The Captive Baron Broken by the Overseer

Overseer Maelvira smiled when she saw four guards drag to the entrance of the Muckpit the man who until not long ago had been the haughty, handsome, and powerful Baron Verlandt Kreshan. She was conferring at that moment with a lower-ranking overseer, and the spectacle struck her as an unexpected gift. The nobleman’s appearance was pitiable: heavy shackles on his wrists and ankles, his body naked, his skin crisscrossed with the marks of martyrdom. Rumor had it that Goddess Vharassa herself had personally wielded the nine-tailed whip, a rare honor few survived to tell of.

—Overseer Maelvira —the guard, huge and muscular, barely inclined his head—, we bring you a new resident of the Muckpit. And, as you can see, an honored guest. Ha, ha, ha.

—Well, well... —she approached the nobleman, who had dropped to his knees and was staring at her with pure, unbroken hatred—. The famous Baron Kreshan. You wanted to defy our Goddess and thought there would be no consequences.

—Bitch slave... —he spat with contempt.

A guard kicked him in the stomach. The baron doubled over and fell face-first.

—Enough —Maelvira ordered the guard—. Don’t hit him anymore. I don’t want you damaging him or preventing him from surviving here any longer than he himself would wish. Bitch slave? I am. I am a proud bitch slave of my Goddess, to whom my life belongs. But you won’t even be that.

***

She signaled the guards to hold him while the cyclopean gates of rusted steel, engraved with the Goddess’s symbols of power, began to open with a groan on their hinges. Maelvira put on her respirator mask, and her assistant copied her. The blast of stench that spread as the leaves gave way made the guards grimace and cover their noses. The reek was unbearable: a mixture of shit, rot, and all manner of waste. They dragged the baron through a large hall to two barred doors, beyond which a world of mud, excrement, and beasts could be made out.

The baron clenched his teeth. No, he was not going to beg. He would not give that satisfaction to the witch and her clique. He had only wanted to exercise his rights as a nobleman, and the Goddess’s spoiled favorite, the infamous Lirín, had denounced him after agreeing herself to be used. Damn it. They removed his shackles and threw him into the muck. The barred doors closed behind him.

—Rot there —a guard snarled at him, spitting through the bars.

—Don’t worry —Maelvira laughed behind her mask—. He’ll rot, he’ll waste away, and best of all, he’ll end up delighting in it.

***

The baron got to his feet and made his way with difficulty through thick, fetid mud to a wall of black, smooth stone. He leaned back and let himself sink down until he was seated. A few meters away, two huge pigs, larger than ordinary ones, watched him. He could not gauge the size of the place; from outside it had seemed big, but not that big. The walls were too high to climb, and along the battlements guards and overseers with masks and respirators strolled, enjoying the only pleasure life granted them besides worshipping the Goddess: watching and provoking suffering, degradation, and indignity.

—Hey, baron, are you comfortable in the shit? —one shouted from above.

—Come down here and see for yourself, son of a bitch, and tell your Goddess I curse her! —he replied, drawing on reserves he did not know he had, though the tortures had left him broken.

—Ha, ha, ha. Our Goddess doesn’t deal with pigs.

He fell asleep from sheer exhaustion, despite the nausea twisting his stomach. When he opened his eyes, he startled: a woman was on all fours in front of him, watching him.

—Different smell... —she said in a rough voice—. Uggg... uggg...

He knew she was a woman because her breasts swung as she moved, though her whole body was covered in filth. What caught his attention were her eyes: clean in contrast to the grime on her face, and completely empty, with no expression whatsoever. He shoved her away with a kick, but then a man appeared beside him.

—Weird smell... new here —he muttered, sniffing—. Mine... uggg...

The baron stood, bracing himself against the wall, mud covering him above the ankle, and kicked him.

—Get away, filth. Stay away from me —he shouted at them, desperate.

The two withdrew, and the baron watched in disgust as they snuffled through the mud and devoured something he preferred not to identify. Only then did he become aware of hunger and, above all, thirst. His throat and lips were dry. He let himself slide back to the ground. If they had not executed him, he reasoned, it would be because they intended to feed him somehow. Or not? He had to sleep. He had to conserve his strength.

***

They woke him by force. Three males had immobilized him and were driving his face into the mire. He was sodomized by the beasts and could do nothing but beg for them to finish quickly. When they left him lying in the mud, rage mingled with tears. He heard footsteps. He looked up and saw Maelvira, with her imposing boots and a black leather uniform that clung to every curve.

