A light in dark places

Illya sat naked and shivering in the dark cold room that they had locked him in for what now seemed like hours since his talk with the Patrician. He chided himself about how he could have been so naive to think he had the capacity to infiltrate this organisation. The Patrician had been less illuminating than he had hoped. Illya had not been able to discover anything about THRUSH and it was annoying him. He was little more a prisoner to these people, maybe he should just attempt to escape and admit his defeat by this assignment, but that went against his deep determination to succeed. He was not too keen on the prospect of being trained either. The Patrician had made it sound more like a torture, "I will break and own you. Body, mind and soul my young acolyte, you will be mine." he had laughed. They had stripped him naked and thrown him, humiliated, into this cell, this hole, this darkness.

The dark hours seemed to drag on and on, Illya's thirst started to grow slowly, his lips started to dry and no matter how much he licked them they would not stay moist. His tongue, thick and pasty, was starting to stick to the roof of his mouth. A dull ache had, some hours ago, started to spread across his forehead and now was making it's way around to the back of his neck where it dug iron claws into his skull. The quiet roar of silence pounded in his brain, as his ears strained for the slightest noise, his eyes strained for a break in the eternal darkness of this cold stone cell, this grave, this tomb where life itself seemed totally out of place. Thoughts wormed their evil way through his clouded mind. How long had he been here? What had become of his friend, his lover, his completeness, his Napoleon?

The sweet edge of madness slowly ran a seductive finger over Illya's mind, this dark corrupting evil echoed through his raging psyche as storm brewed on the edge of reality. A vast yawning abyss opened before him, his vision now clear saw the distant fog. A raging billowing white cloud of mist broiled at the base of a huge waterfall. The huge torrent flowing with a terrible roaring scream into the abyss assailed his ears with such violence he could do nothing but grab his head and fall tumbling head over heals into that terrible black abyss of utter madness he screamed into his own personal blackness.

Searing breath

PAIN

AGONY

BLACKNESS

Searing breath

LIGHT

PAIN

DARKNESS

LIGHT

Shuddering gasping

Close… tight… cooling… leather… mask… gag… Hard… strong… determined… hands… shoving… pulling… hauling… lifting. Firm bonds... Warm air... Strong bodies… Dragging booted feet… carried up stairs and hauled down corridors, thrown through a doorway onto the cold hard stone floor the forces that surrounded him lifted and stretched him high. They had left him to hang from his arms his head rolling aimlessly around as though some decrepit marionette had lost a control string to his head.

His thirst was nearly overpowering, it was like his whole being while trying in desperation to soak up the least small drop of moisture in the air failing at the same time to hold onto what little it had. He slowly realised that he badly needed to urinate, but as he focused on this problem, he also realised that he would not be able to. Sometime in his delirium, they had locked a tight ring around his cock and balls, so constricting him that he realised no matter how he relaxed he could not bring himself much more relief than to relax his already swelling bladder.

"Do you thirst slave?" a voice, softly spoken and somehow tinged with memories, asked in his ear.

"Do you need to piss slave?" came the same cold velvet steel voice.

Illya tried to moan, his throat was so dry he could not summon enough spittle and cracked throat went into spasms of lashing pain. He simply forced himself to nod his rag doll head. Rough hands unlashed the gag and removed it from his mouth. The ropes tied around his hands slacked and Illya sank without effort to his knees. Rough hands again grabbed his head; fingers probed and forced open his mouth just as a hot flow of fluid splashed onto his parched lips. The much needed liquid soaked the desert of his mouth, he gulped mouthfuls down his searing painful throat, suddenly his mouth was full of an engorged penis as it continued to release it's strong hot waste into Illya's mouth. He gagged and his stomach rolled and heaved.

"Throw up boy and I might let you live long enough to make you regret it." The voice of his velvet steel master made no mistake in its threat or regret in its promise. Illya forced his stomach under control.

"Stand slave" the voice commanded again. Illya stood as his arms were chained up again, spread-eagled then his legs were wrenched apart as he had his feet chained to solid metal rings embedded in the floor. A thick heavy leather collar fastened with buckles and locks was placed around his neck and to each side of this were attached loops and chains stretching his head and neck making up an effective vertical rack. Illya's muscles went taunt and writhed as he hung there stretched a few inches off the ground.

A cold, hard smooth object slid across his chest. It rolled a tight circle around one of his nipples then the other and back again. The cold hard smoothness continued to trace its way from rib to rib down his side gently tracing up and down the length of each one.

"Firstly let me introduce myself, my name is Samuel" The velvet steel voice gave name to itself. "Let me introduce to you the Sicæ" as he said those words, the cold hard smoothness that had been working its way along Illya's ribs changed. It turned suddenly into an excruciating red-hot needle that clamped itself deep into the bone of his rib, a horrifying crunching pop jolted Illya's side as he felt his rib shatter precisely where the Sicæ had touched him. Illya opened his mouth to scream just as his head was dragged down and found his mouth firmly clamped shut on another mouth. His scream muffled as it seemed to be swallowed by the other man.

