A Knight in the Dungeon - Jayse Version

Hello gentle readers! 

Apologies for my prolonged absence. I've been here, but I've been laying low. The worldwide health crisis combined with the economic and political crises happening here in America haven't been doing much for my mojo, so my artistic and creative pursuits have been on the back burner. But i've decided to come out of my shell for at least a little while, and share a few of my archived stories for you. 

This first one is from a long-time friend, the artist JAD. In addition to his amazing drawings, he's also a very accomplished writer, and I've expanded and modified one of his short stories into the tale below. I hope you all enjoy, and that you're all staying safe and sane out there. Crazy times we're living in! 

--Jayse

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A Knight In the Dungeon

Based on an original story by JAD

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Welcome, my young man! Welcome to the dungeon of Castle d’Atroce — or, more specifically, to the torture chamber. I am Karok, the Master of this place, and these are my most able assistants, Torg and Veelo. It will be our great pleasure to entertain you this evening! 

And you are…? Ah yes! Sir David! A knight errant, as I understand. And it would seem you erred a bit too much for Duke Abaddon’s taste. Caught the eye of his charming young niece, the Lady Lauren, did you? Too bad she is already promised to a much older, richer, and more powerful man, the Baron Graussam. And His Grace could not chance that you might interfere with this long-sought alliance.

Ah well, such are the ways of the world!

But I can well understand the Duke’s concern! How easy it would be for the lovely Lauren to be smitten with one such as you — young and tall, exquisitely handsome of face and astonishingly mighty of limb. Built like an ox, one might say. Why, I’m not sure if I’ve ever before SEEN a man with such a large frame and so densely packed with powerful muscles! Your massive chest alone would be legendary, but combined with such a narrow and chiseled waist, why, your battle-hardened body is simply a work of art! Add that thick head of wavy, dark brown hair, those soulful and expressive green eyes, and that devastatingly handsome face. Such manly beauty! Any maid would swoon! Why, even my knees feel a bit weak!

Eh, I see you grow unsteady yourself. It must be the heat. This chamber is always abnormally warm, one might even say hellish.

So let us make you more at ease by — hmmm — by removing some of your heavy clothing. After all, all that silk and velvet and leather must be stifling!

Oh, do not struggle so! It makes the task more difficult for Torg and Veelo. You may be powerful, well-trained, and combat hardened, but we have years of experience in dealing big, strong men — terrified men — desperate men. We know the right way to handle you!

Now see what has happened? All your finery has been ripped to tatters — down to the very last undergarment! Well, no place for those rags but the fireplace.

There! You should feel much more relaxed now. Oh, do not be embarrassed by your nakedness, young knight! There’s no call for modesty here. As you can see, we ourselves wear very little, the better to go about our work.

Now, let us take a better look at you.

Ah, what an exceptional male form! Those steel-muscled arms and oak-thewed thighs! That bullish neck and cannonball shoulders! Those colossal pecs and wide, densely muscled back! You are truly a feast for the eyes, Sir David! And that fine coating of dark brown fur covering your broad chest boulders and flat belly cobbles! So manly! So erotic! 

Alas, that pelt must go. Such hair retains body heat, and the smell of burning hair can be most unpleasant! Besides, you will feel so much more vulnerable — er, comfortable —when you’re shaven smooth as a newborn.

Not that you could even then be mistaken for a baby.

Not with such mature genitalia as you have here!

In my long and illustrious career of dealing with naked men, I cannot recall a member so virile, or a brace of testes teeming with such potency! Can you, lads? No, I thought not. I said earlier you were built like an ox, but you, my good knight, are most definitely a bull!

Did Lady Lauren ever see these? No, of course not. You are far too gallant! (My, how you blush!) What a singular adventure the Duke has cheated her of—or perhaps saved her from. I would wager that more maids run screaming from such monsters than hasten squealing to embrace them.

Oh, so I am not wrong? You have given and gotten little joy from your prodigious package? No need to speak. Your face says it all. But let me assure you, Sir David, that we shall experience extreme enjoyment tonight from your most excellent endowment. And perhaps even you will as well.

But enough prattle. It is time for Torg and Veelo to escort you to the preparation stocks!

And now that they have you locked in tight at neck and wrists, with feet chained wide, they remove the grate in the floor between your legs, and strap a large funnel gag in your mouth. They are force feeding you a strong purgative, which causes you to quickly — if unpleasantly — evacuate your bowels. (Such hearty howling!) And they follow up with a good flushing with the wet bellows. (Even more delightfully vigorous protests!)

You see, the scent of sweat, seed, and blood — even piss — add an agreeably robust aroma to the chamber. And afterwards, they are cleaned up with relative ease. But not so with shit. I will not have you or any visitor soiling my beloved atelier!

Now.

