The Three Hundred and Twelfth of One Thousand and One Nights – by Amalaric

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Game of Thrones

They brought him in just as the sun set in bloody splendour over the Summer Sea and now the impossibly handsome prisoner swayed weakly in his bonds, hours into the ordeal, pale cream-colored skin beaded with the sweat of fear and exertion in equal measure. Some of the attendants, scurrying here and there like vermin in the high security subterranean dungeon, wrung claw-like hands in paroxysms of anxiety; something about the scenario (admittedly, often repeated in this very special place) was simply wrong. Of course, the physical demeanour of the prisoner met all of the right specifications; tall and muscular with defined, proportioned, masculine features- full lips with chiselled jaw behind a soft yet bristly down of sandy stubble, straight nose, and slanting yet wide blue-gray eyes. His naked chest was lightly dusted with the same bronze fur, tapering from the expanse of broad shoulders and deep pecs to a narrow waist with hard flat abs above a fine thatch of musky pubes. The hard rise of his quivering ass was augmented as the deep crack jacked partially open by the spreader bars attached to his ankles; levering long hairy legs painfully wide up to and including furry butt cheeks where the prisoner’s puckered hole still fearfully hid within nothing but a shadow. The rear view also included a teasing clue as to what might be found around the corner; the panting stud’s slack testicles hung low between his spread thighs, already visible, dog-like, behind a tuft of silky hair. And, of course, the frontal effect produced by the spreader bars was nothing less than dazzling. He had, in large measure, been chosen for his cock and balls and these were displayed to maximum advantage.

Meaty thighs levered wide by the merciless stretcher bar, nevertheless, reflexively strained against the tension impelled by raw instinct to slam shut in order to protect the thick shaft of the prisoner’s cock and his vulnerable low hanging balls. The desired effect was all that could be hoped for as the bulging muscles of the buck’s hairy athletic legs were permanently flexed, adding a minor chord to his already considerable agony. But the real show dangled free and unencumbered between those mighty legs. His testicles were large and well-defined nesting just slightly asymmetrically in their clammy, almost hairless sack. Fully exposed, they swayed gently in the breezeless space between his spread legs animated by the twists and jerks of his tormented body. Everyone knew that they were destined for special attention, but there was time…everything in good time. Like his testicles, the prisoner’s penis was not a disappointment. The graceful arc of the thick shaft emerged from a wide root nestled in the thick bracken of bronze pubes to a well-shaped head, slightly darker in colour, with velvety flared rims and a single winking eye. A large vein traversed the six inch length of flaccid cock revealing the prisoner’s anxiety as it visibly pulsed a frantic SOS.

The bound man looked to be in his mid-twenties and he groaned with resigned shock as an attendant laid a tattoo of hard strokes on his glistening back with a supple cane. Still, there was something wrong, deeply wrong, reflected in the shifting eyes, tightened lips, and furtive demeanour of the otherwise enthusiastic attendants. None dared speak the prisoner’s name but they all knew what it was. Lord Renly Baratheon, prince of the Seven Kingdoms and youngest brother of King Robert, first of his name. Each of the attendants was painfully aware that if Lord Renly were discovered and released from this place by someone even remotely friendly to his cause then those that assisted in the prince’s humiliation and agony would know the same, ten…no, a thousand…times fold until he begged for the gift of death in a hope sprung from nothing but delirium.

