The viceroy had been back for half a cycle of the moon, when he must finally have decided to make use of me regardless of my reported condition. The physician entered my cell, attended by six guards, who quickly pinioned me against my cot. I had gone naked since the day of my operation, covering myself only at night when the cell became chilly. Thus my body was readily available for inspection. With the soldiers holding me down, the physician carefully examined his handiwork while I struggled and shouted at him, calling him every insulting name I had learned in his wretched language. He ignored my violent protests, and when he had satisfied himself regarding my condition, he poured the contents of a small flask into my water bowl. With the help of the guards, he managed to force most of it down my throat.

  I had been tossed back on my cot when they left, and within a very short space of time I began to feel a weakening effect from the potion. It was not a sleeping draught, however, —more an elixir to make me calm and docile. I felt a floating sensation, not unlike the effects of drink, except that the aura came with a deep sense of peace. I no longer wished to fight my enemies; rather, I experienced a longing to soar into the warmth of a midday sky, an act of which I considered myself fully capable.

  While I was still affected in this manner, the guards came for me, and I was taken to the bath. Here, the viceroy’s servants cleansed me thoroughly and dressed me in a linen breechcloth. My wrists were again restrained with the heavy manacles, and I was conducted to Menna’s apartments. It had been late morning when the physician forced the drug down my throat; it was now dark outside, and I could feel the effects draining away. My anger was slowly returning, heightened by the knowledge of this additional invasion of my being. Yet deep within me the flickering flame of sanity kept warning me that Menna was the sole key to my survival. But conflicting with this desire to live, was the conviction that if I did survive, and somehow managed to escape—my dominating thought until the day of my circumcision—I could never return to my own people except as a semi-gelded Egyptian.

  Menna satwas alone in a large salon, which adjoined his bedchamber via a great, undraped arch. Two guards entered with me, standing to either side, holding my arms while the viceroy approached to take a closer look at me.

  “You have been resisting us,” he said, after examining my body with hands and eyes. “You have lost some flesh,—not an unbecoming change.” He continued to fondle my chest and arms, gently pinching my nipples, allowing his cool, dry palms to press against the hard, taut walls of my abdomen. “Will you continue to resist me?” he asked.

  I did not answer him, merely dropped my gaze to the floor and silently endured his explorations. In truth, there was a sensual quality to his touch; nor was Menna an unattractive man. He was naked beneath a light robe, which hung loosely from his shoulders. His arms and that portion of his chest that was visible to me were solid and well formed. He wore no mantle on his head, and this was covered with a dark, short stubble of hair. His hands were long, with thick, strong fingers. Despite my anger and firm resolve to hate him, I could feel my sex responding to his contact.

  Abruptly, he seized my breechclothloincloth and stripped it away. “Let us examine the result of my physician’s skill,” he muttered. The suddenness of his move had caught me completely off guard. My penis curved outward, heavy and half erect, my testicles drawn tightly beneath it to further cause the tumescent length to protrude from my groin. Menna nodded, continuing his examination. He lifted the shaft, fingered the thin red welt, tested the looseness of the remaining skin. In effect, the cutting had not been as severe as it might have been, and when my penis was completely soft there was still a semblance of excess, just enough that the skin could fold over the scar itself, concealing it. All of this seemed to please him, and at length he motioned for the guards to secure me, face out, tointo a three-legged wooden framework bolted to the floor near the entrance to his bedchamber.

  My legs were spread wide, and chained to the bottoms of two uprights. A bronze collar was set about my neck, attached to the apex of the tripod, some six or seven hands-breadths above my head. My wrists, of course, were still joined behind my back. At Menna’s signal the guards withdrew, leaving us alone.

  “I regret the necessity of these restraints,” said the viceroy, “but my men inform me that you have become rather vicious. I hope the day will come…—” His voice trailed off as he dropped his robe, standing before me as naked as I, except for the military sandals on his feet. His body had been completely shaved, but the dark shadows on his chest indicated the heavy growth he would normally have displayed. His body was every bit as firm and well defined as I had expected, and his genitals were no less powerful and masculine, despite his lack of foreskin. His own penis was beginning to rise, and when he stepped toward me we touched in that area before any other.

  His lips pressed on mine, his arms crushing me against him, while his flooding desire seemed to communicate itself on me. For a moment my head grew light as I responded to both to the viceroy’s embrace and to the final vestiges of the drug, until I could not control my emotions. I felt the rush of lust burning in my loins, the power of my own sex responding to the thrusting pressure from him. Slowly, his tongue forced its way between my teeth; one hand slid down my back, past my own manacled arms, to cup the curve of my buttocks. Gradually, he worked his way down the front of my body, his warm lips and tongue touching every part of me, caressing my neck and shoulders, working a long time upon my nipples. He kissed the rigid muscles of my belly, and finally dropped to the groin where he twisted his tongue through the shield of hair, eventually kneeling before me to take my penis deeply into his throat—an act that I was now coming to accept without my previous distaste.

