Warrior of The Chevaan

Conine

Table for One

Gracus watched his beautiful young female prisoner struggle back to consciousness with a thrill of anticipation. It had only been a couple of hours since his men had released her from the chains holding her aloft during the whipping, yet the Chevaan warriors amazing stamina once again showed itself in her regaining her senses of her own accord, rather than having to be enticed back to awareness with ice-cold water. She truly was a trophy, and the Roman general promised the spirits of his forbears he would make every use of the opportunity such strength and beauty afforded.

As her eyes fluttered open the prisoners arms and legs moved slightly to rattle the chains that bound her wrists and ankles. Even that soft clinking was enough to rouse her more fully, instincts akin to those of a hunting animal alerting her to the new peril surrounding her. Like a trapped beasts the girl came fully awake to face the next torment her captor's had devised.

With renewed enthusiasm the Roman commander, and the men rewarded with this sweet duty, watched rapt as the woman bound before them jerked against the chains binding her deceptively delicate limbs, pinioning her to the chambers central cross-rack. Torches had been moved so as to provide the best possible illumination in that windowless stone vault, their fluttering light playing over the warrior-woman's exquisitely athletic physique, the shadows of well honed muscles highlighted against smooth slightly tanned skin, now barely marked by the caress to the whip, thanks to the skill of the Roman healers while the victim had lain senseless.

Clenching her fists in frustrated anger Conine jerked again against the chains holding her on the table until she realised it was beyond her strength to pull free of the metal shackles. She lay in a circle of light in the centre of the room staring directly up at the shadows of the ceiling hidden in the gloom above. Her arms were stretched back over her head, her long legs chained so that her feet, like her hands, lay about three feet apart, a position Conine was all to aware of leaving the neatly trimmed mound of her sex on full display. She could also feel something on the table like a knob or dull spike digging into her back between her shoulder blades, forcing her to arch herself so that her full breasts were thrust proudly upwards of the inspection of her tormentors.

With her heart hammering against her ribs the veteran warrior fought to calm her fears and regain her composure. Her body still smarted form the cruel cuts of the whipping, especially were her back and buttocks rested on the coarse wood of the table, but she seemed otherwise unharmed. Conine was forced to admit that the feel of the cool dungeon air on her naked pubis was something of a relief, considering the mind-destroying pain she had felt there when the cords of the flogger had landed squarely on the soft folds of her womanhood, but she knew that it was no act of mercy on the part of the Roman general. She had refused him the screams she knew he so eagerly sought from her, but that denial would only goad his appetite for perverse cruelty against his female prisoner.

As if sensing Conine's thoughts lingering on him Gracus appeared at the edge of her vision, stepping down from his chair on its dais and walking patiently over to where the Chevaan women lay helpless. Conine ground her teeth in fury at the sight of his cold eyes lingering over her spreadeagled form.

'You endured the flogging well,' he said, his tone clearly conveying how honoured she should feel at such praise. Conine shifted her gaze back to the roof and said nothing.

Gracus took a sip form his wine cup and let his eyes feast on the splendid specimen before him. She was quite the most beautiful woman he had ever had in this position, an intoxicating combination of raw physical beauty and stubborn, unyielding courage. The yearning to mount her now and ride that magnificent from with its high pink tipped breasts and pouting nether lips, unconcealed by their well trimmed ebony thatch, was like a fire in his blood. But his military discipline served him well. He would wait until he had rested the cries of anguish that signalled his domination of her from that lovely red mouth. Only then would he honour her with the feel of his noble manhood between inside her defiant Chevaan cunt.

Lowering his cup he allowed his other hand to drift over and trace the upper curve of one of those spectacular mammaries. 'You have courage, and strength, that much is certain.' His fingers moved with a lovers softness to the crest of her fleshy mount and he rolled the pink bud at the peak between is finger and thumb, bringing it to life. 'As a recognition of your stamina, I shall not fuck you until you see fit to let us hear your lovely scream.'

Conine's eyes were pools of cold blue fire and above the manacles about he wrists her hands clenched furiously. 'You never will!' she snarled.

Gracus smiled and finished his manipulation of her now erect nipple. Nodding to the darkness beyond the table and its occupant, he turned and moved to seat himself again for the coming event.

