The Last Request

By DX

Copyrighted 10/13/2025, all rights reserved.  

It was utterly dark.  

He was chained outstretched across a pile of broken bricks, with enough slack to rattle them but no more.  Nobalis lay on his back, and the craggy, unyielding surface pressed painfully into the layers of bruisings and seeping infected scars.  He could only lie there in agony; for hours, perhaps days, keeping track of time impossible, unable to sleep, unable move, until they returned.

Light flared a line across the floor before it swelled up into a sharp slice in the darkness as the clank of iron squeaked and the locks threw back.  The door opened.  The light filled the room and revealed Nobalis was in a room of rough stone, in the deep, forgotten bowels of the castle.  All around the chamber were instruments of pain and suffering and torture.  

The women had returned.  

Nobalis tried not to mew pathetically, tried not to weep at the sight of them, tried not to plea for mercy which would never come.  

He failed.  

They had already ripped his teeth from his head, then shaved down his tongue until it was not even a stump, so his cries for compassion were only inarticulate mumblings.  He was naked and exposed, and could only struggle feebly against his hard shackles.

The women carried torches in one hand, and bamboo rods in their other.  They were naked, save for a black kerchief wrapped over their mouth and nose and slippers on their feet.  They paraded around, fawning, cooing, and jiggling their breasts at him.  After a complete circle of the crying man, the women placed their torches into sconces mounted on the walls.

They clambered over him, stroking him with their breasts, their warmth, their softness.  One, Olive, he had named her because of her dusky skin, straddled him, and gently slid her oyster across his naked manhood.

He stirred as her womanly flesh tickled him.  She drew faster, and faster until he found himself building, growing, a moment of joy in his horrible suffering.  He tried not to allow it, tried not to give in to the trick she always played.

He failed.

When he was hard and twitching, she stopped.

And the beating began. 

The bamboo rods struck his turgid member spears of pain throughout his groin and he quickly deflated.  They then began to strike his body, his arms and legs, everywhere until their bodies glistened with sweat and their wind rasped in their lungs, before they paused to catch their breath; and in the lull, Olive approached him, and slid her foot from her slipper.  She pressed her foot against his egg and pressed down until he squirmed in pain.  With her toes, she pinched his skin, trapping his plum, and with a slight shift of her weight, sent waves of agony through him.

It was her favorite thing.  She had done this many times before, but once she had caught his fruit perfectly, and was able to bear her full weight on it, then with a mischievous smile in her eyes, gave a little hop, and his egg broke.

The pain was absolute and terrible, and Nobalis screamed and screamed as the women laughed raucously.  Elated, Olive went to take his remaining little stone, but one of the other women, Anne he named her because of her strong eyes, shook her head no, so Olive contented herself to just enough pressure to make him cry.

And he cried.

Their energy returned, they resumed striking him with the bamboo rods, cycling through as one grew tired.  Quickly his welts flared as his bruises layered, and the beating went on until the bamboo rods began to splinter and fray into sharp, spiny brooms.  The bristle edges, sharp and serrated, cut him with hundreds of thin lines webbed across his skin and his blood began to spray into a fine mist, spattering the sweaty, laughing women until the rods broke apart in their hands.

Then Anne brought a jar of salt around and each girl reached in, scooped up a handful, and proceeded to cover Nobalis.  The rubbed into his millions of tiny cuts, and turned his world into fire.

They removed his shackles, rolled him over, and re-shackled him to his bed of broken rock.

Their torches were burning out and the room was dimming, and darkening.  Olive lit a candle with the last of the torchlight, and the women formed a line and left the room, locking the door behind them and leaving Nobalis in complete darkness.

He didn’t know how long he had been there, tortured every day, several times a day by these women.  It felt like years, or perhaps all his life.  He couldn’t remember a time when he wasn’t suffering at their hands.

In the darkness, however; alone in his suffering, he remembered that day.

The court was silent, save for the quick, scratching sound of the recorder’s quill across her parchment, as Magistrate Sommers paused to collect his thoughts.  Grimly, he reached across his desk for his black cowl, and slowly, carefully, put it on his head.  He then looked up, and his eyes slowly scanned the room, before settling on a man in chains standing on a small flat dais in the middle of the room.

“Lord Nobalis Soia,”  his voice, loud and low ground like a miller’s stone.  “you have been found guilty by a cadre of your peers, and I now sentence you in accordance to the law:  You are to be stripped of lands, title, and all worldly possessions, and now be taken to a place of torture, and at the end of six months, your miserable life will be wrung out of you as you hang by the neck until you are dead.  You will then be beheaded, and your head secreted to an unknown location so you will spend the rest of eternity searching for it.”  He paused to let the recorder catch up.  “In the name of the King, let the punishment be carried out!”

The court roared with approval, and the bailiff rang a bell to restore order.  As the din quieted, Nobalis shouted above the crowd.  “And what of my last request?”

The people booed and sneered until the judge silenced them all with his terrible gaze.  He then looked at Nobalis, his eyes like daggers.  “Denied!”  He barked and the crowed cheered.

Nobalis shouted back.  “You cannot deny a man’s last request!”

Silence fell like a blade as the judge leaned forward, his lips bent in deep frown.  “I just did!”  He waved sanctimoniously.  “Take him away!”

“You can’t deny a man’s last request!”  Nobalis’ voice was drowned out from the roar of the crowd as the guards dragged him from the court.  Nobalis struggled against their strong grip and he called out again, but a guard stuffed a rag into his open maw and cinched a leather strap around his head, tightly gagging him with it.

They brought through a maze of hallways and hidden stairs, down where light had never dared to go, to the dungeon reserved for the villainous of villains, and hung him in chains by his wrists.

They stripped him naked, then left him to dangle.

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Copyrighted, 10/2025, all rights reserved.  Story may not be reproduced.
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