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In Barbath’s Hands
XIV They
drag Ferdinando from the horses by the ankles, the hem of his tabard wadded
under his arms, the brambly mud already caking his calves and shins. His
wrists are bound behind him with something rough and fresh—scraped
willow, maybe, or the inner skin of a nettle stalk—burning tight in the
grooves between tendon and bone. His mouth tastes of copper and dirt; there
is blood in his left eye, clouding the image of the mailed figures looming,
leering. Barbath comes into focus as Ferdinando’s vision
clears: a pale, hairless hulk in torn tunic and a surcoat
black with grease and old battle stains. His lips are a colorless slit, but
the tongue inside is fat and pink as a calf’s, darting to wet the lips
as he circles his prisoner. “Conte,”
Barbath grunts, no trace of irony in the title. He
nudges Ferdinando’s chin up with a mailed thumb. “Your banners
look less splendid in the mud.” Ferdinando
manages to spit, or tries; it only dribbles down his own chest, mixing with
the blood, the snot, the clotting humiliation of his defeat. He cannot quite
recall the order of blows that landed him here—lance to the helmet,
perhaps, then the trampling, then some moment of lightness as his body left
the ground and came down again. Everything from there is soundless,
dreamlike. Barbath gestures, and two of his retainers—peasant
stock in ill-fitting leather—haul Ferdinando upright. A rib creaks,
nearly pops. Barbath examines him with the rapt
attention of a butcher planning his cuts. “Off
to the lord’s table,” Barbath says. His
breath is like rancid tallow, almost sweet in the chill air.
“He’ll want to see the prize.” * The
prize is displayed in the echoing stone vault of Barbath’s
hall, lashed to a post where some dogged ancestor’s banners once hung.
The tapestries are gone; the walls sweat with lichen and the salt of old
feasts. Ferdinando is stripped, not with ceremony but with urgency—his
clothes sliced away, leaving white lines of skin where fabric pressed him.
The wounds from battle sting; new wounds begin: a slap, a kick, a fist to the
belly. Barbath’s men jeer and spit at him, but Barbath
is not among them. He waits, unseen, letting the anticipation settle in the
room like a fog of rendered fat. Ferdinando
cannot see the hour from the slot window above; night and day are lost to
him. He catalogues the changes in the torchlight, the drip of water, the
smells: his own sweat, blood, fear. At last, there is a hush and Barbath enters, alone. Even his footfalls are quiet,
calculated. “Beautiful,
even in defeat,” Barbath says. He steps up
and grips the sides of Ferdinando’s face, forcing their eyes to meet.
“But I think the best is yet to come.” Ferdinando
tries to say something—an oath, a curse, a snatch of family
pride—but it is only a thin croak. Barbath shushes him with a finger to the lips, then runs
that finger down Ferdinando’s throat, sternum, belly. The finger
lingers, contemplative, at the base of his stomach. “You
killed my brothers,” Barbath whispers.
“Now you are here. Old debts, paid in flesh.” He
unlaces his breeches with one hand, never breaking eye contact. He is already
half-erect, as if this had been staged for weeks, rehearsed in dream and
waking. Barbath slides his cock along Ferdinando’s
cheek and over his mouth, smearing the blood and spit, then shoves it between
his lips. The taste is sour, animal, strange. “Bite,
and I cut your tongue,” Barbath says, but the
threat is unnecessary: Ferdinando’s jaw is slack, barely responsive. He
gags as Barbath thrusts deeper, hitting the back of
the throat, then out again, painting the lips, the chin. The
two retainers—present after all, silent as executioners—hold Ferdinando’s
shoulders, steadying him against the post. Barbath
goes slow, savoring each stroke. The sound is sickening, wet. Occasionally he
stops to pinch the nose, forcing the mouth open wider, then resumes, harder.
It lasts forever; it lasts minutes. When Barbath
finishes, it is with a grunt and a spasm, and something thick hits the roof
of Ferdinando’s mouth, chokes him anew. Barbath slaps him on the cheek, almost fond. “You
learn quick. Maybe you’ll last the night.” * The
next hours are a fever. Ferdinando is moved—dragged by his feet, arms
trailing behind him, then chained spread-eagle to a beam over the hearth. The
fire below is mostly embers, but the heat pricks his skin and blisters the
soles of his feet. Barbath sits in a massive chair,
watching, drinking, occasionally tossing a chicken bone or a goblet at his
guest. Each time, the men laugh and mock, calling out insults. Barbath does not join in, preferring to stare,
contemplating the perfection of his revenge. When
he is ready, Barbath approaches, this time with a
knife. He toys with it in front of Ferdinando’s eyes, tracing the
blade’s tip along the lines of rib and hip. He slices open the skin at
the tip of Ferdinando’s cock, not deep but enough to make him shriek.
