew that the old slave knew it. The poppy crop had yielded unbelievable dividends and the war, just over both borders, seemed like an endless blessing. He took a second look at the terrified boy- nineteen years old and as exquisitely proportioned as an infidel sculpture- and reconsidered, but only for the space of a heartbeat. The lad was a treasure; there could be no doubt about that. Abducted eight months ago in broad daylight, his disappearance had caused a sensation since he was the son of a Danish diplomatic attaché- And thank you so much for publishing those cartoons! Hopes for his quick release had galvanized the globe and the warlord had played the game (through his anonymous intermediaries), but that scenario had never really been in the cards. The young stud was just too beautiful.

He stood by the window, silhouetted by the gold dome of a late afternoon sky, stripped to a pair of virginal white briefs, deep blue eyes filled with consternation, resignation, and scandalized fear. He had been with the master every night for nearly a week, and many before that, knowing full well what to expect. The warlord let his eyes linger on the hard perfection of smooth chest and taut belly, savoring the way the ash blond hairs dusting muscular legs caught the light of the setting sun… ‘No,’ he sighed, ‘not tonight, Ahmed…take him away.’ ‘But my lord…’ The scowl returned to the warlord’s face and this time it was unfeigned. ‘I think, this evening, I prefer to sip something stronger than spiced milk. Though the delights of this sweet draught are undeniable…I have had enough…,’ he paused scratching under his turban, ‘what do they say… of twinks. Take the pup away, Ahmed, and, for YOUR impertinence, have him soundly whipped.’ Unable to control himself, he strode across the room and, grasping the young captive by his shoulders, turned him toward the wall. With one swift movement the trembling prisoner’s briefs were hiked around his ankles and the warlord sighed again, mesmerized by the perfect curves of the young European’s pale white ass. Like a rare and exotic fruit…yes, just like that. ‘Whip him well, Ahmed, and take special care to raise a bright blush here (he stroked the smooth skin, so ironically hot under the pallor), so it resembles a peach kissed by the sun…or the lash.’

Ahmed grasped the lead chain attached to the rejected plaything and headed for the door. ‘Oh, Ahmed,’ the slave paused, fully expecting that the master had reconsidered, ‘What about the American taken across the border last week and delivered, I believe, yesterday?’ ‘The young soldier, my lord? Yes, he is waiting below.’ A hint of a smile crinkled the skin around his liquid eyes, ‘He is still quite spirited, lord…’ ‘Bring him to me- NOW!’ The command was peremptory and Ahmed, as soon as he had turned his back toward the open door, allowed himself a silent chuckle. ‘Yes, of course.’ Poor soldier, did they warn you about these things in your faraway land?

Rod Karnack hung slack for a few moments, gathering his strength before resuming fresh twists and turns against the leather restraints that held him, arms stretched high over his head, in the stinking dungeon. An infantry GI, he hadn’t asked for the fucking war in the benighted place that seemed like a stagnant cesspool of time itself but, once there, had given it his all. A mere five months after his initial deployment he was taken in an ambush and, no, though his training instructors had had a lot to say about that possibility, Ahmed’s thoughtful query was correct: Rod Karnack didn’t have a clue as to what kind of shit was about to come down.

The warlord was relaxed, sprawled on a divan of embroidered silk, essence of poppy lending a dreamy sheen to the cruelty shimmering behind hooded eyes. Ahmed, ever efficient, had surprised the captive GI in his cell, exuding the authority of a senior slave, and ordered the handsome prisoner released from his bonds. Rod stood numbly, trying to rub life back into his numb wrists and forearms, reckoning that at last the scenario would play out as expected- the Geneva Convention was explicit: things might get rough, but should remain…ah…reasonable. He glanced around the spacious cell and then at himself, strangely disconcerted as his regulation khaki tee (ripped open to reveal his muscular torso) seemed out of place over dirty, sagging levis, someone’ cast offs and obviously never laundered, that they had ordered him to put on in place of his camo trousers. Worst of all was the absence of his dog tags- surely, that was against the Convention- plucked off and cast away, leaving him feeling strangely naked and at the mercy of the unexpected, as if somehow he had been stripped of his name. The respite was a short one and Rod’s arms were jerked painfully behind his back and cuffed. ‘My name is Roderick Karnack, US Army, infantry, serial number…’ Ahmed yawned and cut him off, ‘Yes, we know all that, corporal. Now…’ He knew a brief and unaccustomed stab of pity, gazing at the earnest prisoner- so impossibly handsome; fit and masculine, all innocent fire and filled with the unreasoned dreams of youth, ‘…the master is an impatient man.’ Rod was nonplussed, shaking his head of dark, closely cropped bushy hair, and oddly self-conscious of his ripped tee shirt; he allowed himself to be guided by the impassive guards, following Ahmed out of the dimly lit cell.

