In Flesh and Stone

by Hal Bodner

Black leather chaps, supple and worn, clung to the youth’s thighs and calves, outlining what was hidden underneath, tightly pressed to the outside of the tops of well-scuffed black leather boots. In one hand, he grasped a worn riding crop and it was this smacking against his leather-encased leg which had created the sound Alex had heard. As he watched, the small whip flicked out again and – crack! – the man slammed it against his thigh in encore.

  At the sound’s repeat, the stranger’s dick, already hard and throbbing and straining to grow even harder than the flesh of it would allow, jumped slightly and, impossibly, swelled ever more. It was dark, as hazelnut brown as the rest of the man’s bare skin, the head flushed with blood so it was almost deep copper, a drop of milky white semen already glistening at the tip.

  Alex froze, transfixed by what he saw. He still wanted to throw himself to the ground, but this time, he would land at the intruder’s feet, to grovel and pray that he would be permitted the indulgence of moving his mouth upwards, to experience the taste and smell of the leather, to feel that single drop of sperm melting on his eager tongue. To roll its salty essence around his mouth, and finally to swallow it and savor it as a meager gift, presaging what was to come.

  But he could not move. No matter how much he wanted to kneel at the stranger’s feet, to clasp his thighs, to feel his hard, hard muscled ass flexing and pressing against his sweaty palms, to bury his face in that amazing groin and swallow the veritable viper of a dick down to its very root, he could not take his eyes from the man’s chest. Alex was frozen with fascination, dumbfounded by the exquisite artistry of the tattoo.

  The scorpion was black, deep ebony against the ruddy brown tones of the skin, its chitinous shell rendered in loving and minute detail. This was no port-of-call drawing or head shop creation. It was an exquisite manifestation of artistic genius rendered in flesh and ink, a masterpiece in its own right comparable with Alex’s latest creation in oil. The insect’s body was located where the swell of Scorpio’s lower chest met the chiseled ridges of his upper stomach. As he breathed, the ink creature’s body pulsed in harmony with Scorpio’s measured exhalations and seemed about to leap from the center of his chest, to attack with each inhalation. The thing’s claws were lifted in defiant aggression, arcing around the outside of the pectoral muscles. The tips – the pincers, Alex supposed they were called – tilted downward, slightly open and giving the appearance of being about to crush each of Scorpio’s nipples, to rend them into bloody, torn shreds of flesh. Alex felt a quickening in his groin at the thought; somehow, he knew Scorpio would simply smile during the process, enjoying the self-mutilation.

  The tail, with its vicious barb dripping a single drop of poison, the twin to the fluid accumulating at the end of Scorpio’s dick, rose in the background of the design. It ran slightly to one side of the crease between the ripped and striated center of the chest, the final curve and the evil-looking tip ending in the deep hollow of the man’s throat. As he flexed his muscles, it gave the scorpion the semblance of life. Alex could easily imagine it chittering across some desert floor, pouncing on its hapless prey, injecting vile venom into the helpless belly of some tiny furry creature, paralyzing it and devouring it with violent gusto while the poor animal remained fully conscious of what was happening, yet unable to flee.

  “You will never forget...”

  Alex started. Not only was he shocked that Scorpio had actually spoken to him, he was amazed at the low, even tones of the man. There was a command to his voice – that fact could not be denied – but there was also a comforting smoothness to the baritone. This man would give orders, to be sure. He would be brutal and harsh, even perhaps sadistic. But he would never go beyond the bounds of reason – or so Alex was beginning desperately to hope.

  “You will never forget,” Scorpio repeated, his eyes filled with dire purpose, “my voice!”

  Alex was immediately ashamed of himself. The Scorpion had deftly pierced to the heart of his self-reproach. How could he not recall Tony’s voice? What kind of an uncaring, unfeeling monster was Alex Restin, a man who could wipe from his mind those whispers of endearment he had taken for granted for so many years? How could he erase the gentle laughter they had shared so often, the late-night conversations they had so relished, the words of love?

  Suddenly, Alex knew what a terrible person he was.

