Executed

XVI

Ferdinando wakes with his face jammed against a donkey’s ass and the taste of blood already in his mouth. At first, he can’t tell if it’s his or Bertrand’s—probably both. His wrists are bound behind his back so tight the fingers have gone cold. The rest of him is caked in sand, sweat, and other fluids he doesn’t want to inventory. Up ahead, a dozen black flags flicker against the dawn, each with a crescent moon the color of dried liver. The whole Arab column moves with the boredom of a funeral, and the stink of men and shit is biblical.

A boot kicks his ribs. “March, you Christian bastard.”

He snarls but obeys, jerking his legs to stand as the donkey lurches forward. They’ve stripped him of mail and tabard, left only a filthy tunic and the boots. Bertrand is tied to the donkey beside his, and the big fucker is as naked as the day he was born—if not hairier. For all his wounds, he manages to smirk at Ferdinando, mouth full of broken teeth.

“Told you we should’ve gone north,” Bertrand slurs. “At least the Byzantine cunts feed you before they fuck you.”

Ferdinando spits blood onto the sand. “You’d let them fuck you if they had bread, you fat sack.”

“True.” Bertrand’s eyes flick to the nearest guard. “But these dog-fuckers’ll just cut it off for soup.”

A spear butt clubs Bertrand’s shoulder, drawing a yelp and a string of curses, each more inventive than the last. The guards laugh, and Ferdinando knows they’re saving the real pain for later. He scans for Barbath—their captor, commander, and the biggest bastard in a two-hundred-mile radius. It doesn’t take long: Barbath rides ahead, not tall but wide, draped in a cloak the color of dried shit. His beard is full of grease and his smile never leaves, not even when he glances back at his new prizes.

The march ends at midday before a squat stone fortress, half-buried in sand. The gates open on a hinge made of scavenged bones. As they’re herded through, jeering men pelt them with gravel and offal. Inside, the heat is worse, and the stink of rotting meat rides the air like a whip.

Bertrand grunts as they’re shoved into a cell no bigger than a goat stall. Three walls of stone, one of iron bars, all slick with old gore. Their hands are freed only to let them stagger and fall, the door slammed behind.

Ferdinando picks himself up, probing a broken lip with his tongue. “I’ll murder every one of these camel-fuckers,” he growls. His gaze meets Bertrand’s, and something like a smile passes between them. “Or at least outlive your ugly ass.”

Bertrand snorts, rolling over to stretch his thick arms and flex his battered cock. Even bruised, it hangs heavy, the way Ferdinando has seen it countless times when pissing drunk or worse.

They both freeze at the clatter of sandals on stone. Barbath appears, flanked by a pair of guards with swords half-drawn. The commander steps close, hands behind his back, relishing the sight of two naked Christian warriors splayed before him.

“Well, well,” Barbath says, his Latin thick but sharp. “You look less holy without your armor, Christian dogs.”

Ferdinando bares his teeth. “Come closer, I’ll show you how unholy I can be.”

Barbath grins, his gaze lingering on Ferdinando’s cock, then Bertrand’s. “No need. Tomorrow, we put you both on the pole, ass first. You’ll scream so loud, the Pope will hear it in Rome.”

Bertrand spits. “You sound jealous.”

Barbath’s eyes flash. “You’re right. I am. But I’ll have my fun tonight.” He gestures to the guards and walks away.

Ferdinando collapses against the wall, shuddering. “Fucking whore-son. I hope the pole splinters.”

Bertrand barks a laugh. “Not if it hits you first.”

They spend a long time in silence, just the shuffle of rats and the groans of other prisoners down the hall. The sweat dries on their bodies, leaving a crust that itches. Ferdinando tries not to think of the pole, the slow puncture, the endless agony. Instead, he thinks of the times he and Bertrand have fucked prisoners together—women, men, even a couple of pretty boys from Venice. Never each other. There’s an unspoken line, and neither of them have crossed it.

Bertrand’s voice is quieter than usual. “You scared?”

Ferdinando doesn’t answer for a long time. Then, “No. Just pissed.”

“Liar.” Bertrand shifts closer, the thick muscle of his leg brushing Ferdinando’s. “We’re going to die, Ferdinando. They’ll cut our guts out and fuck the holes.”

Ferdinando tries to laugh but it comes out as a wheeze. “We’ve done worse. Remember the French priest? Shat himself before I even got it in.”

Bertrand grins. “He begged so hard you almost let him go.”

“Yeah, well.” Ferdinando’s voice turns bitter. “He was prettier than you.”

Bertrand laughs, but there’s a tremor in it. His hand, broad and hairy, rests on Ferdinando’s thigh, too casual to be accidental. They look at each other, really look, and the whole fucked-up mess of it hangs in the air. The end, right here. The line they never crossed.

Bertrand’s grip tightens. “What if we just did it? Like the Greeks. Soldiers and their… what’s the word?”

