The Forbidden Relief of the Queen’s Slave

The heavy doors of the Hall of Trophies gave way with a dry groan. Inside, the air was a thick mixture of wood smoke, cold sweat, and flesh branded by iron. Eleonora, the court’s Chief Healer, crossed the threshold with the haste of someone who has learned not to linger when the Queen summons her. Behind her, her apprentice Inés carried two leather medical cases that weighed more than a novice’s courage.

The scene would have stopped any stranger cold. In the center of the flagstones lay Clara, the disgraced guard. Her right cheek was a smoking crater where the royal brand had melted flesh and fat. Her left arm, dislocated by a rebellion that had lasted less than a breath, hung at an impossible angle.

Beyond her, in the half-light between torches, rose the infamous Pillar of the Dogs. And there was Tomás. Suspended like a bundle, chained by the neck at a height that only allowed the tips of his fingers to brush the stones. The martingale collar, with its metal teeth, waited patiently for any weakness to bite into his trachea. His hands were cuffed behind his back. And between his legs, a hardwood humbler pulled his testicles down toward the floor, while inside the steel cage a ridged catheter kept biting into the torn urethra.

—The guard first —Eleonora decided in a neutral voice, assessing the room—. Even in disgrace, her life is worth more than the slave’s. The Queen will want to display her tomorrow. Inés, the cases.

The apprentice, knuckles white, rushed to Clara’s side. For an hour they gave themselves over to the former guard’s body with the cold precision of their profession. Eleonora cleaned the edges of the facial crater with macerated alcohol and purifying herbs, ignoring the groans. They set the dislocated bone with a dull crunch and splinted the arm between padded strips of wood and linen. She stitched the burn with curved-needle silk, drawing the healthy skin tight around the wound. They poured a dark elixir down her throat that plunged her into a deep, restorative sleep.

While science saved Clara, time preyed on Tomás.

Verena, the Queen’s favorite guard, watched him from the opposite wall with her arms crossed and a crooked smile that never reached her eyes. She was enjoying the spectacle. She watched each minute break the slave down a little more. She watched the calves, taut as bowstrings, begin to suffer involuntary spasms. She watched the shins tremble with that obscene dance of extreme exhaustion.

Every time a cramp forced his heels to seek the floor, the chain went taut and the teeth of the collar bit into his larynx. Tomás let out a choked gurgle and hauled his body back up by sheer will. Terror of suffocation was the only engine left in him.

Added to that sinister dance was the dead weight of the humbler. The constant pressure restricted blood flow to the testicles and threatened necrosis. And inside, the catheter. Every tremor of his legs, every gasp for air, shifted the pelvis by fractions of a millimeter. And with each micro-movement, the ridges scraped walls already raw, sending electric shocks all the way to the cerebral cortex.

Thick tears slid down Tomás’s soot-stained cheeks. Let it end, he begged in silence. Let me pass out, let me die, anything.

When Eleonora stepped back from Clara and left her bandaged and asleep, her gaze crossed the room to the Pillar of the Dogs. Her clinical expression hardened. The slave’s skin had turned a translucent gray. His lips were cyanotic, tinged with the deathly blue of chronic asphyxiation. The puddle of sweat at his feet was a dark mirror.

A flash of professional anger crossed Eleonora’s mind. She was furious with herself for having taken too long, not out of pity —pity was currency with no legal tender in that castle—, but because allowing a strong body to die from a poorly calculated torture was an insult to the craft. A broken toy stops being useful. The Queen would not forgive a ruined piece.

—Inés, prepare the iodine —she ordered without turning.

She walked determinedly toward the pillar. The slave could barely keep his eyelids open. His pupils, dilated, did not respond to the light. Eleonora raised her hands toward the padlock securing the chain to the upper ring.

But before her fingers could touch the metal, a brutal force shoved her aside.

Verena placed herself between her and the pillar. With a movement quick as a bite, the guard half-drew the dagger from her belt and let the steel catch the torchlight.

—You will not touch that chain —Verena growled, her eyes bloodshot with territorial fury—. The Queen ordered him to hang on tiptoe. That was the final disposition of the punishment. Lowering him would be disobeying a royal command.