  He had been wallowing in the depths of self-pity, playing the part of the bereaved lover to the hilt, using Tony’s insensate condition to verbally work out his own petty neuroses while his partner, the man who loved him unconditionally, was helpless and unable to tell him to cut out the shit and stop whining. He’d been obsessed with his own feelings, ignoring what Tony was going through. Alex Restin was a fake, the lowest form of scum, a self-centered asshole who deserved whatever punishment was to be meted out to him.

  Scorpio had appeared to him to point out the error of his ways, to drive home to him his stupid, petty self-absorptions. And here he had been, fantasizing about having sex with this magnificent overlord. No, Alex was so low he would be lucky if Scorpio would even stoop to allowing him to lick the filthy dust marring the soles of his boots.

  The stark white walls and intense overhead lights of the gallery vanished, replaced with blocks of rough-hewn stone, weeping moisture which reflected the muted flickering glow of torches, mounted in iron brackets slightly above eye level. A roaring hearth appeared where Nadine’s office should have been. Easily the height of a man, the fireplace was piled high with logs, fiercely ablaze. Even from this distance, Alex could feel the intense heat warming his back and he began to perspire.

  He whirled, desperate to escape. Suddenly, the prospect of spending time with cruel Scorpio was anything but attractive. He knew he should be punished for his vileness, for his callous disregard of Tony. Yet, like any wrongdoer, he cringed at the prospect of imminent retribution.

  There was nowhere to run. The harsh stone walls revealed no door, not even the suggestion of a barred window. Instead, there were manacles of thickest iron hanging from chains made of impossibly heavy-looking links which were welded to a bracket secured deeply within the stone. The metal was crusted with rust and, unless Alex’s eyes deceived him, coated with long-dried blood as well. Hooks dangled from the ceiling, a strappado festooned with dirty lengths of rope which, despite their filthy condition, looked terribly stout.

  In one corner, standing upright, a coffin-shaped box was revealed, its lid ajar. Wickedly pointed iron spikes lined the interior, and on the outside cover was a painting of an athletic young man, his torso and thighs showing the bloody results of his confinement in the Iron Maiden, his handsome face twisted in a rictus of excruciating anguish. Next to it sat a wooden horse draped with chains attached to huge rings imbedded in the floor to either side. A dull spike emerged from the center beam, bearing dried traces of who-knew-what. Flesh? Blood? Something even more ghastly? Alex could not fathom its use for a moment, then Scorpio smiled as the artist realized its function. A naked man forced to sit upon it, legs stretched out to the sides and secured by the chains, would have no choice but to writhe and scream as the metal dildo forced its way up through his innards. Worse, Alex saw with horror, there was a pan of burnt charcoal directly underneath; the dildo could be heated to red-hot levels to increase the agony of the victim’s torture.

  Unable to look any further at the thing, he cast his eyes to the fireplace and was terrified by what he saw. On a stand next to it was a collection of implements: metal prongs and sharp-tipped poles; horrifying constructs with huge screws to be tightened; evil-looking pincers, some with sharp tips and others with wickedly serrated edges; knives and slicers and – even worse, some of them had already been set directly into the flames to heat.

  Scorpio threw back his head and laughed at Alex’s fright. He motioned with his head for Alex to look at something else and, unable to resist, Alex did.

  He could barely gasp. His stomach muscles clenched with fear and he had to force himself to gulp air in order t
o keep from throwing up. He knew immediately what the contraption was and his bowels clenched at the thought of being subjected to its tortures. But it was no more than he deserved. Justice could only be more perfectly achieved if it had been Tony – poor, sweet Tony who he had thought he loved and would willingly die for but who he had so cavalierly abandoned – turning the winch.

  The rack was constructed of rough-hewn timber. Even from this distance, Alex could see the splintery surface of the wood, and he flinched at the thought of the hundreds of sharp particles piercing his tender flesh should he be stretched upon it. It would be like having his naked back abraded with steel wool, he thought, or sandpaper. He shuddered. The huge wooden wheel attached to the side displayed smooth spokes worn smooth by the sweaty palms of the torturers hauling upon it over the years to stretch their victims until sinew parted from bone. His eyes widened as he took in the many notches cut into its circumference, and the wooden stop-block. Any man doomed to experience its workings would be torn apart slowly, scant fractions of an inch at a time.