“Catamites,” Ferdinando says, grinning through split lips.

“Yeah. Just for tonight. Like brothers.”

Ferdinando’s cock twitches. He’s surprised, but not really. “You want to die with my dick in your ass, you pervert?”

Bertrand shrugs. “Rather that than a stick.”

They don’t laugh this time. Ferdinando looks down at Bertrand’s cock, already stiff and fat. He can’t help it; the sight makes his own swell in answer, and the familiar urge—part violence, part tenderness—flares up, impossible to ignore.

Ferdinando moves first. He grabs Bertrand by the neck and slams their mouths together, blood and spit and sweat mixing. Bertrand groans, biting at Ferdinando’s lip, hands scrabbling down to squeeze his cock. The guards outside laugh at the noise, probably jerking off to the sound.

Bertrand drops to his knees and sucks Ferdinando’s cock with a hunger that borders on rage. He’s sloppy and brutal, no finesse, just brute force and spit. Ferdinando grabs his hair, fucking his mouth until tears stream down Bertrand’s cheeks and his own cock drips pre-cum onto the stone floor.

When he can’t take it anymore, Ferdinando shoves Bertrand onto his belly and rams his tongue into the hairy, musky crack of his ass. Bertrand howls, grinding his face into the shit-smeared floor, but spreads his legs wider.

Ferdinando spits, fingers the hole rough, then lines up and pushes in, all at once. Bertrand takes it with a grunt and a curse, bucking back against him like a beast. They fuck hard, bodies slamming into stone, not caring who hears. There’s nothing left but this: the brute need, the sweat and stink, the taste of blood and fear and coming death.

Bertrand milks Ferdinando’s cock like he’s starving, and when Ferdinando pulls out, panting, Bertrand spins him around and slams his own cock up Ferdinando’s ass, deeper and thicker than any stick. The pain is pure, electric, almost holy. Bertrand fucks him until they both can’t stand, then collapse, spent and shaking, side by side on the blood-warm stones.

They don’t talk after. There’s nothing left to say.

Outside, the torches flicker. The guards sleep. Somewhere above, Barbath sharpens a pole and dreams of tomorrow.

Ferdinando and Bertrand lie together in the filth, breathing as one, already dead and not caring a fuck.

The next morning, the sun rises on a sky like old piss, and Ferdinando wishes he hadn’t woken at all. His bones hurt worse than before, and the place where Bertrand’s cock had split him is a second mouth of dull, throbbing agony. He tries to piss but nothing comes out but a dribble of blood. Bertrand is already awake, sitting against the wall with his eyes closed, lips moving in prayer or curse, maybe both.

The cell door screams open. Four men crowd in, each with arms like plow handles, swords and clubs at the ready. They haul Ferdinando and Bertrand to their feet, not gentle. Barbath is waiting outside, arms folded, smile carved into his face. He’s dressed in a new robe today, all black, with a sash of what looks like flayed skin. His eyes never leave Ferdinando.

“Up you go, Christ-lovers. It’s a long walk to paradise.”

Bertrand spits on Barbath’s boots. “I’ll fuck your mother in Hell.”

Barbath laughs, grabs Bertrand’s hair, and yanks him forward so hard his neck pops. “She’ll be waiting for you, pig.”

The guards drag them through the main corridor, past other prisoners, all of whom flinch and shrink away. The morning air outside is cold and full of ash. The fortress courtyard is packed with men, all armed, all silent, watching the spectacle. In the center stands the execution device: a sharpened pole, as thick as a man’s wrist, sunk deep into the ground and braced by ropes. At its base, a collection of knives, mallets, and tongs gleams in the weak sun. More poles stand in a rack, some with dried shit and blood still clinging to the tips.

Barbath strides ahead, announcing to the crowd in Arabic. They answer with grunts, jeers, and laughter. Ferdinando doesn’t need to know the words; the meaning is in the teeth.

They force Bertrand to his knees first. His arms are tied behind his back, chest heaving, sweat already rolling down his hairy belly. Two guards hold his ankles apart, and a third yanks his ass up into the air. The executioner, a wiry bastard with a nose like a hawk’s beak, steps up with a dagger and saws open Bertrand’s tunic, splitting it down the spine. He rips away the fabric, exposing the thick, scarred hide beneath.

Bertrand growls, low and constant, a noise that’s half threat and half prayer.

The executioner kneels behind him, jabs the knife into the crack of Bertrand’s ass, and slices downwards with slow, deliberate strokes. Blood flows, and Bertrand’s whole body shakes, but he doesn’t scream—yet. The crowd murmurs, hungry. The executioner wipes his blade on Bertrand’s thigh, then picks up the pole.

Barbath leans down, close to Bertrand’s ear. “Don’t worry. If you die too fast, we’ll fuck your corpse.”

Bertrand lifts his head and spits, face flecked with tears and spittle. “Get it over with, you limp-dicked goat-licker.”

