Did you rest well, my blonde Adonis? It is best you do not speak to me, for I have interest only in your outer shell, its muscled skin shaven clean and readily accepting my healing salves. Yes, I have restored you. Your blue eyes once again attract my brown ones, and your flesh glows with brightness whiter than the boundless sands outside my tent. Do not express your gratitude to me for healing your wounds. You are merely a slate to be wiped clean so that I might redraw you with this day's designs. Come, let us now leave the safety and shade. You will worship the sand; I will worship you.
Your new leash is a brilliant idea on my part. It lessens the chances you will try to run from me -- not unless you wish to be separated from your testicles. Does my tightly wound strip of leather comfort them? Do you not admire how my binding causes a swelling of your nuts? How it paints them purple and doubles their size? No matter. I like what I see regardless of your opinion. The short chain between your wrist cuffs will do nicely. See the wooden stakes in the sand? They are for you, Johnny, all three of them. I would ask you to lay belly down inside their triangle, but I might better enjoy forcing you to the ground with a yank of your leash... like THIS!
I'm sorry, precious one. Did I hurt you? Here, allow me to stretch your arms this direction, past your blonde head of hair. That's it. Now, I tie this rope from my single stake to the three links of chain between your wrist cuffs. It is good. I do love how the latissimus dorsi of your back flare wide to muscular perfection when your arms are stretched into parallel lines.
Your ankles will readily fit between each of these ropes... one at a time... tighten each noose... legs spread wide open, there, now my Johnny fills the triangle inside my wooden stakes. My estimation of your stretched length is ideal, my skills of geometry flawless.
It is hot and the sun high, but today it seems nearer to us than usual. I think this is a good sign, Johnny. He challenges us to withstand his punishment. He confirms that we are to honor him here and now, but please allow me a few minutes inside my tent. Already I thirst. There is water waiting for me, and while there I might as well remove my cumbersome clothing so that I can join you in nakedness.
Your cheeks are elevated, Johnny, a feature I did not notice until I laid down beside you here in the sand. I think they are gourds; or perhaps hard, bulbous melons, but either way they will soon be mine. Do you see this? I have brought with me my jimbaya. See the beautifully curved blade of my dagger, Johnny? Its shiny steel will blind you if I catch the correct angle of sunray. There. Now you must squint to protect your eyes. However, I prefer that you keep them open, so here's another trick. My jimbaya will also direct rays to sear the flesh in the center of your writhing, sturdy backside. There, the perfect reflection. Can you feel the sun now, Johnny? Its warm glow along your spine burning your skin? Your moans and hisses answer my question.
My name is Asad. In my language it is the same as lion. I am a lion, Johnny. I have claws, or at least one. My jimbaya will make you mine. I sign my name to your muscular cheeks, Johnny, so no one else will dare to enter here. They will know their entry brings my wrath and their death. On your left cheek I carve my name in Greek, not because I need for you to know that I am an educated man, but because letters of the Greek alphabet are designed with lines thick and bold; better for my cuts, deeper, easier for you to remember. Your groans of pain tell me you will remember my name, the name of Asad scripted in red, imbedded to your skin forever. Now, for your right cheek I will be Asad in Arabic, letters made with quick, precise and short slices of your meaty cheek. Gasp for me, Johnny. Confirm that you know the name of the one who owns you: Asad, the lion who protects you, punishes you, brings you pleasure through pain, the one who absorbs with glee your masculine grunts and howls and groans of defiance. Be a man for me, Johnny. Fight me. Sing your melodies of resistance, and be comforted in knowing that you can sing with no fear of my entry to the portal between your monogrammed buttocks. I have no intention of feminizing you, Johnny... not today. Today we worship the sun and sand as men, with our muscle, blood and sweat.