Off to the side Conine sensed movement and from the corner of her eye saw a Roman soldier step forward and walk around behind the head of the table. She refused to let her audience see her twisting like a trapped, panicky beast, but could hear the man begin working some sort of device, like a crank, over near the far wall. Almost instantly the tension of the chains holding her legs and arms spread increases, telling the black-maned Chevaan all she needed to know of her resting place's function.

As the manacles on her wrists and ankles drew back Conine felt the subtle pressure of tightening muscle and sinew begin in her upper arms and thighs. It was not yet uncomfortable, no more strenuous than the stretches she would perform before exercise drills while training, but it carried with it the promise of ever-greater pain. She realized that dreadful anticipation was probably intentional and her anger grew. How many of her friends and peers had been denied a clean death in battle only to find themselves made to suffer for the perverse gratification of men like Gracus on an obscene device like this table rack. The manacles holding her arms outstretched grew tight enough to dig into the flesh at the base of her hand but Conine's mouth remained a thin red line as she stoically endured the discomfort.

The wheel behind turned again, and the pain grew. Now the muscles in her arms were tight knots, and her calves felt cramped. Her shoulders and hip joints, too, had begun to protest, while her ample chest rose and fell more unevenly as she fought to draw air into lungs being compressed cruelly by the stretching of her diaphragm. But Conine was a warrior, and while she knew it probably to be useless, she could not bring herself to suffer the tortures off the Roman invaders unresisting. Girding herself with as deep a breath as she could take, the fiery young beauty set her aching muscles and pulled.

Watching the display, Gracus saw the physical exertion of the gorgeous victim and the sudden increase in effort from the man on the winch. The muscles concealed of the Chevaan's arms, shoulders and things worked like slender cables against the tanned surface of that smooth skin as she struggles mightily against the relentless pull of the machine. While the Roman general continued to observe, fascinated by her efforts, small drops of blood formed around the manacles on her ankles and wrists. Her face was a mask of physical exertion, her midriff taught as she tried desperately to resist the irresistible tug of winch and pulley.

Gracus was entranced by the scene. Inch by inch the manacles drew further and further apart, hauling the prisoner's limbs with them, but despite her failure she fought on. Sweat formed like diamonds on every part of her exquisite form and ran in tiny rivulets down over her face as it twisted with passion. Her full tits rose and fell in shuddering spasms that set their soft fullness quivering, and still she resisted. The blood began to flow more freely from the cuts of the steel shackles into her flesh, but she persevered. And most amazingly, she was actually succeeding in slowing down the progress of the machine, the man on the wheel perspiring freely himself as his strength was set against that of the warrior woman squirming on the rack.

Ultimately though, even so magnificent a performance was in vain. Mortal muscle and sinew, even in so athletic a package, even backed with such will as she possessed, could not overcome the terrible power of the machine to which she was bound. Slowly but surely the stretching continued.

On her bed of torment Conine fought on with all her strength, all her courage, but in vain. The discomfort in her joints had grown to pain, and was quickly becoming and inescapable agony. Her struggle had probably gained her a few moments respite, but now, as her energy waned, she was helpless before the pull of the Roman machine. Sweat stung her eyes and she felt her body soaked with a glistening dew of pain. Her teeth remained clenched, but as the torture went on she could now no longer prevent the small groans of anguish that were forced from her as the strain on her limbs became ever more unbearable.

Click by click the machine continued its fiendish work. Now her arms were stretched so taught that they felt as if at any moment they might be wrenched from their sockets. The pain in her joints had spread like a slow fire across her shoulder blades and down to the small of her back. Below the curve of her waist her legs were cramped horribly by the tension, toes curled painfully and pointed towards the far wall in a feeble attempt to alleviate her suffering. The cheeks of her firm backside chaffed against the wood of the table as the torture forced Conine to squirm unwillingly for her Roman captors. Her hip joints, too were a source of torture, as the pulling of the chains drew her long wider, opening the intimate space between her sleek thighs, revealing her womanhood ever more fully and adding humiliation and deep shame to the merciless cruelty of the racking.

Watching over this entire spectacle Gracus sipped his wine and savoured the delightful contortions of the prisoner. There was not now a single part of that magnificent form that did not shine beneath the torchlight, every exquisite dip and curve glazed with a sheen of pain. Plump tits reared fitfully as the were drawn up higher by the pull on muscular arms, their firm budded peaks jutting upwards in a mockery of their owners pride, the soft globes quivering as more and more strain was applied to female flesh. Below those eye-catching mounds the woman's midriff was rendered with the tightness of a war drum, so that every crease of those sculpted abdominals was visible to his appraising eye. Such a body spoke of years of discipline and effort, now reduced to a piece of flesh made to suffer unspeakably to please his quivering member. Not for the first time did Gracus thank the gods for delivering this untamed hellcat into his hands.