"The Sicæ not only has the power to injure, but also to heal and to join what has been shattered," Samuel informed Illya as he held him close. "I can control you and destroy you slave, so take note of your master's instructions well this night." He commanded.

Just as suddenly where the fire of his shattered rib twisted his flesh in agony, a cool icy feeling started to expand. From his wounded side it slowly began to grow colder and some how sweeter as the pain was swiftly over taken. Illya sucked in a deep lung full of air, his mouth firmly locked to Samuel's once again; he was forced to suck the air from Samuel's lungs. Cleaved in agony, joined in pain, healed in a breath of life, Samuel let his breath flow into Illya's lungs. Illya felt Samuel's tongue gently probe into his mouth releasing a warm sweet honey like substance.

Samuel stepped back from Illya his eyes wide in surprise. He turned and looked at Napoleon and then to the Patrician, seated on a large heavily carved wooden throne at the back of the room. Samuel slowly walked across the chamber on the way to his own room. Two large muscled guards in leather harness and chaps stepped apart to allow him through the doorway. As he stepped passed the guards they slam back to attention driving the hilt of their staves they carried on the floor.

As Samuel walked down the corridor he staggered slightly, overcome almost by the vivid images and dark confusions held inside Illya's head. He barely made it back to his room before he collapsed on the floor. A sheer wall of agony slammed through his body and he convulsed silently in hope that it was enough.

Napoleon only hoped that their weak plan was going to succeed, as he walked over to Illya and removed his mask. The weak flickering light of the burning torches spaced around the chamber twinkled like small suns to Illya's light starved eyes.

Slowly is eyes focused on the face of Napoleon standing in front of him.

Napoleon brought out a long Wand like handle with thick heavy wires hanging out of the end and plugged into a control box on a stand next to him. Napoleon selected a small straight tube and attached it to the end of the wand. When it was switched on, the torch lights were eclipsed by the purple glow from the tube and a sputtering, crackling sound came from the power unit. With the tube, a few inches from a metal wall plate Illya got to watch the bright, blue sparks jump from the tube to the plate for a few moments while Napoleon made some adjustments to the power. Illya contemplate the glowing tube for a few minutes as he hung there completely out of control and at the mercy of the one person he though he trusted, maybe even loved. Completely without control Illya realised that despite its tight bondage his cock had become quite hard. Without control Illya thought, NO! Confidence and control through submission he remembered Stoveld's instructions.

As Napoleon turned, Illya was sweating and seemed rather pale in the purple glow. Napoleon reached out and after stroking Illya's erect cock a few times, he suddenly gripped Illya's cock firmly in one hand and started bringing the wand slowly closer to the bead of cum on the very tip of his cock. When the tip of the wand was about 1/2" from the tip of his cock, a stream of sparks began to jump the gap. His screams ripped from his throat as he began to writhe and strain against his bonds. The wand was pulled away before he could realize that it did not hurt nearly as much as he thought it did. With a strong and sure hand, Napoleon grabbed Illya's cock and balls. This time he swiftly removed the constricting ring. The relief was instantaneous as he began to piss; however just as instantaneous was the thudding, ripping pain that shot through his cock and balls, just as if he had them kicked into his spine. Napoleon had taken the violet wand and casually passed it through Illya's stream, sending bursts of electricity flooding up his urethra. There was nothing he could do but continue to relieve himself. It was with some perverse interest, the smile that crossed Napoleon's face each time he bought the wand back through the stream. The old Patrician laughed each time Illya bucked and writhed even harder when he screamed.

Napoleon continued to spent the next few minutes briefly zapping Illya in random places, the inside of his armpits and especially on the tip of his cock, the spot right at the base of the glans, his nipples, navel, and ear lobes. Each zap brought a renewed writhing, although the screams had dropped off to whimpers, and his cock was hard and his breathing heavy.

Finally tired of this game, Napoleon began to alternate between tongue and wand on the end of Illya's cock. The wetness from his mouth made the zaps sting more, and the rapid changes between the caressing tongue and the sting of the wand left him not knowing what to expect next.

Illya's mind was writhing with a mixture of agony and ecstasy as Napoleon stopped. Illya hung there relaxed and floating until he felt a hard long strip of wood stroke down his sweat drenched back muscles. The ferule caressed the neat round pertness of his smooth young arse. Suddenly Napoleon flicked the long flexible weapon and bought down its thrashing blow across Illya's shoulders, he did not flinch. Drawing back his right arm again, Napoleon let the ferule impact the sinew of Illya's back...

A second time.

Then a third.

And a fourth.

