The Knout
Warm southern breezes stirred the golden wheat to whisper contentedly that all was well: nature unaware that a viper was loose in the land. The luminous blue sky and warm August sunlight, like a medieval book of hours was a perfect background for the muscular naked backs of the serfs as they bent over with their well honed scythes and marched six abreast cutting and trampling the abundant harvest. Their bronzed flesh drenched with glistening sweat and dappled with chaff was a sight of such transcendent beauty that Count Boris Konstantin who sat contentedly on his snorting black Arabian gelding had to fight back tears of joy. The young Count, having lost both his parents to cholera was now the sole heir and at long lost had become master of his Uncle Vladimir’s estate. And now all this was his. Called back to the country estate from St. Petersburg and a life of wanton dissipation by the untimely death of his benefactor, Boris could hardly believe his good fortune. To be master, the sole authority over nearly two thousand souls, to wield power over life and death without question or scruple was a dream come true. Now any desire, any satanic urge that crossed his mind could be realized. His meaningless existence could be given some focus: his rage at life could be vented on human flesh. So much masculine beauty was now displayed before his eyes he felt almost overwhelmed by the possibilities. Of course he knew he had to show some discretion lest the local priests stir up trouble but then a few large donations to the local monastery and alms house would shroud his blackness. And even if word should reach Czar Alexander who was bogged down in the final struggle for the Crimea he was in little danger from Moscow occupied as the court was with far weightier matters then rumors of some abused worthless peasants.
With one last lascivious glance towards the ripe field Boris spurred his horse and galloped off to survey other fields and other surfs in search of more fodder.
Gregory Platin the youngest of three brothers working the threshing line stood up, stretched his weary back and shoulders and mopped the sweat from his brow on the sleeve of waist tied shirt.
“Come on boy chick, don’t let the overseer spy you stopping or you’ll get some stripes on your back come on now, and get to it. Another hour and the sun will be down then home” chided his oldest brother Evgeny, “and that goes for you too Ari” the middle brother of the triumvirate who seemed about ready to drop from exhaustion. The three brothers ages nineteen, twenty and twenty-three were proof of that old Russian saying, “God loves a troika” as each of the three brothers was more handsome then next. Each young man stood nearly six feet tall, with powerful shoulders, arms and mighty hairless chests. Their pale complexions were like cream which turned to burnished gold when stripped to the waist in summer as they labored in the fields. Their hair was the color of flax and their eyes hazel colored, sparkled with life and merriment. As serfs they had little real freedom or creature comforts compared to the aristocracy yet Old Count Vladimir had been a fair master and saw to the health and well being of his peasants. Compared to many estates throughout Russia, Vladimir’s laborers counted them selves blessed. It was always, “To Papa Vladimir” when the occasional shot of vodka was drunk. But Old Vlad had died without off spring and now the estate belonged to the nephew, Count Boris. An enigma to the peasants though his appearance did not fill them with much joy. Boris was like a giant Russian bear, standing an ungodly six foot six in stocking feet. His long black hair and perfectly cropped beard and moustache framed a face that showed little sympathy or kindness. His piercing ebony eyes, thick black eyebrows and long dark lashes were like some fairy tale ogre. His powerful shoulders, arms and chest, flat stomach and horseman’s powerful thighs and calves struck fear in any man who gazed at him. It appeared likely that he could crush a man between his mighty fists and snap a peasant’s back over his knee. The new Count, against the dictates of fashion wore tight fitting riding pants that rode up in the crotch displaying his prodigious sexual organs in high relief. Often randy, he frequently sported an erection that could easily be detected as his prodigious rod bulged against constricting fabric. He so enjoyed catching the gaze of some blushing man or woman as they focused their hungry eyes on his crotch.
He spoke little but when he condescend to give voice to an order or observation the sound would have been the envy of the greatest opera singer for when he spoke it was as if the words sprang from the depths of the hell so deep and dark sounding were their tone.
As the last blood red rays of the setting sun auguring another blistering day of heat to come vanished below the horizon the overseer shouted orders for the work to cease for the day.
“Come brothers, its home for us now” shouted Ari as he leaped over the fallen wheat racing his brothers back to the family hut.
The boy’s mother Olga had filled a well worn stone basin with hot water for her son’s to bathe before the evening meal. The sight of her three strapping lads, frisking half naked as they went about their bath always gave Olga a glimpse of joy in her otherwise hard scrapple life for which she thanked Almighty God in her simple peasant way.