‘Strip him.’ The prosaic command hit Rod like lightening. He put up a struggle, knowing all along that it was symbolic, as the smirking escort ripped the filthy clothes from his muscular body, until he stood- panting with exertion and humiliation- as naked as the day he was born before the interested gaze of the effete shithead sprawled in a corner of the tower room. This one will do…so full of sap, begging- though he has no idea- for the test I will administer. Is he aware of this? Probably not…too young, too…insulated… The warlord licked his lips and inhaled a long draw from the slender gold pipe at his side. Simply magnificent! Rod found himself strung up again, proud GI cock and balls wagging in the golden light, flanks already slicked with the sweat of honest fear, as the warlord took his time, considering the games that would soon commence. Innumerable pleasures swam in his poppy-besotted imagination; roving the young soldier’s broad chest and shoulders and narrow, naked, hips, wondering at the rippling expanse of his sweat-slicked back and hard clenched buttocks, fondling the equipment between his legs- born with, not issued- and generally savoring the square-jawed, casual and thoroughly masculine good looks of a young male in his prime. The warlord rose (with some effort) from his divan and lurched across the room, standing so close that Rod Karnack could smell the far away poppies on his loathsome captor’s breath. ‘I will ask no questions, Corporal…at least not the kind you were taught to expect.’ Rod grimaced and disciplined himself not to spit into the asshole’s face. ‘Yes, I know…’ The dreamy look on the warlord’s face was oddly terrifying. ‘Tonight, and for many nights to come, I will be your instructor and you will learn things that they never taught you back home. Yes, you will forget your training, your dusty loves, your reason for striving…your name, perhaps, unless I choose otherwise. Above all, you will learn obedience…’ Rod screamed his denial, shuddering as a plump hand grasped his balls. The warlord continued, ‘Tonight, dear soldier, we will begin but, please, don’t be fooled- the lessons, from first to last, will be rigorous- and, in the end, you will beg me to do things that, right now, seem impossible…as if you would ever beg for anything. Oh yessssssssss…’ He took another long draw from the pipe, his hand moving slowly from the Corporal’s balls to the long shaft of his cock, and, suddenly blinking, smiled. ‘Ahmed! Fetch my toys…’

9 thoughts on ““Warlord” – by Amalaric

    • Yes, it is wonderful to see Damon again, and in such dire distress! (for info, Damon was a favorite “subject” on Dreamboy Bondage several years ago.)

  1. With a little inner outcry 😯, the startled reader must take note, of the abrupt end of this fairytale from the Orient, and would love to know, HOW exactly the training that the proud corporal Rod Karnack will have to endure, will take place. In combination with its illustrations, the text easily creates an absolutely coherent and credible scenario in the reader’s mind. 👍 Since some things are only hinted at in the narrative, or even left unsaid, the reader’s imagination is definitely required to fill in the gaps, as well as to spin the end of the story. Entertaining, stimulating, just fabulous! ⭐⭐

    • Thanks for forwarding this to me, A’dude, as I probably wouldn’t have seen it otherwise. Bartolomeu is turning out to be quite the articulate commenter and that is a major axis on which the Bunker turns!!! Still working on the Nights- so many possibilities, haha!! A

  2. You have the art of cruel smugness down to a science, Amalaric. The stripped, defeated, em-bare-assed soldier cries out in denial/protest, no doubt hoping that this will somehow shame his captor into leaving him his dignity or at least dampen his enthusiasm for using his strong, straight body. But rather, he finds it only boosts the captor’s exuberance because he delights in the very unfairness and injustice of the situation. As if to say, “Yes, it’s unfair. You’re naked, I’m clothed and I can touch your straight body in any way I choose and cause you levels of humiliation that your mind simply will not be able to process — but will have to nonetheless. It’s profoundly unfair and unjust. Completely. THAT;S WHAT MAKES IT SO FUN!!!! Oh, and your ball hair is surprisingly soft, by the way. ;)”

    • Well, I was thinking the captive but while I don’t know you that personally, I’ll give it a test if want to present yours to me lol. Seriously, though, the injustice/unfairness angle is one you capture so well. Everyone’s different, of course, but that aspect of it is vastly hotter to me than the specific acts some stud endures. Or rather, it makes those acts radically less bearable for him. I’m reminded of the Texas politician many years ago who was photographed secretly while nude outdoors fucking a woman not his wife. While the woman’s image was carefully hidden by the photographer, fliers of the politician’s nude body appeared all over his district, almost certainly coordinated by his political opponent who himself was a renowned playboy — but never got caught naked. It was so unfair but so effective. The opponent could smugly bring it up in debates prior to the election, and ultimately, he posted literal billboards of his foe’s body (with the sex organs and ass barely blurred out to remain legal) asking, “Is this who we want representing us in Austin?” He had this wonderfully phony self-righteousness toward his stripped opponent, who was helpless to do anything but endure the taunts and laughter on the streets of people who saw the billboards (which clearly included his face so there was no question who the naked man was.) Intensely entertaining to see how frustrated, angry and defeated he was by someone who was every bit as guilty as he was but only cleverer and more discreet.

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