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Demonstration
There is a fine line between victory and
defeat. He was among the few survivors of a vanquished army returning to the
capital with the shameful news of their debacle. While most of his comrades
lay dead on the field of battle, his superior fighting skill had allowed him
to survive long enough to heed the orders of his commander and retreat along
with a score of other exhausted infantrymen who had emerged from the carnage.
They marched by night, stealing away undetected by the enemy, like dogs with
their tails between their legs, the smell of combat and death lingering in
their nostrils. At least it was not his death. Withdrawal meant avoiding
senseless slaughter at the hands of a force that far outnumbered him and his
mates, yet living to fight another day would only mean that he would live to
die another day. His youthful age of twenty-two masked a
warrior’s resolve the equal of men much older than he. He had been steeled by
many kills on the battlefield, and even when not in combat against the enemy,
he had distinguished himself with an enviable twenty-five practice kills with
the wooden sword. The training arena that his military uses to hone the art
of close quarter combat closely resembles the gladiatorial combat popularized
by the Romans. Few men had accomplished his record in the practice arena,
just as few gladiators had ascended to championship status in Rome. It was
not only his reputation, rather also his physical attractiveness that made
him a fine example of manhood and soldiering. His cock was long and as thick
as his wrist, tipped with a prominent rose-colored cockhead in the shape of a
large mushroom. His balls were large and heavy and swung low between his mighty
thighs. His shoulders sloped outward from his stout neck along the outlines
of thick trapezius muscles. His chest was chiseled
and hard, the slab-like pectoral muscles decorated with beautiful protuberant
nipples, their jutting tips encircled by nipple flesh the size of royal
coins. The dark hair that sprouted from his chest and belly crease,
descending persistently to his thick bush, matched the thick head of dark
tousled hair that set off his handsome and confident face. For these and
other reasons he was a perfect candidate to pay the price for his army’s
defeat. In the capital the king had become aware of
murmurings among the people. He was the commander in chief of a military that
had now stained the royal court with the disgrace of a spectacular defeat in
battle and allowed the enemy to advance to within two days’ march of the city
gates. Anxious to shed any blame for the defeat from his own shoulders, the
king ordered the execution of one of the returning soldiers. It would take
place in the market square, in front of a joint assembly of all his forces.
Afterward, the public would be allowed into the square to view the body of
the penitent. The king reasoned that this move would serve as an example and
an admonishment to the remainder of the military, and the forced sacrifice
would demonstrate to his people that he was a ruler of iron will. The monarch had noticed the 22-year-old
Adonis on previous occasions. He had in fact more than noticed him, he had
sought to use the stalwart lad for carnal pleasure. The king still chafed at
the young warrior’s effrontery in spurning his advances, declining to be
fucked or to pleasure the prick of his king inside his mouth and gullet. The
king had sought to reward the warrior with a royal fuck after the soldier had
accomplished his twenty-fifth practice kill in the training arena. And yet
the reputation and public prominence this distinction had brought him had
also given the young soldier a sure enough footing for denying the king’s
attentions. Refusing a royal request was a perilous choice, as would be
confirmed by the king who had been spurned and who still fumed in anger over
the rejection. Apparently the proud fuck would prefer to be penetrated by
execution arrows rather than by royal hardwood. The decision to offer the
city a sacrificial soldier from the defeated army would give the king a
chance to put the handsome stud to good use--warning his troops against
future failures, appeasing the mob, and at the same time satisfying his own
resentment. The officers were ordered to choose the
particular infantryman in question and command him to report to the
marketplace for his execution. There he was expected die bravely and without
resistance, to willingly pay the penalty for his comrades' lack of resolve in
battle. His final order will be to demonstrate courage in the face of death.
