Bring Out the GIMP (Girls in Merciless Peril)


By Ed

Carpathia in the 16th century had its share of brutal, cruel, and bloody rulers. Hungary had Countess Bathory Erzsebt. In Wallachia, Prince Vlad III, Vlad Tepes, the Impaler. Yet Bathory tortured and killed for personal vanity, bathing in the blood of her many victims to enhance her beauty and Vlad impaled hundreds to strike terror in his enemies. And always there was the encroachment of the Ottoman Turks, with their own bestial depravities. None, however, was motivated by the pure sadism of Prince Vasil Hricko of Ruritania, who killed for nothing more than the sexual pleasure he got from torturing pretty young women.

1580 – Ruritania

Prince Vasil Hricko sat on his throne in the small judicial antechamber in anticipation. As head of the Privy Council and adjudicator of minor crimes—those not important enough to warrant King Krajnik's personal attention—he had the authority to mete out whatever punishments he saw fit. There were laws, of course, to deal with obvious crimes against the people: hands lopped off for thievery, brandings for adultery—even beheadings for apostasy—which were, also by law, carried out on a public stage for the edification of all. Smaller crimes, usually of some minor infraction went to Prince Vasil for disposition. Most he found boring. A groom who mistreated a horse, a gamekeeper who didn't stop poaching well enough; even a cook who over-seasoned a stew. Old men or ugly women generally. Almost always a simple beating was the verdict.

Today, however, he had one such minor infraction he particularly looked forward to. Olena, his own wet-nurse, had passed on word that a new servant girl, one Marja Sosenko, would be of special interest to him. Olena was old before her time, bitter, and jealous of Marja's beauty, and she knew well of her once-babe's propensities. Even then he was insistent on the teat. And Marja was a Jewess. Word was passed up and soon Marja found herself accused of poor performance caring for the royal cooking utensils.

The antechamber door opened and the accused was led in, bound in the prescribed manner: Her arms were held within a special device, a simple bar of steel that locked her arms behind her with shackles just above the elbows behind her back. Two more shackles locked the wrists one atop the other at either end. To even the most casual observer its purpose was clear: to present the front of a prisoner's torso to the punishment. Since the chest of a male was almost never any source of excitement, it was also clear that the device was intended to present a female's breasts to the Prince's justice. As she approached, escorted by two select palace guards, Vasil sat up straighter, interested—which immediately intensified as she got closer. Marja was young, perhaps 20, with dark auburn hair and the milky complexion common in this part of the country. Yet that wasn't what commanded his attention. She wore the common white peasant blouse and colorful skirt. What was uncommon, however, was the way she filled out that blouse. There was no mistaking the two prominent mounds stretching it out in front, wobbling beneath the coarse homespun fabric. If they lived up to their promise he would have to reward old Olena, he decided. Yes, indeed. The trio stopped before him. The girl lifted her head and faced the prince proudly. Yet there was still a tremululous fear obvious on her face.

Prince Hricko looked down his long nose at the girl. "Marja Sosenko, you are accused of not scrubbing the palace pots adequately, leaving them dirty out of laziness. Such an offense against the King can not and will not be tolerated. In my role of judge—"

"No, NO Highness!" she exclaimed. "I did a good job! I did! I scrubbed them until they shone, I did! My parents are simple peasants. I love good King Rupert! I would never—"

"Silence!" the prince commanded. "You were given no permission to speak! You have been charged with negligence by older and trusted servants, whom I believe more than you. Their word is beyond question. You must learn your place. Therefore I sentence you to fifteen strokes with the straps.

"Guards, prepare the wench!"

Set in the floor, just in front of the throne, was a short stout post, rising perhaps four feet from the stone tiles, with short, buckled leather belts at different heights up its length. The condemned were bound to it for their punishment, in front of the boyars. By his command, six boyars, and their families, were required to attend every meeting of the Privy Council, on a rotating basis. For the edification—and subjection—of all.

Marja had feared, yet anticipated that she would get beaten—peasants like her had scant rights; and a flogging was to be expected, even if unjustified. The guards dragged the girl to it. They unlocked the cuffs behind her back and moved the bar to the front of the post. It took just a moment to attach the bar holding her arms to the rings mounted and waiting for them, bending Marja's upper body forward above the wooden post. Then both took hold of the blouse over her shoulders and roughly husked it down, baring her to the waist and exposing her pale back; beatings were always administered to bare flesh. The guards took up their prescribed tools, yard-long straps of supple leather, and each took their positions to either side behind her. One was specifically chosen for being left-handed, so the beating could address both sides of the wench with equal accuracy and force.

"Begin," Hricko commanded.

SWACKKT! SWACCCT! One after the other, the guards twisted their shoulders to sweep their belts across Marja's flinching torso. Soon the poor girl's back flushed red to the blows from neck to waist. The punishment was brutal, yet the leather instruments always and only struck the back, maintaining a minimum of modesty, however agonizing. The guards took their time administering their blows, allowing a slow count to five between each one. Proud and determined, Marja refused to scream, although every stroke caused her head to jerk upward and wrenched a grunt of pain in reaction. One final loud SCRACKKT and the last of the fifteen was done.

Marja bent forward over the post, breathing deeply from the burning that afflicted her back, yet still able to stand on her own. The pain had been ghastly, but she had survived. It was over. The two guards dropped their straps and released the bar holding her to the post. She sagged back against one, then they reattached the shackles to her elbows and wrists behind her. They turned her toward the doors.

"Stop!" the prince ordered and the guards turned her back around toward him. "This punishment is adequate for her slipshod work," he purred. "Yet her offense endangered and offended the royal family. Her contempt for her betters requires that she pay a more extreme price. For that offense, she shall receive fifteen more strokes." He paused. "And this time she faces the lash!"

Marja Sosenko's eyes grew large in shock. What? What did he say? Fifteen more lashes? And facing, facing?! the whips? The terrified girl dropped to her knees. "Oh, Highness, no. No! Oh, this is wrong, wrong! NO, you can't!" she cried. "You . . . you can't! You can't . . ."

"Can't? Did you say can't! To me! How dare you! Guards! Lift the wretch and prepare her! She faces the lash! You hear me? She faces it!"

* * *

Prince Vasil was not a complete stranger to the pleasures of women, yet far from experienced. He was a strong young man, dark in the manner of his people, and well-formed. The first, a palace matron, was sent by the King to his bed chamber in honor of his 15th birthday, after all, and he was immediately enamored of the sensations she produced in his young body even if she was twice his age. Yet old Krajnik kept a tight rein on the boy's sexual contacts. Other dynastic countries, he knew, had become embroiled in unexpected and violent civil wars, wars usually sparked by the nobles on the claim of some illegitimate "bastard of the blood royal" and he was determined that Ruritania wouldn't be added to that bloody list. It wasn't until three years later, in a totally unexpected way that his true desire suddenly burst into his brain, compelling and fully formed.

A servant girl, a peasant wench known only as Paraska, was cleaning his suite while he struggled over his Latin. She wasn't particularly pretty, but younger than those servants generally permitted to enter his personal rooms—more of old Krajnik's doing—perhaps only a year or two older than he and likely a mistake. And she was unusually busty. It was the bulges wobbling beneath her blouse that drew him. He crept up behind her and suddenly reached around and grabbed both of her breasts. Shocked at the unexpected assault, she reacted without thinking, turning and slapping him across the face. She immediately realized what she had done. She fell to her knees, terrified, reaching out for his legs to beg forgiveness, but it was already too late for that. She was soon brought before the King, a kindly old man even for the cruel times. Yet stern when need compelled him. Paraska saw his old eyes grow cold and she shivered at the sentence.

"Wench, you have struck my only son, your Prince. This is the crime of lese majeste and intolerable. No peasant can be allowed the slightest violence to your king or any of the nobility. Ruritania would fall into chaos. The punishment is set by law: death by torture. That the situation should not have happened and your reaction was understandable under the circumstances leads me to mercy. Rather than the prescribed seven days of suffering, the royal torturers shall complete your sentence within a single day and end your life then." He turned away, saddened. "Take her away."

Soon after, and in private, King Krajnik admonished the Prince. "Son, we are royalty, and as such inviolate. This is how it must be. The slightest attack on our persons must, must I say be punished severely. What happened was your fault, and yet it is an innocent maid who must pay. You must learn that your acts—even those of an understandably curious young man—carry dire consequences when that young man is a prince. I had to condemn that poor wretch to a hideous death. Honor and privilege demands it. The Law demands it! So to teach you those consequences, you shall go to the torture chamber tomorrow and witness what your act has caused. I want you to fully understand the price of your position."

