Double Crossed

Revised by the author from its original publication.

The Storyteller tells his tale . . .

Hear my chronicle of manliness and death, my song of glory and tragedy. It is a story of cocks as hard as oak, manseed flowing like hot lava, and magnificent muscle spiked and dying on timbers. As a soldier I have always expected to die valiantly, in combat with the foe. Yet it is my own mates who now hew the beams and fashion the cross on which I will perish. I impart these words as a last account of my warrior life. My time among men will be cut short, but I tell you of adventures that make the course of my days much richer than the careers of many silver-haired warriors. Carry my tale beyond this land, beyond the hills, and beyond the ears of the tyrant who has condemned me to death.

A Warlord’s Strange Passion

My demise began when we crucified six of our enemies from the hills. A seventh hillsman, a young runner, had been intercepted earlier. Sprinting in the direction of stone ruins that concealed the resisters’ encampment, the lad unknowingly led us to his comrades. As plotters against our warlord Braxas, all six guerillas were condemned to hellish death on the cross. The young messenger died as well, though not on the beams. As you will hear, even though he was spared crucifixion, the lad’s death was equally unpleasant.

An eighth man also writhed among the small forest of crucifixion timbers. Sadly, he was my comrade Galen. My story will reveal how an exquisite dagger had caught Galen’s eye after we took it from the leader of the captive band of prisoners. My mate selfishly confiscated the blade and slid it into his own belt. Neither Braxas nor his right-hand man Jason have any tolerance for insubordination. Galen paid for the blunder by languishing in horrific pain alongside his crucified enemies. His condemnation and death would serve as an example for any man who might be tempted to claim more than his fair share of the spoils of victory. Alas, my friend’s ignominious end set the example for my own demise.

With effort we extracted the truth from the six captured hillsmen. As we suspected, they were on a mission to assassinate Braxas. The resisters in the hills launch many plots against our leader. They hope to save the hill people from enslavement, which is our warlord’s intention for them. Though it is difficult to break the clansmen of the hills and to train them as slaves, the muscle power and endurance of these strapping studs make them worth the effort. Braxas plans a great stone fortress. In this fortified palace he will crown himself king of all he can survey. To build such a fortress, the likes of which have never been seen before, the quarry labor of enslaved hillsmen is essential. Under the whip they will erect the walls that will secure our warlord’s dream of enduring power. Slaves from the hills likewise work the mines and dig the ore that we forge into swords.

Assassins, spies, and traitors, however, are another matter. Plotters are not accorded the mercy of lifelong servitude. They must die on the spot, no matter how useful their stamina and brawn might be. After surviving many stealthy attempts to stop his consolidation of power, Braxas issued a standing order for the summary execution of enemy infiltrators. “Spike the vermin to crosses on the same spot where they are apprehended!” he commanded. The rotting bodies of the offenders are left on their death beams indefinitely as a gruesome warning to others. Even so, death squads and assassins from the hills continued to embark on suicide missions against Braxas. In the wake of every advance our army makes against the hillsmen, we leave many crosses adorned with brawny beef.

Braxas gave his lieutenant Jason responsibility for carrying out any necessary crucifixions. Jason was also the lieutenant under whom I happened to serve. My superior officer had a particular flair for fulfilling painful death sentences, and he relished his role in exterminating the six guerillas we apprehended. I was pleased when Jason picked both Galen and me to join his crucifixion squad. An astute observer of men, with an equal talent for exploiting them, Jason quickly discerned my enthusiasm and assigned me the role of swinging the first hammer blows while two or three other squad members held the left arm of a condemned prisoner against the crossbeam. I have hammered many spikes and helped to hoist many crosses. My cock is always hard when I drive the first nail through a man’s hand or wrist. I thrill at the deep-throated scream that even the fiercest of warriors calls out as his limbs are affixed to the wood. After the honor of driving the first spike through the palm of the prisoner’s left hand, my custom was to yield the hammer to Galen, who similarly mutilated the man’s right hand. Until recently we nailed the men’s legs to the wood, just as we did their arms. However, Jason has begun to favor a different cruelty instead, a method that immobilizes the legs and simultaneously tortures the men’s testicles. The innovation delighted Braxas, which from the outset was Jason’s fawning intention.

It had been two days since I had helped to crucify the six captives, once we had confirmed that they were conspirators. Long after resuming our march and leaving the crucifixion site behind, the mass execution was constantly in my thoughts. To a man, the half dozen ill-fated hillsmen were impossibly handsome. Resplendent manly beauty is a trait common among many of the clans in the hills. The exquisitely sculpted musculature of these condemned studs was unforgettable. It is a pity they could not be spared and put under the whip as slaves. The hillsmen are a proud and virile breed who naturally abhor the prospect of bondage, though that is the fate we impose upon them. Their defiance enhances their attractiveness as men. Once the six captives were riding the timbers, the perfect physiques of these doomed warriors stood in sharp contrast to the crudeness of their crosses. Somehow, the captives seemed even more beautiful after they were affixed to the wood. We fashioned the makeshift death devices from odds and ends that we scavenged from the toppled ruins of an old fortress and from nearby fallen trees. The crosses we assembled were crooked, weather-beaten, and rough with splinters. By contrast, powerfully angular and symmetrical arms, legs, shoulders, and chest muscles decorated the warped wood.

Galen, my disgraced comrade, likewise made an impressive display when he was stripped and laid out on his cross to pay for his offense. Always courageous in battle, he had been both a skilled archer and an accomplished swordsman until his fateful misjudgment. Galen and I had fought side by side in several campaigns, and we had spent many nights together under the same field blanket, naked, hard, and randy. Yet his recent unbecoming conduct required him to die. My friend looked me in the eye as I hammered the first spike through his left hand. His plaintive scream of pain seemed to be his farewell to me. After we hoisted Galen’s cross alongside those of the condemned hillsmen, Braxas ordered our battle force to break camp. As we departed, I looked over my shoulder for a final glance at my former mate. He struggled against his spikes, causing blood to course from the punctures through the palms of his hands. His big cock was imposingly erect. Despite the circumstances of our separation, I was gratified that what I assumed would be my final image of Galen was the sight of him in the fullness of his manhood, a manhood I had enjoyed on many a night.

Braxas and Jason had likewise taken note of Galen’s impressive death-phallus. The two leaders spoke of the scene in the command tent after the day’s march. Braxas has a peculiar interest in men's ejaculate. He often comments on how much seed their balls can generate and how much semen the studs can shoot. Our warlord frequently summons random pairs of soldiers into his tent so that the duo can demonstrate their prowess and allow Braxas to compare their manliness. He spreads black satin before the two studs, who stand at attention, naked and unmoving, so that their commander can milk their cocks. Braxas compares the size of the white pools and splotches of cock cream that each man pumps onto the dark fabric. Whichever soldier produces the most seed is rewarded with an extra portion of meat the next time the troops are fed. On more than one occasion I have feasted on such meat myself after besting another cock warrior in the commander’s tent. Given our leader’s peculiar passion, it was not surprising that two days after we had left the site of the crucifixions, Braxas and Jason devised yet another contest.

After sharing a few flasks of wine, the warlord and his lieutenant devised a strange experiment. What amount of virility, if any at all, is left in a man if he has languished on a cross for two days? More specifically, would one of our own stalwart men retain more of his manly essence when he was close to death than would a dying hillsman? Or are the hillsmen so indomitable that they can outlast even a lusty bastard like Galen, who sported wood of his own when he was nailed to the wood of his cross?

Braxas and Jason dispatched me back to the cluster of crosses near the old ruins to discover the answer to this question. If Galen and at least one of the hillsmen were still alive, I was to collect as much seed as possible from the cocks of the two men. Comparing the quantity of milk coaxed from their shafts would determine the degree of virility that remained. Accordingly, I carried two vials in my satchel. In one of the flasks I would bring back seed coaxed from the tool of my comrade Galen. The other would transport the mancream of a crucified hillsman. It was important to Braxas to know that his own man Galen could produce as much studseed under dire circumstances as could one of the enemy. Though the scoundrel had been condemned to death, Galen might yet bring honor to our army by attesting to the virility of its troops. Certainly, the impressive erection he had sprouted while being crucified bode well for the outcome.