Stoic silence had now given way to tortured moans and gasps of agony as every creak of the chains heralded new levels of pain. By now Gracus knew his stubborn captive to be hurting in ways she never dreamed possible. She would be able to feel her muscles and sinews being ripped slowly, inch by horrible inch, the ligament in her joints screaming their message of anguish in her brain as they strained to keep her trim young body from being torn asunder. By this stage of the stretching even breathing would be a battle, the nightmare of slow asphyxia combining with the subtle brutality of the machine.

On her bed of pain Conine's beautiful face was contorted by the effort to keep from crying out. The torture was methodical, inescapable. Her lovely 6' frame was now truly stretched well past the point of its normal limits, and shining sweat trickled from every pore of her skin. The pain in her triceps and shoulder muscles was like they were being squeezed with a vice. Her ribs and sternum felt as if at any moment they would rip through the thin sheath of flesh holding them.

Another terrible crank and her lower back howled a song of torment. Conine shook the matted fringe of her black mane from her eyes and gurgled piteously. She took a desperate breath that raised her proud mammaries roof-ward and bit her red lip until she tasted blood.

Gracus smiled as he played with his engorged penis beneath his tunic and signalled the man on the winch to halt. Any more tension would certainly dislocate his captives hip joints and shoulders, a pleasure he would save for another time. The spread-eagled young minx was at the limits of her formidable endurance, and the general wanted something special to push her over the edge. He raised his hand slightly, and the man at the wheel locked it in position, then stepped back.

Stretched wide on the rack Conine only half realised through the haze of pain in her mind that the terrible pull of the chains had abated. Her neck muscles burned with the pressure being conveyed to them via her tortured shoulders, and her hip joints were a mass of knotted agony. She blinked her eyes to clear away the stinging sweat that had plastered her hair to her forehead. Her whole body was soaked in her own juice and she felt cold. Her body tried to shiver, but she was drawn so taught now that she could only quiver slightly in her restraints.

Footsteps sounded nearby and she tried to turn her head. The new pain this simple action caused wrenched a muffles yelp. Her head feel back to the hard wood and she was forced to use only her eyes to follow the approach of another of Gracus' soldiers. To her horror, Conine saw he held in his hand a long metal implement, tapered at one end and ending in a curling hook, as less than half a fingers width and ending in a needle sharp point.

'Our guest lacks all modesty, Quintilus,' came Gracus' voice from his dais. 'See how she spreads herself so brazenly for our inspection. Be helpful and assist her in revealing her intimate secrets for our pleasure.'

The man with the hook, clearly Quintilus, smiled evilly and came closer, moving the hook in the light and allowing Conine to get a good look at it before he went to work. The Chevaan felt rage and despair mixing as she examined the wickedly sharp device and seethed at the General's stinging words. Not in a hundred years would she ever have willingly parted her legs for these men, yet now thanks to their obscene table she was spreadeagled like the most shameless whore. They could peruse her most secret parts at their despicable leisure, and she was powerless to prevent it.

Pausing at her side Quintilus let the smooth backward curve of the device glide over Conine's shoulder, tracing a languid path across the beads of perspiration on her skin. The metal was cool. Conine could only glare at him, blue eyes glistening. She wondered if the dewy sheen on her face helped to hide her unwanted tears from the pain of the racking.

'This little instrument,' Gracus commented from his vantage point, is called the "Master's barb". It is deceptively fragile looking, I know, but can be used to produce the most exquisite responses in recalcitrant young girl's, or even barbarian sluts such as yourself. Quintilus, instruct our stubborn guest in the barbs subtleties.'

With sadistic leisure the Roman soldier let the barb stray down over Conine's collarbone, the young warrior following its progress with her eyes. The metal instrument strayed over towards her breastbone, then Quintilus casually turned it in his fingers until it was resting not by the smooth curve of the hook but the wickedly sharp point.

Conine breathing became faster briefly, and her fists clenched and unclenched.

Slowly the man let the point run around the base of the woman's left tit, tracing the gently line of the impressive mammary made more distinct now by the unnatural tension induced by the rack.