The next morning, as ordered, Prince Vasil went to the dank room in the bowels of the castle where the royal executioners did their vile work in defense of the kingdom. Paraska, the girl, was already there awaiting his arrival for her torment to begin, kneeling on the straw-strewn stone floor beside the two executioners. Both were heavy, well muscled, brutal-looking men. The Royal Executioners: Bojek, old even when he was a child, and Havel, reported to be Bojek's illegitimate son. Just their names were enough for the nurses to use to terrify their young wards. They were bare-chested, wearing only coarse pants and the black hoods of their profession. The garbing was designed to create fear in any sent to face them. The chamber was low-ceilinged, illuminated by lanterns arranged every few feet about the room. Even without the usual flickering torches, the smell and pale smoke still hung heavy close to the ceiling. Arranged within were the various devices designed to inflict hideous suffering: the rack, sharp-ridged horse, pillory and stocks, and chains hanging from iron cuffs hung from the low ceiling down to bolts embedded into the straw-covered floor. Countless whips and rods hung from the dank walls. One low table held the smaller implements, pincers and tongs, presses large and small, each to a different application—to slowly crush knuckles, knee or ankle joints, skulls, and, finer crafted, female breasts. Despite the coarse appearance of the chamber, the various implements were perfectly cared for, meticulous and clean. There were three bowls filled with brightly shimmering coals, mounted on short legs about the room, all projecting the long handles of various rods and blades heating to glowing incandescendence in anticipation of being applied to flinching female flesh. All adding to the general stench of horror and suffering.

"Highness," one of the burly men said, "the wench is here at your pleasure. I am Bojek, he is Havel. Our names mean nothing, we serve at your pleasure. We need only your command to begin." Despite the crude conditions, Vasil felt an unexpected stirring between his legs. All his brief life, he had heard stories of this place, the horrors, and experienced nightmares over them. But all of those thoughts had been of men, condemned wretches, not lush young women. Even the smell of the place, dank and heavy with the miasma of ghastly agony, quickened his breath and heart beat. Struck dumb at the moment, he just nodded his head.

They began immediately, well experienced at their job. Ignoring the Paraska's frantic protests, they grabbed her and began pulling at her garments, ripping her blouse and skirt away. The panicked girl broke free, stumbling away, but there was nowhere to escape to. The young executioner quickly trapped her against the wall, held her, and wrenched at the thin chemise beneath, laughing, tearing it apart and away until she was completely naked. They then dragged her, crying and begging for mercy to a long wooden bench bolted to the floor. Ropes terminating in leather cuffs waited at its four corners, their ends wrapped around drums at head and foot. The top of the bench was stained with dark blotches from the blood of countless previous victims.

Much as a side of beef, they dumped her face up on the bench and buckled the leather bands around her wrists and ankles, then went to large wheels attached to the drums and began turning them, drawing the ropes onto the drums and extending her limbs. Paraska felt her arms moving up above her. She fought the pull, desperate to keep her hands down to cover and hide her nude body. Yet her struggles were in vain. The bench wasn't built to use stretching as a torture in itself, but merely a way to draw the victims tight upon its surface, available and vulnerable. The prisoner was always stripped totally nude, since every most private and sensitive part of their bodies had to be available for the dread instruments of torture and their limbs bound to leave them helpless to protect themselves in any way from the cruel attentions of these men.

The Prince watched avidly as Paraska was secured to the stark frame. The girl's body was lush, even plump, so the well-rounded curves jiggled wildly as it was drawn out. Soon her wrists were all the way up over her head and her back pressed against the wood. Now the fleshy bared breasts fell off to either side of her chest, flattening a bit, yet still jutting up in a decidedly female way. Trembling and completely vulnerable. He was suddenly aware of how hard his prick had become inside his pants at the sight of her squirming nude body. He had been sent here, to this lurid chamber, to learn restraint in his actions, to be sickened by the bloody torture he had prompted, yet found himself only eager to see it. He found himself drawn to the bitch's chest, particularly the broad coral nipples, crinkling even as he watched, and the rising peaks at their centers. Just the thought of what they might look and feel like had compelled him to grab them just a day before. Now they were fully exposed and open to him. Tender and inviting. He also couldn't stop from looking to her notch, where the dark brown curls at the junction of her legs could no longer hide her sex beneath. Stretched as she was, thighs spread, the plump female lips they once hid opened as if inviting his cock to penetrate them. Now a healthy 18, he had had some limited experiences with women, but now he realized that those experiences were but the least type of sexual sensations they could provide—and this dark room with these dark, brutal men was something far beyond even his imagination. At that bursting realization, Vasil's whole body shook as if suddenly chilled by an icy wind.

The two executioners had also noticed their prince's excitement. There was no confusing the bulge in his pants. Perhaps, each thought, perhaps he is one of us. One who relishes the pain. One aroused by it. One who could be manipulated by it. That was soon answered.

"Your wish, Lord?" Bojek asked. "We have only one day to carry out the king's sentence. Such a short time is barely adequate to do a good job. How should we proceed?"

Proceed? He hadn't thought beyond showing up. He looked to the splayed nude girl, only a few years older than he was, dark eyes wide with fear. Not all that pretty—plain, even. Had she been facing him, he now wasn't at all sure he would have reached for her at all, however ripe her tits were. Then another thought hit him. These men would do whatever he ordered, anything he said. Anything he wanted. Anything. Vasil's eyes returned to Paraska's chest. "All I did was grasp the bitch's tits and she struck me, me! I would have her in your hands for the full week the law decrees—longer even—but my father is soft, soft. Torture her on those precious breasts of hers. She is so proud of them, so let her learn that she should regret ever growing them, not struck me to defend them!"

"As you wish, Lord," the other, younger one said, secretly gratified. "Perhaps you would like to get a good feel of them before we begin? It will be the last pleasure she feels, so it is just that a prince gives to her."

Vasil didn't look up. He was very much out of his depth, but still very conscious of the nude girl displayed before him and especially the unexpected pangs of pleasure throbbing in his groin. Plain face or not, there was no denying the large soft mounds trembling on her chest. He went to Paraska's side and his hands rose to her white form. She tensed at the first touch, tugging at the ropes holding her wrists. His fingers wandered across her body, lightly caressing the expanse of pale skin, marvelling at its smoothness. She protested when his fingers ruffled the curls at the base of her belly, embarrassed at the intimate touch despite her predicament. But his hands only lingered there a moment before gliding back up over over her stomach and ribs to find her breasts. He felt a strange compulsion to fondle them, squeezing and revelling in their softness, before seeking out the dark pink nipples. Paraska groaned in shame as the young man played with them, inexorably finding the teats, pinching and rolling the points into hard, rigid erection. The simple act of caressing the nude girl splayed on the bench, facing imminent torture, had him harder than he thought possible. Already he could feel a sweet wetness oozing from his prick's tip. He was aware only of the sensation, yet the executioners could see the darkening spot produced. He stepped back, reluctantly releasing her flesh, but eager now for the next step, the next more extreme sensation. "Begin," he said, stepping back. "I want to hear her scream."

"As you wish, Lord," Bojek replied, "I am sure my partner and I will be able to make her pay for her affront to your honor to your satisfaction—and quite loudly, as well." Both selected tools from the wall, one a strap, the other a finely-braided quirt, a vicious weapon with a split tail on the business end. The poor girl looked side to side in terror as they took their places, but could do nothing to stop it.

"No, Lord, no! Please, oh please! I meant nothing by it. I meant no 'lessey' what the king said. Pity, I beg you! Oh, Please, please. I'm afraid. I don't want to be naked here! PLEASE!"

The two executioners only grinned. Many a woman—and man also—had bleated out the same useless pleas. All with the same terror at being stripped naked in this room, bound and helpless in their hands.

The beating commenced immediately and the sharp cracks of leather striking flesh rang through the chamber. They were strong men and put their strength into every blow, yet measured. Too much too soon was an affront to their skill. The lashes ranged from the girl's neck to her knees, always finding fresh untouched flesh. While administering the plump breasts their share of the brutal attention in deferance to their prince, they also didn't focus on them. They knew that a woman's breasts could yield a great deal of suffering if judiciously utilized and didn't need to ruin them for further play too quickly. Bojak especially understood that a good torturer required patience, subtlety, to wring the greatest pain from the victim.

