Jardonn's Erotic Tales

CARNIVALE

Story by Jardonn based on

Baron's picture Friday 13.10.1307

Visit Yahoo Group SUBTERRANEAN

to see more Baron and Borg artwork.

 

Yes, Friday the 13th, 1307, the end of the Knights Templar.

I am well aware the significance of the event, but I see another possibility.

I see the Baron sitting atop his wall. He supervises preparation for festivities to come, ogles the finely-sculptured prisoners being made ready in his castle courtyard -- not Templars, soldiers sworn to serve Count Mounchel, who also watches the activities below. He's the one hanging from the kite at the back wall.

Mounchel considers himself a connoisseur of the male physique. Demands his men devote countless hours to maintaining hard muscles perfectly proportioned to their frames. Insists their appearance be that of statues, Greek-like, god-like, so he can hone his techniques of tongue while they are bound to devices of torture. Or, for those who remind him of Apollo, marathons of mutual copulation and admiration in the comfort of his bedroom. His appetite for men is insatiable. An addiction. He cannot get enough, and in his quest to fulfill his needs, Mounchel sought more men, Baron's men, and he foolishly attacked Baron's castle to take what he wanted.

Too bad he didn't demand his soldiers spend less time sculpturing their physiques and more time practicing their techniques with bow and arrow, spear, shield and sword. Mounchel's men were slaughtered. Castle moat ran red. Five hundred soldiers reduced to a few dozen, as Baron ordered his horsemen through the gate to surround those in flight, including Count Mounchel. The Count will watch what he has brought upon the beautiful men he so cherishes. Baron will please the peons on his estate.

Happy workers make for healthy harvests, and Baron's workers have good reason to be happy. Their lord has protected them. Defeated their enemy, and now, with Mounchel's captured soldiers as the featured attraction, Baron gives them a carnivale. A festival. A gallery of art, of men bound and naked, tortured, taunted and tormented. A menagerie of vulnerable body parts raffled to the villagers for their pleasure, a brief respite from their dreary lives.

Who will be the lucky winner of crucified man number one, the black-haired beauty on the back wall? Who will climb the ladder and put their tongue to his deep-ridged abdomen, his soft line of fur centering hard muscle? Who will suck his horrifically-stretched tits, bury their face into his mighty pectorals and listen to his struggle for breath? Which peon will watch in amazement, as the crucifixion torture forces his penis to fill with blood? Who will milk him to their heart's content?

Baron's people line up for their tickets, numbers on parchments waiting in baskets. C2, crucified man on side wall, the brunette Adonis, and the fortunate winners move to the line forming in front of him. D1, man on the spinning drum, his body to be ravaged so his cock will stay hard for rotating fucks, ladies on a step stool covering him with their twats while his massive corona corkscrews their clitties, men who care to backing up on him, getting the same treatment to their prostates. D2, man on the other side of spinning drum. Not there yet. He'll be tossed from the ledge above, breaking his limbs before they strap him to the drum.

T1 and T2, men under the tripod. Who can make them shoot their loads while they are tortured by weights of iron suspended from their genitals? And the favorite of all attractions, the whipping gallery. Peons pray to their god for the chance of putting the bullwhip to masculine perfection, slicing and dicing finely-toned flesh, exposing well-developed muscles, rendering them useless.

From his perch Baron watches the carnivale he's created. His subjects lavish him with their praise and gratitude. His gift to them. A day of worship and milking and punishment for the defeated. Baron's peons will forever be loyal to him. As for the soldiers of Count Mounchel, their ordeal has only begun. Word has been sent throughout the kingdom to all lords, landholders and royalty. There is to be an auction, an auction of human males, winning bidders given free reign to do with them as they please.

As the sun sets and peons return to their dwellings, fires are started in the courtyard. Torches illuminate bound muscle straining against devices of torture. Vast sums collected for Baron's treasury, as the aristocrats bid against one another for victims ready-made. Experimentation. How many scrapes of the Cat's Paw can a crucified man take before his flesh falls from the bone? What does a spear do to the rectum of a man spinning on the drum? And how deep of an impalement can he take before his inner walls rupture? How many turns from the Pear of Anguish are required to split open a man's anus? And how many are added to the equation when his scrotum is tightly clenched in response to weights suspended from his genitals?

All valuable information. Useful knowledge of interrogation, of pushing a man to his physical limts without killing him, silencing him, which would render the many hours of thoughtful torture a waste of time. From their humble homes the peons sleep in peace and contentment, screams from the distant castle courtyard eventually fading to silence. All parties are pleased. Baron has extracted every possible benefit of his victory -- entertainment for his subjects; wealth for his realm; and a sense of superiority from his perch atop the wall. Of course, one man is not at all happy. Count Mounchel. He has seen the desecration of his beautiful soldiers from beginning to end. Still suspended from his kite, he wonders which of these horrendous devices is designated for him. None of them. Baron has a stretch rack sitting inside his castle with the Count's name on it, and as the last gasp, the final gurgling exhale of bloody breath seeps from crucified victim number one, the Count is brought down from his kite and escorted to the dungeon.

He will become well-acquainted with the stretch rack. His death will not come quickly. It will come naturally, from old age, stretch rack torture having no part in it.

 

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