Synopsis: Dima has feelings for the village heart-throb, but with one complication: this person has been branded a traitor. Will there be justice? SHORT STORY - COMPLETE
Introduction: Hi, this is my first story ever on this forum. I hope you enjoy--honest feedback is appreciated. Contents: M/M, violence, sexual torture. Don't want to give too much away, so I'll leave it at that.
Misha the Traitor
Mikhail was a gorgeous young man. I thought so. Hell, the whole village did. It was unusual given the ravages of civil war that our region had experienced. The tentative peace, but lack of aid from neighboring countries meant that nearly all of us were impoverished and starving. We were alone. However, as structured as life can be here, I’d like to think the system our elders have established is a just one.
Mikhail was an uncommon gem. His skin and hair had a smooth luster to it, and his arms and chest were defined even. He had a kind face, and when he smiled his freckles were the most of a blemish on him. His toned body had a health and vigor to it that was unnatural indeed. Yeah, you guessed it, I was obsessed.
The thing about Mikhail (I called him Misha in our familiarity), is that he just didn’t fit in. A majority of the men wanted him, and just about any married woman was suspicious or resentful of him. However, Misha hadn’t expressed any interest in anyone, though his cheeks gained a reddish hue at the topic of courting.
I wish I could gauge how he felt.
Anyway, it was during a month of traditional fasting, a time when everyone tends to get a bit edgy, that Misha was outed. I must say, it came as a surprise to all of us. I had seen him stepping out of his home without a flame, but the harvest moon was so full that night he didn’t have need of it. He had an air of caution about him, and was heading away from our watchtowers. He couldn’t have been scheduled for lookout. I casually mentioned this to the our mates in the duty section next door, who were still awake. The guys found it strange enough that they insisted we follow him. Our search ended near the deserted grain-shed at the border, where we heard muffled noises radiating outside.
Zeke, the most stealthy among us, was nominated to investigate. He cracked the door just enough to where from yards away, where we hid in the brush, only a sliver of light was showing. He rushed back to us quickly, tripping over his words, whispering something about Misha being attacked by an enemy soldier. Determined to protect him, those of us who had daggers reached for them, and the lot of us burst into the shed.
Misha was naked, held down. His legs were clenched around the soldier’s hips as this larger man pistoned in and out of him. Our group pulled the assailant off, just as his cock began coating Misha’s stomach and thighs. Disgusting. In fact, the attacker was still spurting as we collectively jabbed him with our knives, leaving his body lifeless on the floor.
“Are you okay?”
Bewildered, Misha blinked tears from his eyes. He was shaking like a leaf as we assisted in lifting his nude, shaking form from the floor. He covered his mouth with his hands as we surveyed the scene.
“Why did you do that. You didn’t have to do that!”
It was only in sifting through the soldier’s pack, that we learned the truth. This soldier had brought quite a lot of food preserves, a crisp tunic nowhere near his size, maybe Misha’s? A small filagree ring…
At this point, it was clear enough to all of us what had been happening. Misha had feelings for this man. My mind raced. Was there a way to keep this secret? It pained me, but there are no exceptions to the law. If I alone had discovered him, I might have yelled at him, and told him to never speak of this again. However, among five acquaintances, this was a matter for the elders to decide. If any of us ratted that we tried to hide it, we could all face punishment.
In tacit understanding, our group took Misha back to the village, naked as we had found him.
The next day I saw him again, chained to an eyebolt in the concrete near the central square. Guards were posted, and the word was that the elders were to hold a trial.
At this point, news of what had happened had spread to everyone, and those who wanted to see him with their own eyes, who couldn’t even believe it themselves, came to look at the vulnerable youth. Some spiteful men and women threw rocks at him, but the guards grew wise to this, and established a perimeter. With our justice system, it was agreed on that they wanted his body to be in good shape for his verdict.
Of course, the men of the village came by to gape at him. With only a steel collar and chain, he did his best to cover himself with his hands, but his pink nipples could be seen clearly. The sight of his taut little ass and the occasional glimpse of his undersized cock, tucked in its foreskin, was worth waiting for. Other teenage boys were overt in spending a good part of the afternoon looking at his quivering flesh, getting an eyeful of a body they envied.
When the sun had passed its peak in the sky, a cluster of guards from the courthouse arrived to unchain Misha. Spectators were gathering to see the commotion as the men leaned him at the waist over the edge of a nearby well to steady him. Using a length of rope, they secured his wrists behind his back. Misha, seeming a bit confused, did not resist. The strength of the men were beyond his capacity to fight as it was.
With a guard astride each side of him, and more behind, Misha was to be escorted to the Penance Hills. We straggled behind in a disorganized cluster, a reverent parade, up and around the winding, narrow road to the fork. The rocks must have been tough on his bare feet. He would often wince, and slow down, but had the keep pace with the lead around his neck.
