This story is a work of fiction. Any relation to any persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. This story contains male-to-male erotic scenes. If you are under the age of 18, or if it is illegal in the area in which you live to read such materials, please continue no further. This story is copyrighted by the author, and no portion of this story may be copied, distributed or republished without the author's express, written consent.
Hercules enslaved - by Catgenie [Gay Male Stories/Authoritarian]
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Chapter 9 - the urge
Hercules was jolted awake by a sudden, icy deluge, the frigid water coursing over his battered form, washing away the traces of blood and sweat on his muscles. He blinked rapidly, his vision slowly coming into focus as he found himself face to face with the cruel visage of Demetrius. As in a lingering nightmare, the demigod's powerful body was still adorned with the horrid array of needles. Yet, as Hercules drew in a shuddering breath, the pain that radiated from those violated areas seemed to have intensified tenfold.
Demetrius watched, his lips curled into a twisted smile, as Hercules struggled against the unyielding restraints, the demigod's muscles coiling and straining beneath his skin. "Welcome back, Hercules," the tyrant purred, his voice dripping with malicious delight. "I trust you've had a... refreshing rest."
Hercules gritted his teeth, his jaw clenched in a resolute line, as he fought to suppress the agonized cries that threatened to escape his lips. The pain was excruciating, a torment that seemed to have been amplified beyond the limits of his endurance.
"What have you done?" the demigod rasped, his voice barely above a whisper, as he glared defiantly at the tyrant.
Demetrius chuckled, his fingers drumming against his chin as he savored Hercules' distress. "Ah, yes, I suppose you've noticed the... difference in your pain, haven't you?" the tyrant purred. "I've had my men fetch some of the finest, most potent sea water from the nearby coast. A little touch of the ocean to enhance your torment, if you will."
Hercules felt a surge of horror wash over him as he realized the implications of Demetrius' words. The salt content of the seawater would undoubtedly deepen the agony of the needle wounds, the brine stinging and burning the exposed, sensitive flesh. Hercules flexed the magnificent muscles on his body to insane hardness as if to fight off the burning sensation, but the pain just remained if not exacerbated.
"Now, now, Hercules," the tyrant murmured, his voice mockingly soothing. "There's no need to be so tense. I merely wish to enjoy the fruits of my handiwork a little while longer."
With a casual gesture, Demetrius signaled to one of his men, who promptly stepped forward and began to systematically twist and turn each of the needles piercing Hercules' flesh. The demigod's body convulsed, a primal scream of anguish tearing from his lips as the searing agony radiated outward. Hercules felt as though his very nerves were on fire, the salt water magnifying the torment to an unbearable degree. He tried to stay still but the all-consuming pain from the twisting needles and the salt water just made it impossible.
Demetrius watched, as the demigod writhed and screamed, his powerful frame straining against the unyielding restraints. The tyrant purred, "Let me hear you scream, Hercules! To me, you are just a puppet!"
Hercules fought to regain control, to cling to the last vestiges of his resolve, but the agony was simply too overwhelming. The demigod's vision blurred, his mind teetering on the edge of oblivion. Hercules felt the darkness closing in again, his consciousness slipping away as the torment became too much to bear. The demigod's body went limp, his head drooped.
Demetrius watched with satisfaction as Hercules succumbed again to the overwhelming agony. The demigod's fate now lay in the hands of the tyrant, and the true horrors that awaited him. Demetrius let out a frustrated sigh, his expression souring as he regarded the battered and unconscious form of Hercules.
"Enough of this," Demetrius muttered, his lip curling in disdain. "The needle game has grown tiresome. See to it that he is tended to, Pavlos. It's time to get ready for the grand finale for our guest of honor..."
The old man tensed, his weathered features etched with a mixture of fear and reverence as he approached the unconscious demigod. With trembling hands, he began the delicate task of removing the needles, one by one, his gaze fixed upon Hercules' battered form. As each gleaming metal rod was carefully extracted, the old man couldn't help but marvel at the demigod's resilience. Hercules' powerful muscles, once taut and unyielding, now bore the grim marks of his torment, his flesh raw and inflamed from the relentless assault. The old man worked quickly, his movements deft and precise, driven by a desire to ease the demigod's suffering.
Once the last of the needles had been removed, the old man's gaze lingered on Hercules' exposed flesh, his fingers twitching with a strange, almost primal fascination. Calming himself, the old man reached for a clean piece of cloth and a small jar of ointment, its pungent aroma filling the air as he gently cleaned while applying the soothing salve to Hercules' wounds. His touch was feather-light, his calloused fingers tracing the contours of the demigod's muscular frame with a reverence that bordered on the obsessive. With Demetrius' order to tend to Hercules, the old man was more bold as his fingers lingered, caressing the demigod's flesh with a tender, almost worshipful touch. He reveled in the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to explore Hercules' body, to touch the powerful muscles and intimate areas that no other man had ever dared to venture. A shudder of anticipation ran through the old man's frame, his eyes gleaming with a strange, almost predatory fascination as he continued his ministrations.