Once the evening meal of cabbage and boiled potatoes sprinkled with a few pathetic specks of chicken meat had been gobbled up, the three brothers climbed into their single shared bed and were soon snoring blissfully as a dim light under an ancient icon burned through the night. The morning cock would soon be crowing them to yet another day of sweat in the fields.
Boris too dined but on more then peasant soup. A wild boar had been roasted surrounded by dumplings and gravy and a large decanter of fine French Bordeaux had been placed by his chair. As the count entered the great dinning room he greeted with a nod his four liveried footmen, brought from his home in the capital. These four despite their grey and white satin and powdered wigs had souls as black as their masters. Each of them had been saved from endless banishment in Siberia or beheading by some well placed bribes to their Moscow jailors. Boris had studied the cases of the Czar’s dungeon inmates and these four were of particular interest. Each of the men had been found guilty of the most horrific crimes as though they had taken ecstatic glee in tormenting their victims before they fell. Guaranteed a generous salary plus license to indulge their most wanton cruelty in the service of Count Boris their loyalty was complete and unquestioning. Like drooling dogs they panted around their master ready to lick his boots should he demand such obeisance.
The first to join Boris was Caspar, a disgraced forty year old sergeant from the Urals with an ugly saber scar across his entire face. The Sgt. had been charged with raping and flogging to within an inch of his life a young recruit who happened to be the son of a well placed landowner. Caspar claimed to have no memory of the incident admitting only to an excess of vodka but the whip marks on his victims back and chest along with the bruises and tares on his firm white buttocks were all the proof the military tribunal needed to condemn Caspar to life in Siberia. Ill treatment of subordinates was hardly frowned upon but hands off the well connected no matter what their rank. Boris, having read the accounts of the trial knew that the sergeant was a kindred spirit and must be saved. And saved him he did, paying a military guard a hefty bribe to help the criminal escape into Boris’ waiting carriage.
Bunin was the next to join the Count’s service. Bunin from an early age had shown a total disregard for his fellow man. His evil temper and sticky fingers had landed him in constant trouble with the police but it was when he faced a charge of murder that Boris became interested. The twenty year old Bunin was a member of a gang of thugs who had kidnapped one Sasha, son of the immensely wealthy confident of the Czar’s, Count Orlovsky. Sasha had just turned eighteen and while celebrating at a local brothel his advancement to full manhood had been knocked over the head. bundled into a sack and taken to a dacha far away from Moscow. There the young man was held for weeks while a suitable ransom was negotiated spurred on by his family receiving proof of the kidnappers’ seriousness by discovering in the morning’s post their son’s severed scrotum. When at last the gang was apprehended and the body found Boris had already committed his boundless resources to saving at least one of the kidnappers. This time Boris hired a gaggle of cut throat highway men to ambush the prison wagon that was taking Bunin to the gallows. Four dead guards and two slain assailants later and Bunin was free pleading allegiance to Boris that very day.
The last two to join Boris’ entourage were the twins Rimsky and Joseph. These two twenty year olds were on their way to Siberia, condemned to the mines for their involvement in a murder for hire scheme. The victim, a Lieutenant in the Czar’s personal body guard had been tortured with glowing coals before he was eventually dispatched. The reason for the gruesome crime had never been made public. Al records of the court hearing had been sealed at the direct order of the Czar.
The two brothers had proven the most difficult to rescue but some well placed bribes and poisoned jailors had eventually led to their escape, once again in the back of Boris’ ever ready troika.
Eschewing all formality, once the food was laid by the wait staff Boris motioned to his four henchmen to pull up chairs and join him in the feast.
After twelve bottles of wine, a glutinous amount of vitals and several bottles of vodka had been consumed the conversation turned to the night’s revelries.
“My friends let us lift glasses to our first night in this fine estate and to my dear mercifully dead uncle Vlad.”
“To Uncle Vlad” replied the four.
“Now dear comrades, we need to get off on the right foot as the Old Russian proverb instructs a good beginning makes a good end and what better way to do that then to instill a little terror in the serfs. I saw some tasty young beef in the fields today so there appears to be a wealth of meat for us to sink our teeth into.”
“Ah Boris, you have such a fine way with words” cooed Caspar.
“Without having to go out to the peasants’ quarters, there seems to be a tasty morsel right here in the house. I noticed an assistant cook when inspecting my estate this morning. He is a lad of some twenty two or three years. I believe I heard a kitchen wench call him Igor. He has a fine olive complexion and such a mop of ebony colored hair the pride of his Tartar relatives no doubt, crowning his head. And his cheek bones, high like a Serbian with deep brown eyes. And such lips, full, red and sensual. And though it was hard to tell hidden as his chest was by his apron and baggy shirt, the fellow seems to be well muscled. But one glance at this young god from the steppes and my pole sprang to life. What do you all say, shall we bring him in? I am sure I noticed a long black hair in my soup. Such sloppiness deserves punishment, no?”
