A Crossover S/M Novelette
by Kirk Brothers
Box 76382
St. Petersburg, FL 33734
All Rights Reserved
Please take notice that this is a HORROR STORY that will offend most men, and shock most women. It is of a genre that I have dubbed a "crossover S/M novelette", by which I mean a non- pornographic story involving sadomasochistic characters.
In any well-written fiction, plot events must be motivated by its characters, who must have credible personalities--no matter how unlikable. Most S/M novels are simply overt erotic fantasies aimed at a narrow group of readers with special fetishes, for whom erotic stimulation is the end in itself. Such stories make no pretense of realism or redeeming literary value.
The "crossover" element herein lies in the fact that this tale was written for a wider audience than that for purely S/M stories-- readers who need not find its "pornographic" fantasy appealing. In crossover stories the S/M element is a necessary plot device, not the end in itself.
The horror of SHAMAN'S PENANCE is derived in large part from objective narration concerning acts of "lunatic-fringe" cultists whose minds have been warped by their bizarre beliefs. The plot was suggested in part by news accounts of life inside the commune of the Branch Davidians in Waco, Texas, before its spectacular destruction on April 19, 1993.
That cult was led by the late David Koresh, a Bible fanatic who advocated and practiced corporal punishment for "sins". It was reported that Koresh had a "spanking room" on the compound, with two of his strongest men on duty to whip, paddle or cane the but- tocks of any cult member--male or female--who was sent to them by Koresh for discipline. Such floggings were alleged to have occurred almost daily.
The implicitly _s_e_x_ual element in such punishment may be clearly seen in one episode reported by the news media. Koresh reserved the right to flog any sinner himself--before all other members of the cult--to set an example. On one occasion he repor- tedly whipped a 14-year-old girl because, he said, the Devil was making her misbehave. Her whipping, with her parents and friends all watching, was said to have lasted a full eight hours. Any normal person would deem such a reality to be horrible, not erotic.
A secondary plot element was suggested by an entirely unre- lated account of perverted religious practices. That news item concerned a cult in Utah which allegedly used children in nude rituals requiring them to swallow urine and feces--presumably as a Satanic mockery of the Eucharist.
In addition to drawing upon these journalistic sources, the author was personally acquainted 20 years ago with several gay men who practiced witchcraft. Thus this story--which many will find utterly appalling--concerns a cult of gay male witches and their sadistic Shaman. The author's self-appointed challenge was to make such bizarre and unsympathetic characters believable in a short work of fiction. But let the author hasten to add that all people and events depicted herein are wholly fictitious, and any resem- blance to any real person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Kirk Brothers
There was no mistaking the purpose of that room and its equipment, or the two men now making final preparations. It was high-ceilinged and windowless, of solid construction, where no sound could penetrate from outside, or escape the confines of its thick walls.
Now the room was silent, except for the monotonous ticking of an amplified electronic metronome set to beat, like the pendulum of a grandfather's clock, at precisely one tick per second.
A pair of plywood paddles studded with hundreds of long, sharp carpet tacks--resembling giant curry-combs for long-haired dogs, hung on one chain. Beside the wood paddles hung a pair of thick, heavy leather paddles with massive lead weights bolted through the wood handles behind their straps. Next to them hung a pair of fine wire scourges, and then a pair of what Shaman had dubbed "troikas" --tight triangular bundles of long rods resembling smooth canes, but of a dark gray color. Finally, a pair of what looked like short blacknake whips, but were actually rubber hoses reinforced with internal flexible fiberglass rods--specially designed and made by Shaman himself for the ritual of Blood Sacrifice which was about to begin.
The two men were nude, except for elaborate ritual hoods of a unique and overtly _s_e_x_ual design. One man, whose skin color and body hair marked him as oriental, wore a royal blue hood decorated in white with the symbol of Saturn. His companion, a massive, very muscular black man well over six feet tall, wore a bright red hood decorated in white with the symbol of Mars.