Guilty or not. Right or left. It is only when we hit the fork at the cleft of these hills, that the verdict of the accused is announced to all. It was met with gasps--He was to be an example. It was at this juncture that the reality of his punishment sunk in, and Misha began to struggle at his bonds. The guards were stoic. Apparently, this was just another mundane day for them. They dragged his diminutive form to the barren plot where no plants grew.
At the top of this western hill, there are several posts that are embedded deep in the ground. They are placed in order of height with yards of space between them. Misha wasn’t very tall, but not super short either. The guards stopped at the third post. The compact soil around us smelt of musty iron from the old blood spilled on and around the wood, which was stained black from wear.
As the guards edged their him closer to the post, Misha became hysterical, and attempted to tear away from their rough grips on his arms. He writhed to break their hold in a last attempt to break free. It was a waste of energy, and moments later he stood before the post, tears streaming down his face as he spoke out to the crowd.
“Please, our love wasn’t a crime. We weren’t hurting anyone. We weren’t…” His eyes widened upon observing the post being haphazardly doused with oil.
Regarding the post, I’d say it was almost as thick as my fist, and very straight, though there were a few ridges on its surface. There were no splinters or rough spots at all given the years of wear. The end was gentle and rounded; which was intentional. The rounded end meant it would be more of a torture as it seated itself within him.
As the last of our peers surrounded the post at a respectful distance, as a matter of tradition, one of the guards removed a glove, and rubbed oil between his fingers. The purpose of this exercise is to prove that the accused is non-repentant, in that they are capable of arousal at their treatment. As the bailiff, who had straggled along with the rest of us, read through the technical terms for Misha’s convictions from yellowed parchment, the guard proceeded to peel back Misha’s foreskin, and massaged him to hardness under the witness of everyone.
One could tell the guard enjoyed this part of his assignment, as he worked Misha’s cock in a slow, methodical fashion. Misha bit his lip, shaking his head.
“Please, don’t touch me. Stop it!”, which was met with jeers.
Another guard stepped behind him to hold him steady, and tweaked his nipples roughly, much to the titillation of the onlookers. The bailiff spoke to Misha, but also as an announcer to the crowd that if the boy did not declare when he was about to cum, that in the event he did not restrain himself before the proceedings, that he would be subjected to 10 lashes of the bull whip.
“Understood?” This prompted a sob, and a nod. A tedious 10 minutes later, and through clenched teeth, Misha’s hips were twitching abortively, and he panicked aloud that his body couldn’t take anymore.
At the direction of the bailiff, the guards positioned themselves on either side of him to wrap their arms around Misha’s legs in a firm grasp. He wriggled to get free, and appealed to them, to all of us, for mercy. I felt a pang in my heart. Here was someone I’d grown up with, hunted with, gotten into petty arguments with. My true feelings were unrequited, and as I swallowed, I felt as if an unripe fruit had hit my tongue.
Misha’s legs were spread slightly by the men and a third hired hand, who had blended with the crowd stepped in to wrap his arms around his waist from behind, obtaining a grip Misha couldn’t escape. With a synchronized effort, and a three-count, the men lifted him over the height of the post, positioning his legs on either side in what would amount to an impalement.
Misha looked horrified, but at the same time, his hard little cock throbbed with his heartbeat. At this point the last guard stepped forward, and guided the body of the condemned over the post. Using all the fingers of both hands, he reached to spread Misha’s cheeks wide. He screamed at the feeling of the man’s rough nails, which were digging at his cheeks to expose his hole.
The tip of the post—if we could call this monstrosity a tip, was at this point settled at the entrance to his hole. With a slow, practiced motion, his body was lowered, and he let out a scream. As some length of the post slid into him, the displacement could be seen as a silhouette within his lean belly. As he felt the post invade him, he continued to scream in a mixture of terror and pleasure. A mess of cum spurted onto the ground in front of him, and he openly sobbed.
“Stop! Don’t look at me, NooOoo…”
It was with unexpected brusqueness that the men let go of Misha’s body. No longer supported, the post sank deeper inside him than any lover ever could. He writhed in pain, and his legs flailed, but he managed to find support, however unstable, on his feet. Tears streamed down his face, reflected by the sunset. Without any assistance, he wasn’t going anywhere with his arms bound as they were. Quite the predicament.
At this point, the boy was hyperventilating, but remained still. The flailing of his body on the slide down must have torn him. A fair amount of blood streamed down from between his legs, lubricating the stake even more. Misha’s face was contorted in pain, but he appeared to have regained some bearing. With trembling legs, he positioned himself on his tip-toes to prop his body higher. This made a slight difference in lifting the poor boy’s weight, and to relieve the penetration which had settled itself deep in his bowels, if only slightly.
The villagers gathered around to watch the boy, and to listen to his pathetic whimpers as he struggled against impaling himself further. The hands behind his back were bruised from his fighting this process, and were red from lack of circulation, but otherwise he was able to move in whatever limited way he could. He continued to cry out for mercy to the people that watched him in sick fascination. No mercy was given, though for some, I could tell they felt as I felt. This was like kicking a puppy. I felt a strong urge to comfort him, but justice was paramount. The consequence for interference would be to accept the same treatment.
