Suffer

By DX

Copyrighted, 12/2025.  All rights reserved

 It was stiflingly hot in the courtroom, made hotter by the flickering candles, yet I shivered as the Lord Magistrate entered the room.  I pretended not to notice press of spectators behind me, craning their necks for a good view, their sweaty, grimy faces sneering as they mimed with a tilt of the head and lolling tongues to show how I would look as the noose pulled tight.

 I tried to ignore them as I reigned in my anger at their betrayal.  As a Countess I had used my wealth and position to build an orphanage and school.  The previous year I provided bread and dried meat to help the poor through a hard winter.  I paid for new armor and weapons for the guards and ordered them to patrol the streets at night and arrest scoundrels, cut purses, and ruffians within the city walls.

 To make the people safe.

 They forgot all that when they heard my crime.

 “For the high crime of treason,”  The Lord Magistrate’s voice was heavy and clear, and echoed in the great hall.  “you have been found guilty by the law of judges,”  The audience murmured when they heard the word, guilty.  “and I now sentence you, Elsbeth, Countess of Alwar, to Suffer!”

 The word wasn’t completely unexpected, but I collapsed in dismay as the gathered spectators cheered in jubilation.  As the Lord Magistrate pounded his gavel to silence the crowd, the brutish guards reached down and roughly grabbed me by my arms and hauled me to my feet.

 In my misery, I still felt radiant.  Through my tears and reddened face my deep beauty was still evident despite the iron cage locked tightly around my head and the cruel brank pushed deep into my mouth designed to keep me from defending myself from the charges, holding my vaulted vast wit and intelligence at bay.  My wrists, delicate and adroit, were clamped in irons and held to my waist by a rusting metal belt.  

 My crime was hubris.  

 I was fortunate to be born pretty, and to a household of wealth and title, but I used those things to help the misfortunate.

 I was the shinning gem of the King’s cotillion, a lavish affair filled with the nobles of the four kingdoms.  I wasn’t there just to be pretty, although they made sure I looked perfect, but to sway and dance and flitter like a butterfly from conversation to conversation, and quietly lay the ground work for future trade agreements and allegiances, while gently casting off the many, many proposals of marriage.  

 It was on the balcony overlooking the vineyard when my crime happened.

 Prince Arron, third in line for the throne of Manlor, hinted his marriage proposal, and I, looking for a way out, called upon Lord Belrick, diplomat of Regant who had wandered out for a bit of air.  As we chatted, Belrick rather boldly declared Regant’s army was indefatigable, and I in return casually bragged about the strength of the King’s Legion.

 In the four kingdoms, few could match Belrick’s cleverness, but it was just light teasing, my army’s better than your army—how could this be anything but vaporous words?

 There, that day on the balcony, distracted with Arron fawning for me, no one gave a second thought to my boast.

 Save Belrick.

 As I spoke to the strength of the King’s Legion, little did I, or anyone know, that I exposed a weakness.  

 Except Belrick.

 Where there is strength, there must be a weakness, and Belrick saw what no one else did; the weakness in the King’s Legion.

 Belrick later sold this information to the Kingdom of Gerrald, and as Regant’s custom (because information is currency, and all debts must be paid) sent me my cut for the lucrative transaction.  When I received the small box filled with gold coins I had no idea what it was for and I thought little of it.  People where always giving me gifts to gain my attention, and I didn’t even think when I handed it off to my maid to buy medicine and blankets for the poor house.

 It was all forgotten, until the invasion.

 When the Kingdom of Gerrald attacked and crushed the King’s Legion, the sordid affair was revealed, and those gold coins from the coffers of Gerrald were damning evidence of my betrayal.

 The King needed a scape goat, and since I had refused his offer to become his third concubine, I was as good as any.

 So he put me on trial.  

 With my head locked in a cage and a brank pressing on my tongue, I could only stand mute as paid witnesses, a fabricated document, and scandalous hints of a sordid love affair were presented.

 The public ate it up.

 They demanded blood.

 I didn’t stand a chance.

 Rain fell from my sky blue eyes, but I uttered not a sound as I mustered what dignity I had left and looked up to match the hard glare of the Lord Magistrate.  

 With order in the courtroom restored, the Lord Magistrate, his face twisted as if to spit, glowered at me, then slowly, slowly looked away, unable to match my cold, steely stare.  He glanced at his secretary, hoping the man would hurry.  The Lord Magistrate watched the quill scratching furiously across the parchment to annotate the order and ready it for his wax seal.  With it done, the clerk dusted the parchment, and laid it before the Lord Magistrate.