Eleonora stopped dead. She looked at the blade, then at the guard’s fanatic eyes. She knew her place at court. Healers were indispensable, but not warriors. In a scuffle against one of the Queen’s trained hounds, she would lose before Inés could run for help. And Verena was formally right: contradicting a direct order about a captive’s posture was suicide.

But science always finds a way.

—Put the steel away, Verena. I’m not challenging the Queen —she replied in a glacial, almost calm voice—. But if this man dies of asphyxiation in the next half hour, or if tomorrow we have to amputate his testicles because of gangrene, you’ll be the one explaining to Her Majesty why her new toy was ruined so soon.

Verena frowned. Her grip creaked around the hilt.

—The Queen ordered him to hang on tiptoe —she repeated, stubbornly—. She did not specify how long he was supposed to survive like that.

—The Queen trusts me to preserve the integrity of her possessions —Eleonora shot back, stepping forward with unquestionable authority—. And I’m telling you his body has reached its limit. But don’t worry. We’ll respect the exact letter of the punishment. If I can’t lower the chain at the neck, then I’ll raise the floor.

Verena blinked, caught by the twisted logic. Eleonora did not wait for her to understand.

—Inés, to the royal dais. Bring every cushion, every bear skin, and every heavy blanket you can find. Quickly.

The apprentice shot off and returned carrying an armful of velvet cushions and thick wool blankets. Under Verena’s puzzled stare, they stacked an improvised platform beneath the slave’s trembling feet. Cushion on cushion, blanket on blanket, until the surface rose some fifteen fingers’ breadth.

Tomás’s soles, which a moment before had been agonizingly fighting for purchase, felt the brush of velvet. With a dull groan, his heels gave way. His feet sank into the firm padding. The brutal tension in his calves vanished. His knees bent slightly, relieved of the titanic effort.

But with that loss of height, the chain went violently taut. The martingale collar bit down and Tomás began to really suffocate, his cuffed hands pulling uselessly, his eyes bulging from their sockets.

—Now, the straps! —Eleonora shouted.

She opened the second case wide and drew out five broad buffalo-leather straps. They were restraint harnesses, the kind she used in the medical wing to immobilize the most violent psychiatric patients or support amputees without anesthesia.

Eleonora and Inés worked in sync. They passed the straps under the captive’s armpits, crossed them over his back, and fastened them to the same upper ring from which the chain hung. With both of them pulling at once, they tightened the iron buckles until the leather creaked.

They had improvised a suspension harness.

The biomechanics of the torment had changed completely. Technically, Tomás was still chained by the neck at the same height. But his torso’s weight no longer rested on the larynx or on the tips of his fingers. His whole body now rested on the broad straps, which cut off circulation beneath the armpits. The collar was still tight, yes, but no longer strangling him. And his feet rested flat on the pile of royal blankets.

Tomás let out a deep exhalation that was half sob, half pure relief. His head fell forward, his chin seeking his chest. He was defeated beyond all human understanding.

—A technical compromise —Eleonora said, looking Verena in the eye—. He’s still hanging and still trapped. But he’ll survive the night.

Verena snorted and put her dagger away with a sharp snap. The trick irritated her deeply; the loophole the slave had found to keep breathing burned her. But she could not deny that the healer had not touched the neck lock nor altered the chain’s disposition. She had played by the rules and won.

Eleonora was not finished.

—Hold his legs, Verena. You won’t like tomorrow if the stench of gangrene fills the hall.

With obvious reluctance, the guard stepped closer and wrapped her muscular arms around his thighs, pinning the pelvis against the stone. Eleonora knelt before the tormented genitals. The first thing she did was loosen and remove the humbler. When the blocks separated, trapped blood rushed back into the ischemic tissues. That return, which should have been relief, was a thousand-needle pain. Tomás writhed in the harness with a hoarse groan, but the release of that crushing pressure prevented morning castration.

Inés brought over a steaming bronze cup. It was a concentrated infusion of valerian root, lotus flower, and willow bark. Eleonora forced the captive to lift his head and poured the bitter liquid down his throat. He swallowed by instinct. Within minutes, the sedative would begin to relax the striated muscles and sink his brain into a thick fog.

But before the effect became complete, the most brutal task remained.

Eleonora fixed her eyes on the steel cage enclosing Tomás’s member. It was stained with dried blood. Around the catheter seeped a muddy, pinkish fluid.