Recalling the Capture of the Hillsmen

As I neared the awful place where the men were dying in the sun, I vividly recalled how we had captured the hillsmen and how the young messenger had died after he unintentionally led us to their hiding place. The story is thus:

We attacked at midday. Jason began the assault by putting an arrow into the side of the single sentry, a handsome young dark-haired man who stood watch while his friends slept in the shade of ruined stone walls. Their daytime slumber suggested the stealthy nocturnal movement that is typical of assassination squads from the hills. The surprised sentry clutched his shafted torso and fell to the ground in agony, offering little resistance as we disarmed him and stormed the encampment. We easily overpowered the other men. They slept naked in order to escape the oppressive heat and were aroused from their slumber by our swords at their throats. One of the men, an especially tall and thick-chested soldier with radiant blond hair, was in a state of arousal as he slept. His big, purple-headed cock stood up stiffly, almost flush with his belly, as the threat of my extended sword rudely awakened him from his sensuous slumber. He gazed at me with remarkable blue eyes that conveyed resentment but not fear. After separating the men from their weapons, we took the prisoners alive. They would make exceptionally fine slaves, unless of course they were on a mission to slay our leader, a crime that would require their execution. Jason confiscated a couple of swords, the fateful prize dagger, and the bows, arrows, and spears of the hillsmen. He emptied the quivers and made a show of snapping their long arrows over his knee as the prisoners looked on. He dashed their heavy spears over stones until the shafts splintered. It was foolish showmanship on Jason’s part, since we could easily have supplemented our own arms with the enemy’s handsome bows and fine arrows and spears crafted from oak and ash.

We dragged the wounded sentry over to the others. He groaned as Jason’s spent arrow poked close to his liver. We stripped the wounded man and tied him to one of his already naked comrades. I noticed a striking resemblance between this pair of bound prisoners. Just like the wounded sentry, the captive to whom we tied him also had full, dark, wavy hair and piercing green eyes. Both men had the same ruggedly cleft chin, though the wounded man appeared to be a couple of years younger. Their large, swinging ballsacs were also similar. The heavy left stone on each stud hung prominently lower than the bullball on his right side. Obviously, they were brothers. I shared my observation with Jason, who likewise compared their features and concurred with my assessment. From his thoughtful gaze I could tell that the lieutenant was devising some devious plan to exploit the captives’ fraternal bond.

The hillsmen crouched on the ground as we stood guard over them with drawn swords. They were valiant men who had no fear of death and who loathed the prospect of a life in shackles and chains. They glowered at us with hatred and reluctant defeat. Jason told us that we could divide the captives’ clothing, blades, and other possessions equally among ourselves. Slaves need no property of their own. Slaves are property.

Jason had correctly determined that the young runner was the most likely to break under torment. The next order of business was to interrogate him and find out whether the captured hillsmen were yet another death squad that had intended to kill Braxas. Jason asked for my assistance in torturing the young stud. I had seen the lieutenant extract information from many a captured hillsman and was familiar with his methods. We stripped the runner naked and tied his hands behind him before leading him some distance away from the group of captives. We made sure, however, that he remained within earshot of his comrades. The sandy-haired lad appeared to be around eighteen years old. His tender and little-used cock, as well as his tight-skinned young balls were surrounded by a thatch of silky hair that shone in the sun. He had the long, slender but sinewy legs of a sprinter. Except for his crotch and his head, he was virtually hairless. His smooth nakedness allowed full appreciation of his strong but lithe musculature. I set about building a fire. I gathered the broken arrows that had been tipped from their quivers and lay the hardwood shafts in the flames. We forced the prisoner to squat before the fire.

As we anticipated, Jason’s first questions went unanswered, requiring us to proceed with more persuasive methods. I kicked the young man in the chest and knocked him onto his back. I grabbed his healthy young cock and stretched it up along his belly. Jason took one of the wooden rods, which now glowed brightly. He blew out the flames to leave a charred hardwood stick. Watching Jason approach with the torture implement, the young stud contorted his face as if he were about to cry. Jason pressed the stick against the underside of the young man’s stout sexmeat, letting it sizzle and sear a deep stripe across the sensitive flesh. The prisoner managed to keep from weeping, but he writhed in great agony. Jason pressed the burning rod to the lad’s prick in three more places. To his credit, he lasted through the cock torture without repeating the message he was carrying and without revealing the mission his friends had come to accomplish.

Inevitably, as the torture to his genitals continued, the lad began to scream. Some of the captured soldiers called to us in vain and cursed us as they heard the young man’s anguish. Jason renewed the glow of the torture stick and repeatedly pressed the wood against the underside of the boy’s cock. As if cooked on a grill, the human sausage became scored with dark red stripes. Jason let the young shaft flop down between the lad’s lean, muscular thighs so that he could also sear the upper side of the penis with his burn stick. The defiant warrior still didn’t break. Jason grabbed hold of the lad’s tool and drove his now cooling stick through the piss slit and down the entire length of his fuckshaft. The skewering was thorough. It destroyed the lad’s dick. The tortured runner screamed his horror, tears now freely flowing over his face. But he said nothing of value. We gave up on his destroyed cock and started on his balls.

I grabbed the young man’s nutsac and clutched its base so that the testicles were trapped in a tighter pouch of skin. Jason retrieved another piece of hard arrow wood, this one thinner than the first. The fire had rendered its sharp end into a glowing hot spike. Grinning with cruelty, Jason held it in front of the lad’s face while I squeezed his balls.

“Did you fuck before you came down from the hills, runner boy?” my lieutenant sneered. “Did you fuck? Always get a fuck in before you leave home, boy!” He touched point of the burning stick to the young man’s nose, then to his cheek. The handsome prisoner flinched as he felt his skin burn at the points of contact. “I hope you fucked before you came here, because your cock is worthless now. You will never fuck again, boy. Ready to lose your balls too?” The lad hollered with a new shrillness and threw his head back in agony as Jason drove the hot stick into the prisoner’s testicles, impaling both of the fertile young balls on the burning spike. A new, more plaintive cry of agony emanated from the lad’s throat. It is the hapless cry of a once potent man who knows he has been gelded. The other captives responded to their young comrade’s lament. A couple of them called out curses from the distance and loudly demanded “Let the boy go!” and “Release the lad, you barbarians!” My comrades kicked the prisoner s in the ribs, balls and teeth until they shut their mouths.

“What did your brave friends come here to do?” Jason demanded to know. The emasculated prisoner whimpered but still gave no answer. With a nod from my lieutenant, I flipped the doomed young man over on his belly while Jason took up a third burning pike, this one the broken shaft of a spear. He blew out the flame on the charred ramrod, then blew gently again on the wood, causing the ghastly glow to increase to a brighter red, just short of actual flames. The virgin-assed captive craned his neck and looked at Jason with abject fear, his mercilessly tortured cock and decimated balls pressed painfully into the dirt beneath him. The cruel wooden needle was still lodged in his nutsac. I dragged the prisoner over to the same rock where the sentry had been sitting when Jason downed him with an arrow. I positioned the lad belly down over the stone, so that his firm, protuberant ass jutted upward. His muscular melons resisted my grip when I parted them and exposed his puckerhole. The lad shuddered as he awaited the most brutal of fucks. Jason positioned the glowing spike at the entrance to the young warrior’s asshole and slowly forced it in. The prisoner roared louder than ever as the fire penetrated ever deeper into his body. The burning impalement staff tore his insides. At the same time, however, the fire-fuck seared his wounds shut.

Jason repeated his question and this time got an answer. The lad been broken.

“They came to kill Braxas!” the messenger wailed, bucking wildly and trying to shit the hot stick out of his ass. “They did not expect to return home alive after they slaughtered the tyrant. My orders were to take back the news of their success!” He yelled the admission loudly enough for the captured men to hear, his voice involuntarily rising to a high-pitched shriek. The assassins lowered their heads with sadness as they heard the lad give in to his tormentor.

Jason pulled the smoking stick out of the young man’s ravaged ass. The prisoner slumped down over the stone, his tortured body flinching occasionally from the ordeal.

“We will spare the lad a crucifixion. He has suffered enough,” Jason announced. He turned to me and ordered “Take his head!” I drew my sword in order to decapitate the gelded youth, but the defeated prisoner surprised me by lifting his tear-streaked face toward me to beg for permission to take his own life. He wanted to fall on the sword, the appropriate fate of one who has betrayed his comrades with his weakness. I hesitated, but after a nod from Jason, I cut the lad’s bonds and freed his hands.