The blood wells and beads, a tiny mouth gaping. Barbath leans in, almost tender. “You raped my brother.?” Ferdinando
tries to turn his head but is held fast by the chain. The room tilts. He
wants to faint, but the pain keeps him present. “They
called it justice. I think this is justice, too.” Barbath
bends and licks the blood from the cut, slow, savoring. * They
repeat this. Hours pass. Days, perhaps. Barbath
enters the room at random, always alone, sometimes drunk, sometimes deathly
sober. Each time, he finds a new way to take Ferdinando: mouth, then ass,
then again and again, always with the same slow deliberation. Sometimes he
uses oil, sometimes just spit; sometimes he forces Ferdinando to beg for it,
to whimper and plead. The humiliation is total. Ferdinando dreams of death,
wakes to more violation. At
night, the castle is silent except for the rats and the storm outside. Ferdinando
stares at the ceiling stones and he calls his men. Barbath
listens once and laughs. “The dead don’t listen,” he says,
and jams two fingers in, stretching Ferdinando until something tears inside. In the
quiet that follows, Ferdinando hears his own voice, a child’s whimper.
He bites his tongue to kill it. * When
it ends, it is almost gentle. Barbath appears at
dawn, the grayest hour. The men unchain Ferdinando and lay him out on a heavy
table, arms and legs fixed by iron rings. The wood is splintered and sticky,
scarred by past work. Barbath stands above him, sword in hand. It is not clean;
there are chips on the blade and the hilt is wrapped in rag. He runs the flat
of it along Ferdinando’s belly, a lover’s caress. “You’ve
done well,” Barbath murmurs.
“You’re stronger than the others.” He
steps behind the table and parts Ferdinando’s thighs with a brutal,
practiced shove. The sword’s point hovers at his asshole, pressing
first at the outer muscle, then inside. Barbath
applies pressure, steady as a farmer splitting wood. The cold steel burrows
in, widening, splitting. Ferdinando screams until his throat is raw. The
sword advances, inch by inch, relentless. Blood bubbles from his asshole,
then from his mouth, forced by the growing pressure. Barbath leans in and whispers, “Tell your men who
fucked you,” and pushes the blade farther, the hilt now grinding into
skin. Ferdinando
finds one last reserve of hatred. He spits upward, the gobbet mixing with
blood and sweat. “Your
seed dies with you,” he rasps. Barbath grins, and with a final thrust, the blade slides
all the way in, up to the crossguard. Ferdinando’s
body convulses, then stills. The room is quiet except for the wet sound of
the sword, and Barbath’s slow, satisfied
breathing. He
leaves Ferdinando there, pinned and leaking, the silent victor of a grudge
only he remembers. XV Ferdinando
is sprawled flat, wheezing, his right eye already swelling shut and dribbling
pus-yellow tears. Barbath stands above him, scarlet
cock swaying, jaw still smeared with Ferdinando’s spit and blood. The
guards aren’t even pretending to watch; they’re busy drawing lots
on how long Ferdinando will last. Barbath wipes the back of his hand across his mouth.
“You always were a chatty little turd, Ferdinando,” he says, then
plants a foot between Ferdinando’s shoulder blades and grinds him into
the dirt. Barbath’s heel finds a tender rib,
gets a whimper for it. Barbath grins, then stoops
and grabs a fistful of Ferdinando’s greasy hair. “Let’s see
if you squeal as much as you preach.” Ferdinando
tries for defiance, spits a stringy clot on the stone, but Barbath is already moving. With a grunt, he kicks Ferdinando’s
legs wide, spreads him like a ragdoll, and drops his knee hard in the small
of Ferdinando’s back. A sickly crack. Ferdinando howls, voice ragged,
so raw it sounds like paper tearing. Barbath’s cock lurches to full attention. He lines it up,
jams it against the ruined pucker of Ferdinando’s asshole—already
chewed raw from what came before, red and purple and sickly white at the
edges. “Remember the summer you captured me and I was your prisoner?”
Barbath hisses, breath hot on Ferdinando’s
ear. “You called me a mongrel. Told everyone I’d never be more
than a dog’s cock in a dead whore’s mouth.” He
spits on his own cock for show, a thick gob that lands with a wet slap.
“Who’s the whore now?” He
thrusts. No mercy, no pretense. Just a straight, bone-punching ram into Ferdinando’s
guts. Ferdinando’s scream peals out, echoing off the high beams. The
pain is so raw it paralyzes; he can only kick his feet, scrabble weakly at
the stone. Barbath moans, not quietly. “Oh, fuck me,
you’re still tight. Like your asshole’s trying to cut my prick
off.” He pumps, each stroke an act of war, deliberate, brutal. Each
withdrawal is slow, dragging torn muscle and mucus, then the next thrust is
sudden, jarring, sometimes at a new angle, as if testing how many directions Ferdinando
can be split. Ferdinando
gasps out, “You—fucking—pig—” but the words
dissolve into sobs. Barbath lets up on his neck just enough so Ferdinando can
drag in a choking breath. “What’s that, priestling?