Lord Renly raised his handsome head and, in a short interlude between lashings with the supple but painful petite chat, gasped a frantic question, ‘Why???!!!’ The lash came down again- raking already abraded nipples- and he cried out with fresh agony. A tall figure glided from the shadows and uttered a simple command, ‘Enough,’ and the petite chat was tossed by its grimacing wielder onto the pavement. The young prince feebly twisted against the chain holding him in place, hoping for a view, and it was enough, ‘By the Seven…NO!!!!!!!’ Ser Loras Tyrell, the Knight of Flowers, stood demurely in the full light; a natural actor, he was always happy to be on stage and worked hard at a perfect entrance. ‘Yes, Renly, it is I.’ He rummaged with a lazy finger in his scented beard, ‘You don’t approve of your new accommodations?’ Picking up the small whip, Loras delivered the first direct jolt of pain to his strung up victim’s proud penis, causing the breath to hiss from Renly’s chest at the sudden sharp surprise. ‘Answer me!’ His tone was peremptory, every inch the aristocrat…but he was addressing the King’s brother. ‘Loras…’ Renly’s tone was imploring, ‘I thought you loved me?’ Tears gathered in the prince’s gray-blue eyes, even as the whip curled around a pale buttock eliciting another yelp of pain. ‘Love?’ Loras laughed, ‘But I do, my prince, more than you realise,’ and, as he spoke, the knight traded the petite chat for a bigger, more robust brother nicknamed il gattopardo. Renly screamed as the leather strands snagged on his broad sweat-slick back and felt a fresh slick of sticky blood from new and newly reopened welts. ‘You see,’ Loras continued, ‘I love you, I think, more than you ever did me…considering our touching dalliance even as I shaved your handsome chest, belly and armpits, before you, ah, sank to your knees before my open cod piece. But, really, my lord…I knew all along that your heart lay with the slatternly vixen hidden away in the castle up north; that your experimentation with men (like myself) was merely the bored reverie of a jaded royal with a vivid imagination and far too much time on his hands.’ The whip caught Renly around both hairy thighs and he performed a frantic jig as the knight continued, ‘Besides, all of that is really a moot point, my dear.’ Arching a quizzical eyebrow, he graced his captive with a half-smile, ‘Blow jobs, even from members of the royal family, get boring after a while…but this! There simply is never a dull moment,’ the whip caught Renly on the lower abs, narrowly missing the magnificent cock and balls as screams echoed again around the long chamber, ‘wouldn’t you agree? Ah…but I see that you do!’

The sudden commotion, just out of Lord Renly’s field of vision, nevertheless, gave him a scrap of hope. Deliverance?? Please, gods, let it be!!! But, to his everlasting horror, the living apparition that strode into the ruddy light was none other than his arch-enemy Lord Tyrion Lannister of Casterly Rock, otherwise known as ‘the Imp’. The misbegotten dwarf peered up at his captive prize; gaze skewered by a cast and made even more disconcerting by mismatched eye colour- one a feral yellow-green, the other a melancholy gray… His face was scarred by a recent wound acquired in the increasingly bitter civil war that had now torn the united Seven Kingdoms into a bloody gaggle of battling factions. Tyrion, almost shyly, extended a diminutive, claw-like hand, and stroked the short-hairs on Lord Renly’s flinching chest. ‘Magnificent!’ he sighed. Moving lower, the Imp gently fingered the hard ridges of muscle padding the captive’s naked torso before stopping to linger over his sensitive cock and balls. Barely able to hold the bulk of Renly’s testicles in his tiny hand, he, nevertheless, succeeded and grasping the coveted royal jewels hanging between the prince’s spread legs, turned to the silent, but fascinated, minions, ‘Thank you, each and every one…for saving these for me.’ Tyrion then planted a feathery kiss on the tip of Renly’s warm cock and, turning once again, executed a courtly bow in the direction of Ser Loras. ‘You have kept your word, Ser, and the gold of Casterly Rock will soon fill your coffers in exchange for this boon.’ ‘But why???’ Renly’s hoarse entreaty was both honest question and a measure of his desperation. The Imp casually squeezed his testicles until the muscular prince was gasping with pain and battling a rising tide of nausea. ‘Because, my boy, Ser Loras and I have long shared a secret passion- you. That is correct; admiration from afar ripening to infatuation…you really should be flattered.’ He let go of the captive testicles and picked up the petite chat. ‘The Ser and myself also share something else…’ The small whip cut hard across the shaft of Renly’s manly cock, eliciting a yelp of pain, ‘Yes, you see, as Loras said a few moments ago…a simple tumble in the shadows of the barnyard becomes a bore after a while…even with a prince…and, besides, somehow I think my chances at that were, um, slender to say the least.’ He winked with the feral yellow-green eye and continued, ‘Or would you consider something like that…with the likes of me?’ ‘I’ll do anything!’ Renly gasped, and such was his fear that he may have even been sincere. ‘How tempting,’ Tyrion drawled, ‘but I wasn’t quite finished. What the Ser and a scion of the House of Lannister share is a passion for inflicting pain; slowly, thoroughly, to the minds as well as the bodies of hard and handsome young men…just like you, my prince…just like you.’