Paraska screamed to each blow, intersperced with inchoate pleas for a mercy that would never be given. There was no pride in her to be broken, only desperate panic. Ten, twenty, thirty, the lashes fell across her spread, helpless body. The skin flushed from the beating, broad strips of red from the strap crossed with thinner, darker lines of brilliant scarlet from the quirt. Even the pain was different. Broad swaths of stinging pain contrasted by the more bitter thin lines left by the quirt. Finally, with one last fierce, spastic wrench, she fell senseless against the bench.

"Wait, was that it?" the prince exclaimed. "It that all? All she suffers?! No, there must be more, more, you hear me!"

"Peace, my Lord, peace," Bojek said calmly. "The wench is merely overcome with pain," he said. "This is to be expected the first time she feels the lash. A temporary condition, that is all. She is young and strong. She will take much, much more as you wish. Look you now, my partner Havel is even this moment blowing the bellows on the coals to heat the irons more fiercely. See how they glow? Those screams you heard were as nothing compared to those you shall hear when we press the hot irons to her flesh!

"Come, my Prince, there is a preparation we should make before applying the irons—one I think you will enjoy. If the irons are touched to dry skin, they burn too quickly and char the skin. That kills the nerves and ruins the spot for future torment. No, first the wench must be well greased. The pain is still most intense, but no permanent damage is done. Come, Highness, reach into this bucket of lard and rub her body down."

The young man's eyes opened wide. He needed no further coaxing for this task. Eagerly dipping into the viscous white paste, he moved his hands to the unconscious girl's body and began the massage.

It was even better than he imagined. The thick grease liquified on contact with her warm flesh, so his hands slid easily over the girl's smooth skin. His hands returned often to the bucket only to return, dripping, to Paraska's writhing nude body. He lathed the grease over her thighs and belly, but found his hands most often returning to her naked breasts.

"Between her legs, Lord," Havel advised. "Between her legs. And stick one firm royal finger into her deep as you can reach. Trust me. You will be glad." The prince could see the yellowed teeth grin beneath the black hood. Why not? Until today, the mystery between a girls legs was only a strange cavern to take in his shaft. He was almost embarrassed as he slipped his fingers beneath the tight curls, rubbing the plump, slippery lips, then delving between them. All the while Paraska's body only squirmed at his groping, not quite conscious, yet still able to writhe.

"When you torture a woman, my Lord, especially a young one, a ripe one, you must touch her often," Bojak said, "play with her, even if not actively hurting her. Especially you must play with the organs of her sex, her tits and cunt. Torture, effective torture, is more than simple pain. It is misery, shame, abhorrence. Loathing. Teasing a woman on her most private parts adds to all of those. It also tells her, repeatedly, that she is helpless, vulnerable in your hands. That those most sacred parts of her body, hidden from view, and certainly from the touch of any but a husband or lover, are no longer hers to control." Bojek reached down one hand and took hold of one soft pink nipple, pinching and twisting the sensitive teat between his calloused fingertips, drawing sharp squeals of pain. "The tits, now, a girl's tits, well they couldn't be better suited for a torturer than had they been designed for nothin' else. Prominent, fat and round—they can take an astonishing amount of abuse—and special to a woman. And as if all that weren't enough," he twisted the captive teat more viciously, wrenching a louder squeak of pain, "God went and gave them nipples!" He released the bud and chuckled. "I saw your appreciation of that truth right off, as did Havel there, when you said to hurt the bitch's tits. A true indication of royalty, that is, recognizing right off what took me and Havel years to learn." If there was one thing Bojek knew, it was that royalty—hell, any important man—responded to flattery.

"Havel, hand me an iron. The bitch sleeps. Such disrespect. Let us not disappoint our Prince!"

The shimmering yellow-tipped rod was handed over and, without a moment's delay, Bojek pressed the end to the upper inner right thigh of the young woman. She came back to full, shrieking awareness at the sudden new affront to her senses. "AHHHH! Oh, God, it hurts! Please, no more, no more, no more . . ."

The next half hour was an excursion into hell for the miserable young woman. After being brought back to screaming consciousness when the first glowing rod seared her thigh, the next wrought an even more ragged scream as it was pressed against the tender flesh beneath her left armpit where it met the breast and dragged through the valley beneath the globe. After that, one after another sought out the most sensitive parts of her body. The screams were intense when the glowing rods slid up her inner thighs until the dark room filled with the smell of burning flesh. The ones closest to her notch added the unique smell of sizzling pubic hair. One after another marked her belly, again touched an arm pit, or, all to often for her, touched quickly to the so recently whipped and blushing skin of her breasts. Every one announced its fiendish kiss the same way, the sharp sizzling of well-greased skin. Even the smell was stimulating, the smell of frying pork fat—stimulating as cooking bacon to the hungry—augmented Vasil's arousal in a way he couldn't comprehend.

Young as she was, it was still clear to the experienced executioners that her responsiveness was failing. One looked to the other, the understanding clear. We have baited the hook, now let's see of we have landed the fish.

"Lord, the bitch weakens. Normally, we would give her time to recover enough to continue, yet the king has only granted us a single day. Too much, too soon and the bitch will be past response, and we will have failed in our task. Not enough, too delayed, and we will have also failed our king. Neither is to be desired." Bojek knew that only those who had suffered—or administered—torture could fully grasp the terror of it, the desperate horror of it. Havel, he knew would reduce him to a screaming, violated, husk without a second thought if so commanded. Executioners had no loyalty beyond effecting the executions. As always when dealing with the powerful, a fine line must be trod. "Yet she still has energy enough to satisfy a man. As loyal servants, we must yield that first pleasure to our prince. I presume, but I ask whether you, Lord, would like to have that honor? If I may, Highness, perhaps it is time for you to expose your royal manhood to the delights to be had and experience the true sport of kings."

The executioner's manner was obsequious, but his eyes were knowing. The blotch in the front of the prince's trousers was substantially larger now. Having one of the royal family indebted was always a good thing, and this young man was clearly ripe.

"Yes, yes," the young Vasil croaked, his insistent rigid cock dominating his mind. "Yes, I think I shall. Oh, yes."

"Again, if I may, Lord, make a suggestion?" Still not yet comfortable, Hricko nodded. "Then, Lord, before you grace her with your cock, allow us to ensure the bitch doesn't enjoy the honor."

"No . . . yes, yes, you are right. She should, should not . . ."

Havel went to the wall and returned with a thick wood cylinder. While Bojek lifted Paraska's hips, he slid it under her lower back to elevate her pelvis and raise her loins above the bench, stretching her spread thighs and lifting her genitals to present them, helpless and inviting to the torturers. Satisfied with the preparation, both returned to their straps, Bojak beneath and Havel above. There was no hesitation. The two executioners, the older first, used their shoulders to launch savage vertical slashes down between her legs to explode against the proferred notch.

Paraska's screams of agony rose to their previous intensity. The dense pubic curls did little to cushion the savage blows that now punished her sex. Stretched even tighter by the bolster, she couldn't squirm away even the slightest bit from the insistent genital beating. The two executioners only delivered a dozen strokes apiece between Paraska's legs. This latest sexual affront was only to agonize, after all, not ruin.

Bojek nodded to his assistant. Enough. Then he turned his attention back to the prince while Havel removed the bolster to allow the girl's hips to drop back down to level. After the cylinder was taken away, Bojek busied himself at the base of the bench. He worked at steel pins at both sides, withdrawing them so that the section between her legs dropped to the floor. Meanwhile, Havel returned and busied himself tying cords about Paraska's knees, pulling them tight to either side, dragging them out to pull the girl's thighs even further apart. The bench, Vasil now saw, was crafted to be easily altered to permit access to a female's captive's cunt for fucking. The unspoken bonus to working as the King's Royal executioners. He briefly looked around at the other frames and devices, and saw that all save the ridge had been modified in this simple way to permit the rape of its captives.

"The wench is now ready for you, Lord," Bojek said. "Look you." The executioner reached down with one calloused finger between Paraska's thighs, parting the dark curls to better expose her notch. The young man stared down at her labia, now swollen and bright red-pink from their recent beating. Beckoning.