“Yes Boris, send for him but before you do, may I suggest another place for his punishment? I took the liberty of exploring your Uncle’s fine estate and came upon an old cellar, perhaps built many years before this fine house was rebuilt. I could not help but wonder if the cellar were not at one time, perhaps during the rein of Czar Ivan that this place was a torture chamber” suggested Caspar with a lascivious grin.
“Come, show it to us at once” said Boris as he tottered up from the table.
“Lead the way my good friend.”
“With pleasure Count.”
Caspar, grabbed an ornate silver candelabra with nearly spent candles and lead the way into the back hall, through the kitchen where scullery maids were busy at their chores and down a steep flight of stairs. As they party descended into the gloom the brick foundation gave way to rough hewn rock that appeared to have been carved out of the bedrock supporting another structure from several centuries back in time.
Igor slept fretfully on a straw filled pallet beside the kitchen fire that was his duty to keep stoked throughout the night. He had felt uneasy all day, ever since the new Count had passed through the kitchen. Something about the Count’s gaze as it landed on Igor’s face filled the lad with fear. It was a look of such malevolence mingled with desire that Igor could not erase the sight from his memory. Images of tangled ropes dangling from the ceiling, of running in endless corridors winding in eternal decent whirled in his head.
At last with a start Igor awoke with his heart still pounding like a buck in flight from the hunter’s rifle. He stretched his tight muscles and got up to attend to the dwindling embers in the grate unaware that many feet below where he now stood the Count and his friends were preparing the stage for the night’s entertainment featuring him as the leading man.
“Caspar, this is perfect. Why see the iron rings embedded into the vaulted ceiling? And over in this corner a small fire place. Plenty of room to wield a whip. Yes Caspar, well done. You two, Rimsky and Joseph, go to the kitchen and bring the lad down here. He should be by the kitchen fire keeping watch. And bring some bottles of vodka with you, and some rope, yes bring plenty of rope. Bunin you and Caspar, go brings some chairs. Now get a move on, on all of you” the count commanded as his right hand drifted towards his crotch. He could already feel his member start to engorge with blood. What a perfect place this little cellar would be. A fine beginning for his reign as lord and master.
The four thugs, their white wigs bouncing on their heads, bounded up the stone steps their heavy boots echoing like thunder. Igor turned from the fire to see the Count’s men burst through the cellar door.
“You are you the one called Igor?” demanded Joseph.
“Yes”
“The count wants you, bring five bottles of vodka from the pantry and come with us and be quick about it.”
“Yes right away” Igor answered rather reluctantly sensing some danger in the drunken louts that were beckoning him down in the basement. But to disobey the new Count could bring on a flogging. Besides he knew he was strong enough to fight off these drunks should the need arise.
“Get a move on boy, filthy peasant” added Rimsky.
With five bottles placed in a rattan basket Igor followed the two thugs through the door and into the cold damp stairwell.
At the bottom of the steps a dim light from the few burning candles cast distorted shadows like Baba Yar on the uneven stone walls and vaulted ceiling. The chairs and rope were at the ready.
As Igor entered the cellar he felt a cold grip of fear seize his gut. Taking a deep breath he walked firmly up to Boris, “Your Excellency, here is the vodka you ordered. Will there be anything else?”
“Kneel before your master.”
“Yes your Excellency” replied Igor as he went down on his right knee all the while holding firmly to the basket of vodka.
“Caspar, take this” instructed Boris as he grabbed Igor’s hair and forced the freighted young man down on both knees then he yanked the head backed forcing Igor to turn his face upward. Eyes wide with terror Igor flinched as Boris spat a great wade saliva into his upturned face.
“You are a clumsy oaf and deserve to be punished. Hairs, we found hairs in our soup!”
Boris’ massive hands clamped like a vice on either side of the petrified servant’s head and with one brutal jerk planted the upturned face squarely into his groin. Igor could hardly breathe as his face was pressed hard into his master’s bulging crotch.
“Strip him and bind his hands” Boris grunted already lost in a delirium of pleasure as he felt the hot breath against his groin from the struggling servant.
No sooner was the order given then Caspar and Joseph were quick at work, yanking his trousers and boots off, grabbing the young man’s wrists and with practiced alacrity bound the now naked peasant’s hands behind his back.