Conine winced only slightly as the barb followed it's course. No real pressure was being applied, but it was a measure of the tool's sharpness that even without effort on the owner's part and despite the continuing torment of the stretching, she was fully aware of the pint gliding over her skin. Raising her head a little she could see across the top of her breast a fine red graze left by the passage of the implement.

Completing his circuit of the prisoner's slowly rising and falling tit the soldier moved to repeat the procedure with its twin. Conine watched with resentment but also a growing feeling of dread.

The man finished the second circuit, and paused to look at the prisoner. Involuntarily Conine let her angry blue eyes flick up to make contact with the Roman's dark gaze. He smiled, and the probe began to trace the rising curve of her breast.

Conine fought to keep her breathing steady. This little game was designed to help break her will, she knew. To make the fear growing her until it eroded at her control. Her instinct was to shout curses at the man with the barb but she bit back on her acid words. Such an outburst would only make her weaker in their eyes. She clenched her fist tighter and remained silent.

The barb reached the apex of the warrior-woman's fulsome tit and paused just next to the nipple, the point of the hook gently dimpling the edge of the pink aureole. Conine could feel the diamond top barely nicking the surface. The slightest pressure from the Roman would be enough to drive the metal into her flesh. Despite the agony in the bunched cords of her neck she strained a little to see the hook were it rested atop her sweat-shiny boob. From the side of the room she heard Gracus speaking again. 'You are probably in no position to be aware of it, young savage, but the inside curve of the barb is quite sharp as well. On one occasion such as this a young lady could not control her anxiety and moved suddenly, and I'm afraid poor Quintilus sliced her nubbin clean off. Very distressing, and so much blood. But I'm sure a brave warrior such as yourself will have no trouble remaining calm.'

Conine's eyes flashed angrily towards the wall where the general was enjoying her torture, but she could spare no greater response. As Gracus finished speaking the soldier Quintilus began to circle her chill-hardened nip with the barb, the feathery touch a ticklish underscore of the tool's true purpose. The metal glided lightly, just nicking the pink crest enough to cause the dark-haired beauty to wince but not enough to tear the skin. Yet.

The man mad several circles of the nub then lifted the hook and repeated the action on the other breast. Conine, meanwhile, was forced by fatigue to allow her head to drop back. Staring up at the roof she could feel the hook still teasing her teat, and closed her eyes as she tried to keep her breathing steady and rhythmic.

Abruptly the point exerted more pressure. With the barest effort it pierced just below the surface of the skin where the nipple blended with the surrounding whiteness, causing the Chevaan to give an involuntary gasp. Her lovely features became even more pinched as the barb continued it circle again, this time leaving a razor thin red line in it's wake as it cut through the top layer of skin and into the tiny blood vessels beneath.

From he seat Gracus could not see the tiny red beads springing up behind the hooks passage, but could tell form the reaction of the woman that the sharp little tool was doing its job. Despite his earlier tale the general knew Quintilus was an expert with the device and would not carelessly mutilate the young barbarian, but the thought would be one that tormented the girl's mind as much as the merciless stretching tormented her lovely body.

Quintilus completed his work on the hardened tit-crown and moved the point slowly over the downward curve of the prodigious breast, steering south towards Conine's abdomen. The pressure of the barb was constant now and the Chevaan could felt he metal siding effortlessly across her skin, leaving its telltale red razor cut in its wake. At the base of the mammary the soldier expertly deftly manipulated the hook so that it made the transition to her sternum without either breaking contact with her anguished form or cutting more deeply into her. With that accomplished the man again moved the point slowly down, taking his time as he traced a gently stinging line down past her ribcage and on to the flat, elongated surface of her belly. The skin here was taught as a drum and the soldier had an excellent view of the prisoner's athletic midriff, the muscles delightfully highlighted by the action of the table. He meandered across this lightly tanned landscape of female flesh, taking pleasure in the soft quivering that the barb's progress cause in this sensitive region. The quivering intensified as he passed within a hair's breadth of the distended navel, and a tiny moan drifted form the lips of the warrior woman at this ticklish mockery of affection.

Onwards the evil point made its way across the woman's impossibly flat stomach. As it approached the trimmed thatch of ebony beyond it swerved aside slightly, avoiding the thin tuft of hair and skirting down toward the region where the prisoner's pelvis melded with her savagely spread leg and upper thigh.