  His attentions had left me gasping for breath, making me un-unsteady and wavering so that the weight of my body pulled several times against the collar. Without this to steady me, I might have fallen. The hard pressure about my neck gave the sensation of being hanged, and somehow this was also sensual. Still, the fact of my present captivity, and all that had gone before, continued to anger me—more so as the effects of the drug decreased. The My inability to control the responses of my own body did not blunt the edge of my mounting fury. While my Egyptian captor knelt before me, I struggled to readjust the inner workings of my body. The hardness of my projecting penis made it difficult, but I finally managed to force a spurt of urine to enter him.

  I had intended this as an act of defiance, hoping it would insult him and offend his delicate sensitivities. But it was an act of madness, for I only condemned myself. When the first drops touched his tongue, he abruptly stopped his motion. His lips retained their hold for another moment, during which I was able to unleash the pent-up stream of fluid. When this cascaded into him, he pulled back in shocked amazement, after which the urine poured across the front of his body.

  His face a mask of fury, the viceroy slowly came to his feet, ignoring my final trickle that caused a sour puddle to gradually expand across the marble floor. He struck me hard across the mouth, using the back of his hand. His rage mounting, he slammed his fists time and again into my belly, knocking the wind from my lungs while he screamed at me in rage. Although I was almost rendered almost insensible in the first moments, I began to better understand the source of his violent anger. He had wanted me from the first day he had seen me, he said, and he had anticipated this moment through the months he had been away. He had ordered my circumcision so that my body might be clean enough to merit his attentions. He had honored me by assigning his own private physician to attend me, and now I had defiled his person. He ranted on, all the while pummeling me with his fists until my only thoughts were concentrated on maintaining enough control of my balance to keep from strangling inon the collar and chain.

  I was saved from death, I think, only by the arrival of the guards. These men burst into the room, responding to their master’s cries, probably expecting to find that I had somehow freed myself and attacked him. At the sight of the soldiers, Menna regained enough control to order me removed. I was hurriedhustled from the elegant apartments and thrown back into my cell, the manacles being left upon my wrists, and the bronze collar still about my neck. For the rest of the night I lay in a muddle of pain and confusion, really truly afraid for the first time since arriving in Byblos. My arms ached from their restraints, and my whole body seemed a solid mass of agony from the beating Menna had given me. There was a patch of dried blood on my lips, which I managed to lick away, only to start a fresh trickle where my teeth had cut the inside of my mouth. If I tried to lie on my stomach it increased the pain in my chest and abdomen; if I turned onto my back, my arms grew numb. I knew some terrible fate awaited me in the morning.

  Shortly after the first rays of sunlight filtered through the single window in the wall high above me, the soldiers came. They force-marched me out of the main house, using a back corridor I had never seen before. They took me to a large open square, and stood me on a raised dais, with a wooden framework rising to half again my height above. My ankles were chained to the base, and my arms were repositioned to leave me spread-eagled in the open air.

  There were already aA few townspeople were already on the street, and more began to crowd the area while the soldiers set my fetters and whipped me with the short flails they all carried as marks of rank. I assumed it was a marketplace, and I was being put on display. But this would be only a part of it. Soon after the soldiers departed, leaving me chained and helpless, naked before the eyes of the current spectators, a group of rag-gedragged youths began to taunt me. They shouted insults first, then one of them picked up a horse turd from the street. He threw this at me, but missed, striking another young man who stood behind me. After that I became the center of a mock battleground, with the muck of the gutters being flung from all directions, much of it striking me. As their game progressed, the boys began to take more deliberate aim, attempting to land their clumps of filth against my face or groin. Much of it struck my midsection, already sore from Menna’s beating.

  Finally, one of them grew bold enough to mount the dais, where he looked more closely at my mutilated organ. Laughing, he called to the others, and there was soon a small crowd of them examining the scar from my operation and making sportfun of me because of it. Then the one who had approached me first—a bigger youth, who seemed to be a leader among them—made a remark about my hairy body, how barbaric I was, and several of them started plucking at the individual hairs. I was stretched so tightly it was impossible to pull away or otherwise defend myself, and I knew that trying to answer would only goad them to further torments. But these came anyway. The big one took a knife from his belt and started to shave away the hairs on my chest. Another went to work on my legs, while a third began to scrape my loins. I did cry out, for they nicked me constantly and I was terrified that the one working on my groin was going to take more than the hair. To make it worse, I could feel my penis growing larger and more sensitive. While it never actually became hard, I know my sex hung down more fully than normal, swollen and flaccid despite their abuse.

  At length, I dared not move because I could feel the callused fingers lifting my penis, and then the testicles, scraping away with the dull-bladed knife. The derision had grown worse, and more youths had joined in the sport until I had so many of them around me that I could not see my body below the nipples. For some reason, they left my beard and the hair on my head; but when they finished, the rest of my body had been completely denuded, and I was covered with myriad, tiny, bleeding cuts. They withdrew from the dais and, after pelting me with a few more clods of offal, they tired of their game and went running off, down one of the alleys….