Once the servant was secured, Boris stepped back long enough to unfix his belt and drop his pants revealing an enormous cock that stood straight out like some fearsome medieval lance. His hefty balls had already begun their ascent as they churned in his hairy scrotum.
Grabbing once more Igor’s head in both his massive hands the Count forced his throbbing rod down Igor’s throat. The peasant gagged, nearly retching at the intrusion of so large an object down his throat but Boris held fast to the lads hair. Pumping the servants face up and down on this nearly exploding dick Boris gave instruction for the punishment to begin.
“Take my belt and whip this bastard’s back and ass. And you, if I feel teeth you will get whipped even harder. Now do what I saw.”
Joseph was the first to reach the belt and to begin a merciless attack on the naked back and ass. The sound of the thick leather whistling through the air and landing with a deafening smack across Igor’s muscled back was a sound that thrilled the five men. The crack of leather against flesh was the strongest of aphrodisiacs to the five who descended into a delirious orgy of lust. The men were soon naked, sweating and grunting like pigs in heat. They took turns whipping and raping the nearly exhausted and terrified young man. His jaws ached, his back and ass were a sea of fire and his knees throbbed from kneeling on the jagged stone floor. Before he was fully aware he found himself spread eagled, being held down by four shouting, laughing brutes as an unseen assailant began to penetrate his ass. The invasion of his back side felt like a molten poker being stuck up ass, splitting him nearly two. And as each of his assailants took turns his ripped ass hole sent waves of penetrating soul searing agony into his gut. At last unable to contain himself he screamed out in fury and terror, “please, please I beg you no more, please for the sake of God, no more.” But his entreaties only stimulated his assailants the more.
Soon his ass dripped blood, his back and legs turned crimson, black and blue as tears streamed down his handsome face.
Hours went by as the five men took turns till at last they all were spent and to drunk to continue. In good time Boris and his friends collapsed on the floor in a drunken stupor.
Dripping blood, Igor slowly crawled on all fours across the now silent room and using the door frame as leverage managed to lift him self up and to ascend the stairs as his dry sobs racked his back and chest.
Gregory was the first to wake up. His morning wood was always a source of amusement for his two older brothers but this morning he did not feel like being the butt of their laugher. So with the utmost care and stealth the youngest quietly rose up and lifted himself over Evgeny who along with Ari were contentedly snoring away.
“What is this” laughed Evgeny as he grabbed Gregory’s foot as it passed over his chest.
The young lad was thrown off balance and despite a frantic grasp for the bed sheet Gregory was soon flat on the floor, his night shire hiked above his waist exposing his turgid manhood saluting his brothers.
“Look, look at this will you? Ari wake up” Evgeny pounced on his brother Ari tickling him to wakefulness as Gregory quickly pulled down his shirt, his flush blushing crimson ran for the out house.
Ari and Evgeny busy loading bales of hay and Gregory sharpening his scythe were unaware of the five mounted men approaching from the manor house.
“Gentlemen, see over there near the wagon, three interesting specimens, don’t you think?”
“Yes Boris, three beauties. The shorter one, perhaps the youngest might make a good replacement for that wretch Igor. The cook hasn’t seen or heard a thing about the lad” responded Caspar.
“I wonder why?” laughed Joseph and Rimsky.
“Come men, let’s get a closer look.”
Spurring their horses to a gallop the four devils quickly descended on the three brothers, surround them with their snorting, stamping mounts.
“Your lordship, good day. A fine harvest” offered Ari as Evgeny and Gregory held back in fear.
“Silence peasant, never speak to your master unless spoken to first” commanded the Boris feigning furor that only disguised his growing lost. The sight of the three farmers, stripped to the waist, their tightly defined muscles and flawless skin shining in the sun was better then art in the Hermitage.
“When need a kitchen lad to keep the stove ovens stocked. You!” Boris shouted, pointing to Gregory. “What is your name.”
“Gregory master.”
“Gregory master. I like that, you know how to respond to your betters. Take a bath and report to the kitchen staff before sundown. And say good by to your brothers” Boris added in a rather ominous tone.
“But master, there is so much work to be done in the fields” pleaded Gregory with just a hint of trembling in his voice. The lad was loathe to leave his beloved brothers and all that he knew even if his lot might seem to better at the manor house.
The response from Boris was swift and to the point. Raising his riding crop he made a lunge from his saddle to strike the terrified peasant across the face, but deliberately missed, not wanting to spoil such beauty prematurely then with a shout and a jab of spurs he and his henchmen turned and galloped off in a great cloud of dust and chaff.