The planetary symbols were placed on each side of the head where their ears were concealed--but a small hole on each side provided perfect hearing. The men's faces were hidden behind a crude image of a nude female body: the breasts became eye-holes for perfect vision, while a vertical slit in the mask, surrounded by a red margin, symbolized the labia of the vagina--directly over the wearer's mouth. The hoods were shoulder-length, and drawn tightly for a snug fit.
Like all Brothers, the two men had taken cult names of animal origin which happened to appeal to them. The oriental had chosen to be called Wolf, and the black man was known as Panther. Panther was inspecting the whips and a table loaded with ominous-looking paraphernalia. Wolf was placing cones of incense on a small tin tray.
Wolf was about six feet tall, well built, with the musculature of a man with long physical training and expertise in the martial arts. With the incense ready, he placed the salver on a table before a statue of Priapus, which featured an unbelievably large phallus in a state of eternal erection.
Wolf handed Panther a box of matches, and picked up a can of lighter fluid. Panther drew a match and nodded to show he was ready. Wolf then squirted a generous dose of lighter fluid on the incense. "Let the sacred flame and incense be ignited," he intoned. "To Priapus, our god of virility."
Panther, striking the match, completed the ritual dedication. "To Priapus," he repeated, touching off the fluid.
A bright flame flared up as the lighter fluid ignited, and the odor of incense began to permeate the ritual room. The candles of various astrological colors had been lit, and flickered dimly in their wall sconces--between which could be seen painted the signs of the zodiac, phallic symbols, and sketches depicting acts of sodomy between two or more men.
In the center of the room stood the whipping horse of Shaman's own design, upon which a Penitent was secured for a ritual of sacrifice--his torture to be inflicted by these two men who, partly because of their size and strength, had been assigned the role of ritual Tormentors. But Wolf and Panther had a far more essential qualification for the duty for which Shaman had selected them. Besides having the great strength and endurance necessary to properly discipline all Brothers, they both experienced _s_e_x_ual arousal from inflicting pain.
The horse was a strange-looking piece of apparatus engineered for its specialized purpose. It consisted of two very strong plywood-and-timber units hinged together so as to permit a Penitent to be tormented in numerous ways in either one of two positions. Now the horse was horizontal--looking perhaps rather like a gym bench, with one wide, narrow shelf upon which the Penitent would kneel with his legs spread as far as possible--and a higher wide shelf upon which he would place his belly, with his hands behind his back.
The Tormentors would first chain his ankles, already secured in heavy leather bondage cuffs, to steel eyebolts in the two-by- four frame. More chains would then be snapped to D-rings on each side of the Penitent's wide bondage belt, and secured to two more eye-bolts. Lastly, the Penitent's wrists, also in bondage cuffs, would be secured above the kidney area with chains snapped to his bondage collar--thus totally preventing any struggles he might try to make in a frantic, hysterical effort to escape his punishment.
Shaman freely admitted that he had been a sadist all his life, saying it was part of natural law, and he flogged some Brothers himself--including Wolf and Panther, if they displeased him. For both medical safety and _s_e_x_ual stimulation, all cult floggings were administered on the bare buttocks only, as in prisons in Singapore and other oriental countries--with an audience of all Brothers in the cult.
A Penitent's flogging was conducted in what was called ritual silence--which meant only that the Penitent was not permitted to speak a word at any time he was on the horse. His Tormentors, however, could openly gloat over his suffering--and the Penitent was resigned to accept their taunting as part of his punishment. He was free to scream or sob, but not allowed to beg for mercy.
A Penitent usually wore a black leather hood with bondage col- lar throughout his ordeal. The hood had no jaw--like that worn by "Batman"--so that the Penitent's mouth was available at any time for oral _s_e_x_. During his ordeal a leather blindfold was snapped over the pinholes for the eyes to totally deprive him of sight--and the sense of time. Shaman said that a two hour flogging would seem like four hours to a Penitent who had no idea who was flogging him --or raping him at any particular time during the orgy which always followed a Penitent's ritual.