—The iron was introduced unsterilized, after touching the floor and without lubrication —she explained, speaking more to herself and Inés than to Verena—. The ridges have created micro-tears along the urinary tract. That urethra is now a perfect breeding ground for sepsis. If the infection reaches the bladder and the kidneys, this man will die poisoned by his own blood in three days. The channel has to be purged.

She opened a cylindrical case and drew out a terrifying instrument. An old syringe with a thick glass barrel, plunger, and steel cannula. Not a needle for piercing skin, but a long, blunt cannula designed for deep irrigations.

She filled the cylinder with a reddish-brown liquid that stained the glass. Concentrated iodine mixed with astringent extracts of oak bark. An implacable disinfectant, designed to annihilate any bacteria on contact, at the cost of a searing sting.

—Hold him tight, Verena. It doesn’t matter that his feet are planted; the pain will make him jump.

The guard clamped her thighs like a vise. Eleonora brought the steel tip to the bloodied meatus of the slave. With millimetric precision she slid the cannula into the slit between the torn flesh and the cage catheter. Tomás, under the first effects of valerian, barely reacted to the invasion.

—This is going to hurt more than hot iron —Eleonora murmured.

And she pushed the plunger.

A powerful, freezing jet of concentrated iodine was pumped under pressure into the injured urethra. The dark liquid flooded the canal, sliding inside and around the ridges, soaking every millimeter of lacerated tissue, penetrating every micro-tear and chemically reacting with the blood and accumulated bacteria.

The impact was catastrophic.

If the insertion of the hot catheter had been a deep, dull tearing, the concentrated iodine was a red-hot knife made of liquid fire and acid. The chemistry cauterized the exposed nerve endings all at once.

Tomás’s howl was not human. It was the sound of an animal being flayed alive.

His entire body suffered massive spasms. He arched forward with titanic force, trying to flee the fire devouring his entrails. The cuffs dug into his wrists, the straps creaked under his armpits, his feet slid over the cushions. Verena had to throw all her weight into the hold to keep the slave’s pelvis from wrenching free of her grip.

The searing iodine ran through him, sterilizing, purging the filth with a purifying pain so immense the human mind simply refused to process it.

The scream broke into a gurgling rattle. The vocal cords gave way under the violence of the sound. His eyes rolled white. A second later, absolute darkness claimed him. The brain severed the connection.

The body went slack all at once, dead weight in the harnesses.

Eleonora withdrew the empty syringe. A brownish, foamy liquid, a mixture of iodine, blood, and plasma, began to drip slowly from the opening of the cage, staining the flagstones.

—That’s done —she pronounced, stowing the syringe with clinical coldness—. The tissue is sterilized. The iodine will keep burning for hours, even in unconsciousness, but I’ve saved his life and preserved his manhood for when the Queen decides to use him again.

She stood, wiping her hands on a linen cloth. But before she could give the order to clean up, the heavy doors of the hall burst open with a crash that made the torches tremble.

The Queen entered, wrapped in a purple velvet cloak over a black leather corset that squeezed her tits until they spilled over like ripe fruit. Behind her, two maids closed the doors and withdrew into the shadows.

—Healer —purred the monarch, letting her eyes roam over the improvised harness, the cushions beneath the slave’s feet, and the brownish pool on the stones—. I see you’ve been creative with my orders.

Eleonora inclined her head without lowering her gaze.

—I’ve preserved his life and cock for you, Majesty. The punishment’s posture has been respected in its letter.

The Queen let out a short, guttural laugh. She approached Tomás’s fainted body and lifted his chin with two gloved fingers. She studied the pallor, the blue lips, the drool hanging from the corner of his mouth.

—An unconscious toy is useless to me —she said—. I came to fuck, not to look at a corpse. Verena, wake him up.

The favorite guard smiled with doglike teeth. She pulled a vial of aromatic salts from her belt and smashed it under the slave’s nose. The pungent vapor hit Tomás’s drugged brain like a slap. His eyelids flew open, his eyes rolling in their sockets until they focused on the purple figure in front of him. A whimper of terror escaped his ruined throat.