The three brothers stood in silence, an icy grip in their guts as they watched the retreating figures disappear across the fields.
“Come along Gregory, you’ll be fine. Just do your job in the kitchen and try to stay out of his way” cautioned Ari.
“He’s right, now keep on with the work lest his lordship come back and really have something to complain about” interjected Evgeny.
And so the three brothers bent their strong young backs to the work at hand.
It was a sad scene as the three brothers and Olga stood clasping each other in front of their hut bidding a tearful good by to the young Gregory who had never once been separated from his family. But now scrubbed clean with a fresh shirt and clean but batched britches he turned and headed down road to meet his fate with the new overlord Brois Konstantin.
The ordinary white washed kitchen door loomed in Gregory’s mind like a dungeon grate or the entry way to hell like he had seen in some icons. But he took a deep breath , tried to imagine good food and how he might somehow help his family raised his arm and knocked at the door.
A slouching grease covered scullery maid answered the door.
“Get in here, the Master told us to look out for. Clean your shoes first on the matt. Come on hurry up, I’m not the door keeper.”
Gregory did as instructed and step through the portal. Three cooks and several assistants were busily stirring and chopping the evening meal. Curses and shouted orders added to a general sense of chaos as Gregory’s eyes darted around the room trying to find some friendly face.
“You, don’t just stand there like a lump. Go to the wood shed and get some kindling for the stove. Move!” barked a particularly obese cook. “Damn it to hell” he added just for the pleasure of cursing.
Gregory, with head low turned and began his duties without so much as a welcome smile from the staff.
After the last morsel of desert had been gobbled up, the last drop of vodka sloshed down Boris rose from the table.
“Get out of here, all of you and send in that new fellow from the field today. I feel like introducing him to my home by myself” said Boris.
Saddened that they would excluded but afraid to voice object the four thugs stumbled out of the dinning room in search of Gregory who was busy now in the kitchen scrubbing a blackened roasting pan.
Gregory stood before the dinning room door afraid to knock, not knowing what to expect from his new master. “Lord protect me and my family” he whispered before rapping rather softly on the door.
“Get in here” barked Boris.
The first thing the lad saw was Boris sitting, legs spread wide in his high backed leather chair, stripped to the waist and holding in his right hand a black leather riding crop. His massive, hair covered chest gleamed in the firelight. His right hand toyed with large round nipples that protruded through the black fur. Gregory froze in the door, afraid to take a step into the room, afraid to move one inch closer to this monster. And yet for all the ferocious aspect before the lad, one small detail caught for a moment his attention. There some three inches and slightly to the left of Boris’ right tit was a third nipple. Not as large as the two properly located ones but non-the-less un-mistakable.
“Get in here, close and lock the door and kneel in front of me” Boris demanded.
Gregory hesitated but a moment before the giant leapt from his charge and in a single bound leapt across the room toward the terrified servant. With one hand he slammed the dinning room door closed with a bang, the other he locked on the lad’s neck and forced him to kneel on the spot. Then with both hands he grabbed the sides of his servants head and forced his face firmly into his crotch.
Boris felt the warmth from Gregory’s face as he tried to breathe while being nearly suffocated in the folds of Boris’ pants. His prodigious rod began to grow, pressing hard against the cotton pant leg. In an instant Boris dragged his servant across the room, seated himself once more in his chair, undid the ribbons enclosing his cock and balls and forced his penis into the struggling and gagging lad’s mouth.
“There now, no teeth, each time I feel teeth you will be lashed ten times. Do you understand me boy?” Silence except for the sound of lips on cock. Boris leaned back in his chair, all the while guiding Gregory’s head into faster and faster movements.
“He must have done this before” Boris thought to himself.
“Stop now, get up, strip down”
“Sir please” murmured Gregory as with trembling fingers he began to unlace his rough linen shirt.
But Boris said not a word but watched the young man as he raised his arms and removed his garment, exposing the Adonis like contours of chest. The master’s eyes fixed on his servant’s two perfectly formed pink nipples, like the two tiniest rose buds in early spring. How he hungered to feel these tender nubs between his finger tips. How he craved to twist and pull and pinch, to dig his thumb and forefinger nails into their soft tenderness till the lad, unable to restrain himself cries and begs for surcease.
“The shoes, the pants, everything, now.”
Gregory bent down, removed his boots and socks, reveling his long narrow high arched feet then undid his rope belt letting his pants and under garment fall slowly, deliciously to form a mound on the blood red Persian carpet.