It was quite in keeping with Shaman's teaching of _s_e_x_ magic that a Penitent should perform fellatio and receive sodomy from two Brothers simultaneously, to gratify one pair of Brothers after another. Shaman himself, a man of about 55 years of age, with a hypnotic personality--and virility which he credited to herbal medicines--was always the first to achieve orgasm in a Penitent's mouth, and he always ended the orgy as the last man in line for prolonged and unusually violent sodomy.
Thus a Penitent first provided his Brothers and Shaman with the entertaining spectacle of his humiliating exposure for a prolonged merciless flogging with rubber hoses, paddles, or straps --with liniment swabbed into the broken skin--and then was forced to gratify the genital urges aroused by his ritual torture. Even the strongest Brother was reduced to tears and sobs of pain long before his whipping was over--his tears and bloody rump only increasing the _s_e_x_ual excitement of his Brothers--and the gang-rape was his final humiliation. By any normal moral standards the ritual was sheer _s_e_x_ual torture--but by the witches' morality of the cult it was a celebration of their natural _s_e_x_uality.
This time would be significantly different. There were no other Brothers present to witness and enjoy the flogging that was to take place. With everything ready, Wolf and Panther folded their arms and stood, legs spread, at parade rest.
"All is prepared," said Wolf in ritual tones. "Let the Peni- tent approach us."
Usually the Penitent was reluctant to accept his fate and shuffled, head down, to give each Tormentor the ritual embrace and blessing. This time, however, the Penitent--bondage harness in place--walked upright and even proudly to embrace each of them in turn.
Shaman, a small, slim white man wearing a purple hood with the symbol of Jupiter over each ear, threw his arms around Panther in a genuine demonstration of fatherly love.
"Blessed be, Panther!" said Shaman warmly. "I love you!"
Panther, towering a head above Shaman, responded with ritual formality. "I love you, Shaman," he said coolly. "Blessed be!"
Shaman turned to Wolf with open arms, but Wolf held back.
"Before we embrace, Shaman," said Wolf in the precise, some- what British English of highly educated orientals, "we must clarify a few points in reference to your Vow, and how it may affect your relationship to the two of us."
Shaman nodded. "Certainly. What do you wish to clarify?"
Wolf chose his words carefully. "You are my Shaman," he said with sincerity, after a moment's silence. "My spiritual leader. My father-figure. I have only the most profound intellectual respect for you. I have been one of your disciples and am your heir apparent. When you are no longer able to carry on your teach- ing, I shall become the new Shaman--as you planned with your lawyer when we incorporated as a church.
"Acting under coven rules you have whipped both Panther and me many times--very painfully. But yesterday morning you took a Vow of Blood Sacrifice to our god Priapus, before the two of us as your witnesses and Tormentors, under which we must whip you--far worse than any Brother has ever been flogged--to help you attain your spiritual goal of Astral Projection--if the magic works. And that, I fear, may create a conflict.
"You know that as ritual Tormentors we are bound by our Book of Torments, which you wrote, to inflict only the most severe punishment we can--with no limit whatsoever on how much it hurts-- within our one fixed rule that all torture whall be inflicted on the buttocks only, to be medically safe." He chuckled briefly. "Safe--by witches' standards." He became serious once more.
"No matter--that rule is absolutely inviolable. We shall nonor it as we have always honored it--even witches have a code of honor! And you remember that, at my suggestion, you modified your original rule of total ritual silence so as to authorize Tormentors to add verbal torment, ridicule and mockery, to the physical pain. You have often enjoyed watching us practice it upon our Brothers.
"I enjoy my rank and privileges as Tormentor--I really do! Even after I am Shaman, I shall continue to function as Tormentor-- I enjoy it far too much to delegate seniority to Panther. And that's the real problem." He gestured at the array of flogging implements hanging ready for use.