Once you are clean from gorge to bunghole, the grate goes back, and the lads set to work with their razors, shaving your mighty, muscular body hairless from neck to toe. My, your muscles look even more enormous shorn of their light dusting of hair! Really lets the magnificent cuts and striations of those remarkable muscles shine through! 

Then for good measure, they give you an invigorating massage with their strops. Notice how Torg focuses on your granite-globed buttocks, while Veelo likes to toy with your supremely low-hanging ostrich eggs! My, how those enormous stones bounce and wobble with each loving strike! And your full-throated bellows are like music to my ears!  

But your external treatment does not end there. The lads next don heavy leather gloves and rub you down all over with a special lotion — a notion of my own. I call it Satan’s Spit. Feels like liquid flame, does it not? And it gives you such a nice rosy glow!

That healthy pink cast will last a while, but the burning sensation abates quickly, as you see. However, your skin will remain intensely sensitized, so that any touch — light or heavy, pleasurable or painful — becomes highly erotic. See how much more susceptible to stimulation your big, fat-nubbed nipples are now?

Oh, one more thing before you leave the stocks — the funnel goes back in for a healthy dose of another of my concoctions. I named this one Pan’s Piss. It is guaranteed to make you horny as a satyr. To get you up and keep you up, come what may. To increase your seminal output phenomenally. And to lessen your recovery time to mere minutes. Yes, my virile cavalier, I can promise you that you will spew more seed tonight than you ever imagined possible!

Ah, lads, see how the Piss works its wonders on him already! That massive staff rearing up, those colossal stones bobbing below! My goodness, he is a true prodigy!! Bigger than any full-hard man when still soft, and at least half again that large when fully roused!! I have never seen its equal!! And his enormous orbs also seem to be swelling ever larger, hanging even lower! Excellent! 

Oh, and did I mention — the effects of the Pan’s Piss potion are permanent… 

Just watching you makes my own member quiver and start to rise. And I see your magnificent form and beyond-prodigious loins are having the same effect on my two helpful lads as well! So let us discard our constraining cod pouches, shall we?

Ah, much better — and as it should be!

Now come, Veelo, let us get our guest settled on Old Oakheart, while Torg attends to other important matters!

This ponderous butcher block has a most noble history, Sir David. A century back, he was hewn from the core of the mightiest tree in the old forest after it was toppled by lightning during the worst storm in memory. Since then, he has born thousands of men on his broad back, as they sweated and screamed, spewed seed and succumbed. You can see the stains and scratches, but not a hint of cracking there. And his master-crafted restraints can hold the biggest and strongest of prisoners — even the likes of you, my young titan — without fear of pulling free.

So down on your own brawny back you go, with wrists chained behind your head to one face of the cube, and ankles shackled to the sides. That spreads your legs wide, and your thighs are further anchored to the top with thick straps.

And did you notice this clever cut-out area down here? It allows full and easy access to your buttocks and bunghole! (Slap! Slap!)

Now let me see, where are those cock cuffs? Oh, here they are! But we shall certainly require the largest size. Ah! This should do! Hmmm — still a snug fit, but it closes and latches, if only just barely. This lets you come without hindrance — but reminds you that you are no longer in control of your member or its actions.

And now for the ball bond. Again the biggest, with a good strong chain. Latched tight! And we fling the chain over the hitch bar between these posts a yard beyond. Oh, we could use a winch for this next part, but I prefer to hang weights. That way I can gauge more accurately just how tough a man really is.

Let us start with twenty pounds, just to get you taut.

Hardly a grunt out of you! And your sack barely stretched! Let us add another twenty pounds.

That was a better — finally a groan! But still not much extension. These are most stalwart stones, Sir David!

One more.

A somewhat more satisfying moan that time. And a bit more give, but not much. Perhaps the lotion and potion are helping you relax? I do see there is a nice tension developing on your ponderous pole, pulling it forward. So we are starting to see results.

But do I dare? Why, of course! Another twenty!

And the first howl of the evening! But wait. Those bull balls of yours slipped an inch, but then bounced right back!! Your nut cords are truly heroic, my rugged rover! 

I have never before added a FIFTH weight to the ball stretcher — very few men can endure FOUR such weights with their bollocks still attached and intact. But you are clearly built of far more stern stuff than the average man! Still, I don’t know if I should risk your most magnificent of nuts by hazarding an additional weight on the chain. Then again, how can I not?! Torg, another twenty pounds, if you please! 

Ah yes, a full-throated bellow! Such powerful lungs you have, Sir David! And such a deep and resonant voice! We’ve wrenched another inch or so of stretch out of your valiantly straining nuts, my good man. Your mighty bollocks are starting to turn a bit purple with the strain, but they seem to be holding quite nicely. I’ve never before seen a man suspend a full one hundred pounds from his stones, but I have a strong suspicion that you could endure quite a bit more! Not to worry, we have all night, so we’ll revisit the nut stretcher in a little while… 

I am sure your formidable form holds many more fine surprises, and we are extremely eager to discover them, as you can see. (Please pardon my drooling on your chiseled and heaving belly!) So, without further ado, let us get down to business.