Suddenly consumed with lust, Prince Hricko wrenched at the jeweled belt holding his finespun pants on his waist. A moment later and they fell to his feet. Vasil was now naked beneath his fancy tunic. Both men saw his rigid penis, trembling with arousal. Well hung, they silently thought, suitable to royalty.

Hricko kicked the pants aside, and stepped up into the gap left between the moaning girl's legs. He looked up at her squirming body, red striped from the whip. He took one hand and positioned his distended cock at the entrance to the notch. A large drop of clear fluid burst from the tip. A half step closer and the bead broke against the puffy lips. He felt the intense heat of the girl's sex on his. He moved his hips forward a bit and the hypersensitive delta just beneath the glans rubbed up against her hot tumid clit—and erupted, his seed shooting hard and hot, up over her belly almost to the inflamed tits.

"Oh, fuck!" he exclaimed in sudden frustration. "Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck!."

Bojek thought fast. Fool, you should have anticipated this with one so young and randy. This could be bad. This boy could have him killed. Badly. No one, he knew, feared torture so much as those who had either experienced it or inflicted it. While imagination was usually the torturer's best friend, even that could not transcend the reality. Handle this wrong and you will be here as victim. Fool!

"Oh, wise, very wise, Highness," he exclaimed in sudden inspiration. "I did not expect such an appreciation of the . . . ah, subtleties of pleasure that you have grasped so instinctively in one so young. Yes, best to spend first and early, that way the next—certainly for such a virile young man—will be all the more enjoyable. I commend you, highness. It took me years to learn what you have grasped so naturally in your wisdom." No royal failed to respond to flattery, he knew, and no young man didn't respond to praise of his masculinity.

Prince Vasil was staring down at his sex, still erect, yet starting to sag, dribbling. "Wha? What was that?"

"Why, Highness, your natural understanding that it is the second fuck that is the most satisfying, not the first. Such maturity in one so young. I am in awe.

"Come, Highness. Let us rekindle your fire in the best way possible. You should now whip the bitch's tits. Trust me. That will bring you to your full royal hardness in no time."

"Yes, yes," Vasil stammered at first. Then his eyes grew hard. ""YES! Give me the strap!" Hricko grabbed for the cruel instrument and moved to Paraska's side. He focused on the young woman's bare breasts and raised his arm. CRACKT! He brought the leather down to strike the soft mounds. CRACKKKT! And the girl screamed in pain. Again, this time across the middles to slice the pink nipples. Again, and again, and again the young man swept the whip down to punish the girl's heaving naked breasts, drawing more wails of desperate suffering. He could feel his prick hardening to the sensations, swaying to his exertions. Yes, being exposed this way while whipping a bitch was most pleasurable. He wasn't even aware of his cries, "Yes! Yes! Yes! Spurn me will you! Yes!" "Now, Highness, now is the time. Go. Go and fuck her! Stick it in deep. Havel and I will continue beating her. Let her suffering drive you! Let her pain bring you to the finest sensations a man can know! Go now and take the disobedient bitch!"

Vasil nodded, scarcely listening in the throes of his revitalized lust. He walked deliberately to the base of the bench, his erection leading him. He returned to the spot of his earlier embarrassment, up close within Paraska's gaping thighs, and repositioned his rigid penis between the girl's beaten and burned thighs and placed the turgid glans between her labia. The thrill was exquisite as he rubbed the swollen head up and back against the lips, the heat in his cock's head feeding on the heat of the girl's beaten cunt.

So exquisite was the sensation that Vasil feared he would erupt again, too soon, when Havel exclaimed, "Now, Highness, now! All the way. Teach the bitch to beg pity of your mighty rod!"

The prince needed no further encouragement. He didn't care that what he was doing diminished his royal office before common executioners. All he cared about at the moment was the throbbing beast between his legs that needed release. Still dripping, he rubbed the head up and down against the plump lips a last time, then shoved the shaft, full length, into the depth of Paraska's vagina.

She squealed in outrage, but was helpless to stop the penetration. Prince Vasil rammed his shaft in and commensed a vigorous hip bucking. The two executioners also wasted no time, either, attacking her torso with their whips from neck to abdomen, slashing down again and again, yet careful to avoid the prince's hands.

Hricko grunted to each thrust. He vaguely thought that the executioners were right, that fucking the pain-wracked young woman while she was being tortured was the most stimulating erotic sensation of his brief life. Not only was the sight of her nude body writhing to the blows exciting, but every lash caused the smooth inner walls of her vagina to grip and squeeze his shaft in a fierce erotic massage. Thrust and recede against the sweet muscular contractions, thrust and recede. Again and again, and again. It didn't take long before the sadistic passion so newly awakened flooded the young man's mind. The fierce heat between his legs boiled over and he spurted once more, into the girl and his cries of delight accompanied her wails in the chamber. With each spasm, the muscles in his buttocks and thighs clenched in time with those inside the girl. Time seemed to stand still, yet soon, too soon for the young man, it ended. The surges subsided, but the prince remained buried within relishing every fading moment of sexual ecstasy. The executioners slowed the rhythm of their strokes, experienced in such things. Rhythm, rhythm, yet another subtlity. Finally the prince pulled out. He stepped back, shaken, his prick still tingling with pleasure in the afterglow of climax.

Vasil looked down at the girl, still spread on the cruel frame, her genitals dripping from his assault. "I must leave now," he said, reluctantly. "I have lessons my father requires me attend." He tugged his trousers up and buckled the belt. Looking back to the splayed and quivering girl his eyes grew hard. "Continue her torture. My father only condemned her to a single day of pain, but I want her to feel every minute, every minute, you hear me, of that day. The bitch struck me. Me! Make her pay. I shall be back, oh yes, I shall be back to witness her righteous death at your hands. Expect me at eventide." Then he added, "But do not ruin the tits. I want them available for more torture when I return."

"As you please, Lord, as you please. Seven days or just one, we know how to punish a bitch and make her regret her crime. The wench carries plenty of fine flesh for us.

"Still it is a challenge," Bojek commented, "to keep any wench in ever rising pain with so short a time with her. Given the full week, we could add misery to overt pain—setting her on the trestle for a day, all the while feeling as though she was being split in two, with only a few well-timed lashes across her ass and back to keep her awake and keep her grinding her slit upon the ridge. We once had one of Sultan Suleiman's personal executioners here to give us the benefit of his vast knowledge. Not happily," he laughed, "as he was my king's prisoner . . . We burned him to death, didn't we, Havel? And the Ottoman's craft such marvelous knives—sharp enough to shave with, and sharp enough to flay the thinest layer of skin from a woman's body. Superb steel. Anyway, he informed me of a method of death, I, for one, had not considered: a better way to use heat—always an effective way to cause hideous pain—to torture a wench to death. First she is put into the pillory. Small bowls of water are placed beneath to immerse her tits. Then coals mounted under the bowls slowly bring the water to a boil, poaching them nicely and ever so slowly. Bent forward that way, she is available for a good fucking from behind—often as you like. And every thrust rewarded with a good backward thrust of her hips while her titties poach. Next she is returned to the whipping bench—face up, of course, and then we pour more boiling water, a cupful at a time, over her body. The screams almost made poor Havel deaf, I can tell you! The tits are already red as a steamed crab, of course, and so the pain there is worse, but we can apply even more suffering wherever we wish; belly, thighs, even her face. After the skin flushes, more cups gradually cause the very flesh beneath to slough off. He even crafted a funnel specifically desighed to channel the hot liquid into her cunt. And all the while she is conscious. Adding a good measure of salt to the water in the latter stages only adds to the hideous agony. Admirable craftsmanship, I must say. Inspired, even. Still, it can take seven or eight hours before she dies. Almost as long as peeling her skin off. Time, I regret to say, the king's sentence does not allow us."

Even now, picturing Paraska suffering the torments Bojek described, Vasil could feel the promise of the girl's additional torture resurrecting his prick. Damn his father and his rules. Yet nothing for it now. Later, the thought came, later, but not now.

"Remember, do not spoil her tits!" The prince repeated as he turned for the door. "You will save them for me! I want them to be there for me at the end."

"As you wish, Lord, as you wish. Upon eventide. . ."

