The Emissary reached out and took the prisoner’s swollen sac into his hand. A gentle caress, but painful to the prisoner. He groaned piteously and began to sob again.
“N-no- please, no- ”
The Emissary rolled the prisoner’s balls in his hand. He could feel them pulsing, trying to retract from his touch, which meant they were still alive. He grinned.
“They’ve tortured you in all manner of ways, haven’t they? But not like this. No, most men don’t have the stomach for this. It was like that in the Middle Ages. All manner of horrific devices, and they would easily shove them down a woman’s throat or up her cunt, but they wouldn’t touch a man’s manhood.”
He pressed down on his cock, relishing the pleasure that sparked through him. So close, but not yet. Not yet.
“I’m not like most men.”
The Emissary released the prisoner’s sac.
“Who do you belong to? Who do you serve?”
“No,” the prisoner moaned. “No, I can’t. Please don’t.”
A little boy, begging to keep his favorite toy.
“Hail,” the Emissary said, drawing the word out for two syllables to give the prisoner a chance to join. “Come on, you’ve already done it. Hail- ”
“Please,” the prisoner whispered. “Please don’t.”
The Emissary did, crushing the prisoner’s balls against his pelvis. The prisoner retched, but he had nothing left to vomit. He whined like a dog, tears streaming down his cheeks. He looked like he was going into shock.
“Say it.”
“Hail- ” the prisoner choked on his sob. “Hail, Hydra.”
His voice was detached and defeated.
“Good.”
The Emissary was so close. He reached up to brush the hair away from the prisoner’s sweating forehead. The prisoner didn’t respond.
“One more time for me.”
“Hail, Hydra.”
The prisoner didn’t hesitate. The Emissary was proud of himself. Proud, but sad, too. This one had been particularly fun. The Emissary took the prisoner’s balls in his hand again, wanting to verify what he already suspected. The sac was cooler. He could tell that the organs inside were dead. Another exemplary specimen of manhood brought down by his own stubborn pride.
The Emissary allowed the wave of pleasure to take him over the edge. He shuddered through his orgasm, loving how good it felt without needing to be touched. Loving the dead testicles he was squeezing, and even loving their former owner. He couldn’t hate the prisoner anymore. The prisoner was pathetic. Pitiable. Broken.
“You should have said it sooner,” he told the prisoner once he’d regained his faculties. “Your balls are dead.”
“No,” the prisoner shook his drooping head. “No, you’re lying.”
The Emissary dropped the prisoner’s balls. He brought his knee up, but stopped before he made contact with the engorged sac. The prisoner let out a broken scream reflexively, and the Emissary laughed at him.
“I’ll do whatever you want! I’ll do whatever you want! Oh god, please- Hail, Hydra. Hail, Hydra!”
The Emissary laughed harder and turned his back on the prisoner.
“Goodbye, my pretty little eunuch. The doctor will be in soon to remove the dead flesh from between your legs.”
“No! No, it’s not dead- they’re not- I need them to- Hail, Hydra! Hail, Hydra!”
He cried out his new mantra like a prayer. Like Hydra would hear and deliver him from the fate they had orchestrated for him. The Emissary headed for the door as the prisoner’s hails began to break into gasping sobs. He could feel the room’s cloying heat for the first time, and he wanted to be out of it.
“Well?”
One of the guards asked him in German once he was in the welcome chill of the corridor.
“Tell the commander his asset is ready for him,” the Emissary spoke perfect German without a trace of any accent. “And make sure a doctor attends to it soon. Its testicles are dead and need to be removed as quickly as possible.”
“Ugh,” the guard shuddered with horror and his lip curled in disgust. “Alright, I will do as you say.”
“Hail, Hydra.”
The guards returned the Emissary’s salute with far less passion than the newly broken prisoner. That thought made the Emissary smile.
Fill: Busted (3/3)
“N-no- please, no- ”
The Emissary rolled the prisoner’s balls in his hand. He could feel them pulsing, trying to retract from his touch, which meant they were still alive. He grinned.
“They’ve tortured you in all manner of ways, haven’t they? But not like this. No, most men don’t have the stomach for this. It was like that in the Middle Ages. All manner of horrific devices, and they would easily shove them down a woman’s throat or up her cunt, but they wouldn’t touch a man’s manhood.”
He pressed down on his cock, relishing the pleasure that sparked through him. So close, but not yet. Not yet.
“I’m not like most men.”
The Emissary released the prisoner’s sac.
“Who do you belong to? Who do you serve?”
“No,” the prisoner moaned. “No, I can’t. Please don’t.”
A little boy, begging to keep his favorite toy.
“Hail,” the Emissary said, drawing the word out for two syllables to give the prisoner a chance to join. “Come on, you’ve already done it. Hail- ”
“Please,” the prisoner whispered. “Please don’t.”
The Emissary did, crushing the prisoner’s balls against his pelvis. The prisoner retched, but he had nothing left to vomit. He whined like a dog, tears streaming down his cheeks. He looked like he was going into shock.
“Say it.”
“Hail- ” the prisoner choked on his sob. “Hail, Hydra.”
His voice was detached and defeated.
“Good.”
The Emissary was so close. He reached up to brush the hair away from the prisoner’s sweating forehead. The prisoner didn’t respond.
“One more time for me.”
“Hail, Hydra.”
The prisoner didn’t hesitate. The Emissary was proud of himself. Proud, but sad, too. This one had been particularly fun. The Emissary took the prisoner’s balls in his hand again, wanting to verify what he already suspected. The sac was cooler. He could tell that the organs inside were dead. Another exemplary specimen of manhood brought down by his own stubborn pride.
The Emissary allowed the wave of pleasure to take him over the edge. He shuddered through his orgasm, loving how good it felt without needing to be touched. Loving the dead testicles he was squeezing, and even loving their former owner. He couldn’t hate the prisoner anymore. The prisoner was pathetic. Pitiable. Broken.
“You should have said it sooner,” he told the prisoner once he’d regained his faculties. “Your balls are dead.”
“No,” the prisoner shook his drooping head. “No, you’re lying.”
The Emissary dropped the prisoner’s balls. He brought his knee up, but stopped before he made contact with the engorged sac. The prisoner let out a broken scream reflexively, and the Emissary laughed at him.
“I’ll do whatever you want! I’ll do whatever you want! Oh god, please- Hail, Hydra. Hail, Hydra!”
The Emissary laughed harder and turned his back on the prisoner.
“Goodbye, my pretty little eunuch. The doctor will be in soon to remove the dead flesh from between your legs.”
“No! No, it’s not dead- they’re not- I need them to- Hail, Hydra! Hail, Hydra!”
He cried out his new mantra like a prayer. Like Hydra would hear and deliver him from the fate they had orchestrated for him. The Emissary headed for the door as the prisoner’s hails began to break into gasping sobs. He could feel the room’s cloying heat for the first time, and he wanted to be out of it.
“Well?”
One of the guards asked him in German once he was in the welcome chill of the corridor.
“Tell the commander his asset is ready for him,” the Emissary spoke perfect German without a trace of any accent. “And make sure a doctor attends to it soon. Its testicles are dead and need to be removed as quickly as possible.”
“Ugh,” the guard shuddered with horror and his lip curled in disgust. “Alright, I will do as you say.”
“Hail, Hydra.”
The guards returned the Emissary’s salute with far less passion than the newly broken prisoner. That thought made the Emissary smile.