The sheen upon your skin nearly hypnotizes me, your sweat so thick and aromatic and erotic. It further enhances your gloriously stretched muscle, Johnny, and although I am tempted to touch you, taste you, lick the briny layers away so that new can replace the old, my stomach needs a more substantial nourishment. It is time for my mid-day meal, Johnny. The sun has reached its highest point of blue sky. You will inspire me from your altar of sand while I dine from my tented shade. But first, I must flip you. It is your chest and belly and organs of sex that I long to see, for these are the muscles that whet my appetite.
Now, all is perfect. You face the sun. Your legs are spread in a wishbone, the remainder of you its base. Your blood must flow freely, and so I remove the leash from your swollen nuts. With camel-hair brush I sweep away the white sand pasted to your sweat-drenched skin. You may now coat yourself with new layers while I consume my meal, observe you from my tent.
My belly is full, Johnny, and yours is glorious when stretched. I adore the way it drops from your sternum as though a cliff of stone. Clearly, you have devoted many hours to sculpturing this masterpiece. Undoubtedly, your abdomen is made of countless crunches and leg-lifts and sit-ups and god knows what, for only devotion such as this can create a ridge so deep, so well-defined. A perfect line it is, Johnny, from the pit of your stomach to your belly button to the hair of your groin, with six heavenly curves intersecting and flaring in perfect symmetry from either side. Your beauty is not my fault, Johnny. It is yours. It is your belly that speaks to me with words of defiance; your belly that says, "Go ahead. Do your worst. Break me if you can, Asad, for you will crack your own knuckles before ever penetrating me." Your belly speaks truth, and so I will use not my fists but my bare feet.
I stomp on you, my beautiful man-god. I stand on your hard muscle, repeatedly leaping into the air and coming down with my full weight pulverizing you, and I relish the sounds of my heels impaling the solid wall of your abdomen. Sing for me your tortured melody, you strong-assed hulk of muscular perfection. It's music to my ears when you strike your low, masculine, breathy notes of "hoomph," and "ungh." I stand on you. I leap and come down with knee to the pit of your stomach, a devastating blow to your diaphragm that shoots air from your lungs. I hand-stand upon your chest and drive both my knees into your gut, same spot, and your mighty whoosh of "uawhh" nearly melts my face with its heated-breath refrain. Your hard belly begs for more. Your muscled wall of defense gives not one inch, and so I repeatedly spring to vertical and pound you with my knees, my planted fingers clutching tightly to your powerful pectorals for leveraging of my standing on hands.
Your belly will be broken, but it will take every bit of energy I can muster. Again, I jump onto your gut, heels first. You emit sounds of regurgitation, but there is nothing inside of you to spew. For two days I have denied you food; for one day, water, and I have done so for good reason: The sand wants your defiance; the sun demands your torture. We cannot soil our reverence for them with your bile. Flex your belly; tense your hard stone; protect yourself and repulse this urge to puke.
You fill my heart with admiration for you, Johnny. I am proud that you are mine. I listen to your masculine grunts, groans, oohs and ughs, and I observe your defiance. You strain every muscle, expand your chest, suck in your belly and tighten its defenses. You dare me to pulverize your gut. You enjoy taking your punishment more than I enjoy giving it, but I will accept your challenge nonetheless.
Oh, Johnny, my powerful, sweat-drenched, gut-flexing he-man, you will break neither my hands, nor my feet, nor my knees, but you are permitted to break this, if you can. My wooden club is designed to transform your solid muscle into pulped mush. I will pulverize your wall. Did I not tell you that you are merely a slate? Today's torture will erase your lines of sculptured belly. We do this to honor the sun and sand. Tomorrow, you will begin the task of rebuilding what I have destroyed, and your motivation will come from the sting of my whip. For you see, it is written that we must sacrifice. We must worship our vast desert home whenever it calls upon us to do so, and when once again the sun beckons, Johnny, we must be ready to nourish the sands beneath it with our sweat, and with our masculine strength.
Now, my tortured hero, prepare to suffer.