  His balls shriveled at the thought of being lashed to its frame and hearing the clack of the wedge falling into place as the wheel was turned, his shoulders and back screaming with pain as they sought futilely to adjust to the increased pressure. Naked and vulnerable, every sensitive area of his body exposed and helpless, he would be stretched so tightly he could not even writhe as the hot metal tools were brought closer and closer to his tender flesh to scald and rend and tear. His screams would echo from the ceiling, each one wrenched from his chest as the torture implements were applied and he would beg for mercy. Too soon, he would be reduced to nothing but mindless blubbering.

  His skin would blister and crisp, his muscles would be shredded, his torso would be streaked with blood and fluid. He would suffer horribly, and through the scarlet mask of pain, he would know that he had brought it all upon himself.

  “We should begin.”

  Alex twisted round to find Scorpio had crept silently up behind him and they stood, practically touching. The crop tucked into one side of the chaps, both of Scorpio’s hands were unencumbered. With an unpleasant smile, he grabbed the front of Alex’s shirt and wrenched it open. The buttons popped free, baring the artist’s chest, and with such power did Scorpio tug, even the seam running down the back ripped open. Alex stood bare-chested; the tattered remnants of his shirt slid down his arms to the floor. The air of the dungeon on his flesh provided no respite from the intense heat from the fireplace. On the contrary, his skin grew flushed and warm, and in the back of his mind, he knew it was from his blood rushing to the surface. He’d read somewhere that torture chambers were often kept unbearably warm to cause such an effect on prisoners; the blood-suffused tissue was more sensitive to pain.

  Alex’s mouth worked as he fought to cry out, to plead for mercy even before Scorpio began his grisly work. But he was powerless to utter a sound. Scorpio marched him across the floor. Alex’s legs grew weak and he sagged, unable to support himself, but the Scorpion simply grabbed him around the chest and dragged him the rest of the way like a sack of old clothes, dumping him on the floor directly underneath the chains hanging from the ceiling. Alex whimpered while his wrists were sealed in iron shackles, the edges digging into his skin, a pale precursor of the pain to come.

  Once he was cuffed, his captor hauled on the chain, slowly pulling him to his feet, and when Alex miraculously regained the ability to move and began to struggle, Scorpio lifted him even higher, so his body hung with his toes dangling an inch or so above the floor. Alex’s shoulders began to ache immediately; the full weighty burden of his entire body was supported by them. He knew it would only be a short time before his muscles began to cry out in earnest. His upper arms pressed against the side of his head while he hung. He could feel sweat trickling from his armpits and running down his sides already and smell the stench of his own fear.

  Scorpio stood back for a moment, seeming to admire Alex’s chest and stomach with every muscle displayed in harsh relief by his position. He frowned for a moment, then appeared to have an idea and he smiled again, even more sadistically. His fingers moved between the waistband of Alex’s slacks and his skin and took firm hold of his underwear as well. There was a brief burning sensation circling the artist’s waist when the pants were also ripped in two. They slid down his legs for his assailant to brusquely kick aside. Then Scorpio knelt and, with a grunt of satisfaction, tugged off Alex’s shoes and socks and quickly inserted his feet into a wooden board with two rough-edged holes to trap his ankles. There was a click as Alex’s feet were locked into place, spread apart as if he were standing astride in mid-air.

  Alex hung in his chains, now completely naked.

  Casually, the torturer rolled a wooden stand so it stood with his easy reach. Upon it were a selection of whips and flails and, seeing them, Alex began to struggle anew. He recognized some of the items: whips of various lengths and thickness, stained riding crops, wooden paddles and thin bamboo canes. His mind balked at the thought that some of the things could actually be used on human flesh.

  One handle was attached to a half-dozen leather strips with several pieces of jagged metal woven through each of the fronds. Another seemed to be a flail made of rusty barbed wire; a third bore lengths of thin chain and was tipped with what looked like tiny blades removed from a knife. A particularly frightening one glinted in the reflected flames and Alex suspected minute particles of glass had been imbedded in each leather tendril.

  While Alex watched, Scorpio made a great show of pawing through his collection, holding each of his toys up to the light so Alex could get a good look at it. Finally, he made his selection and moved to stand behind his helpless victim, bull whip in hand.