‘May I begin, Ser Loras?’ Tyrion had a gleam in his parti-coloured eyes and broke into a slow smile at the knight’s affirmation. Plucking a brass clamp with serrated teeth from an elegant table he attached it purposely to the underside of Renly’s arching penis, just beneath the cleft in the velvet rims of the sensitive head. Renly groaned both pain and denial to no avail as Tyrion placed another on the nape of his victim’s cock, directly opposite the first. Two more on the sides completed the symmetry and the prince was already writhing in agony. The head of Renly’s penis, already a fine specimen in its own right, was now ‘collared’, so to speak, and both isolated and augmented. The phallic eye was also prevented from winking by the tightened skin and stared, wide open, in unabashed horror as the proceedings continued. ‘Perhaps a sound might be appropriate at this point?’ the Imp mused and, perusing a selection in a small cabinet, selected one unusually long and broad with slightly abraded surfaces to maximize the discomfort. ‘Hmmmm,’ he considered, broad brow furrowed in deep concentration, ‘I think something really special may be required here. Ah!’ Opening a lead tube he gently squeezed, and a long line of viscous green slime was applied to the sound. ‘Much better,’ he sighed and, firmly grasping the long shaft of Lord Renly’s captive cock, guided the sound into the tight aperture of the unblinking eye. Tyrion’s thrust was slow but sure and the sound, after stretching Renly’s piss slit three or four times its normal size, slid smoothly into his penis a full five inches. The captive prince was immediately assailed by two separate forms of searing agony; as the abraded surface of the inserted rod raked the delicate lining of his cock and, far worse, the green slime which followed, leaving a trail of liquid fire. His deep-throated scream of anguish, raw pain, and offended dignity echoed from the walls of the chamber even as the Imp nodded, almost imperceptibly, at one of the attendants who, stepping forward, gingerly lifted the Lord Renly’s skewered cock still blazing with green fire…in order to fully expose his relatively unscathed balls. ‘How well shaped they are,’ Tyrion cooed, hoisting first one and then the other with a diminutive hand, ‘and so…full…heavy, manly, almost hot to the touch.’ The petit chat bit downward, slicing the still air in an audible whoosh before snapping off the dangling surfaces of the royal jewels swinging between Renly Baratheon’s hairy thighs. The handsome prince uttered a gagging groan, frantically trying to twist away from the miniature whip. To no avail. Tyrion let loose a frenzy of slicing blows that beat a rapid tattoo of bludgeon-like force against the blistering balls of his howling victim. After several minutes even the Knight of Flowers could stomach no more and turned (briefly) away from the sight of once proud Renly Baratheon in the throes of the greatest agony he had ever known. The manic midget, now also drenched with the sweat of exertion, merely giggled and increased the tempo until, noticing the unconscious form of the prince hanging slack in his bonds, tossed the whip on a nearby table and ordered a drink.

After taking a long swallow of the revivifying alcohol, he winked at his accomplice and whispered, ‘The Lannisters, though rich nearly beyond measure, never squander their hard won treasure.’ Acknowledging the Knight of Flowers’ wary nod of acquiescence, he glanced at the hairy, muscular form of the prince and continued, ‘There are many more hours of pleasure left in him, my lord. Let us take a short repast and resume after dinner…all of this exercise has whetted my appetite!’

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