The pole is greased with fat and dark stains. The executioner positions the blunt end against the split asshole, then starts to push. At first, the pressure is almost comical: Bertrand’s ass resists, then quivers, then slowly opens around the intruder. The pole disappears inch by inch, slick with blood and fat and whatever else is leaking out. The crowd roars approval.

Bertrand’s groan is a thunderclap, shaking the air. “Fucking—bitch—mother—WHORE!” He yanks against the ropes, muscles bulging, but it only makes the pole slide deeper. The executioner hammers it in with both fists, rocking the whole frame. The tip vanishes inside Bertrand, then bulges his belly, skin stretched to splitting.

The crowd chants, a drumbeat of filth and hatred.

Barbath signals the guards, who hoist Bertrand by the arms and drag him upright. The pole, now three-quarters buried in him, lifts him from the ground. Blood runs down the shaft in sheets, pooling at the base. Bertrand’s legs kick reflexively, shit and gore raining from the open wound.

They prop him against the support, tie his wrists to the cross-brace, and step back. Bertrand’s head sags. His face is a mask of agony and hatred. His cock, impossibly, is still hard.

Ferdinando is next. The guards don’t bother with ceremony; they shove him to the ground, rip away his tunic, and yank his ass high. The same executioner, still sticky with Bertrand’s blood, slices open Ferdinando’s asshole with the tip of his dagger. It’s a cold, burning pain, different from anything Ferdinando has ever known.

He tries to bite through it, to snarl, to be brave, but when the pole presses against his ass, he can’t help but scream. He bites his tongue, tastes iron, and curses every god he’s ever heard of.

The pole slides in. He feels everything: the tearing, the cold wetness, the splinters that catch on his insides. The crowd is louder now, stamping feet and chanting, some jerking off openly at the sight. Ferdinando’s body shakes. His cock is hard, too, traitorous.

He wants to look at Bertrand, but the pain blinds him.

The pole keeps going, deeper and deeper, until it hits something inside that shouldn’t be touched. Ferdinando blacks out for a moment, then comes to with his mouth full of dirt and blood. They haul him up, lash his arms to the post, and leave him dangling, impaled from ass to chest, feet twitching inches above the ground.

Barbath comes close, looks Ferdinando in the eye. “How does it feel, dog?”

Ferdinando tries to spit, but his mouth is too dry. “Like your sister’s cunt. Only tighter.”

Barbath laughs, genuine and bright, then spits on Ferdinando’s face. “Die slow, pig.”

The crowd disperses, leaving the two warriors to the elements, to the sun and the birds and the gnawing pain.

Bertrand is still alive, making noises like a dying bull. Ferdinando tries to talk, but it’s just gurgles. He wants to say something—thank you, sorry, fuck you, anything—but all that comes out is blood and the smell of shit.

Above them, the vultures circle, patient and sure.

It goes on forever.

The sun climbs and climbs until the world is nothing but white-hot pain. The pole inside Ferdinando feels like it grows with each degree of heat, swelling to fill every inch. His body leaks from every hole: sweat, blood, pus, and something thicker that trickles down his thigh and hardens in the dust. His mouth is dry, tongue thick as a boot, lips split and swelling. He can’t speak, but his mind runs in circles, always coming back to the memory of Bertrand’s cock and the taste of spit and blood.

Bertrand is still alive beside him. He knows because every hour or so, Bertrand makes a noise—a grunt, a curse, a prayer in Latin so garbled it sounds like a spell. The vultures come closer. At first, they only watch, heads cocked and waiting. By noon, they take cautious hops forward, peck at the drops pooling beneath the bodies. One lands on Bertrand’s shoulder, claws digging deep, but Bertrand snaps his head and bites at it, earning a round of jeers from the guards watching from the shade.

The flies are worse. They swarm Ferdinando’s wounds, crawling into his mouth and nose, laying eggs in the torn meat of his ass and chest. They gather thickest at his cock, which somehow stayed hard through the night but is now chewed raw and purple. The sensation is like being fucked by a thousand needles, all at once.

He drifts in and out, caught in fever dreams: castles burning, rivers of blood, the warmth of a friend’s breath in his ear. Sometimes he thinks Bertrand is speaking to him, calling out, but when he opens his eyes, Bertrand’s head is slumped forward and his face is black with dried blood and flies.

On the second day, they come for the cocks.

The same executioner, face hidden behind a mask of cloth, approaches with a small knife. He stands between the poles, checks that both men are awake, then lifts Bertrand’s cock and balls in one hand. With a single sawing motion, he severs them, and the blood spatters the sand below. Bertrand doesn’t scream at first, but then the pain hits, and he roars loud enough to make the vultures scatter.

The executioner holds up the limp, bloody mass, then shoves it into Ferdinando’s open mouth. It barely fits, but the man makes sure, pushing the balls deep until Ferdinando gags and tries to retch. The crowd loves it, the laughter rolling down the hill like thunder.