He rose from the stone, then dropped to his knees before me. His balls were neatly pinned by the stick that Jason had thrust through the healthy young scrotum. The lad’s cock was a grotesque mutilation, deformed by fiery torture. I handed him my own sword, the blade pointing toward his strong, lithe body. He extended his arms and accepted the weapon with a firm grasp on the hilt before lowering the grip slightly and positioning the sharp point of the blade against his midriff, just below the ribcage. The young warrior called out to his doomed comrades, who were huddled naked in the distance. “Brothers, forgive me my weakness! I will see you shortly when we gather in hell!” These were his final words before he lunged forward and fell onto the weapon. The hilt dug into the ground as his body slid onto the death blade. It swiftly impaled him. The blood-covered steel exited his body just to one side of his spine. He lay face-down in the dirt and suffered for a few moments before expiring. In his death throes, the young stud was able to pull his hands out from underneath his belly and make tentative clawing motions in the dirt, as if he were attempting to crawl. His splendid, smooth-skinned runner’s legs likewise moved in something similar to a feeble crawl, though he was too weak to propel himself forward. His pelvis began to buck slightly. As he died, his ass bobbed up and down in a spasmodic motion that made it look as if he were fucking, though fucking had become impossible for him. When the naked lad stopped moving, I kicked him over onto his back and pulled my sword out of his gored body.

Jason came closer and admired the young man who had sacrificed himself. He kicked and rolled the runner’s corpse over yet again, returning the body to a prostrate position. The lad’s fine ass mooned the sky. Jason kicked the long legs apart to make the butt cleavage more accessible. I am well aware that Jason is bestial enough to fuck a carcass. He was certainly tempted by the young warrior’s shapely ass. But it was Jason himself who had mutilated the lad’s chute with a fire-fuck. “A pity that he is not in useful condition,” murmured Jason with regret. His cock was hard, but he could only rape the naked corpse with his eyes.

Their death sentence as assassins now assured, Jason ordered us to begin constructing crosses for the prisoners. He was pleased with the timbers and spikes we were able to scavenge from the ruins. Crucifixion would come to the would-be attackers in pairs. Jason ordered us to nail the two brothers to crosses that face one other, some ten paces apart. My lieutenant possesses a sadistic genius for inflicting agony. The younger brother, with an arrow still stuck between his ribs, would doubtless expire first. His older sibling could not avoid witnessing the full horror of the younger man’s death.

The wounded sentry, a picture of studly beauty, and his equally handsome and virile brother became the first pair to begin their death rides. Both were stretched supine on the rough wood as the crosses lay on the ground. Each man’s prodigious cock rested heavily across a beefy thigh. Jason ordered the men's arms drawn around the backside of the crosspiece, then the backs of their hands positioned against the front of the cross, palms outward. By twisting the arms around the crossbeam so that the rough wood pressed into their underarms, their body weight received support from each arm and did not hang solely by the nails that attached their hands to the wood. This method of affixing them to their crosses would extend their lives and their misery. Beginning with the younger brother, I raised the bludgeon. My cock was rock hard as I drove the first metal spike through his left hand and into the crosspiece. He roared in pain as the metal pierced his palm, shattering the bones and fusing his limb to the wood. I had always admired the skillful way Galen held the hammer and secured a man’s right hand, and I emulated my friend’s technique. I did not know at the time that Galen would soon experience the same torment. Jason retrieved the arrow he had shot into the ribs of the young sentry by cruelly yanking it from the prisoner’s body, then wiping the blood off onto the hillsman’s fine, wavy hair. More blood poured from the wound.

The sentry’s older brother looked on in abject agony, ears filled with the agonized wails of his handsome young sibling. Once the younger man was fully spiked, our squad repeated the process on the older brother. His green eyes opened wide as he cried out just as loudly. After a few blows from the hammer, he too became ornamentation for dead wood.

As I mentioned before, the lieutenant had a particularly horrible method of securing the prisoners’ legs while the men were still in a horizontal position. Jason ordered the men’s ankles tied together. Then he supervised the cinching of each prisoner’s balls with another two-foot strand of rope, which we tied to their ankle bonds. This method forced the men to keep their knees bent, with their heels up as close to their nuts as possible, in order to relieve the pressure on their manhood once their crosses had been erected. It would be impossible, of course, to alleviate the pain for very long. After a few moments the weight of their fatigued and down-stretched legs would distend their balls, pulling the sperm bags down and inflicting excruciating pain. Once their legs were secured and their balls were properly cinched, we raised the crosses and let them drop into anchor holes prepared for that purpose. It took three of our men at each cross to lift the stalwart hillsmen into place. The two condemned brothers groaned in horrendous pain as the crosses were erected and their self-inflicted genital torment began. The sudden jolt tore at their spiked hands and made their bound feet pull their noosed testicles sharply downward. We placed stones around the base of each upright to help steady the crosses, though most of the death trees still leaned in one direction or another.

I was particularly interested in the big blond warrior whom I had startled awake with my sword as we overran their encampment. He occasionally called out words of encouragement to the other men while they were being nailed. He himself accepted his crucifixion with admirable bravery and stoicism. He was obviously the leader of the failed mission to kill Braxas, perhaps even the man who had hatched the murder plot. Though all the prisoners were muscular, thick-chested, attractive men, the blond slab of beef was a particularly stunning specimen of manhood. His thick, tanned chest jutted proudly as we laid him on the timbers and spread his limbs. The well-developed pectorals resembled statuesque slabs of stone as they jutted upward over his hard, ribbed belly. A few scars on the hillsman’s torso attested to close-quarter sword combat, battles he had obviously won, most likely at the expense of my own comrades. His nipples were not especially large, but they were prominent for their rosy protuberance. The stud’s outstretched arms were alive with massive, twitching man-muscle. Their strength indicated extensive experience wielding a heavy sword, a feature my own physique can also boast. While his comrades carried the strong-armed build of archers, I recognized in the exceptionally brawny stature of the blond squad leader a fellow brother of the blade. Between his powerful thighs hung an impressive cock, the thickness and length of which clearly exceeded that of his crucified peers, none of whom were at all under-endowed. The big warrior’s balls, soon to be the source of much pain, were covered with a light brown pelt and were likewise heavy and large. The man’s cock appeared to stiffen as I pulled his hand into place and pressed it against the wood to spike him. I detected a glistening drop of semen at his piss slit. He bit his lip when the bludgeon drove the rusted shaft of metal through his big hand into the gnarly wood below. I could tell he was making an effort not to give us the satisfaction of hearing him scream, but he soon broke. He bellowed loudly when Galen nailed his other hand. Surely there is no death more horrible than crucifixion. It breaks the spirit of even the most stouthearted of men. When we cinched his balls to his ankle bonds, he growled resentfully at the indignation, but having seen us bind the two brothers in such a way, he accepted the same abuse.

The blond Adonis grunted in pain as we dropped his cross into its hole so that he could begin his slow death in the sun. Again, I noticed the stud’s massive cock twitch in partial stiffness, and I admired this warrior even more deeply for such a manly embrace of his fate.

We chose as his companion in death an attractive red-haired hillsman. I was fascinated to observe that even the red soldier’s crotch hair seemed to be aflame in the sunlight. The variety of physical features among the hill people never fails to intrigue me. Unlike our own uniformly brown-haired, brown-eyed lot, the men from the hill clans who toil in our quarries and mines profess a wide array of complexions, hair color, and eye hue. Some have curly heads, others straight or wavy hair that can be radiantly blond, ranging in glimmer from gold to silver. Others, such as the man we crucified, are pale of skin but aflame with red. Many of them have heads adorned with various shades of brown, while still others sport hair as black as ravens. Their eyes may be the nut brown to which we are accustomed, or they can glare in various shades of blue, green, hazel, and even gray. Braxas believes the motley stew of their physical features indicates an inferior race of men. But I see in their colorful individuality an admirable unity that is born not of common appearance, rather of common spirit.

The doomed warrior with flaming hair was more agitated about his death than was the stoic blond leader whose cross faced his own. His fair-skinned, muscular chest heaved with distress. As we went about our work, the red-haired warrior looked wildly about him as his friends were nailed to the instruments of their death. The squad captain regarded his deathmate with a look that combined sympathy and sternness. While regretting the horrific pain his men were enduring, the blond stud clearly expected them to go to their deaths bravely and without sniveling.