  The first stroke felt like a red-hot brand had been laid across his bare back. He shrieked and tensed his shoulders as much as he was able in anticipation of the next stroke. It did no good and the second lash, if possible, was even worse than the first. It felt like his skin had been split wide open, the nerves all a-jangle and, with the third impact, he was convinced his muscles and sinew had been severed. The truly awful thing, he thought as the whip fell again, was that no matter what agony he suffered, he knew in his heart of hearts that he deserved every lash.

  Scorpio flogged him with gusto for a while. Drops of sweat flew from Alex’s throbbing body, dampening the stone floor for several feet in every direction. He swung from side to side, twisting and turning while he hung. His tormentor showed no mercy and no particular fondness for any specific area of his body upon which to lay the lash. When he spun around so they were face to face, the whip slammed into his chest, catching him precisely on the nipple, so hard Alex thought the sensitive skin there might have been split in two. The welts across his belly and along his ribs stung at first, but they grew even more tender and inflamed as Scorpio laid into him until having hot coals poured onto his stomach would have been a relief.

  As for his ass, well, the pain was virtually unspeakable. Again and again the whip fell. Alex could feel the muscles swell with the abuse; if he survived the torture, he felt certain he would never be able to sit down properly again.

  By the time he was finished and tossed aside the whip, Scorpio’s magnificent body was almost as sweaty as Alex’s. His chest and shoulders gleamed with perspiration, and the copper tones of his skin had taken on an even ruddier glow, as if something within the Scorpion’s body was able to drink in the flames from the huge fireplace and reflect them back through his pores. In spite of being nothing but a pulsing, throbbing mass of pain, in spite of feeling like his back and shoulders, chest and insides of his arms, thighs and ass had been flayed to the very bone, Alex’s penis twitched at the sight.

  His tormentor’s dick was fully engorged, the tip purplish with arousal, the head dripping with pre-cum. Languidly, Scorpio ran one hand along its length, teasing another few drops from the end, while with the other hand, he ran his fingers a few times round the large aureole surrounding one nipple framed
by the tattooed claws before he viciously pinched it. His smile this time grew slowly, his eyes half-lidded as if he were still in some post-coital, half-dreamy state. He stopped playing with his own dick and removed his hand from his chest, and Alex could see the reddened marks where his fingernails had dug into the skin on either side of the knobby nipple. Scorpio moved to stand before his victim. He drew a small stool to his side and stepped upon it, steadying himself with his hands on the artist’s pain-wracked shoulders.

  What he did next was excruciating. It caused no pain but the sensation, in such diametric opposition to the torture so recently inflicted, was such that Alex felt he might not be able to bear it.

  Starting at Alex’s right wrist, he began licking up the sweat, sucking in each drop, his face moving slowly down the arm and into the armpit, accompanied by soft grunts of pleasure. When he was done with the right side, he transferred his attentions to the left and, when finished with that, his tongue started lapping at Alex’s chest and downwards across his bruised and swollen belly.

  Amazed, Alex saw that in the wake of the Scorpion’s mouth, his flesh was miraculously healed. The drops of saliva somehow closed each wound, the ragged and bloody edges knitting together seamlessly, though his skin still remained red and tender. His legs were next and Alex moaned while the tongue lapped at his balls where a glancing blow had struck him once or twice – somehow, his dick had been spared the whip’s kiss. When the Scorpion stood behind him and finally focused his attention on Alex’s horridly punished shoulders, the artist could feel the ache in his muscles subsiding, the pressure and strain of hanging in his bonds relieved. The healing touch of his tormentor’s kiss on his back and buttocks was like a swallow of cool water after a grueling hike across some desert expanse.

  The wooden bar holding apart his feet clattered to the floor and his shackles were released. Alex stumbled, unable to stay upright unassisted, and Scorpio supported him, his strong hands gripping Alex’s arms, standing so they almost touched, naked chest to naked chest. With unspoken command, Scorpio forced Alex to meet his eyes, to gaze fully into them. Within the dark sienna pupils, Alex could see tiny sparkles of light, but whether they were truly there or just reflections from the roaring fireplace, he could not tell for sure.