* * *

Five hours later, the chamber door banged open and Prince Hricko strode in. He looked over to where Paraska was suffering her latest ordeal. Removed from the bench, she hung from a rope about her wrists and elbows that were bound behind her. The cord ran through a ring set in the low ceiling, pulled tight and tied off, suspending her nude body just high enough that her desperate toes could barely reach the straw-covered floor to ease the ghastly strain on her shoulders. Vasil could see that those joints had turned a dull plum color from the internal bruising. Glancing down, the prince saw that her feet were blackened, seeping blood from cracks in the skin. At some point, the two torturers had basted the soles with camphor to stimulate the nerve endings that responded to heat and then roasted them over the coals. Now they were beating her, Bojek pounding her fleshy buttocks and thighs with a wooden paddle, drilled through with holes to add to the force and leave painful blisters behind. The prince watched as the latest blow smacked savagely home to Paraska's mutilated ass cheeks with a splash of blood. Havel had clearly been working on her with his quirt to slash and slice from neck to ankles. Paraska swung from the rope toward him and Vasil was gratified to see that they had remembered and left the wench's breasts largely undamaged in anticipation of his return. Even that, brutal though it was, wasn't all. The miserable girl's desperate efforts to ease the incessant strain on her shoulders couldn't hide that it was a fool's errand. Both of Paraska's knees had been shattered by iron rods, the joints bloated and colored a dark purple. Her ankles, too, Vasil saw, had been smashed to uselessness. The only way to ease the shoulder pain was to push down on burned feet against fractured limbs. Easing one pain only caused some other pain even as the executioners administered still more pain through their beating. As she swung further around, he also noticed that sometime along the way, they had burned out her left eye, leaving a crusted hole behind. Upon seeing him, they stopped their efforts, bowing while the miserable girl whimpered behind them.

"So good to see you have returned to us, Lord," Bojek said unctuously, lowering his blood-stained paddle. "We have only a couple of hours remaining to obey the king's edict and didn't want you to miss the end. Despite appearances, the bitch is still capable of providing entertainment to your majesty."

"That damned swordmaster kept me busy," Hricko snarled. "He said my mind was elsewhere, that I wasn't exerting myself. Can you imagine? The pompous fool. Of course my mind was elsewhere. It was here. Learning the sword is hard enough without being hard . . . elsewhere, eh?"

"Very true, Lord, very true," the older executioner chortled. Yes, the bait is in his mouth, he thought. Now to set the hook firmly.

"Havel! Take the bitch down and take her back to the bench. Now that our most royal highness is back, it is time to show him the true sport of kings I promised! And remember to place the pad this time, dolt! She may have denied our Lord his full appreciation of his due. Still, while the bitch hasn't figured it out yet, I don't want her to."

Smiling, the younger executioner went to where the rope was tied and released the knot. Paraska collapsed in a twitching heap on the floor, her shattered leg joints unable to support her weight. The sound she made was both agonized wail and piteous whimper from the hideous pain. It took just another couple of minutes for the wretched girl to be once again splayed on her back on the stained wooden table, her arms and legs drawn tight. Vasil was interested to see that the younger executioner then fed dark leather belts through holes obviously prepared for the purpose to cross her forehead and upper torso just beneath her neck. Then he slipped a small rectangular leather pad beneath the back of her imprisoned head.

Bojek saw the look on his face. "For the end, we don't want the bitch squirming too much. This has the additional effect of preventing her from seeing where the next attack will happen. A small thing, you may think, but attention to the small things is what sets the master torturer apart from a common thug. Terror is just another tool, and one to be nurtured. Now, all she can do it look at the ceiling—and feel. The pad Havel is now placing is what you might call a 'preventative.' When the pain gets too unendurable to endure, it is common for a wench to try to bash the back of her head against the bench to knock herself unconscious and avoid it." He chuckled. "No, there can be no such easy escape. Again, one of the small things that can make a great difference." He laughed. "A small seeming thing, yet a great difference to the bitch, certainly."

The prince walked up to the side of the bench. He leaned over Paraska. Her remaining eye stared up at him. He could see in it that she was semi-crazed from the torment, yet still aware enough to recognize him and understand. Babbling pleas for pity came out, pleas for pity, pleas for death, anything, anything to stop the burning agony wracking her. But there was none to be had from him. His eyes left her face and moved down to her chest and the still enreddened, but intact naked breasts. He reached down and gripped one hard nipple, pinching and twisting the tip viciously to draw a squeal from her. Then lower over her savagely beaten and branded belly and abdomen to the junction of her legs. What he remembered as a fetching patch of curly brown pubic hairs was gone, burned away from when they had held a flaming torch beneath them while dangling from the cruel strappado. He could plainly see the rash of painful blisters all over her crotch, bubbling up from the flesh of her labia. And felt himself hardening.

He heard a sound and looked over, surprised to see that both of the executioners had untied the knots holding their coarse trousers up and were now wearing nothing but the black hoods of their profession. And both were sporting erections between their hairy legs. Bojek saw his glance and chuckled. "Yes, Lord, Havel an' me, we always like working on our prisoners this way. We saw that you do, also. 'Specially when it's one as young and lusty as she is. A man takes his pleasure where he finds it—and blood can stain even such poor fabric as ours. Havel, he don't much care, man or woman, young or old, but me? I got what you could call standards. We don't get too many like her to play with, so I save myself."

Havel snorted. "Damn foolish attitude, you ask me. Why should that matter? So long as it gets to laugh, my cock don't care who's tellin' the joke!"

The older one laughed. This had clearly been a subject of good-natured ribbing before. He continued to the prince, "Lord, the only thing more enjoyable than having your cock out while torturing a pretty young girl is having it in while working on her." he chuckled at his little joke. "You'll see. You go ahead now. Don't pay no attention to us." The tell-tale bulge was still filling the young man's crotch. "You go ahead. There ain't no shame here. Leastways not for us men."

Vasil had already been painfully aware of the swelling in his own crotch. The first time he was too compelled by his lust to feel self-conscious. He had already fucked the bitch, but not quite like this. Now that these two men were also exposed, he felt a twinge of—something—not really embarrassment, but then another thought penetrated. Men, the old torturer had said. That included him as a man. A man! It was true that he couldn't yet grow a beard, but his cock proclaimed him a man, and hearing the word thus confirmed by those older only made him feel harder, more masculine. Then he looked back to the splayed girl, marked from the instruments of torment and gleaming with the sweat of suffering. Why not? Surely a prince needed the respect of his vassals and he could not, at this moment, think of a better way to earn that.

He reached for the jeweled belt at his waist, and soon stepped away from the fine silk pants, his young prick rampant again. Just feeling it freed to the delights Paraska's writhing body offered in this lurid chamber had it throbbing with forbidden delight. He didn't notice, but almost upon being freed a bead of clear fluid appeared at its tip, testament to his extreme sexual arousal.

The men smiled, inwardly, at the sight. The prince and heir was now fully theirs. The hook was well and truly set. Yet one doesn't land a fish, however large, with too fast a yank on the rod. It must be played.

"Between her sluttish thighs, Lord," Bojek crooned. You take her while Havel and I beat her tits. You will feel her cunt nurse your magnificent royal cock to every stroke."

"Yet one last thing, Lord. It is unseemly that she enjoy your cock. Yes, one last thing that she rue her pride. Havel, an iron, a round one."

The big executioner drew an iron from the nearby bucket of coals, its end glowing a brilliant yellow of heat. He blew on the tip, sending a spray of bright sparks from it, the remnants of the burning charcoal. He extended the handle to Bojek. The elder looked at the fearsome tool, evaluating it. Satisfied, he stepped between Marja's thighs, gently brushing the prince aside. He quickly dipped the end into a nearby pail of oil, producing a loud crackling sound and a brief flare of bright flame. Then, without further delay, he leveled the tip at the very junction of her legs and slid the glowing rod into the girl's vagina to its depth and swiftly back out again. Vasil heard the same liquid sizzle, the same greasy odor, augmented now by the juice from blisters cracking open against the intruding incandescent rod.

Paraska's nude body tensed furiously, every muscle standing out taut beneath her skin. A wail of unutterable agony burst from her. Had not the belt across her forehead prevented her, she would have beat her head against the wooden bench to drive all sense from her, or die, now her only desire.

Bojek carefully passed the iron's handle back to his assistant. "There, now. Now the wench will take no enjoyment from you, my Lord. The oil will also serve to lubricate her. For your pleasure, Lord. A slippery cunt feels much nicer. Now," he stepped aside. "Now her cunt is ready. Here, take my place."

The prince did as he was bade and looked down at the girl's helpless and vulnerable body. Sweat burst from her face and mewling whimpers came from her from the hideous burning between her legs and inside her sex. It was good, Vasil thought, but not yet perfect. "No, those fat tits of hers are still sagging too much to the sides. They were better when hanging before her. I want to see them!"

