Journey to the Heart
Brannan watched Geraint working. The Old Warrior, the Bard’s current keeper, pounded in the last few tacks that attached a leather covering to a broader, padded beam set at crotch height, spanning the short side of the frame.
This new construct took up half the space of the tower chamber. It looked like a curtained bed frame, only much taller. Four thick corner posts, connected by beams around the top, with another set lower down on three sides, reached the ceiling. High enough to suspend a tall man, the frame’s hooks, blocks, and pulleys enhanced its functionality.
Despite himself, Brannan felt curiosity mixed with apprehension. “What are the pulleys for, Geraint?”
“Among other things, they’re to support and adjust the sling, a kind of hammock, which you’ll get fastened into,” said the Old Warrior, setting down the mallet. “That’s it. I’m done.” Geraint wiped his hands on a towel. “I could use a break; I’ve got a powerful thirst.” He strolled over to where Brannan sat on his sleeping pallet, wrapped in Lord Samir’s dark blue woollen cloak.
The Bard’s wounds from his punishment, received at the Warlord’s hands these five days past, had healed enough so he could sit without severe pain. When Efan and Kai had beaten him, they seldom used any implement that tore or cut his flesh. The Warlord had ordered it so, but the beatings had consistently worn down Brannan’s will, like water dripping in a limestone cave that could eventually wear great channels through the rock.
Geraint picked up a tankard of ale from the table and drank deeply. Then he reached out a hand to stroke Brannan’s dark hair.
“You know what I want, lad.”
“I do.”
“Well, then…”
Brannan was learning obedience as taught by the Warlord’s devastating bullwhip. He never wanted that experience repeated. He rose to his knees without hesitation and opened Geraint’s leather breeches with his teeth to spare his crippled hands. It was fairly simple to do as only two ties fastened the overlap. The Old Warrior’s thick, mushroom-headed phallus presented itself at port arms. It did not take Brannan long until it became fully engorged.
He did not hurry in this daily duty, finding solace in it now. Geraint’s hand on his head provided a human touch devoid of cruelty. As he performed, he took his time and edged the Old Warrior, bringing him close to ejaculation three times.
“Enough of your games, Master Bard. It’s been fun, but I’ve got other things to do, so finish your work.”
Brannan did indeed finish his work. Sucking as deep and hard as he could manage, then caressing the head with his tongue and lips gave Geraint a shuddering orgasm. As he came, the Old Warrior shouted his pleasure aloud and switched his grip to hold Brannan’s mouth on his member, both hands tightly wound in the Bard’s hair. Geraint then stood still, stroking his head.
Brannan leaned into the man’s touch like a petted dog starved for affection before shame overwhelmed him as he realized his reaction. He pushed the emotion aside. This sexual bondage is my new reality now. I will accept it. Consequently, he bent down and kissed the Old Warrior’s boot, as the Warlord had ordered.
Geraint chuckled. “Lad, you don’t have to stand on ceremony with me when it’s only us two here. Just say ‘Thanks!’”
Brannan found himself almost smiling before he remembered that pleasing Geraint and the Warlord maximized his chances of survival.
----
In the early afternoon, Geraint took Brannan down to the bathing room. He hung the Bard’s blue cloak on a peg and unlocked the cock cage before stripping off his own clothes.
Brannan was becoming accustomed to seeing his keeper naked, for Geraint bathed him daily. A muscular and solid bear of a man, his thick, grey, curling body hair covered his chest, shoulders, limbs, and back. Like the Warlord Samir, he bore numerous scars, all from weapons, as far as Brannan could judge. None were from whips.
Geraint led the Bard to a tiled area with a drain. A nearby hose connected to a tap in the wall that fed from the pressurized hot springs.
“We will be some time doing a deep clean-out today, Master Bard, but, as they say in the camps, ‘Cleanliness is a soldier’s friend.’ Now, bend forward for me.”