To complete the execution protocol, we spiked a stocky, bearded blond man with a round face and an impudent, defiant smile. A tall, lanky, brown-haired soldier soon faced him on the opposite cross. The man’s auburn chest hair glistened in the hot sun as we hoisted him upright to face the bearded bull. As all six doomed comrades embarked upon the long death process, deep manly groans escaped their lips. The spiked beam riders twisted their heads to gaze at one another’s pierced and ball-tortured bodies, wondering which among them would live the longest on the cross.

Probably in order to divert the attention of the querulous redhead from his plight, and in order to bolster the courage of his fellow conspirators, the blond squad captain shouted out a foul oath, vilely cursing our leader Braxas. I was glad for this impertinence, because it gave me cause for grabbing the big warrior’s down-stretched balls and squeezing them tightly in order to punish him and to silence his derision of our supreme warlord. As I expected, the fleshy sac was firm and thick, obviously full of potent seed. His nuts were so prodigious that I could not completely grasp the pouch in my hand. Kneading the leathery manflesh with my fingers, I could feel two oversized stones inside. I increased the pressure of my grasp until the stud growled in pain. Finally, I grabbed his ankles and jerked them downward, nearly yanking off his cinched scrotum as I did so. He ceased his provocations, but his defiant outburst had the effect on his comrades that he had intended.

The other hillsmen, including the panic-stricken red-haired stud, also began to shout defamations, decrying Braxas as a “depraved madman,” and “a vile tyrant.” Though these descriptors bore much truth, we punished the men’s defiance by jerking their bound ankles downward and torturing the vulnerable balls they were tied to. The chunky bearded blond soldier persisted with his taunts and yelled “Braxas is doomed! We die knowing our brothers will raise his shit-eating head on a pike!” A few of my comrades picked up stones and hurled them with wicked force against the distended ballsac of the irreverent prisoner. The ferocious battering neutered the loudmouthed stud and finally put a stop to his insolence. The stocky hillsman’s testicles were now mere mush in their leathery pouch. Soon his inert manstones would be in the gullets of crows.

Galen Is Condemned to Death

I promised you the particulars of my comrade Galen’s blunder. Hear now the tale of his unhappy end.

Though he was a strong and skilled warrior, Galen was given to bouts of dim-witted obstinance. As I mentioned, among the possessions we were allowed to claim from the captured and crucified hillsmen was an exquisitely crafted dagger that had belonged to their leader, the blond Adonis. Galen shoved one of his comrades aside in an effort to claim the fancy blade for himself. A fight ensued, with Galen knocking his rival down and shouting insipidly “I saw it first!” The other man, sensing that the conflict had become indecorous, in fact dangerous, relented silently and yielded the booty to Galen, who stuck it in his belt as if he had always owned it. Both Braxas and Jason had observed the altercation and were not pleased. It was not the first time Galen’s behavior had annoyed his superiors. The lieutenant had reprimanded the thoughtless dullard for similar outbursts in the past. Jason was not surprised when Braxas ran out of patience and ordered the lieutenant to “make an example of this oaf!” It was Galen’s death sentence. Jason complied by barking out a command to construct another cross. Galen dropped the dagger he had coveted, bowed his head, and humbly requested mercy. Braxas, however, knows no mercy. Jason, ever eager to curry his lord’s favor, cast aside the strategic implications of losing Galen’s superior skill on the battlefield and resolved to make a good show of the soldier’s execution.

So it was that I helped fashion yet another cross and escorted my doomed mate to his death beams. Galen dragged his heels initially and muttered “This cannot be! We’re brother warriors!” He soon saw the futility of protest, however, and accepted his fate. The offender slowly removed his tunic and stripped naked for death. In resignation and remorse, Galen positioned himself ass down on his timbers. His big chest heaved hard and fast as his arms were curled around the crossbeam. As usual, I struck the first blows into the left hand. Another squad member took over Galen’s former role of hammering the right arm, which made the condemned stud bite his lip and groan in agony as tears ran from his eyes.

After we finished spiking my fuckbuddy’s hands to his cross, we bent Galen’s knees and cinched his hairy balls to a rope between his ankles. He would suffer the same agonizing ball pain we had inflicted upon the crucified hillsmen. Galen yelled in agony when we dropped his upright into the anchor hole, but his cock saluted us with stubborn strength. I gazed up at him and shook my head in sadness and disgust at his foolish willingness to risk his life merely to acquire a prize dagger. Neither of us spoke. Both of us knew that Galen’s disgrace demanded death. He would never again feel my cock in his tight, muscular ass, nor would I ever again take into my body that painfully enormous prong he showed off as he rode the timbers. My own stiff fuckrod twitched and leaked cum as I recalled the two of us huddling naked through many nights, “getting a good fuck in,” as Jason always recommended to the men during the night before a battle. Galen and I were well aware that we might die in the next day’s fighting. The prospect of it made our cocks harder. If we fell in combat, we would perish with each other’s warrior seed in our asses.

Before we were ordered to decamp, Braxas demanded that the chest of each crucified prisoner receive a stripe from the whip. Jason gave me the job and tossed me his leather flogger. He uses it more on slaves than on four-legged beasts of burden. The lieutenant ordered me to lash each prisoner once across the chest before we left them to die – a departing stripe of humiliation and defeat for the condemned. Braxas watched from a regal distance, a prominent bulge in his crotch, as I positioned myself in front of each of the crosses and drew the whip back before flinging it swiftly forward. I landed a solid, hard lash diagonally across each man’s studly chest, leaving a bloody stripe from the left shoulder down to the right hip bone. One by one the men lurched in pain and cried out in agony as the leather slashed into their hides. I saved Galen for last and looked inquiringly at Jason. “Him too,” he nodded toward Galen. Galen did his best to jut his big upper chest out from the cross, giving me an excellent target. I curled the whip back over my head and let it fly. The stripe he received was just as hard, if not harder, than those suffered by the enemy. All the crucified men groaned deeply from the pain of their ordeal.

“Use It Well!”

As I returned the slave whip to Jason, Braxas called for me to approach. The warlord had observed my work. He praised me for efficient crucifixions and skill with the whip. “You have a talent for disciplining men,” he said, his hand on my shoulder. “Can you now discipline yourself in a cock duel?” He smiled with lust and moved his hand to my crotch. “Bare yourself and your tool, soldier, that I might grip it as you likewise pleasure me!” Braxas removed his clothing so that I could more easily stroke his liberated cock. The impressive member was at least as long and thick as my own shaft, and it throbbed with eagerness to shoot. This was the first time I had been ordered to engage in a cock duel with Braxas himself, rather than to compete with a comrade while Braxas milked us. He clearly reveled in the sport of ejaculatory challenges. I deduced that it was a favorite way for my commander to work off a randy spell.

I likewise stripped, disregarding my keen awareness that this fanatical cock warrior and I were in full view of Jason and the crucified prisoners. It was as if Braxas sought to confirm the accusation of the hillsmen, who had called him “a deranged madman.”

I was determined to let Braxas trigger my cumshots before he himself unloaded. Outlasting him would not be in my own best interest. The successful cock warrior is the man who can discipline his rod until his rival has lost control and spunked. Of course, he also hopes to fire off the larger load of balljuice. Braxas and I faced one another at proper attention, four feet apart. Each of us stepped a half pace to the left, in order to reach the other man’s shaft more easily. We extended our right forearms, as if to shake hands, but grasped one another’s manhood instead. I looked Braxas directly in the eye, as I knew he would have me do. His gaze inspected my handsome face and strong jaw before his eyes roamed downward, admiring my broad shoulders; firm, square-cut pectorals; and ribbed belly. As his eyes drank me in, his cock registered his admiration for my manliness by growing larger in my grasp. In turn, his strong hand gave my cock a quick squeeze as he tested the tumescence of his opponent. We both squared our shoulders and stood ramrod straight as each meaty fucktool responded to the insistent grasp of the opposing cock warrior. “Begin!” said Braxas firmly and began to stroke me off. I worked his manmeat as well, obliged to bring him close to the point of ejaculation. I stole a glance at Jason, who looked on with interest. The lieutenant’s own crotch bulged with lust, but a frown had crossed his face after seeing that my good looks had captivated his master’s attention.