He does the same to Ferdinando: slices off his cock and balls, then stuffs them into Bertrand’s mouth, packing them in with the hilt of the knife until Bertrand nearly chokes. Both men drool blood and cum and bile, faces red and purple and wet. The guards take bets on who dies first.

It isn’t long. The shock is too much. Ferdinando’s vision goes blurry, and his ears fill with a roaring noise, like the ocean in a storm. The last thing he sees is Bertrand, eyes wide, tongue poking out around the slab of meat, teeth bared in a final, hateful smile.

Then nothing. No heaven, no hell. Just black.

The crows feast.

The poles stay up for weeks. The sun never gives them peace. By the third day, Ferdinando and Bertrand are nothing but swollen, blackening sacks of meat, their skins stretched so tight it’s a wonder they don’t burst. The heads loll on twisted necks, mouths still stuffed with gristle and bone.

The bugs get first pick. Blowflies lay their maggots in every crease and wound, turning flesh to ooze. The birds come next: crows, gulls, hawks. They gouge out eyes, tear strips from the cheeks, dig their beaks into the soft belly until it sags and splits. Sometimes, the locals gather to watch the spectacle, eating dates and pointing at the way the bodies jiggle and leak.

Within a week, the skin splits wide. Entrails spill down the pole, a rope of rot and froth. Bertrand’s chest pops open with a wet bang, the ribs splaying out like the jaws of a trap. Ferdinando follows a day later.

The bones bleach in the sun. The skulls are stripped bare but still smile, teeth clenched and cracked. After a month, the only thing left is the memory: two Christian devils, fucked and impaled and left for the world to forget.

Barbath visits sometimes, just to piss on the base of the poles.

XVII

The door opens with the crunch of splintering wood. Two men, stripped to their breeches and blood, are flung to the slime-smeared floor. The taller, fatter one rolls to his knees, spits a mouthful of blood and grins like a jackal. That’s Ferdinando from Siracusa. He reeks of dried sweat, congealed semen, and rot, his belly half-buried in its own flab, his chest a pelt of matted hair. His nose is bent from too many breaks, his teeth a battlefield of gold and absences. Beside him, Bertrand spits at the floor too, but misses and coughs, raking a thick line of snot over his bristling lip. Both of them are bruised, broken in at least three places, hands bound with old hemp that grates against the skin.

There are no windows in the cell. Only the flicker of torches and the stink of old meat. The walls sweat in the dark.

“Nice place,” says Ferdinando, glancing around. His words bubble out past a split lip. “Your mother fucks better, Bertrand.”

“Your mother’s here too, you dog-bastard. Under the table,” Bertrand answers, voice a growl, English twisted through Sicilian. They both laugh, their laughter half-strangled by pain.

Outside, the sound of boots. Orders shouted in clipped Arabic. The door is unlatched again and two soldiers enter, swords drawn, faces wrapped in black. The one in front is a head shorter than the other but walks like he owns the whole fucking world. His eyes are black beetles under a beetle-black brow: Barbath.

Barbath stops three paces from Ferdinando and spits in his face. The gob hits Ferdinando just below the eye and dribbles off his cheek onto the floor.

“Pig-dogs,” Barbath says, his Italian good but cold. “You look better with your mouths closed.”

Ferdinando grins wider, exposing a bleeding gum. “You look better dead,” he says, and makes a sucking sound with his lips. “Like your father, two years past Mosul.”

Bertrand howls laughter. The soldiers ignore him, focusing on Ferdinando.

Barbath barks something in Arabic. Instantly, both captives are seized and hauled upright. The soldiers drag them down a corridor that stinks of mildew, torch oil, and blood. There’s shouting up ahead. Ferdinando and Bertrand are marched with kicks and elbows, neither offering resistance, both saving their strength for whatever comes next.

The corridor ends at a heavy wooden door. Inside: a long, low room. Tables lined up like slabs in a butcher’s. Iron rings set into every surface, straps and ropes coiled beside each.

Ferdinando’s smile fades. He knows what this is.

“Fuck me,” says Bertrand. “They’re going to fuck us.”

Barbath enters last, face impassive. He motions to the soldiers. Four hands shove Ferdinando against the first table, forcing him face-down so that his chest mashes into the hard oak, the air exploding from his lungs. Another pair of hands yanks his ankles apart and binds them to the legs of the table. He kicks out, catching someone in the shins, and is rewarded with a club to the kidney.

“Get off me, cocksuckers,” he roars, but it comes out as a grunt.

Bertrand fares no better. They slam him chest-first to the table beside Ferdinando, twisting his arm behind his back until he yowls, then spread his legs and tie them down with the same practiced violence.

Barbath circles the tables like a butcher checking the cut of meat. “You have taken much from me,” he says, standing over Ferdinando, “and now you give back. You give your bodies, and your shame.”