Feeling resigned, Brannan complied. Now I have no shame left: none.
Several bottles sat on a ledge beside Geraint. He chose one and poured a thick, clear, lubricating fluid into his hand, applying it to the metal tip at the end of the hose. Then, he carefully pushed it into Brannan’s anus with a sure and practiced touch.
Water flowed through the hose in a modest stream, producing the expected action. Brannan winced at the cramping in his gut, but eventually, after several long sessions, the water ran clear. Exhausted, Brannan rested on the bench while Geraint sluiced down and disinfected the tile floor.
“This is nothing compared to a battlefield after the fighting: blood, shit, guts, body parts, the screams of the wounded, and the moans of the dying…,” Geraint said grimly. “But you know, you’ve been there.”
“Indeed,” Brannan laughed shortly and without humour. “I was Bard to the dying.”
“Ah, but your music gave them something to listen to as they left this world besides the cries of wounded men and the harsh croaking of ravens. M’mates told me the ravens gathered around you when you played your harp. They said it kept them buggers from the eyes of the dead and dying. And they called you the ‘Servant of Ravens.’” Geraint sighed deeply. “Death is the loneliest journey, but one can give some comfort even by simply being beside a man as he leaves this life. You did that for them, too.”
Brannan wanted to stop this dark talk; his memories were all too clear: kneeling beside a dying man, holding his hand as Brannan’s spirit form led the fallen warrior’s soul to the final gate. As a Ruithin priest and bard, he had a duty to comfort the dying, but he had told no one, except the Grand Master of his bardic order, of this strange ability to guide their souls through otherworldly pathways to the threshold.
Sometimes, he played his harp, Mavrenn, that sacred instrument among Brannan’s people, possessed by the spirit of a warrior queen. Through the harp’s spirit’s power, he sent the dying peace and comfort. And he had seen plenty of death as he accompanied the Warlord on his military endeavours in the seven Turns he had been with him, companions in a struggle to keep the city-state of Torrent Mountain free.
Geraint, too, seemed to want to change the subject. “Anyway, it’s in the past, and a good soldier doesn’t dwell on it. Come now; we’ll have a wash and a shave, and then I’ll take you back. The lads will have finished fitting out the frame by now.”
They stood under the warm waterfall pouring off the ledge, and the Old Warrior soaped and scrubbed Brannan’s body and hair before he washed himself.
Geraint dressed and then laid a towel on the bench. “Sit back there, and I’ll shave you.”
He carried a bowl of hot water, a straight razor, and a leather strop. Then he brought the razor to Brannan’s throat.
“I’m good with blades.” He chuckled at his own joke. “So relax and let me get on with it.”
He shaved Brannan’s neck and parts of his face and trimmed the silky black beard close to his jaw. Brannan appreciated Geraint’s gentle touch over his fading bruises from when the guards had beaten him.
“Good, top bit’s done. Now lie back and spread your legs— go on; I won’t cut your manhood if that’s what worries you. M’Lord Samir has his uses for you yet.”
Brannan did as Geraint told him, feeling very vulnerable as the Old Warrior sharpened the razor on the strop and shaved the hair around his genitals. At the same time, the Bard found himself trusting the man’s competence.
Geraint used a balsam oil to rub around the base of Brannan’s penis and on his testicles. “Don’t think I’ll do this until you cum,” he laughed shortly as he continued his massage with the fragrant substance.
Brannan’s balls retreated into hiding at the approach of the razor but came hesitantly back down as the blade stroked sensually over his sack. The Bard’s member, uncaged, stirred and became engorged with blood. When Geraint finished shaving the area, he took more oil, slowly and deliberately smoothing it on the now-hard penis. His hand slid sensuously up and down the shaft, gentle revenge for the Bard’s teasing of the morning. Brannan moaned, the stroking tormenting him.