To stimulate an expeditious climax for myself, I strategically turned my thoughts to my last fuck with the poor bastard Galen. I had penetrated the oaf beneath the field blanket while he was asleep. His surprised awakening, to discover the stiff cock of his fuckbuddy spearing his rectum, caused a defensive tightening of his anus. The sudden grip around my fuckrod had been perfect, and I rutted him to the hilt. Warrior seed flooded warrior ass. Toward morning I was awakened by Galen as he returned the favor. He pinned me belly down and split my ass apart with his ox cock.

The intensely sexy memory of my last night with Galen made me lose my cockwad to the virile warlord’s firm hand. Allowing Braxas to win by releasing my seed before he did, I grunted and nearly lost my footing as my cock became the first to erupt with lava. I was obligated to remain at attention throughout the mutual milking and was likewise required to continue my ministrations to my commander’s cock. I worked his tool, even as my hard pelts of spew adorned his belly, filled his navel, coated his forearm, and ran in rivulets toward his pubic bush.

Braxas smiled at my unabated grip on his prong, which now oozed a bit of precum. The feeling of hot manseed hitting his naked body had brought him close to losing his own wad. We both smelled the heady potency of the sperm I had shot. A moment later Braxas breathed heavily, grunted softly, and yielded his load. Several ropes of hot balljuice splatted onto my chest, belly, forearm, cock, balls and thighs.

We released our mutual grips on each other’s cocks. “I am defeated,” I acknowledged, and bowed my head to look at the mess on my torso. “I surrendered my seed before you did, Braxas! And your emission is superior!” His gloating beam made it clear that he loved to win.

Whether one respects Braxas or not, purposeful ingratiation before a man who is both vain and powerful is always in a soldier’s self-interest. I played the role well and knelt before the cockmilking warlord to lick his meat clean of spunk. Jason observed the obsequious gesture, perhaps wishing he had thought of it himself. After paying tribute to the victorious cock, I took Braxas into my mouth, teased his piss slit with the tip of my tongue, and gently sucked and swallowed a small residue of semen that lingered in his shaft. Braxas exhaled with pleasure and appreciatively patted my head as he gave up the last of his goo. Jason eyed me with a withering look as I swallowed the commander’s seed. His face revealed the mounting envy of a man who has discovered a potential rival.

“There is no work so glorious as soldiering!” Braxas announced with contrived fervor as he pulled his slick, wet meat from my yap and reached for his clothing. He gestured for me to rise, and I too began to dress. There would be no one to lick the sticky mess from my own spent cock. From a fold in his tunic Braxas produced the elaborate dagger that we had confiscated from the conspirators. It was the prize for which Galen had stupidly sacrificed himself. “With this fine blade I reward you for your service, my manful warrior! Use it well!”

Thinking of the dagger’s handsome blond owner, a truly manful warrior whom I myself had spiked to a nearby cross, I accepted the reward and thanked Braxas for his generosity. I had come into the good graces of my superiors, or at least of Braxas. Jason did not echo the congratulations. Yet my seeming good fortune gave me no satisfaction. The golden-haired hillsman, whose cock had stiffened as I spiked his hand, would have used this very dagger to slit the throat of Braxas. Is that not using it well?

Shame and degradation prevented me from turning to look at the crucified men as we departed and continued our march. The taste of the cruel commander’s seed was still in my mouth. The flavor was bitter.

The Harvest of Manseed

And so it was that two days after crucifying Galen and the hillsmen, I returned to that place of death to collect seed samples for Braxas. Perhaps the harvest of balljuice would satisfy the warlord’s perverse curiosity, though it also certified his mania. Arriving at the cluster of crucifixes, I found almost exactly what I had predicted. As I passed the carcass of the young runner who had killed himself with my sword, I saw that the scant remains of his singed genitals had been torn away by wolves. The scavengers had also ripped open the wound left by the death blade. Animals had pulled the lad’s guts from his belly. Crows had pecked out his eyes. His throat had been torn out, and sections of the runner’s strong leg muscles had become food for other wild beasts. Any crucified man who had not yet perished had witnessed the desecration of the lad’s corpse.

When I examined the crosses, I discovered that the formerly handsome young sentry, the younger of the two brothers, had indeed died of the arrow wound to his side. His naked, muscular corpse hung stiffly from its cross, the arms still wrapped around the crossbeam so that the splintery wood notched in his underarms. The hillsman’s cleft chin had found its final resting place against his sturdy chest. My approach had dispersed several carrion birds, which had already begun to devour him. I could see ripped flesh on his shoulders, where raptors had perched and dug their talons into him as they tore at his thick neck muscles and handsome pectorals, which were now partially obliterated. Buzzards circled overhead as well, awaiting an appropriate entry into the banquet. A swarm of ants had found its way onto the upright beam of the sentry’s cross. The insects crawled over his entire body, with particular interest in the open wounds left by the beaks of raptors, as well as the puncture wound on his side and the lash mark on his chest. The obnoxious little pests also amassed densely on the outer end of the man’s prominent fuckshaft. The cockhead was obscured by a teeming black swarm, as the ants feasted on the deathcum that had oozed out.

The older brother, hanging opposite the ravaged corpse, was still barely alive. He raised his stubbly, sunburned and tear-streaked face to regard me as if I were a nightmare that had returned to haunt him. An audacious crow perched atop the conspirator’s upright death beam, waiting for a meal. The dying hillsman tried to curse me around his swollen tongue. A day ago he had watched his brother die. Since that time, he had watched his brother’s body be gnawed, pecked, and devoured.

On the verge of death, the other crucified men moaned together in a chorus of misery. The deep cuts my whip had lashed into each man’s chest had stopped bleeding. Galen likewise still clung to life, though he was in no condition to greet me. The disgraced warrior merely looked at me with a desperate gaze of bewilderment. One of the vials I carried was to receive Galen’s mancream, if he could manage to pump it out. I was to choose which hillsman would donate seed to the other vial. I inspected the cocks of the other men as I considered which stud to milk. They were in desperate condition. I would be lucky to coax any semen at all from them. The dead man with the arrow in his ribs would have been my first pick, since he was youngest. Younger men, after all, are insatiable in their prowess. The most youthful stud not being an option, I hoped his older brother would be just as spirited. The dying assassin was in great pain, as were all the survivors. The cruel strangulation of his nutsac pulled his attractively asymmetrical bullballs down to a grotesque contortion. The left nut still hung lower than the one on the right. The genitals were now dark purple. I rolled a stone from the old ruins and positioned it close to the cross. As I stood on the stone, the prisoner’s dangling cockmeat was more easily within my reach. I grasped the hefty sexrod and began to massage it to life. Having had the foresight to bring a small pouch of animal fat with me, I administered the lubricant to the cock of the crucified man. Despite my best efforts at milking him, the result was disappointing. His meat thickened only slightly in response to my touch, after which it lost its arousal just as rapidly. The prick of the agonized hillsman glistened only from grease and not from spent semen. He rasped a vile curse at me, demanding that I keep my hands off his manhood.

“Let me pleasure you one last time before you die,” I persisted, stroking his reluctant member with even greater force and holding the collection vial close to his cockhead. But it was no use. He grunted, winced, shook his head from side to side, and looked at me with dismay as I worked his prong. No seed was forthcoming. I gave up and released his greased cock to hang uselessly between his muscled thighs. Stepping down from the block of stone, I left the impotent man to join his younger brother in death.

The red-haired hillsman had observed the strange procedure and tried to speak to me. I made my way to his cross and rolled the stone in place at its base to elevate my grasp. Perhaps he could provide the juice I had been sent to capture. Red was not making an offer, however. He was begging for something. As near as I could make out from the garbled utterances around his swollen tongue, he was pleading for the sword and an end to the misery. Of course, mercy-sticking him would be counter to orders from Braxas. The captives were to die from crucifixion, not from the blade. There was no harm in lying to the poor bastard, though. “Release your seed into this vial, my red friend.” I held the vessel up for him to see. “In return, I will put you to the sword and end your agony.” My greased fingers wrapped around his pale pink manshaft and coaxed it toward arousal. The cock grew a bit farther out from its haven of orange pubic hair. The crucified soldier moaned, closed his eyes, and furrowed his brow, apparently attempting to comply with my request and keep his end of the bargain. But the torture of the red warrior’s testicles, the spikes through his hands, and the long agony in the sun all proved too overwhelming for him to produce fuckwad. After what appeared to be earnest efforts to ejaculate, the man’s cock withered in defeat. I felt its girth recede in my grip. From deep within his gut, he groaned in final agony. His chin came to rest on his sternum, and I realized that he had become the second crucifix to perish. I was now holding a dead cock in my hand.