Bertrand spits at Barbath, but the glob falls short. “Your cock is too small to shame me, Barbath. Come here and I’ll show you how a man fucks.”

Barbath ignores the taunt. Instead, he gestures, and one of the soldiers unbuckles his belt. The Arab’s cock is thick and bent like a plow, black against the whites of his knuckles. He steps behind Bertrand and lines himself up.

Bertrand goes rigid, biting at the table’s edge. He spits curses—French, Italian, Latin—a litany of filth. The soldier spits on his palm and rubs his cock, then jams it, dry, against Bertrand’s ass. Bertrand grunts but doesn’t scream.

Barbath watches, expressionless, then steps behind Ferdinando.

Ferdinando lifts his head, face twisted in pure hate. “When I get free, I’ll cut your cock off and feed it to the dogs,” he spits. “I’ll fuck your wife with it.”

Barbath grins. “You’ll beg for it soon, pig.” He drops his robes. His own cock is nothing like the soldier’s—it’s longer, thicker, the color of burnt clay. He spits in his hand, rubs it along the shaft, then positions himself behind Ferdinando.

The rest of the soldiers form a ring, jeering in Arabic, stroking themselves through their clothes. The torches flicker, throwing shadows across the walls: the two captives splayed like animals, the Arabs arrayed around them like butchers about to feast.

The first thrust is a punch, brutal and dry. Ferdinando howls. He bites the table so hard blood drips from his gums. Barbath leans into him, grinding his hips, jabbing deeper and deeper.

On the next table, Bertrand’s face is purple. His arms strain at the rope, his legs bulge with effort, but he’s pinned, completely, the soldier behind him fucking with steady, cruel rhythm.

Ferdinando’s cock is mashed against the cold wood, leaking piss from the pain. His belly jiggles with each thrust. He slams his head back, skull connecting with Barbath’s nose, and is rewarded with another club to the kidney.

“Bastards,” he moans. “I’ll kill you all.”

Barbath laughs, the sound low and dirty. He yanks Ferdinando’s head up by the hair and whispers into his ear: “Tonight, you are woman. Tonight, your hole is holy.”

Ferdinando snarls, writhes, but the hands pinning him are too many. Barbath fucks him, slow and deliberate, making sure every inch is agony. He spits into Ferdinando’s ear, then bites down hard on the lobe.

The soldiers around the table get bolder. One grabs at the Crusader’s balls, squeezing until Ferdinando howls again. Bertrand is not faring any better—his table is slick with sweat and blood, his curses turning to grunts as the soldier pistons into him.

Barbath finishes first. He drives his cock deep, shudders, and unloads into Ferdinando with a guttural snarl. He stays inside, savoring the humiliation. The other soldiers jeer, some stroking their own cocks openly.

Bertrand’s tormentor is next, jerking out and spraying hot semen across Bertrand’s ass and thighs. Bertrand collapses, forehead smashed against the table, eyes glazed.

Barbath pulls out, dragging a trail of blood and cum behind him. He wipes his cock on Ferdinando’s back, then gestures to the waiting soldiers.

“Again,” he says.

And they do.

They come in waves: the soldiers, hard and hungry. Ferdinando’s arms are numb from the ropes, his jaw clenched so tight his molars crack. The next cock is fatter than Barbath’s, and comes with the stink of onions and stale sweat. It jams inside him with no warning. He can feel the skin tear.

Bertrand is howling on the next table. His ass is already red and split, his back slick with spit and blood. The soldier behind him holds nothing back, slapping Bertrand’s ass, driving in harder each time he curses. When Bertrand tries to bite the man’s hand, another soldier grabs a fistful of his hair and smashes his face to the table, breaking his nose. Bertrand doesn’t even notice the pain—his world is a red, expanding tunnel of humiliation and animal agony.

After the first soldier finishes, he doesn’t untie them. He just steps aside, cock dripping. Another soldier is there, already stroking himself hard, waiting. He spits on his fingers and lines up, forcing himself into the raw hole Barbath left. This one has no rhythm, just savagery. He grunts with each thrust, not caring where the hole starts and ends.

Ferdinando fights to keep conscious, the pain like a fire up his spine. He tries to reach for hatred, for some old well of rage, but there’s nothing left except the hot, shuddering rip of muscle, and the laughter of his captors. The only thing worse than the pain is the feeling that he’s being used, nothing more than meat.

Bertrand’s table is a slaughterhouse. The soldier who broke his nose finishes with a shout, spraying a stream of semen down Bertrand’s back. He trades off with the next, who lines up and goes for the mouth instead. Bertrand spits, bites, refuses, so a second pair of hands crushes his balls in a vice grip, squeezing until he screams and his jaw opens. The cock rams in, choking him.

Ferdinando hears Bertrand gag, then retch, then choke some more. The soldier fucking him laughs, “Eat it, Christian whore. Take it all.” The accent is thick, the words almost song.