His penis had been restrained for a week and could not become erect inside its cage. At the same time, sucking Geraint’s large and thick member every day, as ordered by the Warlord, now aroused him intensely. Unfortunately, Geraint stopped his play. Brannan felt like begging the man to continue.
“Turn over, lad, and open your legs so I can get at your ass,” the Old Warrior ordered.
Reluctantly, Brannan complied. Geraint again used the balsam oil and massaged it into his skin, skilfully shaving the back of Brannan’s testicles, the sensitive perineal region, and the area around his anus.
Brannan shivered at the sheer sensuality of Geraint’s touch with the razor and the oil. Underneath him, his stiff cock pressed against his belly, but he could do nothing to respond to the feelings of arousal while the razor stroked the back of his scrotum. He kept very, very still.
When they finished, Geraint wrapped the blue cloak around the Bard’s body while Brannan stood. His legs felt weak and shaky, and he shivered. His hair hung in wet ring curls and dripped on his shoulders.
“I’ll leave the cage off until your cock backs down. Won’t fit right now. It’s a pity to waste a good hard-on, but m’Lord will be arriving soon and wants you primed,” Geraint said.
Primed for what? The strange preparation ritual for Lord Samir’s mysterious event had Brannan unnerved. He noticed the Old Warrior’s pitying look as they entered the upper chamber door, leaving the guards outside.
Brannan started at the sight of the completed frame. A hammock sling hung under its crossbeams, with cuffs and straps dangling from the supporting chains. A thick lambskin lay over the sling’s leather webbing, presumably to cushion his back. The workers had placed a bench before it.
Seeing the apparatus, the Bard’s gut tightened, and his mouth dried. He didn’t know the Warlord’s plans for him that night, but they couldn’t be good. It was too easy to imagine a session involving pincers and metal implements of torture, for he could feel the heat from the lit brazier that had been placed nearby. He fervently hoped he was wrong. He tried to calm himself as Geraint refastened the cock cage on him after allowing him to piss in the bucket kept in the room for that purpose.
Instead of the claw collar, the Old Warrior attached a simple collar of black leather around Brannan’s neck. A light chain linked it to one of the top bars of the cock cage, lifting his penis against his stomach. Brannan didn’t know why. Then Geraint brought over a large goblet that the Bard could grasp with his wrists. Brannan sipped the slightly sweet, salty, mineral-tasting water.
“Drink all of it, lad. Then I’ll refill it. You’re dehydrated after the emptying. You’ll need your strength tonight.”
“Why?” the Bard asked him, but Geraint tightened his lips and said nothing in reply.
Brannan had just finished his second drink when the Warlord entered the chamber. The Bard noticed Geraint pass Samir the key to the cock cage. He and Geraint shared quiet words before the Old Warrior murmured a farewell and silently slipped out the door.
----
Samir pinned the Bard with his icy gaze. “Tonight, our journey begins.”
The Warlord sat before the Bard, who lay strapped into the webbed sling suspended from the frame. Leather cuffs immobilized his limbs. The thigh and leg straps that held his legs apart and the sling tilt ensured Brannan’s total exposure. Samir inspected the Bard’s leather collar and the thin chain connecting it to the cock cage, holding his genitals stretched tight.
The Warlord’s gaze returned to Brannan’s face, and he considered his subject. A good-looking man, still young and in his prime, the Bard’s customary peaceful and easy expression had changed during his long captivity to a stone-like wariness, like a wild animal caught in a trap. Samir had seen the look in the eyes of combat veterans who had witnessed too much slaughter. The Warlord knew he was directly responsible for this change; indeed, he had charted the path of Brannan’s destruction, even though the Bard had once been his friend. Samir recognized that this very closeness had contributed to his own pain and the overwhelming desire for retribution. But tonight, he felt a change in his outlook.