—Little baron... seems you’ve turned into a very appetizing little sow for the males around here, haven’t you? —she mocked him, showing him a bowl of water—. I imagine you must be thirsty.

—I’ll... kill... you... —he managed to say.

The overseer poured the water onto the mud, laughed, and walked away. The baron licked his lips, staring at the puddle. It was simple survival. If he wanted to live to take revenge, he only had to think about living. He crawled to the dirty water and drank. It quenched him.

He also had to feed on the rotten scraps the guards tossed over the wall. For the first time he fought over food with a pig and two creatures that had once been human: fetid leftovers that he devoured with the greed of someone who has not eaten in days, mixed with mud. He even bit the pig to make it move aside. Survive. Only that mattered.

***

The passing days showed him that it was more practical to move on all fours, so he stopped walking upright. One morning, the scent of leather made him lift his head. It was Maelvira.

—Looks like you’re adapting. First of all, the pigs and the other beasts haven’t devoured you. Follow me if you want to eat.

She turned and walked off. Eat. The baron licked his lips. He did not even consider that this might be another of her games; he only thought that if he followed her, he would eat. And he did. He crawled after her to one of the service gates in the wall. Crossing the threshold, he found himself in a room lit by torches, where six guards awaited him.

—Wash him and disinfect him —Maelvira ordered.

They threw him into a pit of water and scrubbed him with brushes like a beast. The baron remained passive; in his head there was only room for food. He did not know how long he had been in the Muckpit. Days? Weeks? It was impossible to tell: a perpetual gloom enveloped the place and made it impossible to count the passing of days.

They depilated his entire body, right down to his head, so that not a single hair would ever grow there again. They tossed him a crust of moldy bread, which he devoured. When they thought he was ready, they ordered him out, and he did so on all fours. Maelvira was waiting for him with a piece of meat in her hand, waving it.

—Very good, pig —she said, and let it fall to the ground.

The baron lunged at the meat and devoured it. The overseer stroked his scalp, aware of his progress. He no longer tried to stand upright, no longer insulted or spoke: he responded to basic stimuli.

—Is the meat tasty, pig?

—Yes... yes... —he answered, eating without using his hands, a habit he had acquired.

—And shouldn’t you thank me? —her tone was sharp, with no trace of mockery; she seemed to be demanding something reasonable.

—Tha... thank you —he hesitated for an instant, but his mind formed a brutally logical thought: if he showed gratitude, perhaps he would eat and drink again—. Thank you, overseer.

Maelvira, expert in these matters, noticed something else, and delight flooded her: the baron’s member was erect. It had been weeks, but she had done it. The proud nobleman felt such pleasure in being humiliated that his body no longer pretended, no longer responded only to fear.

—Are you happy, pig?

—Yes —he said no more; a new piece of meat filled his mouth.

***

The overseer smiled. If he only knew he was eating the female he had seen on the first day. The first phase had been achieved. The truth was she had lost the bet with her assistant: she had expected the baron to resist more, but he hadn’t.

—Good, pig. Tonight you’ll sleep here, out of the mud, and you’ll eat meat. But first you’ll have to beg me to let the guards use you, and you’ll have to be affectionate with them.

The baron thought for a moment. He had to survive. He had to accept. But survive for what? He wasn’t clear on that. The only certain thing was that the overseer was being kind to him, that he was eating and drinking, and that a strange arousal ran through his body because he knew she enjoyed it when he was used. She didn’t strike him with the rod; she gave him food and attention.

—Please, overseer, I want the guards to use me —he prostrated himself and kissed Maelvira’s dirty boots.

—Who are you?

—I’m a pig...

—Pigs don’t talk. I don’t believe you’re a pig.

—Oiggggh... oiggggh...

The guards took their pleasure from him with crude cruelty; no more could be expected of those brutes. Maelvira watched the scene from a divan, while a handsome slave licked her sex with delicacy and skill, a sex adorned with numerous rings in the lips, the same ones that had once been sewn shut with a chain to keep her chaste. The baron’s grunts and cries excited her as much as watching him subjected to the guards’ roughness, from whom they were rarely allowed to relieve their own heat.

The overseer reached climax, and her moans joined those of the guard who was finishing inside the baron’s punished rectum. She sighed deeply and pushed the slave away, who immediately sat back on his heels, gaze lowered and fingers interlaced behind his neck.