You got something to say? I’m all ears.” “God
will—” Ferdinando rasps, then gags as Barbath
shoves his face into the blood-slicked stone. “God’s
got nothing to do with this. This is just you and me, little worm. And right
now, you’re my cunt.” Barbath
accentuates it with another pile-driver thrust. Ferdinando can feel something
rip, wet and final. For
long minutes Barbath keeps at it, rhythm savage,
both hands braced on Ferdinando’s hips, shoving him forward with each
strike. The pain in Ferdinando’s spine is eclipsed by the molten agony
between his legs. Barbath’s balls slap
against his taint, each impact setting off a fireworks display of misery. Barbath’s running commentary never stops. “Fucking love
it. You squeal so sweet. All those sermons, all that fake humility—look
at you now. Human fucking filth, and you smell like it.” He laughs, a
guttural, barking noise. “You want it to end, don’t you?” Ferdinando
manages a strangled, “Yes.” Barbath pauses, still buried in him to the hilt. “Ask
nice.” “Please.”
Humiliation thickens his voice. “Please
what?” Barbath works his cock in slow, lazy
circles, just to remind him who’s in control. “Please—finish.” Barbath makes a face, then spits down onto Ferdinando’s
back. “You’re pathetic,” he says, but the words are almost
loving. He
resumes his assault, faster now, as if eager to finish what he started. Ferdinando
can feel the tip of Barbath’s cock scraping
bone. Each movement draws another shriek from his lips; tears and snot flood
his face. Barbath comes with a roar, jerking hard enough to lift Ferdinando’s
pelvis off the ground. Cum floods inside him, hot and filthy, mixing with
blood and shit and whatever else was torn loose in the act. Barbath pulls out, his cock glistening with the unholy
mess, then wipes it off on Ferdinando’s ass like it’s nothing. Barbath staggers upright, chest heaving, and takes a moment
to appreciate his handiwork. Ferdinando’s body is shaking, legs
twitching involuntarily, rectum gaping open and dripping. Barbath walks to where he tossed the spear. It’s a
rough thing, no elegance, just a pole with a jagged iron blade crudely welded
on the end. He brings it back, crouches over Ferdinando, and prods the ruined
asshole with the business end. Ferdinando
tries to crawl away, but his arms won’t cooperate. He can barely lift
his head. Barbath laughs. “Now, now.
Don’t go losing your nerve. We’re just getting to the good
part.” He
spits on the spear tip, lines it up with Ferdinando’s asshole, and
shoves. The blade enters with sickening ease, slicing open already tattered
flesh, biting deep. Ferdinando’s body bows, a spasmodic arch, and the
scream that rips out of him is pure terror, animal and unfiltered. Barbath twists the shaft, then thrusts it deeper, until
the blade snags on a pelvic bone. Ferdinando’s
head lolls. His vision tunnels, black stars dancing at the edges. Barbath yanks the spear out with a wet, sucking pop; a
flood of blood and shit follows. “Now
you’re really bleeding like a bitch,” Barbath
says, then plants his boot on Ferdinando’s back and grinds again, just
to savor the whimpers. He
isn’t done humiliating the man. He staggers over to Ferdinando’s
head, and pisses directly on his face. The hot ammonia stream fills Ferdinando’s
mouth, washes over his nose and eyes. He can barely choke it down, gags and
retches, but the urine just keeps coming. When Barbath finishes, he shakes himself off, then sets the
spear aside. He
kneels beside Ferdinando, slides a hand under the limp body, and with a
practiced motion, grabs hold of the shriveled cock and balls. “Not much
to work with,” Barbath muses, “but
it’ll feed a pup or two.” He grabs
a dull blade. The dogs, huddled in the far corner, instantly perk up,
sniffing the air. Barbath saws through the scrotum,
then the shaft. Ferdinando’s brain is so deep in shock he doesn’t
feel the first slice. The second, though—the knife hits the root, and
he howls so loud the guards look up, startled. Barbath holds up the severed genitals in triumph, tosses
them underhand into the pen. The dogs are on them instantly, snarling and
fighting over the meat. Ferdinando
is sobbing, blood oozing from his crotch, his face a ruined map of snot,
piss, and tears. Barbath licks the blood from his fingers, then walks back
to the lever by the wall. He yanks it, and the iron gate rises, groaning. The
dogs—four of them, muscled and mangy—spring forward, almost
tripping over each other in their haste. They converge on Ferdinando, biting,
tearing. One clamps down on his calf, crunching through the bone. Another
goes for the open wound at his ass, digging in, shaking its head. Barbath sits on a low stone bench and watches, savoring
every yelp and scream, every tearing sound as muscle and sinew come loose. Ferdinando
is still alive when the biggest dog closes its jaws around his throat and
wrenches, ripping out a mouthful of windpipe and tongue. The final noise Ferdinando
makes isn’t even a scream. It’s a wet, burbling gurgle, oddly
musical. Within
minutes, there’s little left but rags of skin, shattered ribs, and the
remains of a hand. The dogs lap up the blood, then drag the bones away,
fighting and howling in the dark. Barbath stands and stretches. He is smiling. He is content. |