  Five a Day

  Jaime Cortez

  Artichoke

  Artichoke is a flower, closely related to the thistle. If left unharvested, its coarse leaves unfold to reveal a gorgeous violet interior, the delight of bumblebees and a source of honey most superb. This is not evident to the casual viewer, because Artichoke cultivates extreme impassivity. The exterior is all spines and tough fiber armor, which demands a gingerly approach. You must insinuate yourself and coax away layer after layer of toughness. It is laborious at first, with scant rewards: a nibble of flesh here, a glimpse of pale, hidden skin there. At times, you wonder if there will be anything left under all that toughness, and throughout the process, Artichoke remains inscrutable, happy to let you labor on with no promise of success, seemingly indifferent that you’ve chosen to brave its barbed, bitter defenses. But eventually, you arrive at the heart. This is what it guarded with such green jealousy, this pale, tender heart. Yours to have now, the heart is doubly delicious for being so hard-earned.

  Mango

  Mango is the school slut and likes that just fine. Mango inhales its own scent and remarks, “I smell good.” Turning around to admire its own sweetly rounded gold-and-red behind, Mango declares, “I look good.” Noting the subtle indentations where admiring fingers have gently pressed, Mango purrs, “I feel niiiice. And my taste—well, don’t even get me started.” Mango sleeps in the nude and rarely alone. In the morning, Mango often wakes to find only the scent of the previous night’s lover on the pillow, and it is never a problem. Mango takes four hours to watch Sophia Loren movies and frequently freezeframes the video to take notes. More than anything else, Mango likes an oral lover, that is to say a lover who heaps praise upon its head. Details count. The worshipper who notes its seashell ears and exquisitely formed toes earns more points than clumsy devotees who admire obvious attributes. “My eyes are pretty? Thanks for telling me.”

  Asparagus

  Asparagus is not a complicated sort of guy. He was born small and erect and eventually grew tall and erect, but that is the extent of his development. Asparagus is utterly without mystery. He is green and tastes green. There is no skin to peel, no surprising seeds to bite down on, and no distracting shape or color. Most anyone can have Asparagus, as long as they are ready to do it his way. His sexual modus operandi is based on the Patriot missile:1. Determine your goal.

  2. Locate your goal.

  3. Pursue it relentlessly.

  Asparagus cums in the style of porn stars or World Wrestling Federation champions, with much attendant noise-making, flailing about, and extravagant facial contortions. Once he has cum, Asparagus never stops to think about your orgasm. He washes off his pecker, slips on his action slacks, straightens his pointed green cap, and walks out with a wink that he fancies is most fetching. “I’ll buzz ya’, baby!” he calls over his shoulder. Even he doesn’t believe that one.

  Apple

  Apple is the most sensible fuck in town. Apple is modest in appearance and rather brittle in her manner. She puts on perfunctory lipstick in red or green and provides consistency and friction. She is shocked, judgmental, and jealous of the flagrant, dribbling sensuality of Mango and the pornographic directness of Asparagus. Apple’s greatest secret is that one thousand harvests ago, apples and roses shared a common ancestor. But a split occurred, with the apples playing down their blossom stage and devoting themselves to their plump, fruit state. In contrast, the roses channeled their energies into prolonging their blossom stage, their perfume and petals becoming ever more decadent, layered, and frivolous. Apple rejects all this, keeping on its pajamas when fucking, and stifling the urge to moan or drip, because of concern about what the Bartletts next door will think. Despite this, Apple eagerly awaits the day when some lover will hold her rounded sides and exclaim, “You know, I don’t know why, but there’s something about you that reminds me of roses.”

  Yam

  No one ever fantasizes about Yam. It lies modestly under the soil, lamenting its turdy appearance and fantasizing about what life would be like if it only had Cherry’s tempting color, Guava’s scandalous scent, or Banana’s riotous sense of humor. But Yam knows that no one will ever get past its appearance, so it works on inner beautification and masturbates well and often. On Friday nights, it is dateless, lounging about in the soil, its roots tangled all about it, uncombed. It curls up with its diary, a monocle on each of its squinty eyes. It writes arabesque love poems to the more gorgeous fruits, gets travel reports from passing worms, and formulates philosophy with tree roots. All the while it grows in size, wisdom, and richness, awaiting the day of its assumption, when it will be lifted bodily from the soil, cleansed of dust, released from its drab skin, and allowed to impart its nutritive, sun-colored riches with the gorgeous denizens of the bright world above.

  Never Trust a Pretty Face

  Michael Stamp

  Being too eager for the good life is what did me in. From the minute I stepped inside Fletcher Greenfield’s Long Island mansion on that gray, rainy morning, I had dollar signs dancing in my head like sugarplum fairies in the dreams of tots tucked into their beds on Christmas Eve. It was greed, pure and simple. That, and the kid. If I’d been thinking straight, I would have respected the No Trespassing sign, but when my dick started to lead, good sense deserted me and I followed along blindly. It’s a weakness of mine. I’ve always been a sucker for a pretty face.

  Fletcher Greenfield was a name I knew well. Everybody in New York did. I’d be willing to bet there isn’t one building in the whole state that doesn’t have pipes running through it that came from Bachman Greenfield Ironworks. I just never expected I’d be doing business with the man himself, and especially not in his posh palace of a home. It’s an occupational hazard. Guys in my line of work rarely get invited to tea.

 

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