"My lord is wise beyond his youth as always," Bojek said. "Truly a king in understanding, if not yet in name." Flattery, always flattery. "Yes, the bitch's tits are not presented properly for such a powerful cock as yours. Havel, the cords! My prince, if you would, grasp her nipples and tug them up while my associate does you right."

Hricko did as suggested, pleased to once again feel the nipples under his control. He pinched the teats and pulled them up while the younger executioner busied himself by winding twine about the fleshy mounds. Around and around he tied the tits, constricting them, making them bulge from the constriction until they ballooned up hard and firm above her chest, already erect nipples filling with blood and pointing more fully toward the ceiling. A final cord pulled the bloated tits closer together until the inner curves touched.

"Excellent, majesty, a nice refinement. The slut's tits were much to limp to honor you. This is better. It will take just a minute or two before they gain enough sensitivity to what comes next. If I may be so bold, now it the time to introduce your manhood to her slit. Gently, and patiently. Just the tip. Again, with all deferrence, we are more experienced, and would see your majesty enjoy this rebellious slut's punishment to the fullest." Flattery. "Yet, please, feel free to play with the tips. It will only make her feel the shame all the more, as well as your pleasure."

Vasil needed no more motivation. He leaned forward, hands reaching for the turgid nipples sticking up from her constricted tits, while his rigid penis rubbed up against the gaping lips between her thighs. The blistered lips teased his glans and the oh so sensitive spot just beneath its underside. He had come twice already, yet felt the stimulation as strongly as if this was the first time. Paraska's breasts were still slick from the oiling he had given them just a few hours before, and still had the smooth slippery feel that had driven his lust before.

Yet even pinching and twisting the nipples was not eliciting the response he wanted, and he said so. "What is wrong with the bitch? She isn't screaming. I know you have been diligent in working on her—I can see that—yet one would almost think the proud slut was already dead."

"Ah, highness, you are truly a rare one, to see that. There is something more that we can do." He grinned. "Something special for a connoieseur of women such as yourself. Havel, you know what is needed. Bring it to me."

The hulking younger executioner went to the table of implements and returned with a small brown bottle. Hrasko looked at it with interest. "Something else we learned about from the Great Mogul's torturer." He unstoppered the bottle and waved it briefly in front of the prince's face. Vasil recoiled immediately from the sudden, pungent odor. "Spirit of hartshorn, what the royal chemist calls ammonia salts. The dottering old fool knew of this marvelous elixer and never once thought of how valuable it could be to men in our line of work. Sometimes, like now, even a good dousing with cold water—even a stout brine—is not enough to bring the wretch back all the way to full responsiveness. I need hardly tell your majesty that it is a waste of time tormenting, however extreme the torment, one who no longer has the senses to feel it to the full. This, as you shall see, works wonders." Bojek took up a small stained rag and turned the bottle over a couple of times to wet one corner. Then he handed the bottle back to Havel and pressed the rag up against Paraska's nose.

The effect was instantaneous. The girl's nostrils flared and her eye opened wide, not comprehending anything but the sudden accelerated beat of her heart and the savage agony wracking her body. Her head was firmly imprisoned, but every muscle and vein on her neck stood out in high relief in reaction and her desperate attempt to break free. "AHHH, AHHH, AHHH!" she cried out. "Ah, the pain, the pain! W-what is this? What hell is this? Oh, god, the pain, the pain!" Then the full realization of her plight came crashing down on her. Striking the prince, the torture chamber, and agony screaming through every nerve in her bound body. "Oh, god, no more, no more! Please, I beg you, please just kill me! Please, dear god, just let me die! Just let me die, let me die, let me die," she whimpered. Such mercy would not be granted her. Never in this pitiless room. It was an affront to their professionalism, and certainly not while the prince wanted her to suffer more. Her head pressed back against the pad on the bench. No, no escape and no mercy here.

With the experience of a master, Hajek watched the swollen globes until they took on that faint reddish-purple color that indicated extreme sensitivity. "Now, Lord," he said, "penetrate her now while Havel and I beat the tits that defied you, that so insulted you. Feel her regret clutch you. Feel her remorse milk you. Feel her contrition pleasure you. Take her! Take her now!"

Vasil needed no further encouragement after watching, transfixed, at her extreme reaction to the ammonia salts. Moving his hips back, he reached down to place his swollen gland between Paraska's trembling thighs and slowly pushed the length of his rigid penis inside her vagina. The recent atrocity done her sex by the hot iron made his impalement almost painful to him from the heat, yet unbelievably pleasurable from the oily lubrication left behind. He groaned and grasped the girl's hips, then started a slow pumping in and out.

The two torturers began immediately to beat the two constricted and upthrust naked breasts, each with his favored instrument, the strap and quirt. Paraska's inchoate pleas for mercy turned into nothing but the frantic wails of a mindless, tormented animal. She fought desperately against the bonds holding her body to the unyielding bench, muscles tensing, straining to every blow. Her mind was consumed by the savage, relentless pain afflicting her. Every part of her body, head to toes, skin and joints, burned as if on fire. She was scarcely aware of the prince's brutal rape as a sexual assault, able only to apprehend the pain in her seared genitals. And even that was subsumed by the repeated strikes against her bound and bloated breasts. Her body was afire with pain, drowning in intense suffering, yet still horribly awake and responsive after inhaling the acrid spirits.

Down between her legs, Prince Vasil Hricko was equally consumed by sensation, the intense sensation of sadistic pleasure flowing through his stroking prick such that his mind could think of nothing but the waves of sexual delight. He could see the way the girl's swollen bare breasts shuddered to each new lash, staring at them, but that was only a part of the total sensation of fucking her. Every time he lunged deep inside her, he could feel the whip strokes as fierce, spastic contractions squeezing his penis, grasping so hard about the turgid shaft that it was an effort pulling it back to the mouth before plunging back full length until his tingling scrotum pressed against her upper thighs again. SWAPPT! SWICKT! SWAPPT! SWISHTT! Strike after strike sought out every inch of the helplessly proferred tits. Paraska's nipples took the brunt of the blows, but only because they were the most prominent part of the targets presented to the two torturers. Both were too experienced to limit their strokes, of course, each minutely adjusting their aim to punish the upper and lower curves, but the nipples still caught the majority. Havel's quirt had a vicious split tip which often cracked the taut skin so bright liquid scarlet now flowed down to the cords constricting the globes. Both were now, like their prince, ragingly erect; the younger now also oozing fluid from his tip.

Such intensity could not be long endured. With a loud cry, Prince Hricko's head jerked up toward the ceiling. He grasped Paraska's hips and thrust his hips in a short, rapid motion as the insistent molten spurts erupted from his buried cock. Bojek and Havel didn't relent on their brutal breast whipping, even when Vasil's orgasm was obvious to both. No reason, after all, and everything they could do to bind the prince to them and the special pleasures they could provide was effort well spent.

At last the prince's spastic hip-bucking slowed and stopped. Only then did the two hooded torturers cease beating her breasts. But there was one final card to play, and the older Bojek played it as the Vasil started to pull his prick from Paraska's slit.

"No, Highness," he said. "Forgive me my presumption, but only a strong young man, a royal man like yourself is powerful enough to experience the ultimate in sexual pleasure. Stay, Highness, I implore you. Keep your mighty manhood where it is. Havel and I shall now—with your royal permission, of course—show you how to enter that most exclusive of societies. One few men even know about, let alone have the chance to aspire to. Stay, Highness. Push yourself in to the hilt. Now Havel and I shall complete the king's sentence. Now you shall know the ultimate pleasure of fucking a wench even as she is tortured to the death!"

The prince hesitated. What was this? A chance at the ultimate pleasure? Even as the decision was being made in his mind, he could feel his still embedded penis start filling, hardening again. He moved his hips forward once more, pushing until his thighs pressed firmly against those of the gasping girl. He could feel the way her leg muscles trembled, twitching against his and his arousal grew stronger.

The executioners knew there was no time to waste. They both knew that Hricko had already spent his seed three times this day. Only rapid, and extreme, sensation could bring him to a fourth. Bojek couldn't help envying the prince his youthful vigor, but those heady days were too long past for him. Even Havel could rarely achieve that summit more than twice the same day. He took hold of one of the handles sticking from the nearest basin of glowing coals. It squealed with the sound of metal against metal as it was dragged out. One quick swipe through the air to clear it of sparkling ash and he pressed the bright yellow end against the swollen undersides of both of the gasping girl's tits.