As Hercules finally stirred, his brow furrowing in a mix of pain and confusion, Pavlos withdrew his hands. Hercules blinked, his vision slowly coming into focus as he registered the absence of the needles that had once pierced his flesh. The ache and burn still lingered, but the demigod couldn't help but feel a glimmer of relief. Yet, as his gaze shifted to Pavlos, Hercules felt a chill run down his spine. There was a strange, unsettling look in the old man's eyes, a gleam of something akin to desire that sent a shiver of unease through the demigod's being. The old man's expression darkened with a perverted anticipation as he observed Hercules slowly regaining consciousness. The demigod's powerful frame, now free of the cruel needles, lay vulnerable before him with the heavy manacles still in place.
Deliberately, the old man reached for the jar of healing ointment, his gnarled fingers dipping into the fragrant salve. His gaze lingered on Hercules' muscular chest, his eyes drawn to the demigod's bruised and sensitive nipples.
"The last, and perhaps the most delicate, of your wounds," the old man murmured, his voice tinged with a strange, almost predatory excitement.
Hercules tensed, a surge of unease washing over him as he watched the old man approach. The demigod's brow furrowed in a mix of pain and apprehension. With deliberate slowness, the old man began to gently massage the ointment into Hercules' abused nipples, his calloused fingers caressing the sensitive flesh with an unsettling reverence. A sharp hiss of pain escaped Hercules' lips as the salve stung the tender, violated skin. His powerful muscles coiled in response, the demigod's body straining against the unyielding restraints as he fought to suppress the agonized cries that threatened to tear from his throat. The old man's gaze locked onto Hercules' face as he meticulously tended to the demigod's wounds. His touch, though gentle, held an underlying current of something dark and unsettling, a primal hunger that sent a shiver of revulsion through Hercules' being.
"Such magnificent strength," Pavlos murmured, his fingers tracing the contours of Hercules' chest, "yet so vulnerable in the most intimate of places."
The old man's words, laced with a twisted admiration, only served to heighten the demigod's sense of unease and violation. As the ointment began to soothe the aching, inflamed flesh, the old man's ministrations grew bolder, his fingers venturing to explore the demigod's most intimate part as he reached for Hercules' godly manhood. Hercules felt a surge of nausea wash over him, his stomach twisting in revulsion at the old man's touch. He knew that he was powerless to stop the violation, his strength sapped by the torment he had endured, but still Hercules strained wildly against the heavy manacles as if he could thrash out of them.
Pavlos, relishing his power over the bound hero, savored the moment.
Suddenly, he held Hercules' balls in a vice grip, the forceful tug a constant reminder of his control. "Calm down, Hercules," he purred, his voice deceptively soothing. "There's no need to fight me. I meant you no harm." The threat hung heavy in the air. Hercules, forced to swallow his rage, fought to regain his composure. The old man, his touch surprisingly gentle, began to envelope Hercules' manhood in his hand and started a slow back and forth jerking motion. The hint of sting from the ointment was strangely arousing and Hercules could not help but had a full hard-on. The old man's other hand found the way to his own erection and started to move in tandem, a grotesque counterpoint to the violation of Hercules. As the old man's fingers danced across Hercules' sensitive cockhead, the demigod knew that he was facing a torment far worse than any physical pain. The violation of his dignity was a wound that cut deeper than any needle or blade. Hercules' eyes locked with the old man's, a silent plea for mercy, for an end to this unspeakable humiliation. But the old man's gaze only held a twisted, insatiable hunger, a dark fascination that refused to be quelled. The relentless rhythm of the old man's hand, the heavy heat of his breath, and his guttural moans filled the dungeon cell. Pavlov's climax was a jarring punctuation to the torment, his release staining Hercules's thigh. The old man continued his violation on Hercules until the massive muscles on the demigod's body convulsed in a final, agonizing spasm; a torrent of his divine essence spilled across the dungeon floor, and only then did the old man stop.
After his disturbing ministrations, the old man finally withdrew his hands from Hercules' battered form. Hercules lay there, his powerful muscles still coiled with tension, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he struggled to come to terms with the degradation. The demigod's eyes were narrowed, a mix of pain, confusion, and a deep, burning anger simmering within their depths. The old man dared not meet Hercules' gaze, knowing that he had violated the demigod in the most egregious of ways, as his trembling fingers fumbled with the cleanup.
Without a word, the old man turned and began to make his way towards the exit. Hercules watched as the old man disappeared, his jaw clenched tightly as he grappled with the lingering ache and the deep sense of violation.