As dusk deepened, the guards departed the hill as the crowd began to thin. However, a portion of the villagers remained. Many of the men who stayed had lust in their eyes. Misha was a source of voyeuristic pleasure to them. Seeing his perfect body stuck on the pole, at a high vantage point from the crowd as he shivered and gasped in throes of pain—it was a rare delight. A number of younger, horny men surrounded him more closely to observe every aspect of his condition. His chest quivered, legs taut from strain, and lungs expanding and contracting rapidly. He panted like prey in the maw of an alpha predator.
An hour went by rather quickly, and Misha’s sweaty skin glistened with fatigue. The trickling of blood was slow, but steady. In his weakened state, he accepted the inevitable, and sank to the balls of his feet as slowly as possible to minimize the rod tearing into his body further. All knew that this was foolish on his part. If he were practical or if he possessed any pride at all as a man, he would be accepting of his sentence. While his strength was up, he should writhe and wriggle to drive the stake as deeply as possible so as to bring on a quick death.
Perhaps Misha was holding out hope that he might survive this trial. Or maybe he was reacting out of instinct to hold on to the bitter end. Whatever the reason, he had stopped the burrowing stake from penetrating any vital organs. If he managed to hold out for days, he might die of sepsis, dehydration or exposure to scavenging birds. Would it be days or minutes?
Darkness fell, and all but a small handful of us departed. We lit a fire, and remained to drink, watch, and observe. The drink helped. Misha’s knees were bowed wide to accommodate the pole, and his cries had died down to soft sobs. His head hung down, his matted hair clinging around his forehead. His nipples had hardened as it got colder, and he breathed in rasping gasps because drawing air required use of his diaphragm which was feeling the pressure of the stake. There would be no sleep for Misha, lest the pole press through this barrier.
With less supervision, a few in the group got bolder under the cover of night. Some of the guys openly masturbated to the sight of him, even daring to spurt their seed at his feet. I wasn’t that shameless, and I think it’s because despite feeling so damned jilted, I felt it was wrong. I should have been more forward. I should have made him mine. At the least, I should have noticed sooner, and shielded him from the others.
Misha, couldn’t you have loved me back?
There were some nights alone that I touched myself that way. Always thinking of him, but not like the others. They wanted to sully him. I loved him as he was. I realized it that time near the lake when I went to fetch that basket that auntie had forgotten. I took the long way back past the mill, and saw him bathing in an alcove all alone. I didn’t mean to spy, but the way the water flowed over his lean frame as he rinsed his hair. He had such an ethereal presence; like a water nymph. He was so carefree as he reclined on that large rock to dry. It awakened something in me, and from then on, whenever Misha would speak, his eyes bright with delight at an amusing story, my own eyes would be drawn to his full lips.
Then there was that afternoon when we watched the clouds go by.
Remember when you dozed under the mottled shade of that large Poplar? There were butterflies in my stomach as I grazed my palm over your cheek. The perturbed fluttering of your eyelashes stopped me from going any further while you were unaware. I was scared, but I should have kissed you.
The fire collapsed to a low flame as it died down, and it was only we who remained. His family hadn’t been present at all, lest their presence be misinterpreted for sympathy. Honor to one’s household was a delicate matter. I approached Misha’s clammy body, orange in the light, covered in goosebumps. With great care, I dared to touch him for the second time ever. He stared at me in a daze, and leaned his head into my hand in search of comfort. He flinched when I explored where the wide pole had entered his body. I traced his stomach, where his ruined intestines, and the wooden stake beneath it could be felt.
“P-please Dima…”, he rasped, “Help me.”
A sinking feeling of guilt churned in my belly, and my throat got a sudden, watery feeling. I had to step away to puke, and returned to the fire for fear of it welling up again. My body shuddered as I swiped the spittle from my mouth with a dirty sleeve. As my eyes fatigued, I lay down, but my stare held fast in silent vigil for Misha, blurry but visible through the miraging heat of the glowing embers.
I’m not sure how or when I fell asleep in such a state, but in a blink it was morning. I was jolted awake by a garbled scream. Some of the villagers had returned, and Misha was near motionless on the stake. His legs looked limp below him, and his breaths sounded wet and shallow. I approached him once more, and no one acted to stop me as I pushed his straggled hair from his face. His eyes were so dull, but they made contact with mine, and he gave a faint smile as if we were sharing a private joke.
At about noon, just when I thought I couldn’t watch anymore, his breathing stopped. I haven’t gone by there since. Though I wouldn’t dare say such a confession aloud, I intentionally avoid the place. I try not to think about it either, because the guilt at what happened still haunts me. As much as I wish I could run away, I hear his body was left on that hill to rot as a warning to those of us who would think to betray the village.