"When you took your Vow of Blood Sacrifice yesterday morning you placed in our hands five pairs of special flogging implements which are to be used on you exclusively--because they will be covered with your blood. You instructed us to practice with the implements in the evening, to develop aim and control--and maximum force." Again he paused briefly. "I must tell you that they are perhaps the most severely punishing implements I have ever used. We practiced on a three-inch foam pad--and cut it to pieces in less than six minutes."
He paused for effect and then continued. "Your Vow commands us to flog you with all our strength until you pass out from the pain, or--if you should remain conscious--to inflict at least five thousand strokes. You specified that you must receive not less than one thousand full-force strokes with each of the five pairs of implements.
"You shall certainly be screaming in agony from the first stroke, Shaman--one would need be a dedicated masochist to endure such torture." He took a deep breath. "It is possible that you did not realize the awesome punishment we shall certainly inflict upon you, if we enforce your Vow as you have written it. These whips will scar your buttocks for as long as you live. Perhaps, upon reflection, you might decide that your wisest course would be to recant." Shaman bristled with indignation. "I shall never recant! I have taught you that a Vow to Priapus is spiritually binding for life! Have you forgotten my purpose? Of course blood sacrifice must shed blood! Of course a Penitent must scream in agony! If I do not bleed and scream, my Vow becomes a sham! And you know that I am not a masochist! If I could enjoy any part of this, my Vow would have no value whatsoever as a sacrifice--only as a celebra- tion, in which our other Brothers might take part. The one and only goal of my sacrifice is the separation of mind and body, or Astral Projection, as I have explained it to you in our philosophy classes.
"For years I have tried to achieve this psychic state by self- hypnosis, but without the slightest success. But it is well known that a victim of a serious accident or undergoing surgery may spon- taneously achieve separation. If therefore follows that severe but safe pain--every day if need be--must in time drive my body into a state of shock of such intensity that, some day, my psychic mind must be released from my material body to travel on the astral plane.
"To achieve that goal would be worth any amount of pain that gives _s_e_x_ual pleasure to you, my Tormentors, to inflict upon me! To prove your _s_e_x_ual pleasure to our god Priapus, my Vow calls upon you to masturbate to orgasm as you flog me--and give him your semen as your own tribute--to invoke his assistance in my spiritual goal.
"Some people might call me a fanatic! Well, if devotion to one's principles, and determination to live by them--even if I am scarred for life--is a measure of fanaticism, so be it!"
His ringing voice softened to a warmer, more personal tone. "I have vowed to our god Priapus to suffer for my spiritual good! You are to enforce that vow! And you must try to enjoy doing so, as much as I know you enjoy inflicting less severe punishment on our ten other Brothers."
Wolf nodded to show he understood. Then he added, in a quiet, respectful voice, "I want you to know that this is the most sincere and deadly serious promise I can give you. Panther and I shall be honored to enforce your Vow, and torment you as severely as your Vow demands--but not if it means that you may then punish us for rebellion.
"We both remember too well White Shark's penance for telling you, a year ago, to go _f_u_c_k_ yourself and walking out--and returning three days later to beg your forgiveness and readmission." He paused to choose his words carefully. "We have watched you cane White Shark, two hundred strokes each new moon and each full moon since then--using the half-inch Singapore rattan, four feet long, which you made him buy for that purpose--with a dose of Sloan's Liniment rubbed into his wounds every hundred strokes. His but- tocks have never healed completely, because you are still caning him, more than a year later, two hundred strokes and two doses of liniment, every two weeks." Again he paused briefly.
"As your disciples, we are bound by coven rules to respect you as Shaman. But as coven Tormentors, we are bound by our Book of Torments to show no respect to any Penitent, but be as cruel as we enjoy doing so. Panther and I have no desire to incur your anger --or a flogging by you--ever again!
"So what we must clarify now, once and for all time, is which set of rules will apply to you and the two of us from now on? Will they be Coven rules of respect and obedience, or Tormentors rules to be as cruel as is safely possible?"