Samir’s emotions threatened to overwhelm the cool façade he presented to his prisoner. He felt lust and an eagerness for the hunt, yes, but something more prompted his actions. The smouldering anger he generally felt seemed oddly absent. How will the Bard handle what I must do? The thought persisted that tonight’s events might permanently alter his relationship with his captive, for he planned to perform the most invasive act his prisoner could experience.
But enough speculation! Running his eyes over the Bard’s body increased Samir’s arousal. The lithe and muscular form of his victim excited him. The Bard’s body hair, nearly black, thatched his armpits and swirled around each breast. A line of it ran from navel to genitals, with a sparser covering darkening his forearms and lower legs.
Samir finally spoke. “Well, Brannan, we will travel far tonight, you and I, to a place you have never been. I wonder if you will find pleasure in it—but you will thank me when it’s over, that I guarantee.”
The Bard’s expression changed slightly: a look in his eyes that said, I am not yours. Samir laughed, then leaned forward and ran his hands over Brannan’s body from chest to caged penis.
“It is time.” Samir stood up. “Now it’s just you and me.”
The Warlord stripped off his customary leathers to reveal his powerful physique with its oversized, semi-erect phallus. He returned to the bench in front of his victim. From a bottle on the end of the seat, Samir poured a clear lotion into his hands. Steepling three fingers, he slowly penetrated the Bard, feeling the anal portal’s tightness yield to his lubricant-slicked hand.
A muscle twitched in Brannan’s jaw, but that was all.
Samir stood again while stroking himself with the lotion, feeling his shaft become hard. He felt a strong need to possess this man, open and vulnerable before him.
The sling’s height put Brannan’s rectal portal in line with the Warlord’s genitals. Samir introduced his phallus, working it steadily until it passed the first anal constriction, pausing briefly before continuing his forward assault.
Brannan’s chest rose as he breathed in deeply. The Warlord felt the Bard’s muscles relax their tight grip on his penis, allowing him to complete the thrust. He withdrew partway, then pushed harder, achieving full penetration.
Pain showed in Brannan’s expression, but after several strokes, his eyes widened, and the pupils dilated.
The Warlord paused and looked down at Brannan with satisfaction. “Do you wish me to continue? Your eyes tell me that you do.”
“I don’t—” The Bard seemed to struggle to answer before saying, “I will submit to your desire.”
Samir slowly pushed in with his hips such that his body connected tightly with Brannan’s flesh. “Not good enough. Answer my question: yes or no.”
“Yes!”
This answer pleased the Warlord. He knew that the cock cage thwarted his prisoner’s desire for release, so he pressed his advantage, pumping harder until he braced his body, seizing the front chains of the sling for support and ejaculating in long pulses as his lust enveloped him completely. When he withdrew, Brannan made a sound, and his eyes widened. Samir noted the protest and smiled to himself.
But the Warlord was not done. Steepling his three fingers again, he slid them into the Bard’s rear. He curled the fingers and put pressure on Brannan’s prostate gland, eliciting a moan from the Bard. Then Samir made a four-finger steeple and moved in again. He worked his hand slowly, fixing his gaze on his victim’s dark-lashed eyes.
Tucking his thumb between his steepled fingers, Samir pushed further inside Brannan, going as far as the knuckles. The Bard must have realized where this was leading, for his eyes flashed, and he struggled in the sling. Samir felt the helpless muscular contractions in the tight, hot passage as Brannan’s body tried to reject the increasingly penetrating hand. Samir reigned in the urge to thrust harder. He required the Bard’s acceptance and more: from a desire to punish, the Warlord now needed to gain his subject’s cooperation.
“Relax, Bard. I am not going to stop. If you resist, you will harm yourself.”
----
Samir’s large hands were proportionate to his size, and Brannan did not know if he could accommodate him. Despite his fear, he bent his mind to override his body’s natural response.