—There’s my toy —murmured the Queen, sliding a gloved finger over the captive’s sweaty chest, down his taut belly, around the blood-stained steel cage—. Healer, take off the cage. I want the cock free.

Eleonora obeyed without protest. With a small bronze key she released the metal contraption’s clasps. When the steel came free, Tomás’s cock fell flaccid, swollen, purple from hours of constriction and with the meatus still stained with iodine and dried blood. A thick member even at rest, marked by the bars’ imprints.

The Queen took it in her gloved hand and squeezed. Tomás let out a hoarse howl, the pain of circulation returning suddenly to the tormented tissue.

—Chssst —she hissed, twisting her wrist—. Shut up and get hard for your Queen, slave. If you’re not hard in a minute, Verena will stick a needle in each testicle. Do you hear me?

Tomás nodded with whatever little neck the chain allowed. The Queen dropped her cloak, which fell to the floor with a whisper of velvet. Beneath it, the black corset cinched her waist and offered her naked tits, nipples dark and erect. The skirt of the corset was open in front, with nothing beneath the leather, revealing a shaved cunt already shining with wetness. The monarch did not bother to pretend: she had been hot since she crossed the halls.

She crouched before the suspended slave. The Queen’s face came level with the bruised cock. She stuck out her broad red tongue and licked from the swollen testicles to the wounded tip. The taste of iodine and blood made her lips curl into a perverse smile.

—It tastes like my property —she murmured.

And she took the whole cock into her mouth.

Tomás shook his hips against the straps in an involuntary spasm. The Queen sucked with professional hunger, her tongue circling the cauterized glans, her lips tightening around the shaft. She sucked noisily, leaving threads of saliva hanging between flesh and mouth each time she pulled back to lick the violet balls. Against all will, the slave’s cock began to swell. Blood returned to the cavernous bodies, the member rose hard and thick, marked and red, now pointing at the hall’s ceiling.

—Good slave —the Queen panted, saliva trailing from her chin—. I knew you’d respond. You’re a fucking trained dog.

Verena, leaning against the pillar, licked her lips as she watched the scene. Her hand had slipped beneath her leather harness and was rubbing her cunt with quick, undisguised fingers. Eleonora and Inés, standing two steps back, kept their eyes fixed on the floor, uncomfortable but not daring to move. No one left the Hall of Trophies until the Queen ordered it.

The monarch stood up. She turned and presented Tomás with her bare ass beneath the corset’s open skirt. She bent forward, resting her gloved hands on the slave’s knees, and spread her cheeks with her thumbs. Her pink, dripping cunt was left inches from the erect cock.

—Verena, guide my toy —she ordered.

The guard sprang closer. She took Tomás’s marked cock in her iodine-stained free hand and lined it up with the Queen’s wet entrance. The monarch dropped her hips hard. The entire cock sank into her cunt in one brutal motion, to the root. The Queen let out a guttural moan, mouth open, eyes half-lidded.

—Aaaah, fuck —she panted—. It still works.

And she began to ride.

She braced herself on the captive’s knees and started driving her pelvis up and down with violence, impaling herself again and again on the slave’s cock. Each descent tore a guttural moan from Tomás’s ruined throat: forced pleasure, the pain of the raw urethra, and the humiliation of serving as a fuck post all mixed together in an impossible storm. His cuffed hands writhed uselessly behind him. The cushions beneath his feet sank with each thrust.

The sound of sex filled the Hall of Trophies. The wet slapping of the soaked cunt swallowing the marked cock. The Queen’s ass hitting the slave’s thighs with dull impacts. Her guttural moans, his choking rattles, the creak of the leather straps under Tomás’s armpits each time the monarch’s weight shoved him against the pillar.

—Harder, slave —the Queen hissed, turning her head to look at him over her shoulder—. Fuck me like your life depends on it. Because it does.

Tomás, tears running down his soot-blackened cheeks, began to drive his hips forward, thrusting into her against his own burning insides. Each push sent a stab of searing iodine through his urethra, but it also buried his cock deeper in the royal cunt, and his body obeyed the sheer will to survive. The Queen let out an obscene laugh at the effort.

—That’s my dog. Fuck my cunt. Fuck it well.