Bertrand gags and retches, but the cock stays wedged in his throat until his eyes roll back. Only then does the soldier pull out, leaving Bertrand gasping, drool and semen pooling under his cheek.

Ferdinando’s turn comes soon. A soldier with crooked teeth grabs him by the hair, lifts his face off the table, and shoves a dick straight into his mouth. Ferdinando bites, hard, but the man doesn’t flinch. Someone else is squeezing Ferdinando’s balls from behind, crushing them in a relentless grip, twisting until the pain spikes and his mouth opens wide enough to take the shaft. The soldier fucks his face like a cunt, pounding until Ferdinando can’t breathe, can’t think, can only gag and swallow.

They finish him in the ass and mouth at the same time: one soldier climaxing deep inside, the other erupting over his tongue and teeth. They both jeer, one smacking Ferdinando’s face, the other letting go of his hair so his forehead bounces off the wood. He spits out a mouthful of semen, coughing. Someone jams the head of their cock back in, making him lick it clean, using his split lips and bruised tongue as a rag.

Bertrand gets the same. They force him to his knees, untie his arms, but only so they can wrench his mouth open wider. One soldier holds his jaw, the other lines up his cock, and when Bertrand clamps his teeth, they twist his ear nearly off until he screams and opens up. He chokes, eyes streaming, as they fuck his mouth raw. He pukes once, bile mixing with cum, and they just laugh and ram it back down.

Then comes the piss.

The first one does it as a joke: after pulling out, he aims at Bertrand’s face and lets loose a warm, stinking stream. Bertrand spits and curses, but the man keeps spraying, soaking his beard, his hair, his chest. The other soldiers laugh, then do the same. Soon, Bertrand’s face is drenched, his eyes stinging. The puddle under the tables grows, piss mixing with blood, spit, and semen.

Ferdinando tries to lift his head, tries to hurl another insult, but a jet of piss catches him in the mouth, splattering across his teeth and tongue. He spits, but another comes, and another, until he’s forced to swallow or drown. His rage is a cold, bright star. They’re trying to break him, he knows it, and he will not beg.

Barbath returns, cock already hard again, and steps behind Ferdinando. “You think you are still a man?” he whispers, cock head pressing against the gaping, ruined hole. “Let me show you what you are.”

He shoves in. There’s no resistance left; the skin is split, blood oozing with every thrust. Ferdinando grunts, eyes squeezed shut, enduring. When Barbath finishes, he doesn’t just pull out—he wipes his cock clean on the shredded remains of Ferdinando’s breeches, then shoves the fabric in Ferdinando’s mouth. “Chew on that, pig,” he says.

The soldiers file out, some still laughing, some just grinning, leaving the two prisoners bound and sodden, broken.

When the door slams shut, Bertrand starts to sob. It’s not loud, not even human—just a shuddering, sucking noise, a man with no air left to curse or scream. Ferdinando doesn’t look at him. He stares at the table, still tasting piss and cum, and dreams of the ways he’ll kill them all.

The room is dark for hours. Long after the last laughter has faded, the stink lingers, hot and sour. The pain is its own world—throbbing, raw, every shift of muscle like glass against bone. Neither man moves. Neither speaks. Time crawls in the darkness.

Sometime in the black before dawn, the cramps start. Ferdinando’s legs are dead, but his back spasms, every breath a knife. The ropes bite into his wrists and ankles. He can feel the cum leaking out of him, cooling between his thighs. His balls throb, swollen to twice their size. When he pisses himself, it burns, mingling with the blood.

Bertrand is not faring better. He shudders every few minutes, the only movement a tiny, involuntary tremor. His ass pulses with agony, the skin split and sticky with old semen. His face, caked in dry piss and blood, is pressed against the wood.

When the first light seeps under the door, the soldiers return. This time, they bring water and a bucket. They untie Ferdinando first—slowly, mockingly, laughing as he slumps to the floor, unable to stand. He tries to rise, but his legs won’t answer. He just glares up at them, his eyes red with hate.

Bertrand is next. His face leaves a smear of blood and snot on the table. When they roll him off, he lands hard and cries out, a sound he tries to muffle with his fist. The soldiers laugh. One of them kicks him in the ribs, and he curls tighter.

“Get up,” the soldier commands in Arabic, nudging Ferdinando with his boot.

Ferdinando spits at him, but the spit is thick and red. He tries to get his feet under him, but his knees buckle. He collapses again, cursing in three languages.

The soldiers drag them upright. Their skin is purple, blue, streaked with dried blood and smeared filth. Every step is a firestorm in the asshole, every shift an invitation to agony. Ferdinando can feel his balls swinging, huge and heavy, the skin so tight it shines. The pain is so sharp it makes his vision blur.

They shove the two out into a corridor, then down a flight of stairs to a bare, open courtyard. The sun is rising. Every inch of skin screams at the sudden brightness. There are other prisoners—Christians, Jews, a few tattooed thieves—but none look as bad as them.

