sss Island

Chapter Three-2

“Remember the magnitude of this test of our worthiness, sisters! We must break this beast of its mad lubricity! We must hunt it to the ends of the island to prove our superiority! We must take our revenge on it for eons of rape! And we must deliver it shriven to Gora by the most torturous road open to us! Remember, sisters: the more lingering and horrific the end to this unprecedented offense against femininity, the more certain our reward shall be! So sharpen your knives, whet your appetites, and let the preparations begin immediately!”

Into the Dungeon

Without warning, the frenzy that grips me recedes to my more normal (for this day at least) helpless panting lust. No matter: I am far past analyzing the strange progression of my reactions this day. It has been inexplicable from the beginning. I’ve been telling myself it is all down to Lady Abigail. Did I not realize aboard ship that I missed practices I had heretofore considered humiliating impositions? I even m*********d to the memory of her lash. And within sight of this very island I was visited by the unexpected epiphany that I would miss those most of everything in life were I to die. Then I fell into the pitiless clutch of these Amazons.

Almost immediately I conceived an addiction to those practices and emotions my wife had initiated me to that swiftly grew beyond all reason or expectation. My formerly normal libido became a rabidly demanding need; s****l excitement soared into realms of perversion and exaltation that defy all understanding. Despite a decade of confirmed atheism I even began ascribing a kind of divinity to my barbarous and unschooled captors. I learned to cherish pain and mortal terror that would leave any sane individual a gibbering wreck. I increasingly lost all sense of self-preservation, until in my lusty depravity I became not only passively suicidal but actively compelled to pursue the most torturous execution conceivable. I actually climaxed from the application of genital agony! Despite the deviant dalliances that my marriage of necessity exposed me to, none of this fits my former sober rationality. Now, after the carnal crescendo of my trip up through the jungle and mob, and my peaking frenzy facing the High Priestess and crowd, I can only accept the relative recession of my madness with a dull perplexity, and hope the s****l exaltation that has become more important to me than life itself doesn’t desert me as mysteriously as it has come to possess me. This concern is given particular urgency when High Priestess Zela turns another sneer of magisterial contempt upon me before addressing Moba with the chilling direction for the beginning of the far more onerous ordeals I’m now committed to.

“Get that out of my sight. Take it to the dungeon for breaking.”

The pole is once again slid between my bound limbs and body and I’m lifted back up. Suddenly exhausted at the unforeseen failing of my frenzy, I weep in consummate misery barely ameliorated by that addictive frisson as the excruciation in my overstressed back and limbs is renewed. I keep little track of my progress as I’m carried toward that looming palace, out of the hot sun and down a succession of hallways and stairwells. But finally we reach the level of the ground outside. Through thin slits in the stonework like embrasures for archers I catch glimpses of sun-splashed foliage, until we pass through a heavy wooden door into a medium-sized stone chamber. One look at the interior confirms that we have arrived at the promised dungeon even though it is not subterranean according to convention.

More embrasures let thin shafts of light knife in. This is supplemented by the lighting of a few pitch-coated torches in brackets. I’m then dismayed (yet bolstered finally with a welcome renewal of that oh-so necessary excitement) to see that weapons and armor aren’t all these Amazons have appropriated from looted Spanish galleons.

A pair of tables waits on opposite walls. One is piled with heavy iron chains and shackles as well as a wide assortment of the hideous torture devices favored by the Inquisition. I recognize thumbscrews, pincers and branding irons, the dreaded ‘pear’ for the mechanical expansion of orifices and several other diabolical implements before my attention is arrested by the other table. The spoked crank at one end and attached shackles – not to mention the raised spiked rollers along the bed – betray that this is not so much a table but a torture device in its own right. It is the infamous rack upon which heretics are broken before their date with the stake.

As expected, my travails upon the strand were but the warm-up for the agonies now in store for me. My terror and sick anticipation of exaltation quickened again by this perception, I moan in conflicting despair and arousal as I’m carried in and set down upon the cold stone floor. But it seems my breaking will not begin immediately.

The pole that has carried me so far from myself is once again pulled from beneath my limbs and taken away, its telling contribution to the short tale of my life finished. Using a clever set of locking pins, Moba and Nera secure a dreadfully heavy iron collar so wide it nearly reaches from clavicle to chin about my neck. The weight of this pulls my head straight to the floor, effectively incapacitating me in my debilitation while the vines binding my limbs and even genitals are cut away and discarded.

The tearing of those thorns being pulled from my most tender flesh is an even more exquisite excruciation than their embedding – though I miss Rooni’s charming delight at the process. Given her novice status she was one of those delegated to removing the pole and has not returned. Meanwhile a set of four closely linked shackles (clearly ship’s leg irons for restraining slaves or punishing errant crewmembers) replace the vines binding my limbs together behind me. While undoubtedly more secure these are somewhat less restrictive. Still my arms and legs remain maddeningly cramped in their contortion, and my back and shoulders painfully bowed if less so. The enormous relief that comes with the release of my elbows is balanced by the flaying pain of renewed circulation to my hands and feet. Next a stout chain is locked at one end of the collar about my neck and the other to a nearby wall covered with fittings for this: completing my hopeless imprisonment. Lastly that coconut is withdrawn once again and not replaced, allowing me to slobberingly gasp at freer air. The stretched tendons in my jaws seem to sag loosely as they seek their accustomed shape. As my captors rise and back away I roll clanking in my chains to face them. I know better than to say a word, letting the way my again freely bleeding and insistently persistent erection still juts so insultingly toward their glory speak for me.