It made a sound like a slice of bacon dropped into a hot pan, but louder, and with Paraska's mindless, blubbering screech on top of it. Even the smell of the hot metal searing the lard he had so recently smeared over the bloated tits added to the overall sensation. Greasy steam shot up, even a quick gout of flame that Bojek blew out with a practised puff of air through pursed lips, to continue rubbing the rod against the taut sizzling under curves, dragging every last agony from her nerves.

The sputtering grew quieter and even her screams diminished to a moaning hiss as the last air from her lungs was forced out and spit sprayed from her stretched-back lips. The iron had cooled to a dark orange, still crackling and smeared with smoking dark ash, but no longer at optimal heat. Bojek tossed it clattering back into the coals.

"AAAAHHHHHH!" the prince exclaimed. At the first kiss of the hot iron against her sensitive breast flesh, the slick walls of her vagina clamped tightly about his still embedded penis, throttling it, all but choking the blood trapped within. As the two men had said, he need not stroke it back and forth—indeed he wasn't even sure he could, so tightly gripped was it by her sex. Again, impossibly, he felt his prick stiffen beyond belief, as hard as the torture rod and feeling no less hot. But for the previous orgasms, he would have ejaculated again, this moment, from the sensations. Instead the heat and stimulation only grew stronger, the erotic pleasure more intense. The sport of kings, indeed, yet he was sure even his father had never availed himself of delights such as these.

The executioners also wasted no time. Havel took up a place to the splayed girl's far side with his quirt. Bojek passed the remoistened rag beneath her nose, eliciting another spasm of awakening, then selected a fresh iron from the coals. Now for the first time using all of the strength in his broad shoulders, the younger swept his instrument down across Paraska's nude body. With such power behind it, almost every lash sliced the soft skin apart, especially where the split tip bit into it. No sooner did the blood start flowing from each new cut than the older man pressed his glowing tool into the tear and dragged it through the raw flesh, searing and cauterizing the wound.

For the next few minutes, an eternity for the frantic girl, the dank chamber was punctuated by nothing save the crack of bitter, striking leather, followed immediately by the sizzle of burning flesh—and the mixed shrieks of hideous female agony and inexpressible male sexual ecstasy for the young prince.

"AHHHHHH! OH, GOD, GOD! Let me die! Let me die! ARRRRRRHHHHHH! Please let me die!"

By now, Paraska's bound breasts were barely recognizable as what they had been so recently, soft feminine globes, so cut and burned were they, no longer creamy white, but a variegated mass of angry reds, purples, and charred browns. Bojek no longer concerned himself with preserving any of the girl's skin for further torment. The game was near done and not even the heightened pain of prolonging the skin without charring was a worthwhile consideration. He knew the wench had but another hour—likely only minutes—to live, so now there was no more need for subtlety. The girl's heaving chest and ribs were similarly discolored, as was her belly and abdomen. Even the delicate dimples beneath her arms where they met the breasts were furiously enreddened from the skillful bite of the quirt's tip and the following application of shimmering hot steel.

One final refinement. One final enhancement. Before proceding, Bojek handed Hricko the rag so recently used to such cruel effect to revive the maid. "There was still just the faintest remnant of the salts on it. "Here, highness, sniff and be one with god."

Vasil was past thought, past reason. He took the scrap and held it to his nose, inhaling deeply. Immediately he, like the girl, felt his heart race, the blood course more strongly, and the hardness of his buried erection become stiff as iron. "Ahhhhhhhhh. . ."

Such suffering and such arousal could not long endure. Indeed, the two executioners were as amazed by the wench's endurance of pain as their prince's for pleasure. At last, as it must, the sensations proved too much for both. A fiendish vertical slash from the whip split both turgid nipples with a spray of blood, followed by the immediate press of glowing metal into the torn flesh. Paraska's throat, already raw from hours of screaming, gave vent to a final, impossibly loud and ragged shreik, then just stopped. Down between her twitching thighs, Prince Hrasko gasped with equally fierce intensity as the girl's final agony clutched her vaginal walls spastically tight about his penis, squeezing a last molten eruption from it into her. Both seemed to end at the same moment; the young man collapsing atop as the final breath left the young woman's body.

Bojek and Havel stepped back. Their job was done. The peasant girl was dead, yet her death had bound the heir to them in a way that none could deny. Vasil slowly backed away, his darkened shaft softening until the still swollen head came out with a soft plop sound. No words were spoken. Havel handed the young man a warm, wet cloth to clean himself. On the bench, Paraska's sweat-shiny nude body twitched with the final spasms of death.

"You have honored us, my Lord," Bojek then said. "Please tell the king, your father and our liege, that his command has been carried out." And taking that final gamble, "What you say of how she died is up to you. Royal executioners are forbidden to provide such details." Then a final setting of the hook, "Your Majesty is, of course, always welcome to observe the king's justice administered here, with us. The Royal Heir must be familiar with the proper administration of his laws." He grinned, knowingly, "The Heir must be . . . ah . . . intimately involved in justice."

The prince stepped back, trembling, drained by an arousal he never imagined possible. He tugged his fine pants up and secured them about his waist. Even now, after it had sagged flaccid inside them, his penis still softly twitched with the aftermath of the extreme pleasure it had brought him. Yes, oh yes, he would return. Led by his penis, and empowered by his authority, he would return to this chamber to induldge his newly awakened desires. It was his duty, after all. His duty. "Carry on, good royal executioners. You dispose of this bitch's carcass." He reached into his tunic and drew out a small pouch. Reaching within, he withdrew a few gold coins. Breaking with all propriety, instead of tossing them to the floor, he pressed two directly into each man's hand. "I think we shall do this again," he said, "yes, I think we shall. And I shall be equally appreciative."

Turning from the chamber, he didn't notice Havel moving to the gap on the bench between the girl's legs. Dead or not, the bitch was still warm and wet and he was not one to waste such a gift. He cared not who told the joke, after all. . .

* * *

The guards roughly hauled Marja to her feet. It took only an instant for them to wrench the tattered remains of her blouse from her torso, leaving the terrified young girl nude to the waist in the opulent room. The guards quickly moved her to the front of the post so she faced the prince and reattached the bar to it. Marja writhed against them, but was impotent to prevent them. Her mind still reeling in shock, one guard buckled a collar about her neck. A short length of cord was passed through a ring at its back and tied to another ring mounted in the middle of the bar holding her arms and tightly knotted, pulling her neck back and forcing her to arch her back. While this was being done, the other guard wrapped a leather belt across her hips and buckled it in place, holding her hips firmly against the pillar. He then took an extra moment to tug the skirt down to the bottom of her abdomen, exposing her belly beneath the navel, then both stepped away. Now the terrified girl found herself helpless against the pillar with her chest thrust forward toward the the throne and the prince sitting there.

Hricko leaned forward, leering at the enticing sight the maid presented as she writhed against the post. His gaze was particularly drawn to her heaving chest. The breasts has been ripe with promise wobbling beneath the thin blouse, but now completely exposed they commanded his attention. He had expected them to be full, round globes, but instead he was presented with something new, unexpected, and thoroughly more stimulating. The mounds weren't the fleshy pears he was used to, but instead thrust out from her chest as twin cones, pointed and tipped at the apex with broad rosy disks. Even as he watched, their centers grew out into ripe buds. Yet even as firm as they appeared, they still jiggled delightfully at her futile efforts to escape. They fairly begged for the lash. He squirmed a bit on his throne, reaching into his pants to reposition the suddenly painful swelling within. Oh, yes, he thought, old Olena certainly earned a few extra coins for this prize.

The assembled boyars found themselves staring as well, while their wives, the ciocoaica, could only look away in vicarious shame. By any account, Marja's body was compelling. Atop her slim waist, her chest heaved, outlining the ribs and enhancing the two magnificent breasts. Their skin was white as fresh cream in stirring contrast to the brightly colored skirt. At their tips, the broad pink areolae crinkled up and in their centers, the teats grew out still harder and more erect from the chill air, sticking out insistently before her into the room. Even the worst of men never had their private parts exposed, yet here those most obvious indicators of her femininity were displayed to all. Torso twisting impotently, the maid's cheeks blushed a furious red from her mortal shame at being so exposed. The two guards took up positions to either side of her, brandishing their weapons. Bared to the waist and facing the whips, there was no doubt among those assembled to watch that Marja's superb naked breasts would receive more than their share of the strokes.