Shaman nodded. "I understand. Let me make it clear to you both, for all time. By Priapus, I now absolutely and uncondition- ally renounce for all time all disciplinary power over both of you. >From this moment on--outside this room--you two are my equals in every way. Naturally I must retain my _s_e_x_ual dominance and disci- plinary authority over our ten Brothers--which is why they are excluded from this ritual.
"Within this room, however, which is your domain as Tormen- tors, I am merely another Penitent who places his life in your hands, subject only to our inviolable safety rule. I now command you to enforce my Vow of Blood Sacrifice as I have given it to you in writing--without the slightest respect normally due Shaman. >From this moment on, I am to you only a special Penitent to suffer severe punishment--which must scar me for life as a mark of honor and sacrifice. I command you to obey the ritual rules of Tormen- tors, and treat me as mercilessly as you treat any other Penitent in your power." He paused. "And try to enjoy it." He opened his arms once more to embrace Wolf.
Wolf opened his arms for the ritual embrace. He also dwarfed Shaman in size. "Blessed be, Shaman!" he said formally. "I love you."
Shaman returned the embrace with genuine affection. "I love you, Wolf! Blessed be!" The ritual embrace and blessing over, Wolf released Shaman. "Your commands are ckear. They shall be absolutely obeyed--that is my Vow to you. From this moment on you shall not speak a word, until after you are released." He picked up the blindfold lying ready on the table. "Whenever that may be."
Shaman stood mutely as Wolf snapped the blindfold over the eyeholes in his hood. Then Wolf and Panther guided Shaman to the horse. "You shall now assume the Penitent's position."
Shaman groped to find the horse, then mounted the kneeling platform, bent over the upper platform, and placed his arms behind his back. In a well-rehearsed series of moves, Wolf and Panther secured his ankles, waist-belt, and wrists by the chains which were ready for instant use. The ankle shackles spread his knees nearly two feet apart, exposing Shaman's anus and genitals, and the entire process--which took only seconds--left him totally vulnerable to torture.
His bondage complete, Shaman was still in what the Brothers called the "_f_u_c_k_-suck" position. A Penitent on the horse in its horizontal position was on his belly and knees, with his legs spread wide and his body bent forward--defenseless to anal or oral abuse. Any Brother could step in from behind to thrust his penis, a dildo, or an enema pipe up the rectum--while the Penitent's head was also at crotch level to service a second Brother at the same time.
But now Wolf and Panther stepped to the two ends of the horse. When Wolf released a catch, Panther let the head end tip down on hinges, while Shaman's feet swung up, and his rump forward. Now his face was nearly on the floor, just above a trough for vomit and other wastes, and his buttocks were at the perfect angle and height for swinging a whip or paddle overhead and down across the bare rump with maximum force. When in this position, the Penitent's crotch was also above the trough leading to a large floor drain where any urine, feces, or enema liquid could be easily hosed away.
Shaman had designed the horse and layout of the ritual room himself, so that two Tormentors could stand on opposite sides to whip as a team, alternating strokes in time to the metronome, with military precision. Ordinarily two Brothers would stand nearby, counting out the strokes as they were given, but today Wolf and Panther would count the strokes aloud themselves.
Shaman believed that a Penitent should always know exactly how many strokes he had taken, and how many more were to come, to add to his mental anguish by anticipation. That, he said, was not fear of the unknown, but dread of the inevitable--it gave the Penitent a sense of doom, rather than panic. A thousand strokes at one per second meant sixteen minutes and forty seconds of non-stop torture --a light workout for his two strongest men. Wolf and Panther took a few seconds to test the chains, and then nodded to each other-- Panther making a wordless sign of triumph.