All ignore me in any case. Moba is addressing her three remaining charges.

“We will have to give this matter careful thought. Clearly eradicating such a manically criminal libidinousness will not be easy. This will prove to be Gora’s greatest challenge for us, I have no doubt. Such a pathetic specimen will sadly be ridiculously easy prey in the hunt. Indeed this beast might fly gladly back into our arms at the first opportunity if it is not thoroughly broken first. And not only would that rob us of our cherished sport, it will hardly provide an opportunity to prove to Gora our worthiness for the incredible reward she offers.”

“How shall we proceed?” asks Thoren with a frown, while Nera grinds her fists against her hips and seethes at the delay in afflicting me.

“Let us consult with the experts. We will need their help anyway. And we cannot usurp their position entirely despite our current favor. In the meantime we should feed this beast, if only sparingly. It must be kept in its weakened state of course. But we mustn’t risk it dying accidentally under the torments ahead.”

Immediately Thoren leaves on this errand. Nera is glaring daggers of hatred and spite at me; never in eternity will she forget the mind-boggling evil of my crimes, particularly the way I spattered her sacred feet with my unspeakably profane seed. Moba follows her to look, and shakes her head at my indefatigable rigidity.

“Sisters, this will be a challenge indeed. Gora tests us sorely. Yet what else can we expect, when the entire world is the reward?”

Grinding her teeth and casting around for a way to salve the humiliation she’s suffered, Nera edges into dangerous territory.

“I tell you, everything about this beast is terribly unnatural. Gora has given it the use of our tongue and even put the words of condemnation and promise in its mouth. Is it possible she is the author of its extreme sinfulness as well? Perhaps she has used her power to unnaturally stoke this impossible lust in it in order to challenge us far beyond what any normal male could present. I can think of no other explanation.”

“Peace, sister!” Moba warns sternly. “You edge into blasphemy. Gora does not sully herself in such ways. And the world is wide beyond our present ken. Who knows whence come the whites? Perhaps there is an entire race so resistant to pain and bent on rape. Gora may be preparing us to vanquish them when we have spread beyond our island.”

At this Thoren returns, carrying a bowl of salted nuts of some sort. She sets this before me with a smile of infinite wickedness, and all four Amazons withdraw, closing the stout door behind them. Famished as I am I roll quickly to face the bowl, and straining against the weight of that collar put my face in it to eat. I am crunching up my first mouthful when the import of that smile is brought terribly home to me.

I have been given no water. It is more than a day and possibly two (depending how long I lay insensate in the surf) since my last drink. And that was an involuntary swallow of seawater, which can be fatally desiccating. The thirst that so tormented me upon awakening returns worsened seemingly a hundredfold, and it is all I can do to choke down that first mouthful. Even if I could bear it I dare not take another. Clanking in my chains again, I whimper despairingly and roll and squirm back over toward the wall my collar is secured to.

Nestling against this exceedingly thin source of comfort and feeling my hardness ebb away at last, I seek desperately for a distraction from my thirst above all of my myriad other torments. Unwilling to confront the further horrors in store for me, and hesitant to ponder my inexplicable complicity in embracing them, I nevertheless find Nera’s blasphemous speculation recurring to me.

Were those effortlessly flowing words truly put into my mouth? And could there be some far more potent female influence behind my mystifying and utterly uncontrollable perversity than the humiliating games of the tame Lady Abigail? What if this vengeful mountain-Goddess truly is more than a figment of these savages’ simplistic religion?

It would certainly explain a lot more to me than to confounded Nera. Beyond my own insane and suicidal behavior there are the not inconsiderable matters of these sss’s universal size, beauty and perfection of health – to say nothing of how they manage to propagate themselves without men. Uneasiness torments me the longer I consider this. But at last I fall back on a lifetime of rationality, of atheism and a career in natural philosophy.

Surely there are natural processes, environmental, social, and psychological pressures sufficient to account for everything. I have conceded quite enough to these natives without adopting their primitive superstitions as well. At last the demands of my debilitation win out over my imponderable situation. I fall back into the desperately necessary restorative so momentously interrupted on the beach.

The Far Fairer Sex

My need for recuperation is so great that I fail to wake when my captors return the following morning.

I suspect they’ve entered quietly for just this reason: to take advantage of my repose. Yet such stealth would hardly have been necessary. I’m so deep in a slumber as insensible as death that I’m slow to awaken even when I feel the rough touch of iron on my genitals.