The firelight and candles highlighted each counter of the man’s body, a sight of such exquisite beauty Boris had never seen before. His prodigious manhood began to rise between his legs like a cobra being called forth from a basket by an Indian snake charmer. His rod glowed red as it filled with lust. His balls churned in their hair covered sack and his heart pounded from like a parade drum. “Gospodi, I must have this man, I must make him suffer to torments of hell for making me want him” whispered Boris to himself.
“Now, crawl to me peasant, crawl on you belly to your master’s feet.”
Gregory, in a state of total confusion and terror and with trembling limbs dropped to the floor and began slowly to pull himself across the floor as Boris rose from his great overstuffed chair. Riding crop still in hand the fiend began to lash wildly at naked back prostrated before him. Again and again the blows from the sharp toothed lever left welts of fire across the pale smooth skin. Boris did not spare an inch of the lads back, ass or legs. The sound of stinging leather and the muffled cries of the servant could be heard far beyond the confines of the room now turned into hell. But the servants did not linger or come to the aid of the new servant for fear of finding themselves in similar circumstance.
Sweat sprayed off Boris’ chest and arms as he beat and beat his servant into near unconsciousness.
But in Gregory’s soul something began to rebel. The pain and the humiliation began to well up from deep in his spirit like a giant tidal wave of rage at the injustice he was suffering. No by heaven, even if it means my death I will not be used in such a fashion.
And so, like a mongoose attacking the cobra Gregory leapt to his feet and grabbed the riding crop from out his torturer’s hands. Boris taken by surprise stumbled back and like a mighty tree being struck by lightning reeled and fell hitting his head on the marble fireplace mantel. Death had come with the swiftness of a falcon descending on it’s prey thence to take Boris to hell.
Gregory stood frozen over the spread eagled corpse panting as though he had run many miles. But the sound of a crashing vase and the thud of a falling body had alerted Boris four compatriots. In a moment the door crashed open, the four rushed to their fallen leader then with shouts of profanity and horror laid siege to the naked lad.
“You’ve killed him, you devil” screamed Ari.
“Take him to the cellar. It’s you who will die now and your punishment shall be a long and ferocious one have no doubt” added Bunnin.
“Caspar, saddle up and bring the constable. We’ll string the peasant up so he doesn’t get away.”
Gregory, still in a trance let himself be dragged through the hall, thrown down the cellar steps and strung up without so much as a word or protest.
By the next day the local judge had declared sentence and a time of execution had been set for the following day. The murderer was to have hooks inserted into his chest, thence to be raised off the ground and beaten with the most fiendish instrument of torture known to man, the knout. And should he survive that ordeal he was to be pulled apart by four horses. The sentence was to be carried out before all the peasants on the estate.
Gregory’s brothers listened to the ghastly verdict in shock and rage while they tried vainly to comfort their sobbing mother.
Gregory spent the night with the local priest who mumbled meaningless prayers and platitudes to the trembling and terrified convict……
To be continued
Roster calls announcing the dawn of the dreaded day echoed through the surfs farm yards. Word had gone out the night before to all the hovels on the estate that the execution of the murderer was to take place at high noon. All work in the fields was to end in time for every man, woman and child to come before the manor house to witness the proceedings. It was with the greatest sadness that every surf heard the news for Gregory, his mother and brothers were held in high esteem in their isolated community but if it was God’s will, then so be it. At least it wasn’t one of their family that was facing such a gruesome demise.
Gregory, having not slept a wink met the dawn with pounding heart and a icy sweat drenching his body. Aside from the sheer terror of the ordeal that he was to face was the thought of the pain it would cause his family. At least it wasn’t one of his older brothers who were much better works and more of a support for his dear mother.
Now that the tiresome old priest was gone Gregory kneeled down on the stone floor of his cell and began to pray for the courage to face his execution like a brave servant. But a flood of fear and near nausea soon overpowered the young lad as he slowly sank further into the floor curling into a tight ball like an unborn child.
The sounds of heavy boots and the mutterings of that infernal priest startled him out of his agony. The door to the cell flew open and instant iron like fists grabbed his two arms and stood him upright. Gregory’s knees went limp but there was no danger of his collapsing again as the guards had a grip as they half dragged their charge into the blazing sunlight. Standing by the door was a hay wagon now fitted with a frame from which ropes dangled tied to the cross bar. Before Gregory knew what was really happening he found himself standing in the cart as his hands were tied to the ropes high above his head. Next free ropes were attached to his bare ankles and tied to the side posts, stretching his legs like a wish bone. The lad hung his head down not wishing to see the ugly faces of his tormentors.