—My pig... did you enjoy yourself?

—Yes, my... —Maelvira’s boot on his face reminded him that pigs do not speak—. Iiiiggh... iggggh...

—How pathetic —she smiled at the baron’s obvious erection—. Well, guards, take him back to the mud.

The baron did not protest. He knew it was useless. They dragged him away without resistance.

***

—Mistress, has he been broken yet? —asked the assistant overseer.

—He’s close, but I don’t just want to break him, Doran. I want more.

—My lady surpasses herself every day —he made a slight bow and looked at the handsome slave, who still stood beside the divan with a lost expression—. And this one?

—Send him to his cell. Treat him well.

—He’s beautiful, my lady... could I...? —he cleared his throat—. I got aroused watching him eat you.

—No, you can’t.

And she walked away to her chambers, where she wanted to rid herself of the Muckpit’s filth. The room, functional and lit by lamps with a yellowish, dying glow, received her in silence. Two slaves helped her strip off the baroque black leather outfit and, at her command, hurried away to the cage at the back. They knew their Mistress was going to celebrate her rituals of gratitude to the Goddess.

She knelt before a mirror with a frame decorated with grotesque figures that seemed to move. In her right hand she held a whip; her back bore the traces of old flagellations. With the other hand she toyed among the rings that adorned her sex.

—My Goddess... thank you for allowing this servant to belong to you.

Swish, swish, swish. She lashed herself hard, and moaned with pain and pleasure as her fingers sank into her soaking sex.

—I offer you my pleasure with devotion, sublime Goddess. I am nothing without you.

Swish, swish, swish. At a measured cadence, she punished herself to honor her. Her hand clenched into a fist that dug into her grotto: pleasure and pain, pain and pleasure; in truth, it was all pleasure. Her back was scored with whip marks and blood, and she wept with emotion when in the mirror appeared the image of the Goddess with an unnatural, beautiful smile. Like a murmur, she heard her sweet, powerful voice: “My faithful and devoted slave, I want you to know that I love you, I love your soul because it belongs to me.” And Maelvira received the grace of a brutal orgasm that made her collapse, blissful to be the slave of so perfect a goddess.

***

The baron crawled through the mud alongside the other humanoid pigs. That day the pigs had eaten first, and the creatures were rummaging through the muck for the leftovers they had left behind. From the wall, water was thrown down, forming foul puddles, drunk from greedily. The baron had already crossed the line: he behaved like one more of the herd. A rotten apple, a stinking fish scrap, and, after fighting with two males, even a piece of meat of a provenance better left unimagined.

A female looked at him hungrily. She approached, pointed at the meat, and then turned to show him her ass. The baron understood instantly. His member reacted. The female stank, but he did too, and she was offering him her holes in exchange for food. With animal brutality, uttering a loud grunt, he threw himself on her and penetrated her with violent urgency, holding her by the waist. A flicker of lucidity made him aware of what he was doing, but he did not care, just as he did not care about the guards’ laughter or the overseer’s gaze. There was no pleasure, only animal relief. He tossed the female a piece of rotten meat, and she thanked him with grunts.

***

The day was advancing when Maelvira’s voice, amplified by a megaphone, echoed over the walls.

—Attention, scum. Filth. Beasts lower than the pigs you must honor. Your miserable existence can no longer be allowed to remain unproductive. You are nothing but part of the shit you crawl over, but our Goddess has ordered that you be given a purpose you will fulfill with devotion. From today on, you will collect your own excrement and that of your superiors, the pigs, and place it in the baskets we provide. The kingdom’s fields need fertilizer, and each day you will have to meet a quota. It’s simple, even for the stupidest among you: pick up shit, eat; don’t pick it up, don’t eat.

Baskets tied to ropes descended from the wall. The baron looked up at the overseer, imposing in her leather outfit and respirator mask, a figure so powerful he sighed with pleasure. He had a purpose. Perhaps, if he fulfilled it, she would be good to him.

Suddenly, beside Maelvira, a Muckpit male was hoisted up tied to a cross, in full view of the entire herd and the excited guards. She took the whip and punished his chest, his belly, his member, while the beast screamed in pain and, at the same time, shouted praises to the Goddess.

The baron, for a reason he no longer bothered to explain, wished he were in that “fortunate” man’s place, wished to be taken by the magnificent Overseer Maelvira. And, without thinking any further, he began to pick up the excrement with his hands and deposit it in the nearest basket.