"Begin," Prince Hricko said. "Fifteen. Well laid on." Then, off to his right, he heard a voice.

Oh, this is vile! The man is a monster! Papa, can't you stop this?"

He looked over. Alexandra Vaenko. He should have known from the voice, at once imperious and dismissive. A few years older than him, she was a rare beauty. In this land of pale blondes and sultry brunettes, she had red hair, the color of rust, yet lighter, more delicate. There was also a sprinkling of freckles on her upper cheeks, the bridge of her upturned nose, and over the chest and across the cleavage fashion dictated be displayed. He had approached her when he just fourteen, soon after his first experience with a woman, and she a mature eighteen. He was sure she would submit to him—he was the heir to the throne, and quite filled with himself. She had dismissed him as if he were some stable boy, laughing in that way she had and just turning away, leaving him embarrassed and frustrated. But her father was one of the most powerful boyars, master of a large and fertile piece of land. Her contemptuous brush-off had rankled, festering ever since, yet he could still do nothing while the king needed the grain her father produced. Painfully aware that his cheeks were blushing, he turned back to the spectacle before him, pretending he hadn't heard, but filing away the affront for another time. Soon, you haughty bitch, soon. His father wouldn't live forever and was already old. Too old, yes, too old. I can wait, Vasil thought, I can wait. But I haven't forgotten, oh no, I haven't forgotten. No, bitch, you have been ever on my mind. He felt the familiar twinge between his legs. Yes. And soon, you won't forget, also. . .

The guard to Marja Sosenko's right launched the first stroke, a vicious slash that curled over her belly. Despite her resolve, Marja squealed in pain. A moment later the other, using his left hand, swept his belt a hair's breath higher to caress her rib cage just beneath the shaking tits. Numbers three and four raked her belly and abdomen. The prince himself leaned forward on his throne, eager for the next. His guards knew what their master liked and didn't disappoint. They followed immediately, with cruel focus.

SWAPPT! SCRATT! The two straps found Marje's tits for the first time, one lifting them with a vicious rising stroke even as the next crashed down from above to punish the upper surfaces. The miserable girl shrieked, any thought of control vanished by the hideous pain that burst through her leaping tits. The next couple returned to her heaving abdomen and belly, then one high up to where the collar bones met the slim neck. The final three, however, returned to her proffered bare breasts, savage horizontal strokes that embraced the cones and savagely punished the broad pink disks of her nipples, flattening them and drawing even louder wails of pain from her. The guards lowered their straps and Marja sagged at the post, head lowered. At last this fresh ghastly ordeal was over.

Vasil stared, captivated. The young woman's nude torso was flushed red from the straps and shiny with the sweat of torture. The breasts commanded his attention, trembling to every gasping breath. They were simply too lovely the way they bounced to the lash to stop—and he had no reason to. He was the prince, after all.

He repositioned his pants yet again and spoke. "I am satisfied you have paid for your slovenly work, yet you have twice protested the just order of your sentence. Such affrontery requires ten more for each insult to my office. Guards, twenty more for those offenses. The peasant must learn respect. Use the whips this time, and concentrate on her fat tits. Twenty more! And don't neglect her paps if you know what's good for you."

Neither needed the threat. Indeed, both had held back on their attack to the girl's chest out of deference to the audience's sensibilities. Whipping the proud breasts of a ripe young woman such as this was a rare treat and now they were free to indulge their passion.

The various tools of punishment were always kept close to hand—they never knew what direction their prince's whims might take—so it was a matter of moments before both were rearmed; now with dog-whips: short, slim braided weapons on long handles.

Marja could only look on in horror. Twice she had protested and each time her only reward was more lashes, so she wanted to hold her mouth lest she earn still more. Still, twenty more lashes across her soft naked breasts filled her with dread. The poor globes already throbbed with pain and that was only after a scant few slashes from the belts. She couldn't stop herself.

"Please, Highness, please, I beg you. Not this, oh for the love of God, not this. Mercy." Her voice faded to a whimper. "No more, for God's sake, no more. . ."

"You hear the bitch!" Vasil exclaimed to the boyars. "A fucking Jew calling on God! No, my pretty Killer Of Our Christ. You will take all twenty. Mercy is for the innocent. Guards, begin!"

Even as Hricko was speaking, one was busy behind the bound girl. He withdrew a short piece of steel from his tunic and stuck it between the lines behind Marja's back. Twisting it to draw the cords even tighter, he pulled the girl's neck even tighter behind her, arching her back, and forcing her chest to thrust still further before her toward the whips.

Now satisfied, the one to her left went first and he set forth to please his prince with a harsh horizontal stroke that cut across both of Marja's jutting breasts a finger's-breadth above the rosy nipples.

AHHEEEEHHHHH!" she screamed. Scarcely a second later, the other guard launched his attack, a clever uppercut that caught the undersides an equal length beneath the paps, a blow made easier by the cone shape of her tits. The straps had been bad, agonizing, yet nothing compared to the whips. These fiendish instruments inflicted a bitter thin line of searing pain, like fire searing her nerves.

The two men didn't take as long between their strokes now, allowing just enough time for the hapless girl to fully experience the pain and anticipate the next. A few of the strokes found her belly and ribs, but the majority accurately sought out the turrets of her naked, jutting breasts. Neither were her sensitive nipples spared. The one to her left seemed to take particular joy in aiming for them, doing his best to sweep the thin whip directly over them and flatten the teats down into the aureoles.

The prince leaned back, relishing the lurid spectacle. Every cut made the lush turrets leap and jiggle, a delightful dance of pain. Marja was completely broken, every lash drawing fresh wails of monstrous suffering. By now, fifteen of the added twenty had caressed the breasts, leaving brilliant scarlet stripes over the wider and duller marks from the straps. The girl's torso, the only part of her capable of the slightest motion, writhed and twisted against the belt holding her to the post, a lascivious dance of agony. A few of the lashes had been applied with enough force to slightly tear the delicate skin, so thin tendrils of bright, shining blood oozed down the trembling mounds. Even to those not given to such things, she presented an arousing sight.

Finally, finally, the last of the added twenty of her punishment were over, every one of the last five aimed to the very tips of her breasts to slice across the crinkled areolas and rigid teats, the right one now oozing its own fine thread of gleaming scarlet blood. "Done, Highness" the elder of the two guards said. "I don't think the wench can maintain consciousness much longer."

"Very well. I believe she has learned the price of sloppy work. Take her down. Then wash the Jewess off and toss her from the castle. Let her bless her Hebrew God that I have chosen to be merciful and not had her beheaded."

The two guards went to the barely conscious girl and undid the belts holding her against the post. Wash her down, the prince said, clean her up and toss her out. Their eyes met and both smiled. That meant the prince had no further interest in her. They, of course, did. Beating a nubile young woman, especially on the thrusting turrets of her bare breasts, was stimulating work, and both were painfully aware of the throbbing between their legs. So both knew that, before she was thrown from the palace gate, they would get to fuck her to the limit of their arousal. Later, she would be thrown, not from the gate, but into the troop barracks. Whatever might be left would be expelled from the castle, but neither thought it would be much more than a shattered carcass, if even still alive.

"As you command, Lord," the eldest said, smirking. "As you command."

Prince Hricko leaned back against his—always gratingly smaller—throne. Any other day and he would have had the peasant wench thrown, not from the gates, but into the torture chamber with his executioners, Old Bojek and the every-randy Havel, there to suffer further indignities and, soon enough, his own prick.

Not today, though, oh no, not today. The young man smiled, a cruel glint in his eyes. Oh, no, not today. Today, he had other plans. Today would be his day. Today would be special. He nodded his head to left and right, to those personally selected guards. Miniscule nods in response. Enough.

Almost on cue, a page ran into the room, crying. "The King, the King is dead! The King is dead! The King is dead!" He fell to his knees before Prince Vasil on his throne. "The King is dead. All hail the King!" Vasil acted shocked, but inside he smiled to himself. So the slow poison he had been oh so gradually adding to his father's food had taken its desired effect. The old fool had held on longer than expected, but his patience had finally paid off. Now he could do whatever he wanted. Anything he wanted. Anything. And he had such an imagination. . .

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