Ferdinando stands, barely, leaning on Bertrand. Bertrand leans back. They glare at their captors, daring them to say a word.

The soldiers do, of course. They laugh. They point. They spread their hands in obscene gestures. One shouts, “Take a bow, whores!” in broken Italian, and another mimes jacking off, spraying semen in Ferdinando’s face.

Bertrand growls, “We should have died at Acre. At least there, they’d have let us keep our dignity.”

Ferdinando smiles, lips split and leaking. “Who needs dignity? When this is over, we’ll kill them all, and fuck their wives with their own dicks.”

They laugh, together, a sound that is half-mad and half-defiant.

The guards push them onward, out into the morning, through the jeers and stares of the waking city. They walk, barely upright, leaving a trail of blood and hate behind them.

The courtyard is packed: soldiers, servants, merchants’ sons eager for spectacle. Two rough-hewn crosses lie waiting in the dirt, already stained with the ghosts of past executions. The heat is savage, beating down on raw skin, blinding in its intensity.

They strip Ferdinando and Bertrand to nothing—ripping away the last rags, leaving their bruised, leaking bodies bare. The two men don’t resist. They are beyond that now, held up only by the weight of their hate and the promise of one more curse.

Barbath stands at the front, hands clasped behind his back. “Today, we end the line of pigs,” he declares. “Today, even your God will look away.”

The soldiers hoist Ferdinando onto his cross. The wood is rough, splinters biting into his shredded back. They force his arms up, stretching them until his shoulders nearly tear. Thick ropes bind his wrists to the crossbeam, so tight that the skin bulges purple around them. His legs are pulled apart, ankles lashed down to crude footrests. Every jolt sends fire through his ruined asshole and swollen balls.

Bertrand follows, teeth gritted. He tries to spit at Barbath, but his mouth is too dry, his tongue swollen and thick. The spit barely makes it past his lips. The soldiers laugh and pull him up, forcing his arms out to embrace the sky. His wrists are bound so tightly the bones grind together.

At Barbath’s order, the crosses are lifted. They tip, rise, and slam upright into deep post holes. The shock nearly unmans them. Ferdinando howls, white lights bursting behind his eyes. Bertrand’s head snaps back, but he clamps his mouth shut, refusing to scream.

The sun is an iron hammer. Sweat pools in every crease and wound. Blood beads, dries, then beads again. Insects arrive within minutes—flies, beetles, tiny ants that swarm up the posts and disappear into open cuts. Ferdinando jerks his arms, but it only grinds the splinters deeper. The pain is a living thing, crawling up his arms, down his flayed back, settling in his ruined gut.

The crowd jeers. Some pelt the two with stones, others with rotten fruit, all competing to see who can draw the best reaction. “Look at them!” someone shouts. “The whores of Jerusalem!” Laughter explodes, the crowd baying for more.

Barbath steps forward, leering. “How does it feel, pig? How does it feel to be on display for all to see?”

Ferdinando finds his voice. “I can still see your wife’s pussy, Barbath. From up here, it looks even looser.”

The crowd howls. Barbath’s face goes purple. He grabs a spear from one of the guards and jabs the butt hard into Ferdinando’s thigh, driving a spike of pain up to his crotch. The flesh splits, blood pouring down his leg. The crowd cheers.

Bertrand bides his time, silent. Every breath is agony, but he draws it slow. He watches the sky, watches the birds circle, listens to the distant sound of the city. He dreams of killing Barbath slowly, of shoving that crooked cock down his own throat. The fantasies keep him alive.

Hours pass. The sun arcs up, then down. The blood dries and crusts, but the insects never let up. They crawl into every open sore, feast on sweat, swarm around their assholes and scrotums. The itching is almost worse than the pain.

By dusk, both men are still alive, still conscious. Ferdinando’s lips are black and cracked. Bertrand’s tongue is so swollen he can barely breathe. Their arms have gone dead, but every gust of wind or thrown stone rekindles the torment.

As night falls, Barbath orders torches set around the yard. The two are illuminated, their bodies gleaming red and raw, casting long shadows over the dirt.

“Sleep well, pigs,” Barbath says. “In the morning, you’ll feed the dogs.”

He turns and leaves. The soldiers laugh and drift away, some staying to jerk off in the shadows, staring up at the two dying men.

The courtyard empties. The only sounds are the moans of agony and the hungry drone of flies.

The night is a shifting blur of pain and blackout. Every so often, consciousness returns like a slap, and the world snaps back into focus: the sky, black and endless; the torches, guttering in the wind; the crossbeam grinding into the shoulders, threatening to pull the arms from their sockets.

Sometimes Ferdinando passes out from the pain. The blackness is a mercy. But always, always, the soldiers are there to drag him back. The first time, it’s a slap across his face. The second, a bucket of ice-cold water. The third, more inventive: the tip of a spear, poking up into his balls, twisting the already bruised and purple flesh. The agony is so pure it sends him shrieking back to life.