The big blond captain called out to me with a stern, croaking voice, insulting me and my warlord master with more of his defiant provocations. It was as if he were nominating himself to become the donor of hillsman sperm. I recalled the preliminary drops of semen he had produced as he was being nailed to the cross. Clearly this courageous and well-endowed man was the most likely candidate for producing manseed, even in unfavorable conditions. Other possibilities included the tall, lanky soldier with the auburn chest hair and the stocky, bearded blond man. However, we had stoned all life from the testicles of the bearded warrior, and his inanimate deathmate on the opposite cross showed only tentative signs of life. Neither man was likely to meet the task I would require of him. I bypassed those men and clambered onto a stone at the foot of the captain’s cross in order to manhandle his meat.

The muscular blond Adonis glared at me with burning hatred as I greased him. There was nothing he could do to avert this final humiliation at the hands of his enemy. His magnificent whip-scarred chest began to heave erratically as I stroked his fuckpole. One of his nipples had been decimated by my whiplash, but the other danced tantalizingly on its heaving slab of pec meat. I tweaked the nip gently with my other hand, increasing the erotic intensity of his milking. The big stud’s purple cockhead emerged from its sheath as the meat thickened. I included the beautiful knob in the encompassing grasp of my eager, greased fingers. I could smell his smegma as I smeared it over the surface of his cockshaft. A few protruding veins traversed the surface of the meat, giving the handsome cock a ribbed texture that aided my grip. His tool rose to a firm, throbbing erection and again produced clear pearls of precum. “Forgive this indignity,” I told him softly. “Yield your manseed and prove yourself a final time.” He closed his eyes, contorted his face in an expression of painful ecstasy, and suddenly threw his head back, thudding it against the upright of his cross. He cursed loudly, the same sharp, spontaneous, glorious obscenity that I utter when I ejaculate into a tight, hot ass.

The proud hillsman did not want to shoot his cockwad at the behest of his conqueror, even though the payload was on the brink of erupting from his loins. His face showed the strain of his resistance. The blond god’s chest and gut stopped heaving for a brief moment as he stubbornly held back his seed. However, the urge to issue his manly cream was too great. His body betrayed him. I had brought him over the edge, and the stud had no choice but to release his sperm. At the same time, he bellowed a loud, manly grunt from deep in his belly. His voice pierced the air with the sound of a rutting stud brought irretrievably to virile climax. He shot his load fiercely. So rapidly did the precious juice appear from his cockhead, that I almost lost the first two spurts. I quickly cupped my vial over the head of his erupting fuckpiece and forced his stiff tool downward, letting the white-hot lava flow into the vessel. He grunted again at this unnatural handling of his cock, but he continued pumping out shot after shot of thick cream. The vial was nearly full by the time he was spent. I even managed to coax a few more spurts from him by pulling firmly downward on his cock as it softened, squeezing and pulling his manmeat as if it were a cow’s tit. He bit his lip and threw his head from side to side in response to the post-ejaculatory discomfort, yet the stud involuntarily relinquished still more of his plentiful seed.

Exhausted and magnificent, he hung before me, staring slack-jawed into the face of the man who had given him the final pleasure that he had tried to resist. I inserted a finger into the vial to coat it with his potent cream. He watched me taste it. The sight did not disgust him, rather I was pleased to see that his expression had softened. I extracted more of his semen and spread it on my lips so that he could watch me lick it off. He extended his tongue and licked his own lips as best he could, mimicking my action while never breaking his gaze into my eyes. We had bonded over his potency.

“Thank you, my friend,” I told him reverently as I corked the vial and carefully placed it in my satchel. “Braxas will be impressed by your prowess.” The mention of Braxas spoiled the beauty of the moment. A renewed look of pain and anger crossed the handsome man’s countenance. In farewell, I briefly clasped his big, muscular shoulder and left him, realizing as I heard the cry of hawks circling overhead, that the stalwart captain would most certainly be the last man to die. I shuddered as I thought of his coming ordeal, watching the raptors and buzzards feast on his men as the valiant warriors expired one by one, until finally the blond god also became carrion.

It was Galen’s turn. I regarded the naked physique of my doomed comrade. He was not an unattractive man, though most would agree that he was not our most handsome. That distinction is often reserved for me, which explains why Braxas often selected me for his whimsical milking contests. Galen’s musculature was strong and sturdy, as one would expect of a seasoned soldier, yet there was a definite difference between his body and those of the hillsmen we had crucified around him. His shoulders were not quite as broad, his pectorals jutted less prominently over his firm belly. One could find little fault with his well-developed form, yet by comparison to the prisoners from the hills, Galen was not as imposing. Killing an enemy soldier at close quarters allows one to appreciate the man’s prowess. I recalled that every one of the many hillsmen I had been forced to eliminate had been at least a little taller than I. Each man had also required an especially forceful and deep penetration of my sword into his thick torso in order to finish him. I had also observed in battle that one swing of a hillsman’s sword was always enough to decapitate one of our own men, and if aimed at the hapless soldier’s midriff, a single blow sometimes sliced a man in half. It struck me as I compared Galen to his deathmates that my former fuckbuddy’s leaner muscularity is a physique typical of our men, even the strongest among us, and that the hillsmen in general are superior to us in stature and prowess. It is why enslaved hillsmen last for years in the mines and quarries as they toil under the whip. Their cocks likewise exceed the endowment typical of our soldiers, though we are by no means diminutive.

The admirable demeanor of the would-be assassins exemplified the hillsmen’s fierce determination and bravery in the face of death. I began to doubt that our vain, power-hungry warlord would be able to prevail over such a formidable enemy. Braxas bought the loyalty of his army by promising us riches once he had forged his own kingdom and made vassals of those who opposed him. Yet loyalty that hinges on vanity and greed is hollow and fragile when compared to the fervent comradeship of the hillsmen. In a landscape littered with the ruins of fortresses built by failed tyrants and would-be kings from previous eras, our warlord’s illusory pursuit of absolute power is just another extravagant fantasy. The strange prospect of the mighty Braxas reduced to a crushed and impotent fool suddenly seemed possible, even likely. The impertinent hillsmen were right. Their brother warriors would one day hoist the head of the cruel tyrant on a pike and wave his severed cock on the tip of a spear.

But now to harvest poor Galen’s cum. His voice was nearly finished from the exertion of crying out in pain. As I stood on a stone to wrangle his cock, he moved his parched lips and bloated tongue in a desperate, hoarse plea for the sword. “Finish me,” he begged.

“Braxas will have your seed first,” I told him, and began to grease his manmeat. “It is a contest of virility between our kind and the hillsmen. Shoot well, my friend, then die.” I decided to facilitate his ejaculation by untying the tether from his nuts. Thinking that the respite from ball torture would make it easier for him to surrender his load, I had not considered that the very opposite would be true. As his ankles dropped and no longer pulled his balls down, circulation returned to his strangled spermbags. Galen moaned loudly from the renewed agony. “Castrate me!” he begged in a desperate bid to end the pain in his testicles. They were words of capitulation that I never anticipated hearing from such a virile stud.