Wolf at last released his pent-up tension with a hearty laugh, and Panther chuckled in relief. "That does it, Panther!" said Wolf at last. "Nice and tight until we unfasten him!" He paused to let his words be clearly heard by Shaman. "In two or three hours--or maybe four!" There was a world of irony in his voice. "And he wants us to try to enjoy it!"
Panther snickered. "We'll try! 'Specially after all the times he whipped you and me!" There was an unmistakable tone of resentment in his voice. "A thousand licks with a two-foot rubber hose, bare-ass in front of all the Brothers, every time we broke one of his rules, or flunked one of his tests--an then havin' a couple doses of Sloan's rubbed into the cuts, an' gettin' gang- raped! Ya know, I useta think I was pretty tough until I felt that _f_u_c_k_in' hose the first time! My old man could never make me cry like that when he whipped me--an' he whipped me _d_a_m_n_ hard and _d_a_m_n_ often!"
Wolf nodded. He mused on the situation, relishing the reversal of roles. "So. Shaman will be doing penance to you and me from now on--in ritual silence!" He again directed his voice at the back of Shaman's head, to be sure Shaman heard every word.
"By his own rules we can ridicule him in any way we want, but he can't say a word--just listen to us--and scream! Like he made us and our ten Brothers scream for his kicks! Five thousand licks is a drop in the bucket, compared to the tens of thousands he's given each one of us over the last five years!" Wolf was in no hurry to begin the flogging, and seemed to gloat in anticipation.
He peered closely at Shaman's naked buttocks so temptingly exposed, and reached out to stroke the left cheek teasingly. "Just look, Brother! What a smooth white rump Shaman has--like a baby's behind! A virgin ass! Not a mark on it anywhere!"
Panther moved closer and laughed. "You're right! But he wants scars!" He snickered, and stroked Shaman's right buttock playfully a moment, and stopped in genuine surprise. "Jeez, he's real soft!" He snickered. "He oughtta be nice 'n' tender!"
Wolf picked up on Panther's words. "Indeed, yes! If he should be real tender, let's tenderize him first!" He again spoke for Shaman's benefit. "Brother, imagine Shaman had fallen asleep under a sun lamp--say two hours--and his buns got a good burn, so they were raw! Even a friendly slap would hurt like hell! So just imagine how much more all his special torture flogging implements would feel if he had a good sunburn first! Remember, he commanded us to make this bloody--and leave scars--and to hurt as much as possible!"
Panther snickered. "No problem with that! But we don't have a sunlamp." An idea came to him. "How about ten or twenty good cigar burns on each cheek, right where he sits?"
Underneath his hood, Shaman permitted himself a grin. Wolf and Panther were playing a game with him! How clever they were to pretend to resent the floggings he had given them, and were out for revenge! It was a crude attempt at mental torment, of course--but ingenious nonetheless. What kind of tenderizing were they talking about?
Wolf shook his head at Panther's suggestion of cigar burns. "Takes too long. We don't want to keep Shaman in suspense, do we? At least, not too long. No, we have something else that'll do the job fast!"
He retrieved the can of lighter fluid and the box of matches from the tahle where the incense was now emitting pale clouds of smoke. He handed the matches to Panther. "This'll do it just fine, don't you think?"
Panther guffawed, removing a match from the box and standing ready to strike it. "Let's make it a real bad sunburn!"
Wolf grinned to himself as he squirted a dose of lighter fluid on the center of each of Shaman's cheeks in a circular area about five inches in diameter. Then he nodded to Panther, who struck the match and quickly touched off the fluid.
The fluid flared up and burned briefly before dying out.
Shaman felt the flash of heat, but made no sound.
Wolf carefully estimated the burning time of the flame at only three long seconds, and appeared to be disappointed. "That's a little better," he said. "It's not quite as white, but it's nowhere near red enough--or warm enough. I want big blisters--red-hot second-degree burns--right where he sits! I want his ass to be oozing before we even get started!"
Again the flame of searing heat bloomed and faded. Panther was now turned on by the new torture. "Let's give 'im the third degree!" Wolf saw Shaman's buttocks twitching spasmodically, and chuckled as he squirted on a third dose. Panther lit the match and repeated the torture.