“That should hold him till we get to the estate” said an unseen face.
A few more shouts, the sound of a horse whip and the cart began its grim ride from the center of town down the long rutted road to the Konstantin estate. And as the cart bounced over ruts and stones the tight ropes bit into Gregory’s wrists and ankles chaffing away at his pure white flesh. His hips throbbed in agony from their unnatural attitude while his hands and wrists ached as with a thousand stinging ants. Along the way more and more surfs came from the fields and shacks to follow the cart and mounted guards like funeral cortege. Only the clamping of the horses hooves and the tramp of rope shod peasant boots broke the stillness of the thick summer air. And when the procession passed Gregory’s home a wail of heartrending power could be heard as Olga and her two remaining sons rushed from the door headed towards the tumbrel. Only the quick action of the police escort and the laying on of whips prevented Gregory’s brothers from leaping into the card to free their younger brother. Pushed back as they were they soon went to their mother’s aid and joined the long procession.
And so the parade for torture and death marched ever onwards as Gregory hung by his wrists, sweat stinging his eyes, staining his now soaked linen shirt.
“Look up lad, there on the hill beyond, there is your gallows” ordered one of the mounted guards.
Unable to resist the temptation Gregory raised his head and what he saw turned his blood to ice. There some one hundred yards from the front of the manor house was a raised wide and deep platform upon which a wooden frame made from thick smooth white birch was attached. Fixed to the cross bar and secured by iron chains dangled two gleaming meat hooks used by the cooks to hang a Sunday roast over the fire. On a small rough wooden table from the kitchen garden was laid out the knout. The ends of each diabolical strand with their knotted and imbedded strips of razor sharp metal dangled over the edge like long flowing hair of some fiend from hell.
Standing on the platform and ready to receive the prisoner’s body and soul stood a black hooded figure, stripped to the waist, displaying his massive shoulders and hair covered chest to the sun and fully clad in long black ropes, no less intimidating for their mystery loomed the village priest.
Gregory took as deep a breath as his lungs could hold in a vain attempt to appear brave and fearless but his body would not be stilled. He trembled like a willow tree caught in a summer storm. Unable to control his terror his bladder began to empty leaving a pitiful stain on his crotch as urine ran down his leg pooling at the bottom of the cart.
In another instant of conscious time the cart stopped before the platform. More shouted orders were given, wrists and ankles were untied and the lad was lifted off the cart. Unable now to walk on his own, the guards dragged him up the four steps to stand before his executioner and the assembled surfs that had silently crowded tightly around. Only his mother and brother stood some yards away with tear stained eyes staring in mute horror at the unfolding spectacle.
In deathly silence the “executioner” step in front of Gregory and gazed deeply into the young man’s eyes. Gregory hung his head not wishing to return the devil’s stare and has his eyes washed over the chest before him he could not help but notice the third tit located in just the same place as Boris. He could at first not believe his eyes. His Tung stick in his throat, he could not breathe so amazed was he.
“Look at me” barked the masked man.
With these three word’s Gregory was brought out of his shock.
“It is you, you devil. It is Boris. You are not dead.”
The stunned Boris took a small step backwards, enough to be noticed by the crowd who began to scream and shout for the removal of the mask.
‘Silence or I’ll tear your tung out” shouted the exposed man.
“Wait, wait for the love of God” interjected the village priest.
“Let us see your face” shouted Gregory’s brothers from behind the crowd who were now rapidly turning into a frenzied mob.
The police escort stood on the platform in some confusion, clearly outnumbered by the angry crowd.
Boris, like the true coward he was stood frozen. He had over played his hand this time. His cohorts who had been in the crowd ready to enjoy the bloody spectacle how vanished leaving their master to fend for himself. The priest was the only one that might control the boiling throng. Only exposure of the truth would stop the riot.
“Yes you must remove your mask. Show the people your face so that we may proceed with justice or if the lad is right, repent and save your soul for thou shall not bring false witness” said the priest.
“Get back priest or you’ll be next” shouted Boris.
But the crowd now seemed convinced that there was some terrible miscarriage of justice stormed the platform like a giant wave of humanity. In a moment Boris was pushed down, his mask removed then dozens of hands and arms lifted him up so that the mob could see for them selves that the executioner was indeed their new master Boris.
“Free the lad at once” ordered the priest. The police now terrified for their own safety quickly undid the ropes and left Gregory to the arms of his waiting family.