I ignored his crazed pleas, at least for the moment, and went about my task. His cock remained flaccid. I stroked it gently, again recalling how much it swelled when he fucked me. “Let me pleasure you, Galen,” I told the doomed soldier. “Give me your seed one last time.” I squeezed his big glans between thumb and forefinger, a tactic that I had used on him before. It usually prompted him to explode with a powerful gush of balljuice. His cock responded with a slight spasm. I continued my ministrations by groping for one of his nipples and playfully pinching it, hoping this erotic stimulation would assist the recovery of his still-flaccid sex. After some moments, I reached behind the crucified man. Leaning my head against his belly, I moistened two fingers in my mouth and inserted them slowly but firmly between the firm hams that formed Galen’s ass. He groaned, recalling the usual procedure of our manly encounters: I took his ass, then he took mine. After fingerfucking him for several moments, I withdrew my hand from his musclebutt and once again grasped his cock. I was gratified to find that it had become hard. I extracted the second vial from my satchel and prepared to milk him. Galen’s cock responded well to my encouragements. He closed his eyes, pressed the back of his head against the cross, and breathed heavily as he looked skyward. For good measure I playfully squeezed his cockhead between my fingers once more. He came. Jerking his cock downward to help me retrieve the fluid, I felt his tool spasm several times in my hand, though it did not produce his usually copious spews of juice. Galen moaned and went limp. I knew I could coax nothing further from the tortured stud. Sadly, as I expected, Galen had shot less seed than the powerful blond hillsman had produced. The enemy warrior had won the contest. I stoppered the vial of Galen’s cock cream and held my hand up to his mouth. He sucked on my fingers with a final gesture of endearment, cleaning my hand of his ass wipe and semen.

A look of surprise flashed across Galen’s face when he saw me produce the fancy dagger from my satchel. I held it to his gut and pricked his belly hide in order to convey its razor sharpness. He looked at me with a mixture of gratitude and fear as he realized I would mercy-kill him with the very dagger for which he had sacrificed his career as a warrior. It was treasonous to kill a condemned prisoner before he could die on the cross, but I felt an impulse of mercy that I was not able to ignore. Galen’s degradation among crucified hillsmen seemed punishment enough for his transgression. Spending his final moments knowing that a hillsman stud had bested him in cum production was an even worse blow to his pride. Perhaps I felt I owed this foolhardy soldier something for all the manly pleasure I had derived from his body. Or perhaps I was merely angry with Galen for his poor judgment. Dying from the blade he had coveted seemed a just punishment for his folly. I recalled the words of Braxas when he presented me with the prize dagger. “Use it well.” Was mercy-killing Galen not using the dagger well?

“Farewell,” I said, looking into Galen’s tear-filled eyes as I swiftly jabbed the death blade up into the stud’s torso. It passed beneath the bottom edge of his ribcage and ravaged his diaphragm. He tried to gasp but could no longer breathe. He gurgled as the shock and pain of the stabbing registered in his senses. I partially withdrew the dagger from the insertion wound and tore the sharp blade longitudinally down through his tough belly and abdomen, stopping just above his cockshaft. I extracted the steel from his guts and jabbed the dagger once more into his slit-open belly. I ripped the blade laterally and opened his midriff more fully. It was a method I had used to disembowel many a defeated enemy warrior, never anticipating that I would employ my expertise on Galen. When I pulled the bloody dagger from his body for the last time, Galen’s innards spilled out and hung down over his sex rig. The foul mess would become more food for the scavengers. His lowered head stared down at his own intestines as they continued to slither from his body. The gruesome picture was the last sight he took in before he suddenly went limp. Galen was now meat for the buzzards. I moved away, leaving him to hang in the sun, spent and dead.

I had to consider the outcome of the curious experiment our leader Braxas and his fawning lieutenant had devised. Braxas seemed intent on the mad belief that the manliness of any of his soldiers far exceeded that of the enemy he detested. What would his reaction be to Galen’s disappointing cock drool, especially when compared to the prodigious gush of mancream produced by the hulking blond hillsman? I reasoned that his sycophant Jason also wished for a result that supported the myth of our men’s superior virility. One solution would be to claim that the vial most full of mancream was the one I had held up to Galen’s spurting rod, rather than to the hillsman’s cock. But such a ruse would mean that the lesser amount must be attributed to the strapping stud from the hills. Even Braxas was unlikely to believe that a stalwart hillsman had produced only the small quantity of seed in the other vial.

As I pondered my options, the lanky hillsman with the hairy chest of shiny auburn coughed and jerked on his timbers one last time. He retched blood onto his chest fur, dropped his head forward, and went limp as he succumbed at last to the cruel spikes and beams. I knew the other survivors were soon to follow him into oblivion. Surrounded by brave, manly death, my cock grew hard in tribute. My neglected fucktool became painfully constrained and demanded attention. Standing beneath the blond god from the hills, that big-cocked warrior who could shoot massive amounts of seed even in the throes of crucifixion, I loosened my tunic and belt to free my manhood. The captain looked wearily down at me from his station of death as I stared up into his handsome face. He watched me pay tribute to him by stroking my engorged member to its glorious full dimension. Amazingly, as if acknowledging our common spirit, his own thick cock twitched and bobbed with reciprocal eagerness. The purple cockhead reappeared from its protective foreskin, and yet another pearl of manly fluid slowly oozed from his piss slit. A rivulet of sweat ran down his forehead, dripped from his nose, and fell onto his superbly muscled, sun bronzed chest, where it joined another stream of mansweat that was coursing down the cleavage between his stretched and rock-hard pectorals. The sweat made its sensuous way down his torso until it rolled into the bloody groove I had flogged into his flesh.

I came. I grunted and moaned so loudly that the one surviving brother, as well as the stocky bearded blond hillsman, joined the captain in giving me their full attention. My earthquake of an ejaculation momentarily distracted them from their own pain and death. All three remaining hillsmen looked down at me from their crosses and watched as I frantically stroked my steely cockmeat and worshiped the crucified Adonis. I detected strange warmth in the gaze cast upon me by the blond captain. I allowed myself to imagine that he felt abiding affection for a fellow stud, a warrior brother who, in different circumstances, could be his lover.

In treasonous duplicity, I pulled my spurting tool downward and pointed its tip into the vial I had used on Galen. My knees weakened from the intensity of the ongoing ejaculation, and I dropped forward, genuflecting as if in abject submission to the beautiful blond god dying in front of me. I shot bolt after bolt of my seed into the vial, filling it in a way that Galen had not been able to. Each time I looked up at the crucifix above me, I regained momentum and shot more sperm. The feel of hot, sticky cream flowing over my fingers surprised me, and I looked down to discover that the vial was overflowing. I released my man-tool and stoppered the vessel as my cock spasms finally began to recede. The cork forced more of the seed over the sides of the brimming container when I stoppered the flask.

I carefully replaced the filled vial in my satchel. Once again, I stood on the stone and extended my cum-coated fingers to the lips of the doomed hillsman. He hesitated a moment before bowing his head forward to accept my hand. Meeting my eyes, he extended his tongue and licked the seed from my forefinger. I gave him the semen that remained on the other fingers by wiping it onto his mouth. He understood well and began to lick my warrior seed from his lips, just as I had partaken of his. The man’s tongue was as sensuous as his cock. With some effort he swallowed the sample of studly batter that my cock had produced in his honor. It was his last meal. Perhaps he regarded the mancream as sustenance, but I prefer to believe that he wished to enjoy a final communion between men. His cock was hard.

The Deceit Is Discovered

Each time I thought of the crucified captain during the trek back to the command tent of Braxas and Jason, my cock rose to vigorous hardness.

A few hours into the return journey, my cock became hard again. This time my erection was in tribute to the bodies of ten fellow soldiers, an unfortunate supply contingency that had been ambushed and slaughtered by hillsmen. The enemy had apparently also stolen the provisions the slain warriors were transporting and had, of course, appropriated their weapons. The muscular corpses were prickly with the long, sleek arrows of the hillsmen. I noted that no shafts pierced the ground, rather every arrow the enemy had unleashed from a distance had found a target in male flesh. The men’s throats and upper chests, even their eye sockets, had been the favored targets of the archers. Given the urgency of my obligation to Braxas, I could afford the fallen comrades no dignity other than a respectful jab of my sword into each of their bellies. The custom of a postmortem gut gash would at least spare my brother warriors the indignity of bloating in the sun while waiting to be dismembered and shredded by wolves, after which the buzzards would extract their guts. The demise of these well-trained comrades was yet another indicator of the hillsmen’s strength and determination. Their culture was not conducive to the creation of a formal army. Instead, the nomadic clansmen of the high country banded together in small attack groups that struck without warning before disappearing into the hills again. Braxas considered their lack of an organized military to be a sign of their inferiority. Yet as I stood on a bloody patch of soil strewn with the arrow-riddled corpses of brother warriors, it was obvious that the warfare of the hillsmen could make our mighty army seem impotent.