Lord Samir’s man, Geraint, had flushed Brannan’s bowels that afternoon. The cold water inside his rectal passage had caused painful cramps even as it cleansed him. He felt cramping now, but there was nothing to expel. He breathed deeply and steadily. Samir’s knuckles were at the anal opening’s constriction point, and the pain increased with the slow but relentless pressure. An intense ache filled him as the Warlord’s fist entered his passage, and he drew a sharp intake of breath. Samir paused then, and Brannan took the time to release the tension in his muscles. But the Warlord poured more lubricant on his wrist and spread it up his arm with his free hand.
“No…”
Brannan could not stop the murmur of protest as he watched. It was the first time he had uttered such a denial in all the punishment endured over the past Turn, but the Warlord’s actions threatened his safety in a way he could not have imagined. Would his body tear? Did the Warlord intend for him to bleed to death?
Samir’s head lifted, and his eyes gleamed in the lamplight. Brannan, noting the look, thought of a tiger catching wind of its prey.
The Warlord’s fist resumed its slow assault, navigating the flexures of the curved rectal passage, moving slightly in and out, gently twisting until Samir reached the sigmoidal junction. Brannan’s knowledge of anatomy made him picture it all too graphically. His head tipped back, and he gasped for air, fighting panic, but nothing seemed to stop the Warlord’s invasion of his inner regions. The muscle of the passage gripped Samir’s fist, enveloping it. Helpless to prevent it, Brannan felt more muscle contractions squeezing against the Warlord’s arm.
“Give it up to me, Bard. You have no choice. Tonight, I am going deep.”
Samir now worked his way into the sigmoid colon, which curved up into the straight passage of the descending one. Brannan felt his guts displaced, and he shied from the knowledge that somewhere inside might be scar tissue from his abdominal wound of the previous Turn. The Bard looked down, shocked to see Samir’s arm inside him. He felt invaded so intimately that he had never imagined it possible and vulnerable to the extreme.
But there was no pain now, and the pressure was beginning to translate into something else. To Brannan’s surprise, a wave of pleasure suddenly engulfed him, and he felt conjoined with the Warlord, whose fist the Bard judged must now be at its maximum reach inside.
Samir paused in his gentle twisting, thrusting motion. “I can feel your heartbeat,” he told the Bard.
“Yes…” Brannan’s heart pounded within him. The arm invading him seemed to grip not only his heart but also his soul. The urge to rebel passed, replaced by something more than acceptance: the Bard entered a place beyond mind, a spirit realm where submission and desire blended. But something else intruded: a growing awareness that he entered a nexus where the time winds blew as Brannan realized his response would change his life’s path. Suddenly, he wanted this man who had tormented him and who now gripped his heart. Dimly aware that Samir had freed his penis from its cage, he felt it rise.
Samir leaned over him, bringing his mouth to the Bard’s lips. The Warlord kissed him with animal passion, claiming him. Brannan found himself responding with an equal force as their tongues melded. He had never imagined anything like this, and never had he envisioned his passionate response. Samir drew out the kiss while his fist penetrated his now-willing prey. The Warlord straightened up, continuing to hold Brannan’s eyes on his. Then he did something Brannan could barely believe. With his arm still inside the Bard, Samir bent down and, grasping Brannan’s freed member in his left hand, stroked it, then kissed him again. But the gesture signalled more than passion this time: it expressed tenderness.
At this, Brannan wept, entirely and utterly undone. He experienced a whole-body orgasm—an ocean tide of mixed pleasure, pain, and submission washed over him from his toes to the top of his head. His emotions escaped his control, and tears poured down his face unabated. Samir leaned over and kissed him again, gently licking the salty fluid from the Bard’s lips.
Very slowly, the Warlord removed his fist. Brannan felt some pain, but he didn’t care.
“Are you mine, Bard?” Samir’s voice had a deep, husky quality to it.
Brannan sought to answer. He could no longer avoid the facts. The burning in his soul revealed its secret love, and, at that moment, he knew that the Warlord felt it, too.
“You know I have always been, Lord,” he said, yielding to the truth.
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