 “Ordinarily,”  The Lord Magistrate said as he waited for the attendant to heat up the sealing wax.  “a crime of this magnitude could only be resolved by a quick visit to the headsman and his dull axe.”  A small stupid grin crawled across his face.  “But your title forbids such punishment.”  He pressed his ring into the wax.  “Although, I’m certain, before this day is out, and everyday for the rest of your pitiful life, you will beg for the feel of his steel on the back of your neck.”

 The clerk held up the document, and although no one could actually read it from that distance, they cheered, and then cheered again as I tripped over my leg chains as the guards led me to the dungeons to begin my life sentence of suffering.

 The cold, damp air weighed on me as we descended down the poorly masoned steps into the depths.  Torchlights blazed and cast torrid, dancing shadows along the rough cut stone walls.  As my steaming breath curled about me, I struggled not to cry in her utter misery as they brought me to the chair.

 It sat like a dark throne in the center of a kingdom of torture.  It was made of stout, oaken timbers blackened and stained with dried blood, and had heavy iron brackets mounted to insure its strength.

 It was a thing of terror.

 The blacksmith’s thick fingers buckled my wrists, then forearms to the solid arms of the chair, then ran a strap across my chest, and another across my waist.  As he worked, his apprentice locked my ankles in stocks, then with a cheeky grin, reached up under my billowing skirt and locked stocks around my calves.

 Everything was heavy, everything was solid.  Even the strongest man would not avail against the chair; what chance did I have?

 None.  While even the thought of resisting was gone, I struggled non-the-less.

 Because I knew fear.

 Trembling, trying to be brave, I watched the royal surgeon approach, then watched as he laid out his sinister and macabre tools on the bench beside me.

 The Blacksmith removed the cage from my head, but before I could react and beg for some small mercy, the apprentice lashed a thick leather strap around my forehead to press me back into the grip of the hard head rest to keep me still.  As I gasped from the suddenness, the surgeon thrust a tool into my jaws and with a turn of a screw, forced my mouth as wide open as it could go, then a little more.

 And a little more.

 Gagging from the intrusion, I could only watch as the surgeon leaned over me with a long, thin, silvery tool in his hand.  As he slipped the tool down my throat, I could see his face, and thought the man was bored.

 The apprentice brought the oil lamp closer, and all three men peered down the dark hole of my throat.

 I gurgled as the tool slashed with a casual flick, and filled my throat with razors.

 My scream from the wicked pain was torrid and guttural, and I drove my fingers into the unyielding arms of the chair.  Instinctively I fought and thrashed, but could barely struggle against the immovable restraints.

 As my vision blurred with tears, I heard the apprentice comment, “So dems the vocal cords, yah?”

 Fire erupted within my throat as the surgeon slashed again.

 My scream was little more than a strangled hiss.

 Blinking fat rolls of tears from my eyes, I watched the surgeon’s assistant hand the surgeon another long, thin tool.  This one had been sitting in the burning brazer until it was an angry red.

 When it touched inside my throat, I thought it had plunged straight through my neck, and I could taste the burning flesh as the surgeon cauterized what was left of my poor vocal cords.

 Although I tried to be strong, I begged for the headsman’s dull axe.

 With smoke rising from my mouth, the bored and disinterested surgeon took up a pair of grips and quickly seized my squirming tongue, sending shock waves of pain through me.  He held out his other hand expectantly, but his assistant was busy sliding a blade across a wet stone.  The surgeon clicked his fingers impatiently, and the assistant took a half second to wipe the grime from the scalpel before handing it over.

 The surgeon tugged hard at my tongue and stretched it as far as it could go, then carved into the roots of the fleshy muscle with indifference with the half sharp knife, as if he was simply carving meat for his dinner.

 I choked and gurgled on my own pooling blood as the surgeon cut the last stringy bits to sever my tongue from my mouth.  As I began to drown in blood, the assistant handed the surgeon the glowing iron brand fresh from the fire.

 The stink of my boiling blood and burning flesh was thick and foul.

 I fell into darkness until waking vapor pulled me back with its icy perfume.  Blinking to consciousness, I looked around confusedly.  The surgeon and his assistant were gone, the Blacksmith’s assistant was giving a curious sniff to the vial of waking vapor before reeling back from his vicious scent, and the blacksmith was laying out an assorted array of pliers, each one more terrifying than the last.

 He selected the last one.

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Copyrighted, 12/2025, all rights reserved
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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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