Bertrand gets the same. When he droops forward, head lolling on his chest, a guard jabs him in the thigh with a hot iron, searing the skin. He howls, eyes rolling, then returns to the silent, stubborn endurance that has kept him alive so long.

The blood never stops. It leaks from wrists, ankles, and the split flesh around their assholes. It cakes, then is re-opened by a swarm of biting flies. The insects are the worst: they crawl up the legs, cluster in wounds, even disappear inside the raw holes, laying eggs in the living flesh.

By morning, the pain is a distant thunder, replaced by a feverish haze. Ferdinando’s tongue is swollen, his eyes nearly crusted shut. He loses track of time—minutes, hours, days. Sometimes there is only the burn of the sun, sometimes the shiver of night. Sometimes only the next blackout.

At some point, one of the soldiers tries a new trick: he takes a thin reed and slips it down the tip of Ferdinando’s cock, just to see if it will make him scream. It does. The soldier laughs.

Later, a fat beetle lands on the shaft of Ferdinando’s cock. It bites, hard, and to his horror his cock stirs—blood rushing to the injury. The soldiers see it and howl with laughter, pointing and hooting. One even brings over a handful of honey and smears it on, just to attract more insects.

“You like that, pig?” the soldier shouts. “You get hard for pain now?”

Ferdinando snarls, tries to curse, but his throat is too dry. His only answer is to clench his teeth and wait for the next blackout.

Bertrand fares no better. When he goes limp, a soldier jams a sharpened stick under his toenail. The pain wakes him, but he’s beyond words now, beyond anything but the tight, shaking rhythm of agony and humiliation.

This continues for hours. Blood pools beneath the crosses. The insects swarm thicker and thicker. The crowd, if it ever left, has returned, eager to see which will break first.

Neither does. Not yet.

The sun climbs, the heat grows. By midday, both men are hallucinating, floating somewhere between life and death. Still, the guards poke, prod, pour water over them to keep them suffering.

And through it all, the laughter never stops.

By evening, the world is narrowing. Ferdinando’s vision tunnels to a slit, the edges edged in red. His mouth is open, gasping, but the air is thick and clotted with dust. The only sensation left is the slow, steady drum of his own heartbeat. Everything else is a far-off rumble.

Bertrand gives up first. He fights the cross for hours, lifting himself with his legs to keep the weight off his chest, then sagging when the pain in his feet grows too much. Over and over, until his legs finally give out. The last time he tries, he barely moves at all. His head falls forward, chin to chest, and his eyes roll up. He doesn’t make a sound.

The sun sets, a burning hole in the sky. Barbath comes to watch.

Ferdinando is beyond rage now, beyond hate, beyond even the desire to live. But his body clings to life, refusing to let go. Every few minutes, he lurches awake, eyes wild, then sags again. The guards have bet on how long he’ll last. Some are rooting for him. Some want to see him die.

At last, Barbath grows bored. He walks up to the base of the cross, spear in hand, and studies Ferdinando’s body. The cock is swollen and purple, the balls a sack of bruises. He leers up at the dying man and shouts, “Even now, you look like a pig.”

He raises the spear, lines up the point with Ferdinando’s scrotum, and shoves upward. The point punctures the sack, tearing through the left testicle. Ferdinando comes alive again, the shock reviving every cell in his body. He screams—a wet, animal bellow. Barbath twists the spear, then jams it higher, driving it through the taint and up through the base of the cock. The shaft splits, blood spraying in an arc across the dirt. The crowd erupts.

The last thing Ferdinando sees is the point of the spear, red and glistening, emerging from the tip of his own cock. Then, finally, his heart explodes in his chest. His eyes go glassy. His body slumps, the cross swaying with the weight of dead flesh.

Barbath lets the spear drop. He wipes his hand on the dirt, turns to the crowd, and smiles.

The courtyard howls in approval.

They leave the bodies up for a week. The flies come first, a black veil that blankets every inch of bare flesh. Then the beetles, the worms, the tiny ants that chew their way through muscle and sinew. By the third day, the bellies are distended, the skin stretched to bursting. The smell carries for blocks.

Children throw stones at the corpses. Dogs bark at them all night. Sometimes the soldiers come to poke at the bodies, to see what new horrors time has revealed.

On the fourth night, Ferdinando’s belly splits open with a wet pop, spilling a coil of blue intestines. The next morning, Bertrand’s eyes have been pecked out by crows, his tongue lolling black and swollen from his jaw. The dicks, both of them, are chewed to nubs by rats or birds, nothing left but a red, puckered wound.

By the end of the week, all that remains is a pair of sacks—skin, bone, and rot, swinging in the breeze. They are lowered, tossed into a pit outside the walls, covered with a handful of lime.

HOMEPAGE	RACCONTI	STORIES	CUENTOS
MATERIALI/ MATERIALS	GALLERIA/ GALLERY	CHATS	LINKS