Wolf was still not satisfied. "Still not oozing! I have an idea. We have thirteen witches in our coven--counting Shaman--so how about one burn for every man?" Panther had already drawn a new match.
"Great! He's had only three so far! I'll keep count."
Again Penther snickered as he watched the lighter fluid flare up and flame out. "Four," said Panther. "You're gettin' there, Shaman! Only nine more to go!"
Shaman was saying to himself, "They're just playing a game with me." He had still made no audible sound.
At the count of ten, Wolf said in a loud voice for Shaman to hear, "Those were for our ten Brothers, Shaman. This one is for Panther, so we'll make it a double!" The two squirts of fluid burned for nearly ten seconds. Shaman's hands and feet made spas- modic writhing movements in their chains, but he made no sound.
When Panther announced "Eleven!", Wolf answered, "And this dose is for me, Shaman, so it's another double!" He applied two more squirts. By now Shaman's buttocks were a deep red.
"Twelve," said Panther. "This last one's Shaman's own dose, so let's make it a real big double!"
Wolf chuckled cruelly. "I prefer a really big triple."
He applied three extra-long squirts of lighter fluid to each cheek--then chuckled and added a fourth--and returned the fluid and matches to the table after watching the burning for eighteen long seconds. Shaman gave a low moan of pain.
Wolf rubbed his hands in glee. "Thirteen!" said Panther. "It looks good to me. Whaddya say, Wolf?"
There were now two very red, very raw and very sore open wounds, one dead center on each buttock--bulls' eyes on the target where each stroke would land.
Wolf stiffened his strong hand, then suddenly raised it and, using vicious karate-like movements, slapped each cheek with all his strength--dead center on each of the burns--as a gratuitous insult as well as a test. Shaman could not hold back spontaneous screams of pain, which he suppressed as quickly as he could, but continued to moan softly.
Wolf looked at the fluid left on the palm of his hand, and chuckled as he washed it in a bowl of clean water on the table and dried it on a towel. "Okay," he agreed. "It's oozing, and he's moaning a little--so that means it hurts a lot. Now he's tender enough so we can get down to serious business!" He looked at the array of implements hanging overhead.
"We'll begin with the rubber hoses--I like them!" He took down the two vicious four-foot implements and handed one to Panther. The Tormentors took a few seconds to check their grips and swing the floggers through the air to make ominous swishing sounds, in rhythm to the ticking of the metronome.
"Do you hear the ticking, Shaman?" asked Wolf. "That's one beat per second--for one lash per second--funeral march tempo for real military precision--the way you like it.
"Five thousand strokes full force will take five thousand seconds, Shaman--not quite an hour and a half non-stop, but we'll find some way to keep the fun going! I have a few surprises to keep you from getting bored."
Shaman said to himself, "They're playing a game with me."
Wolf's voice lowered to an ominous tone. "We'll try to make you faint, Shaman--I promise you! But I hope you don't! I'd like you to take at least five thousand screamers, and feel every last lick fully conscious! We'll give you scars!" His mocking laugh- ter was quiet and ghoulishly vengeful.
Now there would be little need for words, except to torment Shaman. The two Brothers knew exactly what had to do.
They took time to limber their arms and shoulders, to loosen the muscles and prevent fatigue. And although they had practiced their timing the evening before, they took a few more seconds to rehearse the alternating whipping pattern, as each Tormentor had two seconds between lashes to take aim for his next stroke.
At last they nodded to each other to show they were ready.
Under his hood, Shaman said to himself, "When the pain gets too intense, my mind shall let go of my body....I shall let go... let go...let go..."
Wolf and Panther raised their whips at arms' length, then extended them high over their heads for maximum swing. The muscles in their arms and shoulders tensed.
Shaman's penance was to begin with a vengeance!
(TO BE CONTINUED)