Chapter Twenty Nine - Whisked to Chessu

Chapter Twenty Nine

Once again suspended upright, neck, waist band and ankles secured to the post, Midori slips out the brank.

“I want to offer more stress. It amuses. Then you’ll be fed and can lie down.”

322 offers no words of protest. He has come to expect the slow torment... almost accept such as a form of tribute.

“For how long, Miss Midori?” the words humble, the voice meek,

“For as long as I decide. Caprice... remember that my beast. You’ll always be subject to a woman’s caprice.”

Midori palms the low hanging sac, her warm hands bolstering the wearied fortitude in facing the hours of slow torment.

“What did you think of Empress Claudia, my beast?”

“She is beautiful, Miss Midori. But...”

322 hesitates, not able to muster the temerity to express himself more forthrightly.

“But what? You may speak,” the fingers tenderly kneading the well worn cremaster muscles, subjected to a day’s labor in the sling, again demonstrating such knowledge of the male anatomy.

“I like looking at you.”

Midori smiles.

“Of course you do, my beast. You are bonding to me. All you have, what little there is, comes from me. I can leave you here tethered to the post and you’ll die... very, very slowly. But I will not. You are needed... to serve me... with your muscles... and your tongue. And the display of virility enthuses. It brings moisture to my loins... that which you so much savor.”

Midori laughs.

“We have needs. I know precisely how to appease yours. Look at yourself. You remain erect. And as for my needs... you are being trained to indulge.”

322's eyes shift downward noting that, even with neck immobile and limited line of sight, his stiffness is firm and prominent enough to be seen.

“What is happening to me?”

“You are being conditioned, my beast. Our province may be unsophisticated but our methods for handling subservient males are not. Think about what I have had you do. Is there anything you can refuse... would refuse? Think about how little you resist. Rather telling is it not?”

There is a pause for contemplation. 322 pictures the huge beasts of Empress Claudia, incredibly well muscled and fit, their long thick phalli engorged to the maximum. And such serve blinded, conveying the Empress without sight. Exerting, reacting to the slightest pull on leash and brank, and maintaining tumescence, two tasks... and only two tasks... life boiled down to its simplest.

Also coming to mind are the castrates, practically twins. So effeminate, so eager to serve, they appeared pubescent. Before departing, the blonde duo watered the Empress’s beasts. At least it appeared to be water. And then, with a snap of the Empress’s fingers, knelt and fellated each beast, their soft childlike hands reaching behind to massage the well entrapped testicles as well. Cultivating stiffer erections, they knew to stop well short of spurring ejaculation.

The Empress observed the male-on-male interaction with a telling smile.

“Sunday. What will happen, Miss Midori?”

“You will see. The Emperor will be publically milked, forced to once again give up his seed. In Chessu, the genesis for all procreation is from his loins. Though of age, the castrates work him with patience and great skill. He always provides... his seed forthcoming... but offered in a manner most humble.”

With that, Midori steps on the small box and reaches upwards.

“Tongue!”

322 is branked, the slim rod slipping effortlessly into place. As she dismounts and steps away, 322, though having ogled her wondrous derriere throughout the day, finds himself gawking anew. Such tempting mounds of flesh, he strains in frustration against his bonds. Midori turns and, catching the intensity of his gaze, smiles... so much aware of his thoughts. She knows of his lust... understands that it is transforming.

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Having been fed, then subjected to hours more stress, Miss Midori finally removed the brank, released his bindings at the neck and waist, and carefully guided him to the ground, protective patch of silk waiting in place for his over sensitive penis. Wrists remaining linked behind his back, ankles secured to the lower horizontal board, 322 was grateful to finally let sleep overtake.

But he awakens. Noise! Loud... booming... the desert sky alights in a display of natures might. Bolts of lightening crash to the earth. So close... so near.

322 cries out... in fear... in consternation. A plaintive yelp. There is no shelter. With the flatness of the desert his tethering pole is envisioned as a lightening rod. The heart beat races with bolt number three. Closer still. As the resulting thunder rolls across the province, 322's yelp turns to words... a plea.

“Miss Midori, please, I will be killed.”

Another bolt and with the bright flash 322 cranes his neck to see the silhouette of his savior at the exit of the hut. She is completely naked, and despite the dire circumstances, 322 peers, waxing, his lust stirred as she approaches.

“Tongue,” Midori cooly commands.

By rote the appendage is thrust forth and 322 is instantly branked. Nimble fingers unclip the ankle bands without delay.

“Up,” the fingers returning to hold the brank as 322 arises and draws forth is knees.

“Crawl.”

Firm grip holding the brank, 322 cannot stand, cannot flee as his subconscious demands. Instead he crawls indeed, shuffling upright on his knees, Miss Midori directing him to the hut... where he has never before been.

Inside the door shuts, offering shelter and insulating the sound of the booming thunder.

“Over here. Down,” a single hand on the left end of the brank so facilely controls.

A dim kerosene lamp reveals a hovel of crude simplicity. The floor is dirt. In the middle is a mat, apparently unrolled for sleeping. 322 watches as a thoughtful Midori lays out his protective silk patch, attentively knowing the smoothness is required for rest.

322's inquisitive eyes shift to Midori, her sublime nakedness, her rarely offered breasts... so firm... so perfectly shaped... the nipples beckoning.

“Down,” she must command again, ending 322's lustful view, firmly and painfully directing the brank.

He lies, her hand suggesting the prostrate pose of the many nights sleeping under the desert sky. In releasing the brank he hears a click, his ankle bands clipped together.

322, the feeling of being well bound now most acceptable, breathes evenly, his heart stilling with the sense of warmth and safety.

“Dry lightening, my beast. Winds shift, blowing the cool moist air of the mountains to mix with the desert heat. An astounding display, but rarely resulting in what we need most... water in the form of rain.”

322 murmurs into his brank, suggesting he be relieved, wanting to offer his thanks to the bold woman who faced the wrath of lightening to save his soul.

“Oh no, 322. Shelter is luxury enough. The brank remains.”

With that the lamp is turned down and then 322's heart races anew as Miss Midori moves to lie atop his prostrate form... her complete nakedness grazing his. On his back, he can feel the firm pebbles of her nipples just below his upturned wrists, feel the intensity of her warmth, her smooth thighs pressing against the back of his. A blanket is pulled over both and 322 understands the need for the brank, he would so much like to taste... to lick... to devour.

“The winds will bring the cold, as the thunder suggests,” the door rattling with the intense gusts. “You will appreciate the blanket.”

322 is thrilled to feel a hand work between his thighs and grasp his testicles, the pressure of the soft fingers remindful of the odd comfort afforded by his sling. And with that, silence ensues, 322 understanding that his master, she who provides all, protector of his helpless, naked and vulnerable form... sleeps.

Feeling the constancy of her hand, her pressing breasts, he cannot close his eyes, so much desiring to partake in her beauty. Yet the brank... such a devilishly simple instrument... its length, the protruding ends, forbid him from so much as turning his head.

No, 322 just lies, forced to absorb the frustration, feeling his erection frottage against the sanctuary of the silk patch beneath.