Torg has prepared a piping-hot pot of pokers and pincers — ah, thank you, Torg! — like this hefty one. And with them, we shall now ply your tender, defenseless flesh. Struggle and curse all you wish, it will avail you naught. Neither will pleas for mercy, for there is none in this chamber. The Duke desires to be rid of you. But before that, he wishes you to suffer hard and suffer long. You cannot win this fight, and there is no escape.

I am sure that as an honorable knight you will nobly accept your fate. But do not try to endure it stoically. Surrender yourself to the pain and the passion, and give unconstrained expression to them both. You will bear your harrowing burden with unforeseen grace. And you will experience ecstasy you never knew possible.

And now, Sir David — my powerful, potent paladin — I give you a choice. How do you wish to begin this? With the right pit, or the left?

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(12 very long hours later)

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Ah, Sir David, you have provided us with uncommon sport this night, for which Torg, Veelo, and I most gratefully thank you! (Bow, lads!)

You have squirmed, wriggled, flailed, struggled, thrashed, and writhed with such might that we thought at times you might be the first the break Old Oakheart’s restraints. And yet your will has not broken, and your enormously muscular body remains as outrageously strong and powerful as ever. 

You have grunted, groaned, moaned, screeched, howled, and roared with such power that we feared you might render yourself mute. And yet you are little more than hoarse.

Your big, bullish, brutish stones have borne a record-shattering two hundred pounds of weights — and, I dare say, could possibly carry even more! — as well as scores of burns and welts, and untold hundreds of punches, kicks, and blows from various blunt instruments. Yet they have continued to churn out load upon copious load of the thickest man cream I have ever seen, each monstrous load as bountiful and volcanic as the one before — and well more than a gallon in total, I would wager.

Your mighty phallus has been beaten with stanchions, seared with fiery brands, bent to the brink of snapping in half, and stretched until it was nearly pulled out by its tough fleshy roots. Yet your stallion staff has shrunk not a whit, nor flagged a second in its duty to deliver those fountainous servings of seed one after another — over two dozen altogether, although I admit I lost count. And all this while it has been sorely scorched up and down its massive, veiny shaft, all over its ultra-sensitive, fist-sized head, and even halfway down the finger-thick piss channel!

Your fat pouting paps have been squashed, stretched, twisted, and seared to oozing scabs. Your deep-hollowed pits are charred craters, your navel a fried button, your once virgin pink arse-pucker a swollen crimson hole.

Scarcely an inch of your mighty form does not bear the mark of our handiwork — even your brawny back is well-branded, for we wrestled you over and attended you there for well over two hours. Surely, your body is a mass of exquisite, excruciating agony, and you must be half-mad or more with the pain. 

And yet Pan’s Piss drives you on, fueling your lust — compelling you mindlessly onward to more suffering and passion, your great muscles gleaming with rivulets of sweat, hot tears streaming down your manly and extraordinarily handsome countenance. 

You are a wonder, my huge and handsome hero, and I sadly fear that I will never see your like again. 

But, alas, my friend, all things must come to an end. And that includes our revelries.

Duke Abaddon has demanded that evidence of your departure be presented to him when he next greets the day. And the sun has already risen. (You cannot tell here in this windowless chamber, but the great sandglass says it is so.) But since his Grace sleeps until noon, we still have plenty of time to give you a proper send-off.

It goes without saying that a knight of such exemplary qualities as yours deserves an equally magnificent courser to ride out upon. And so, let me present — the Steel Steed!

I see from your saucer-wide eyes how impressed you are by this majestic creature. As well you should be!

In full, fitting ceremony you shall be mounted upon this mighty beast. That is, it will be slowly and relentlessly shoved up your mangled man-bung until it is full in.

But how can you hope to survive such an ordeal, you ask? Trust me, my doughty young giant, I have full faith that you shall persevere. What is more, I believe that with the aid of the Piss, you will even find the experience exhilarating. In fact, you will probably produce several more studly spews of seed before the Steed is secure in its new stall.

However, that is not quite the end of it.

The coals that heated our tools tonight have burned down, but even as I speak Torg is stirring them back to life. Once the Steed is firmly wedged in your near-bursting bowels, we shall fill it with hot embers and secure the cap on its base.

And then, brave Sir David, bold Sir David, brawny Sir David, big balled and mighty membered Sir David — you shall make your final wild charge, bucking and bellowing into oblivion.

As the Steel Steed roasts you from within, perhaps it will even coax one last majestic eruption from your loins. If so, we shall endeavor to capture it and preserve it in a glass flask as a relic of your peerless and unparalleled virility.

And when you have gasped your last, we shall sever your astounding staff and stones and present them to the Duke. And he shall marvel over them as we have. And then gloat.

And then have them broiled for his breakfast.

Now, let us continue.