This too could prove inspirational for the men and help them face the demise
that many of them would suffer at the hands of the enemy. The generals were
reluctant to give up a champion of the training arena and a proven veteran of
several campaigns. Losing him to a public demonstration would only rob their
army of yet another young stud who is able and willing to fight to the death. The king's resolve remains firm, however, and
so it is that the young soldier discovers the thin boundary between victory
and death: Certain of their own execution if they
attempted to deny their leader his wish, the generals order the targeted
scapegoat to step forward from a line of bare-chested studs assembled for
selection. The handsome warrior stands at attention, his tanned shoulders
squared, his piercing green eyes not breaking from their forward gaze as he
is informed of his fate and given the simple command, “Die well.” His strong and prominent jaw, his full,
shapely lips never quiver as he receives his orders. His own comrades, beside
whom he had fought in battle, and with whom he has trained in the practice
arena, are ordered to escort him to the market square, where they are joined
by other regiments from barracks around the city to watch the spectacle of
courage. The handsome, hairy-chested soldier does
not resist the rough removal of his soldierly attire. He relinquishes his
strapped leggings and foot gear, and his loins are stripped, confirming the
assumption among the assembled soldiers about the enormity of his cock and
balls. Sweat beads on his broad shoulders and back and glistens in the hair
on his pecs and on his washboard belly as he is
positioned with his muscular, dimpled ass against the thick stone pillar of a
market portico. His hands are tied behind the pillar, pulling his broad
smooth back against the sun-warmed stone. His chest heaves as he looks about,
catching the glances of fellow soldiers who were ordered there to watch him die.
Among them are mates whom he has fucked and others who have fucked him. The
prisoner's exposed dick twitches and swells to partial erection. A murmur
ripples among the assembled men as the studs appreciate his manly endowment
and anticipate the destruction of his beauty. He is not left to contemplate his fate for
very long. A lone archer steps forward, some thirty paces from his target.
The appointed executioner is a man his own age, a distinguished member of the
king’s bowmen. As with the gladiatorial skill of his target, the archer’s
excellence in marksmanship had earned him a berth in the special barracks
reserved for champions. The two of them had spent many nights together there
in naked manly pleasure. The condemned soldier recalls the young archer's
hard, thick cock in his ass during nocturnal visits to his pallet. The
condemned prisoner's dick has likewise been deep inside the bowman, and each
has tasted the other's cum. Now this barracks mate is to be his executioner.
His silent gaze into the eyes of his fuckmate,
followed by a deliberate flexing of his pectoral muscles, signals approval
for his comrade to penetrate his chest. There is no room for sentiment.
Refusal to shoot him will only result in the archer’s own needless execution. With a nod from the king, who is smirking on
the sidelines, the bare-chested bowman does his duty. His powerful shoulders
and upper arms undulate with splendid musculature as he draws a bow from his
quiver, briefly exposing his right armpit to his target as he grasps the
first shaft from the wicker on his back, his body moving with the fluid
motions of a champion archer. His own smooth chest slabs are perfectly framed
between the leather straps that criss-cross his
chest and secure the quiver onto his back. With his tremendous strength and
because of the long bow he uses, he is able to put an arrow through a
barrel-chested man at a hundred feet and still make sure the tip sinks far
enough to punctures the target's back, exposing the tip on the other side. The bowman does not look the naked prisoner
in the eye when he aims, rather he concentrates on his target--the condemned
man's sweaty, heaving, hairy torso. A warrior at heart, he has no difficulty
carrying out his orders, despite the lust he has felt for the stud he is
about to kill. The dying man is no longer a comrade, no longer anything more
than a piece of meat. The archer's dick swells and lifts his scant loin
covering as he draws the string back and aims the first arrow. The hard cock
he displays is not the erection of a man in love. It is the manifestation of
the thrill he has for killing men who are worthy of his arrow and his aim.