Upon reaching my destination, I delivered the two vessels of cum to my commander. I represented the flask that contained mostly my own seed as the product of Galen’s balls and his alone. Braxas compared the sticky contents to the lesser but also impressive amount that I had pumped from the cock of the blond hillsman. He opened each container and inhaled deeply, relishing the intense scent of manhood as if from vials of perfume. After Braxas dismissed me, I exited the tent and heard Jason give orders to a young runner. The lieutenant dispatched the sprinter in the direction from which I had come, back toward the execution site. Jason then repaired to the tent of his commander to discuss the results of the virility test.

I only learned of the runner’s return when I was aroused from my sleep by two guards. They refused to allow me to cover my nakedness as they arrested me. The runner had reported that Galen had died prematurely on the cross, his guts hanging out for the wolves to consume. I saw no point in denying my transgression, and I did not resist as I was escorted to a holding cage to await judgment. Later I was taken to the large tent where Braxas staged his cockshooting contests and where he now held court. Jason began the interrogation. Braxas sat passively, rubbing his crotch as two guardsmen tied me to the center tent pole, my ass turned outward. Of course, Jason would seek to impress his master by laying the harshest of lashes on me with his slave whip. The lieutenant striped my broad back and firm buttocks ten times. I was surprised that he refrained from reversing my position and flogging my chest and belly as well. “I will stripe your chest when you hang from the cross, traitor!” he snarled for the benefit of his superior. Jason pulled the hillsman’s fine dagger from his tunic and held it before me with a smug grin. The lieutenant had inherited the infernal blade. He would use it to put a triumphant final touch on his victory over a potential rival for the affections of Braxas. “And before you die, traitor, I will cut off your charred cock and balls with this!”

Braxas approached. He pushed Jason aside and took control of the proceedings. I had betrayed any respect or admiration the commander had developed for me. He, more than Jason, had reason to be angry. “You have confessed to disemboweling the condemned man Galen against my wishes. You have disappointed me greatly, perhaps more than I know. What other guilt do you hide?” he demanded. Braxas looked down at my fucktool, then into my eyes. “You, a stalwart and handsome soldier! A fine cock warrior! You dishonor your prowess with such foolish treachery! You defy me with your deceit and now with your silence!” Shuddering from the brutal lashing of my back and ass, I said nothing.

“One of the vials you brought me has a familiar scent, cock warrior! Did you think I would not remember the smell of the fertile seed that pelted me when you lost our cockfight?” He held out the vial with the suspicious contents. I had failed to consider the sensitivity of the cockmilker’s expert nose. Like dogs that distinguish men by the distinct odors of their sweat, our warlord seems never to forget the precise scent of a warrior’s cock spew. Braxas had sniffed out the truth.

A soldier entered the tent and brought Jason several freshly cut and sharpened spikes of hickory. “The fire is prepared,” the soldier reported ominously. The guardsmen untied me from the whipping post, shoved me outside, and forced me to the ground. The fiery genital and anal mutilation Jason had exacted upon the young messenger lad from the hills would be repeated on my own cock, balls and ass. The lieutenant would demonstrate these methods on me in order to impress Braxas with his savagery. But there was no longer any reason for me to be obstinate. Perhaps my last mercy could be crucifixion with my manhood still intact. I lifted myself to my knees, bowed my head toward Braxas, and made the second fatal admission. Not only had I disobeyed orders by finishing off Galen, I had double crossed my commander by supplementing Galen’s meager output with my own cock cream. My confession confirmed the unwelcome truth for Braxas. The hillsman’s cock had prevailed in the contest between the two crucified men. The enemy was more potent.

Subversive reality ran through my mind but remained unspoken. It was clear to me that the superior virility of the hillsmen was a portent for their eventual victory and for the demise of Braxas and his maniacal reign.

Jason appeared more disappointed than triumphant as he heard my confession. He had looked forward to mutilating my manhood and gelding me as he forced the truth from me. But Braxas opened the vial of cum and poured its deceptive contents onto the fire. He looked at me with disgust as he destroyed my and Galen’s commingled manseed. “Crucify this man for insubordination!” he ordered his lieutenant. “Let him ride the timbers with his cock intact! I shall milk it in two days’ time. He will have a chance to redeem himself and our army’s reputation with his final spurts of seed!”

A Companion in Death

Hear now the end of my tale, even as I hear the whack of axes into hardwood. My comrades chop the timbers that will form my death tree. Before long the spikes will splinter the bones of my unfaithful hands.

. . . But listeners! Why the ominous tone of conversation among you? What is it that alarms you? . . . Come back! Why do you scurry away?

You three! Yes, you and you, and you! Come closer! I am a once respected warrior, now condemned to death, a cocksman who competed in sport with Braxas himself before I fell from grace! Grant me the favor of understanding what is happening!

“We are well aware of who you are, Storyteller. Have you been so engrossed in your tale that you have not heard the news?”

I have heard only my own somber voice and the hacking of woodcutters who harvest the timbers for my cross. What is afoot, good soldier? Why have my listeners fled?

“Three days ago two score of hillsmen slaves escaped their chains in a quarry not far from here. They slaughtered their overseers with their pickaxes. The renegades roam the countryside, gathering weapons and freeing their enslaved brothers. The hillsmen shed their chains, abandon their labor, and amass in rebellion against Braxas! Hundreds of their clansmen now descend from the hills to join the freed slaves and end the reign of our warlord and future king! This very encampment may soon be encircled!”

But the army of Braxas is strong and well equipped. Surely our comrades will repel the attackers!

“There are many who question the strength of Braxas. His promises of prosperity fall on disbelieving ears. Those of us who still defend him become fewer by the hour and do so more from fear than from loyalty. The army is awash in rumors of vengeful hillsmen who will grant no mercy to the soldiers of Braxas. Scores of men have deserted our once great army to escape the wrath of the approaching horde. Even Jason has fled! Braxas has pronounced him a coward and traitor and has demanded his head!”

Free me from this cage, then, and return my sword to me! My fate is sealed, whether I die with spikes through my limbs or with the spear of a hillsman in my chest! At least let me die as a soldier, clutching my blade!

“We have already petitioned for your release, Storyteller. We reminded our lord Braxas that your ability to slash the guts of hillsmen far outweighs the transgression of disemboweling Galen. You are a brave warrior and a well-regarded friend. No one believes you would follow the shameful path of the coward Jason. But our commander is unforgiving and will not be moved. Alas, we are here to follow orders, as unwise as they may be. We must accompany you to the place of death and affix you to the beams.”

Ah, you three are the crucifixion squad! I thought as much. Lay me out and spike me, then. Hoist me to die naked in the sun, as I myself have done to so many fine warriors from the hills. We shall see whether Braxas lives long enough to milk my cock a final time, and whether the approaching hillsmen find one of their enemy sentenced to the cross by his own commander. Whether I die from the vengeance of Braxas or the vengeance of the hillsmen, I am but food for the buzzards and crows.

“We take no pleasure in sending you on your way, Storyteller. . . . Ah, but here is the young runner who brought Jason and Braxas the report of Galen’s death by your hand. The lad will take up a sword and join us in the final fray. Before he enters battle, let the boy also benefit from your remarkable tale as he listens at the foot of your cross!”

But I would hear the lad’s tale! Tell me, runner, when you reached the crucified hillsmen, were they all dead?

“One man lingered, sir. A large and handsome warrior with golden hair and eyes as blue as the sky . . . and his cock was very tall and hard, as if eager to fuck in the afterlife!”

Try to understand me, lad! And you men there! Pause your hammering long enough to hear these last words before you depart to kill and die for Braxas! The hillsman and I are companions, no matter the distance between us. Do you not see my own cock rise in manful hardness as the lad brings this news of my deathmate? The golden warrior and I are doubles on the cross! We both await our end naked and alone, destroyed by a pompous tyrant. Yes, I say it aloud now. Braxas is a mad scoundrel and a fool! The dying hillsman and I proudly display our cocks in tribute to true manhood. The suffering of the blond captain who awaits death on the beams began before my final torment, but my brother warrior will wait for me to catch up with him.

I cannot explain to you why I believe it to be so, but when these spikes and beams transform me into carrion, I know that my deathmate and I will take our last tortured breaths at the same moment.

RACCONTI

STORIES

CUENTOS

LINKS

MATERIALI/ MATERIALS

GALLERIA/ GALLERY