By the fifth stroke His arm ached, the muscles in his shoulder stretching with each blow. Six strokes later Napoleon was transported to another world, deep in the rhythm of the punishment. He no longer saw the back of Illya, covered in raised red slashes and welts. He no longer heard the jaunting cheers of the Patrician as he screamed for more. His whole focus was on the rise and fall of the Ferule and the perfect arc it made as it slashed back down. By the next five, Napoleon realised that with a flick of his wrist he was able to inflict as forceful and effective blow, for more advantage he had let his hand slide into the ring at the thicker end of the rod, everything perfectly synchronized, his hand, his breathing, the rise and fall of the Ferule. The front of his pants became tighter as the primitive rhythm reached deep into his soul and bought out feelings he had never known before. He was elated, excited and stimulated like never before.

The wand had been a shock, literally, but bearably, he had drifted off to a sort of dream, where for some strange reason he imagined this depiction of Samuel and he lying on the floor embracing each other and taking that long breath from his lungs once again.

Then this shocking pain shot through his back, but in shock more than determination, Illya hung unflinching as Napoleon metered out this punishment. The first blows fell as if an iron pipe had been flogged across his spine, heavy, savage. He had suffered beatings before from the hand of Major Stoveld. You could almost say he was used to them but this was different. As the rhythm steadied and the blows fell with expert placement the Ferule cut and danced with his pain. After the first five something changed in him. His shoulders become almost numb, his body light and the savage stokes of the Ferule become almost seductive. He tried to remember those next few blows, the simple savage beauty of them. The Minutes seemed like hours as the blows flicked and struck along his back, his buttock, and his shoulders or should he mean to have thought that the hours felt like minutes. When they stopped, when Napoleon finally collapsed with exhaustion, Illya almost cried out for the loss of that rhythm, the almost unbearable loss of that sweet exquisite pain. Darkness, his sweet dusky lover closed swiftly around him and he passed into unconsciousness.

Samuel, lay on the floor of his room as blow after blow seemed to flail the very soul out of his body. Every blow Illya received, dear sweet Illya, Samuel knew. Not just through his mind link with him, but a perverse and sadistic trait of The Sicæ. Undoubtedly one trait that the ancients who made them had intended and they still worked, thankfully. Shocking jolts ripped through his body and sent him once again into convulsions on the floor. His body was racked with pain, it was a barrier he had to break through, and he struggled to assume a position of meditation. The randomness of the blows made it difficult, however he suddenly realised if he tuned into Illya's mind he might be able to anticipate them easier. In a small easing in the violent pain, Samuel was able to quickly blank his mind and focus in on the dark mind of Illya, he reached out and back, probing for a touch then noticed a window like breach and moved through. It was as if he had touched a power cord, but not one that hurt, one that empowered and rejuvenated. He saw clearly the room, could smell the strong tainted odors, suddenly as Napoleon took him in his mouth he realised he could also feel everything that Illya felt, it was as if he had become him, mind and body. A shocking zap of pain ripped through him, but he realised that his actual body had responded by violently emptying the content of its stomach across his room. It was not until Napoleon started in on the Ferule that he realised the devastating effect this was having on his corporeal flesh. Between strokes of the Ferule, Samuel had been able to focus on the livid welts that had started to appear across his own body. His mind seemed to share the pain; as well, his body shared the damage. Better, he help bear this burden than force Illya to absorb all this punishment.

Soon it was over. Soon it would fade. Soon this darkness would part and once again, Samuel slipped from Illya's darkened mind back to his own equally shattered shell.

In his long and deep studies into the Sicarii and his often-painful experimentation with the Sicæ, Samuel had discovered ancient references to the bonding of slaves and some bizarre mention of the evil out working in the wielders flesh. The wielding of the Sicæ he knew carried an outworking in his flesh, the evening when he had taken the gaolers life he had been struck with such a blow that later he could hardly breath and shortly after struggling back to his room he had collapsed it wasn't for many hours that he recovered.

Samuel had conditioned himself over many years of researching and training how to break a specific bone, he could even cause ruptures in exact blood vessel. Simply by reversing the energy flow the Sicæ was also able to heal and rebuild what it caused. By taking part of the injury into the wielders own body he was also able heal other injuries as well, though the damage done to him was painfully manifested in a wound on his side, he always seemed to be healed faster and no matter how bad the injury he had healed so far it had never proved fatal, yet.

It was not until this evening that he had tried the ancient bonding ritual. Samuel had hoped that the sweet potion he had developed from ancient texts would work. He had managed to acquire all the now rare ingredients the recipe called for. He had followed the instructions to the letter. The Introductions, the breaking of the rib, the catching of the scream, the healing, the breath and the potion. It was not until he walked out of the room that the full effect had hit him and he realised it had worked.

Now it was time to rest now was the time for him to gather his strength so that he had more to impart once he was finally able to access Illya.

Napoleon lay in his darkened room, curled into a tight ball and crying softly to himself. However, could he begin to explain to his Inamorato how he had been forced to inflict such punishment on him? If it were someone else, he might never have been able to hide Samuel's aid. Still he cried, Inamorato how could I be so cruel, eventually he cried himself into a dark and restless sleep filled with heartache and loss.

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