Verena, unable to hold back any longer, unfastened her belt buckles and let her leather trousers fall to the floor. She climbed onto the cushions behind the slave, grabbed a handful of Tomás’s sweat-soaked hair, and yanked his head back violently. The neck chain creaked under the pull, but it didn’t matter: the guard had already swung one leg over the captive’s shoulder and was smashing her open cunt against his mouth.

—Suck, slave —Verena growled at him—. Suck my cunt while you fuck the Queen. And if you bite me, I’ll tear your teeth out one by one.

Tomás stuck out his tongue by pure survival instinct. He licked the guard’s soaked cunt, plunging his tongue between the swollen lips, searching for the swollen clit. Verena shoved her pelvis against the slave’s face and began grinding herself over his open mouth, smearing his nose and chin with her juices. Her free hand gripped his throat above the martingale collar, controlling exactly how much air she let through.

The Hall of Trophies had become an obscene altar. The Queen riding the marked cock with ever more brutal thrusts. Verena mounted on the captive’s mouth, squeaking with pleasure, shaking her tits inside the harness. Tomás in the middle, pierced by cock and mouth, chained and fucked from both ends, his suspended body turned into a piece of flesh toy for the two women.

—I’m going to come —panted the Queen, increasing the pace, her tits bouncing in the tight corset—. I’m going to come on your cock, slave. And you’re going to hold it. Don’t come. If you come before I do, tomorrow Eleonora will geld you. Do you hear me?

Tomás whimpered against Verena’s cunt, a sound of pure panic. The order was impossible. The cock had been tormented for hours, and the royal cunt was squeezing and swallowing it with demonic skill. Every thrust brought him closer to the edge. He clenched his teeth, shoved his tongue harder into the guard’s cunt, tried to think of iodine, of pain, of anything that would delay his release.

The Queen sped up. She drove his cock to the hilt, bucked on top of him, rubbed her clit against the base of the marked shaft. She let out a long, guttural moan, and suddenly her whole body jerked in a violent spasm. Her cunt sealed around the slave’s cock like a fist, milking it in waves. The monarch howled her climax to the hall’s ceiling, throat open, back arched.

That was the permission.

Tomás stopped holding back. His body, beyond his will, unleashed the orgasm that had been building for weeks of punishment. His cock shook inside the royal cunt and expelled thick jets of semen mixed with pinkish threads of residual iodine. Each spasm tore a muffled groan from him against Verena’s cunt, each contraction of the urethra burned with liquid fire, but the devastating pleasure pierced the pain and emptied his balls inside the Queen.

Verena, feeling the captive’s vibration beneath her mouth and the Queen’s obscene laughter, ground herself harder over the slave’s tongue. Two, three more pushes, and she came too, stifling her cry against her own forearm, flooding Tomás’s mouth with a thick, acidic flow that he swallowed by instinct.

The Queen rose slowly. The slave’s cock slipped out of her cunt with a wet noise, hanging downward again, dripping semen and juices. A white thread slid down the inside of the monarch’s thigh.

—Good toy —she whispered, patting Tomás’s soot-streaked cheek—. Good work, Healer. I want him ready again tomorrow.

Eleonora bowed her head.

—As Her Majesty commands.

The Queen gathered up the purple cloak, threw it over her shoulders without bothering to wipe away the semen running down her thigh, and left the hall with Verena staggering behind her, pulling her trousers back up over her still throbbing cunt.

When the doors shut again, Eleonora approached the slave. Tomás hung in the harness, chin to chest, cock dripping, his body trembling from the aftershocks of the forced orgasm and the cauterizing pain that was already beginning to flare again.

The slave hung inert in the harness, breathing shallowly under the effects of valerian and absolute exhaustion. The punishment collar still circled his neck, threatening but passive. His feet rested on the pile of aristocratic cushions and blankets, a macabre irony in the middle of the torment, now splattered with semen and royal fluids. The steel cage lay to one side of the flagstones, beside the puddle of iodine. He hung, in effect, like a tortured head of livestock waiting for dawn, his insides burning and his balls emptied.

She huffed in the darkness, visibly relieved that the scene had ended without the monarch also claiming her. She knew the chemistry would keep tormenting him from within all through the small hours. She knew dawn would bring the Queen back again. And when the monarch saw her toy healed and ready to be used once more, the real fun, the pain no elixir can cure, would begin again in the Hall of Trophies.