Someone in the crowd shouted that Boris should meet the same fate as the freed prisoner.
Like locusts the peasants swarmed onto the platform chasing the priest and police in a maelstrom of fists.
“Strip the bastard” someone cried.
Boris screamed and struggled like the demon he was but all to no avail. Within seconds he was curled on the deck of the platform naked, trembling and nearly vomiting in terror.
“Stand him up and place him by the hooks” ordered another peasant.
No sooner were the words spoken then field calloused hands hooked into his naked flesh, dragged him to the center of the torture frame and prepared him for the first ordeal.
“Do it slowly” shouted an old woman in the crowd.
“Yes, little mother, fear not” responded an unseen voice.
“Damn you all to hell. The Czar will hear of this and you will all be burnt alive” screamed Boris.
But already his hands were being bound behind his back as an old peasant man grabbed the first hook in one hand and taking Boris right pectoral muscle in the other slowly inserted the fiendish hook just to the right of the struggling victim’s right nipple.
Slowly the sharp point penetrated the solid muscle beneath and wended its way under the tit to protrude on the other side. Boris screamed and howled and cursed at the searing pain but before he could take a deep breath to bellow again his left tit was hooked in the same manner, slowly!
Tears of rage sprang from his eyes, blood spurted from his lips where he had bitten his tongue. Like the fires of hell the agony raged in his chest. He felt his muscles were being devoured by seem awful beast but worse was to follow.
“Now lift him” cackled another in the crowd. The surfs stood a few feet away from their “Master” spitting and cursing his name. Their pent up rage from generations of servitude vomited forth from their mouths, their shaking fists, their curses.
Unseen hands grabbed the two ropes and with a might tug the ropes will pulled, the hooks found purchase in the muscle and slowly, inexorably Boris was raised higher and higher. Like a raging bull he panted, gasped and cried for mercy but no mercy was to come. He would not have shown an ounce of leniency to Gregory now he would pay the price for his cruelty and deception.
Blood began to stream crimson down his chest, matting his chest hair, running in streams down his down covered belly, flowing like a stream into a single river past his navel, his abdomen down the length of his prodigious cock and finally splashing onto the wooden platform.
“Clear the platform everyone” shouted Gregory, surprised at his own fury and willingness to take part in the orgy of pain and death. Let me at him. Give me the knout.
Clear the way, I shall send this devil to hell.”
“Do as the lad says” came the response from many of the surfs who jumped and ran from the scaffold leaving Gregory and the now half conscious Boris suspend and alone.
Gregory’s brothers had long since sent Olga home with a neighbor woman but they now stood by the edge of the platform ready to cheer on their youngest brother.
“Someone bring water. Bring him around. I want him to feel each stroke.”
In a matter of moments a wooden bucket filled to the brim was ice cold water from the nearby well was doused on the naked villain. Boris shook his violently spraying drops like a mad dog come in from the rain. With a look of indescribable horror he saw Gregory standing some six feet away holding the knout in his right arm. The lads heavily muscled arms and powerful shoulders should bright in the noon sun light. A hush fellow across the mob save the sound of Boris’ labored breathing. Then Gregory raised the knout and banged it hard against the wooden deck. The sound was like a giant oak crashing to the ground. Boris’ eyes bugged in his head like some ghastly insect. Sweat poured off his brow and covered his blood soaked chest. His body trembled and waved in the air as he prepared for the first strike.
The knout was raise in the air, circled against the luminous blue sky, its’ black strands and embedded metal screaming in the air then the blow. Eight of the thongs dig and ripped into Boris naked chest. Bits of flesh attached to the knouts blades tore into the muscle below. Boris let forth a wail like a soul damned to eternal hell fire. Again and again Gregory circled the knout in the air and landed it on ever new spots. By the third stroke Boris was screaming and babbling like a man possessed. The fourth strike lacerated his cock and balls, nearly severing one of his low hanging balls. Another strike hit him on his powerful thighs cutting into the arteries beneath the flesh. Boris began to slump forward lost now in a see of such overwhelming agony that he was no longer able to understand or feel. His soul prepared to leave his body, to descend, if there was any justice, into hell and serve as a slave to Lucifer himself.
“Stop Gregory, let him be now, lad” whispered his oldest brother Ari.
“Put down the knout brother. It is over” added Evgeny.
The crowd, satiated with their lust for revenge began to disperse. The three brothers silently made their way back to their hovel. Boris hung like the piece of meat he had become as crows cawed overhead.
The End