Even the death of a fine mate such as this one, or perhaps especially such a
death, causes his cock to stir. The square is crowded with a legion of
soldiers, some of them survivors of the last hard battle, many of them
nursing sword and arrow wounds, most of them sporting precum-dribbling
erections as they watch the death scene. Other soldiers are reinforcements
fresh from recruitment and training who will soon be dispatched to the front
with the deadly lesson of this demonstration fresh in their minds. A hush descends upon the crowd as the
bowman’s arm muscle relaxes while still in firing position. He has released
the first arrow. When the first shaft enters the man's upper
belly, just below his bottom rib, he cries out sharply in his deep, manly
voice, his agony echoing off the stone pillars around him. It is understood
that the initial wounds must not be lethal. A quick kill would merely shorten
the lesson and make it less meaningful. At least a dozen thick-cocked men are
brought to the edge of sexual climax by this uniquely manly sound, the sound
they too will make when their turn comes either to die in battle or suffer
execution should they be captured by the enemy. They trust that they will be
able to claim the glory of battle death and be spared the ignominy of bound
slaughter, the fate of the comrade dying before them. They grunt deeply and
spurt huge wads of manseed out onto the backs and
asses of the men standing in front of them, spilling their thick batter onto
the hot stones of the market square. The quiver is emptied at the rate of one
arrow every ten seconds, which requires less than two minutes from the first
shot to the prisoner’s final breath. The soldier's convulsing body twists and
writhes with each strike. He takes five shafts in various parts of his belly,
the third of them being a bull’s eye into his navel. His shoulders each take
two piercings, above and below his collar bone. Two more shafts rip alongside
his rib cage, piercing the big lateral muscles that extend butterfly-like
from his sides. His calls of agony diminish slowly, eventually replaced by a
death rattle as blood collects in the bottom of the throat. Now that he is no
longer crying out, the dying man can actually hear the ping of the metal
arrow tips as they pass through his body and strike the stone pillar behind
him with tremendous force. He remains standing, resisting the urge to crumple
and die. More of his former comrades stroke their hard cocks, cocks that once
fucked this splendid young fighter in soldierly comradeship, and they bring
themselves to climax as they watch with deep admiration for the magnificence
of his death. His own dick is hard now too, and the sun
catches a glint of clear pre-cum on his prominent
cockhead. It is doubtful he is able to enjoy the sensation of his final
erection. With eleven arrows adorning his sculpted body, he finally relents
and slumps slowly downward in death, smearing the pillar with his blood,
causing the arrows protruding from his back to make a screeching noise as
they slide down the stone surface. His knees bend beneath him, reducing him
to a position of degradation as he genuflects before his killer, his body
weight leaning forward to pull his restraints tight against the pillar and
stretch his arms. After a final agonized look upward to the archer, his stubbled jaw descends to his chest, and his strong
shoulders slump with the ease of approaching death. Then he comes. His cock spurts prodigious
ropes of death seed from between his legs as he dies. The soldiers looking on
murmur in amazement as the young warrior expels his final semen from his
loins. The seed catches the sun in solid arcs of shooting juice, splattering
the stones and gathering in small pools. Even after the cock ceases to shoot,
it remains stiff, refusing to relinquish its accustomed eagerness for action.
The archer waits respectfully, allowing the dying stud to complete his last
ejaculation before administering the twelfth and final arrow to the soldier’s
ravaged body. He sinks it into the stud’s chest, to the left of his sternum,
skewering his heart. The demonstration is complete. As the men are dismissed, to be replaced with
a morbid public viewing of the body by the general populace, a lusty soldier
and former comrade, long an admirer of the dead warrior, approaches the
pillar, kneels, and lowers his mouth to the spent cock of the executed man.
He sucks the last wad of cum from the still stiff shaft, hoping in his
superstitious way that the dead man's seed will give him the same valor and
battle skill which distinguished his now lost comrade. The scapegoat is left tied to the pillar in
public view for two days, a hard reminder of the fate that awaits soldiers
who return from battle as anything other than victors. The ventilation of his
body cavity with arrow shafts prevents unsightly bloating. However, when the
hot sun forces his body to yield its perfection to the onset of stinking
decay, the sacrifice is cut loose and dragged by his bonds through the city
streets, the arrows still protruding from his chest and belly, the tips of
the shafts visible where they pierce his broad back. His carcass is tossed
into a quarry. It is the quarry that produced the stone used to construct the
death pillar in the market square. Meanwhile the king is discussing with his
generals the latest plans for a military offensive. The generals request an
extra battalion in order to insure victory, but the king withholds the
desired manpower. Instead, he removes a battalion from the attack force and
reduces the army's allocation of weapons. “We shall not deploy more men,” he
tells his generals. “We shall deploy better men.” He orders a two-fold
increase in one-on-one arena training to toughen his troops and prepare them
for the ordeals of close quarter combat. From below the balcony of the king’s chambers
comes the sharp knock of clashing wooden swords as bare-chested soldiers
practice in the training arena. Then a loud cheer is heard from the assembled
warriors. The king looks down upon his men and feels his cock stiffen as an
especially handsome soldier with shining blond hair and a broad tanned chest
is congratulated by his comrades for his twenty-fifth arena kill. |