Gracus was as fascinated by the Chevaan woman's control as he was by her beauty. As the leering Quintilus dragged the barb across the deliciously sensitive pelvic zone he knew the physical stimulation to be almost unbearable, yet somehow this brave but foolish little harlot kept her response to a low moan and the barest movement of her exposed lower body. Her head had fallen to one side so that her tangled, sweat matted black hair partially covered her lovely features, but Gracus could tell even form a distance that her face held no sign of surrender.

Quintilus dithered a moment around the prisoners thigh and them shifted his hand, rotating the point so that it now curved upwards. Carefully he began to move the pint back up towards the pouting lips of the Chevaan's exposed pudenda.

As she felt the barb change its course Conine clenched her teeth and winced. This was the moment she had known was coming form the moment that the evil metal had first touched her, but she still felt her insides grow cold as the time approached. She wanted to thrash against the steel pinioning her in this lewd display, but knew it would be useless. Her breath came in panting gasps as she felt the point scrapping across the skin of her thigh, then move up around the pouting lips of her outer womanhood. The sharp point in that intimate zone left her shuddering uncontrollably, and she tried unsuccessfully to swallow the groan at the stinging touch.

Quintilus reached the top of the gently parted cleft with its crown of black hair and leaned forward. The musky smell of exposed sex mingled with the scent of sweat covering the prisoner as the fingers of his free hand took position on the red labia and pulled softly, spreading the folds to fully reveal the pink softness hiding beyond.

Conine growled in frustration at the feel of the man touching her most private place, but also at the feel of his fingers pulling and prying at the pink mound still sore from the punishment of the whip. Her poor pussy-lips felt swollen and tender and even the casual touch of the soldier made them smart anew. Fresh outrage flooded through her as she raised her head to glare daggers down the length of her cross-racked body at her tormentor. She could see his hand holding her nether lips apart and the handle of the barb as he moved it towards the exposed inner softness. The muscles of her arms and legs stood out like steel cables as she fought with all her strength to prevent this violation.

Quintilus stopped his examination and nodded, and another man stepped into the young Chevaan's view. From the other side of her spreadeagled body he reached across with what looked like a pair of pincers with the heads dulled and flattened. Conine gave an involuntary start as the rough, warm fingers of Quintilus were replaced by the smooth but cold metal jaws of the tool.

With deft practiced moves the soldier worked the head of the pincers around the inner and outer sides of the left lip of her inflamed cunny, then exerted gentle but increasing pressure, continuing until the fold of soft skin was pinched securely between the bronze jaws and another hissing escaped the statuesque victim. Carefully the man pulled the pincers so that the lips was drawn back to fully expose the hot pink of Conine's love-chasm.

The labia pulled aside, Quintilus wasted no time in positioning the barb just below the glistening leaves of flesh beyond. The smooth metal glided up to the topmost part of the woman's quim.

Gracus leaned forward as her drank in the sight of the warrior-slut's humiliation more avidly than any wine. He knew how tender her pink sweetmeat would still be from the strokes of the lash and that this would add to her experience. Her breathing was faster now as the point of the barb searched for the ultimate expression of her sex.

Pulling the lips back a bit further, Quintilus found the little nub he had been looking for. With the back of the tool he teased the little hood of flesh more fully in the open, pushing with the metal to expose the little button of flesh nestled inside.

He and his companions were rewarded with the rattle of chains as the prisoner reacted to this violation, and through the fingers still poised either side of her cleft he could feel the trembling of her sweaty young body. With exquisite care he moved the point so that it hooked the inside of the covering hood and began to tease softly, prompting the skin to draw back a little as the girl's clitoris, still enlarged form the beating of the cords earlier, grew even more pronounced. The point danced about under the hood, pinching and poking softly but transmitting powerful signals to the raven-haired prisoner. The muscles in her thighs were ridges of marble as he went about his fiendish business, and little groans came long and fast from behind her tightly clenched teeth.

Conine herself had her eyes so tightly closed that stars danced behind her lids. The hook was merciless as it stimulated her sex, an evil parody of the soft, moist touch of Satyra's tongue during their lovemaking. She expected at any moment the barb to pierce her clitoris, impaling her womanhood. She prayed to the goddess that the agony of her clitoris being pierced by the steel tool would be greater than she could endure and that she would lapse into unconsciousness without disgracing herself.

To be continued