The room was dark. He was led into the gloom by two handmaidens. The air was choked with incense which made him almost faint. Four naked women, oiled and perfumed, sat eager to watch. He was roughly manhandled and stuffed into the aperture. His arms were bent to fit and his legs twisted into the runnels available to take them. The hatch was slammed shut and he was unable to move. This bondage was strict and final.
The government minister, front-bench spokesman on Money-Wasting and Time-Serving had waited for this moment for a long time. His erection was almost at bursting point. The mistress had had constructed the most dangerous and terrifying method of torture commercially available in the whole industrial world. The waiting list was years long. It was whispered about only in the circles of the richest and most powerful but remained a closely guarded secret. It had taken a lot of bribes and inducements to be told whose number to ring and when the minister had found out who actually owned the thing he was amazed to find that it was one of his regular dominas. It was a domina who had never even breathed a word about it until he was able to utter the secret ‘open sesame’ that had allowed him to enter a very private chamber where he was led to his next environment of pain and torment.
He was now trussed up and secured inside the golden calf. The metal animal was hollow inside, but small and cramped. The door was locked and he struggled to make himself comfortable. This was impossible. No sooner did he manage to stretch out an arm than his legs and torso were crushed. Trying to move laterally caused horrendous pain as his penis was clamped and fastened, his shifting wrenching it. It was fixed into a small aperture and stuck out of the calf, where its own penis would be.
Outside the calf, he heard a gas jet ignite. The metal began to warm up. Soon it would become very hot indeed.
This was, as so many were, an exact imitation of a torment of the classical world, although he wasn’t entirely sure which one. One of the things he had learnt before the door was closed was that the punishment would be the more severe until he could remember the tyrant who had originated this torture. No, it was not Perilaus’s Brazen Bull but a devilish variation used on captured slaves by a Roman Emperor. The animal had been heated ever more furiously and as the victim squirmed inside another slave lay down, carefully avoiding contact with the metal exterior of the bull and sucked the tormented one’s cock, driving him to a frenzy and timing it so perfectly that the moment of orgasm should exactly coincide with his death.
The heat was now very strong. The sides of the calf were hot to the touch. He tried to move, but only succeeded in pressing another part of his body against the burning metal. A cooling mouth fastened itself around his exposed penis, male or female he had no idea, making him want to breathe more deeply, stretch himself, but either of these alternatives made the pain more excruciating.
There was more to this than he had ever thought. This pushed even his capacity for absorbing pain to its very limit. The torture was brilliantly conceived as the combination of agony and ecstasy was perfectly poised. Was it perhaps one of Diocletian’s inventions? He thought to call this out, but his mouth was dry as desert sand.
The wetter mouth around his cock mysteriously withdrew. Outside there were sounds, heavy footfalls. What the suffering inmate did not know was that at that moment, following an anonymous tip-off, the vice-squad had invaded the inner sanctum. Had he known it, he might have regretted the fact that he had voted for the new tougher legislation against ‘unorthodox sexual behaviour’ in the Total Justice Enforcement Bill he was trying to get through in Parliament.
By the time his shouts of panic became audible outside his own prison the contrivance of the engine transformed them into the apparently artificial bellowing of a baby bull. The officers of the law ignored them. Knowing nothing of classical torture, they simply took it for a conversation piece, or merely a novelty gas-fire of some form.
The walls of the calf burned red-hot and his skin in contact with it literally roasted. His skin peeled off as it stuck to the metal, fizzing and spitting as it fried. The pain was wonderful, liberating and astonishing. Never had he experienced anything so intensely beautiful.
It was not the pain that bothered him.
It was the fact that there was now no escape.
He was definitely going to die.
The heavy footfalls receded into the distance. He thought the smell of burning flesh would have to attract their attention but then the incense came through to him and he realised that its very purpose was to disguise that smell, to overwhelm it so that it would not offend.
How could he possibly die? He was protected, surely? Only the spectre or Anthrax the sorcerer were able to decide to put and end to him, that was agreed. He called out for his familiars but heard nothing. The truth slowly dawned on him. There was only one way this could happen. The thought came through. Anthrax was dead. The Fomorian sorcerer whose Edenic body constituted the reality of a number of powerful individuals in governments around the world no longer had his presence felt. If Anthrax had died then his human allies that took their sustenance from his power were also doomed. Another thought chilled him. Had any of this happened as a result of the indigo pills he had given that prostitute Angelica? His mental anguish began to match his physical anguish.
The heat stripped the flesh off his bones, ripping the muscle and bursting the veins and arteries. The blood hissed into steam as it spurted onto the flaming metal. Then began the final stage, the boiling of his brain. He came with his sperm fizzing in space, consumed instantly by the flames beneath him. As he expired his sexual joy was inhibited owing to the fear of greeting whatever afterlife was left to him without Anthrax his protector.