Cold Hard Edge of Hatred

Illya lay there face down on the cold hard stone floor of his pen for what seemed like hours, trying to think, it didn't work and he could make no sense of it all. The only sounds in the dungeon were the halting, muffled breathing of his fellow slaves and the vicious crackling of the torches around walls. Eventually he drifted off into a fitful and disturbed sleep.

Dreams, nightmarish ones flittered through his disturbed sleep. Slowly he realised that the muffled cries where not part of his dreams. Illya snapped out of his dark slumber and was immediately fixated by a scene playing out from some nightmare in the cell next to his. The vivid image was of one of his fellow slaves, unidentifiable through his hood. A muscled and sweaty man was holding the bars of the cell, the slave on his knees, a strap around the slave's neck and the bars held his head still. The slave's back was hard against the bars, arms threaded through and between the bars of his cell, locked together behind him using the leather manacles that each slave wore.

Dressed in a leather sleeveless jerkin and chaps heavy black leather boots and a large bunch of jangling keys hung from a clip of the jailer's belt, they swung in time with the jailer's rhythmic thrusting. Illya could see the muscles in the jailer's arms and legs ripple as he drove his hips into the young slave's masked face, arse muscles bunched into tight globes as he forced the slave to swallow his cock. Sweat dripped off the slave's body as he struggled to accommodate his assailant's thrusts. Illya felt himself stir, his own cock began to harden as he was drawn into the image of domination before him and he rolled onto his side. The movement caught the eye of the jailer and he turned his head to look at Illya and smiled. Without even breaking his rhythm, like a machine he continued to punch his member into the face of the helpless slave. Illya shrank back, the look was of such a pure ravenous lust that Illya knew what was about to happen. He was next.

The jailer stopped his assault on the bound slave turned and opened the door to Illya's cell, his huge engorged cock jutted out before him dripped with saliva and precum. "Stand up you whore" he demanded.

Illya sprung to his feet without thinking. The Jailer grabbed him, spun him around and shoved Illya hard up against the bars of his cell. A strong arm wrapped around Illya's throat and his body pushed him solidly against the bars. While the Jailer slowly throttled him with one arm, he ran his free hand down Illya's side, grabbed his breechclout and ripped it off. Groping Illya's firm round arse he forced his fingers firmly into his arse crack, Illya started to panic, he was struggling to breath, his thoughts clouded, this wasn't happening. He knew if he fought back or struggled he would only make it worse for himself. Illya could feel the Jailer's enormous cock pushed hard against him. Suddenly he was gone, his rapist had let him go and Illya glanced over his shoulder to see the Jailer cringing on the floor, a robed Zealot, a black rod in his hand, now stood over the whimpering man. The Zealot slammed the tip of the rod into the jailer's chest and he writhed and convulsed in response, he bent down, took a handful of the Jailer's hair and lifted his upper body off the floor, he looked the man in the eyes "You know that you are not permitted to violate the new ones you scum" his voice spat in a truly evil way. The Jailer's eyes went wide in abject horror as the Zealot bought the tip of the rod up to his face "This is not permitted" he declared and savagely pressed the rod to the base of the man's throat. The Jailer's eyes bulged, rolled back in his head, a froth of blood gushed from his mouth, his back arched and he shuddered once as the Zealot let him drop to the stone floor he laid there dead and motionless. Illya stood there stunned and stared, sucking in deep breaths trying to clear his head.

The Zealot stood and turned around to look at Illya's now totally naked body over from head to toe. Illya stood there trembling with real fear. "Are you damaged boy?" the Zealot asked, Illya could only shake his head in answer, even if the gag on his hood were not locked in place Illya doubted he could have put words to his tongue. "I am glad boy, though you have no need to fear me, I am Samuel of the Sicarii, the dagger men, we live to serve and protect The Patrician." The Zealot slowly tucked his hand and the black rod somewhere into the sleeve of his robe. As he bought it back out his hand held a short leash of chrome chain which he snapped neatly onto the collar of Illya's hood; Illya remembered suddenly and averted his eyes to look down at the floor. "Follow me now boy, The Patrician desires your presence." He tugged on the leash and Illya obediently followed the Sicarii.

Illya was lead back up the stairs out of the dungeon and in to the chamber that he had been in the night before. The chamber was the same as it had been before, but this time in front of the altar there was a large heavy wooden chair, throne like in its dimensions. In it sat the man that the night before was dressed in red, Illya assumed that this must be The Patrician the Sicarii had mentioned. The Sicarii led Illya before the foot of the throne and made him kneel, unclipped the leash, bowed to the Patrician then leaned over spoke some quite words in his ear and departed back down the stairs leaving the two of them alone in the chamber.

The Patrician looked at the naked slave bowed before him on the floor and considered his options. The boy had to be trained, broken and conditioned for his service to the Hierarchy; the question that he considered was just how much this one could handle. The Patrician smiled as a truly interesting thought came to mind, he knew exactly how he was going to do this. He always found this part amusing.

"Stand up and look at me boy," The Patrician commanded. "I have something for you."