Hercules enslaved - 8. The finishing touch

Hercules’ heart pounding in his chest as he anticipated the next onslaught.

"Please," the old man whispered, his voice barely audible, "forgive me."

Without waiting for a response, the old man plunged the needles into Hercules' diamond shaped calf, the sharp point burrowing through the dense, corded muscle. The demigod's body convulsed, his powerful limb straining against the unyielding restraints, as the searing agony rippled outward spreading to the extremities of his limb. Hercules, with a monumental effort, forced himself to remain still, his body coiled with the sheer force of his determination. As the needle emerged from the opposite side of his calf, Hercules felt a wave of dizziness wash over him again, as the whole dungeon seemed to be spinning. The old man paused, his hand trembling, as he selected a second needle, its sharp point gleaming in the dim light of the cell. Demetrius watched as the old man began to methodically pierce the demigod's other calf, the sharp metal slicing through the dense, powerful muscle.

"I will not break," Hercules whispered, his voice strained and ragged. "No matter what horrors you inflict upon me, Demetrius, my spirit will remain unbroken."

The tyrant's eyes narrowed, a flash of irritation crossing his features, "You know, Hercules," the tyrant purred, his voice dripping with malicious delight, "no hero I have ever captured has endured a full body of needles. But you, my dear demigod, are truly making history."

Demetrius approached Hercules, as he held two gleaming needles in his grasp. Hercules felt a surge of dread wash over him, his heart pounding in his chest as he anticipated the tyrant's next move. The demigod's powerful body was already adorned with a grim array of needles, the sharp metal protruding from every major muscle group, delivering unimaginable pain with every tiny movement. Yet, Hercules knew that Demetrius was far from satisfied with the extent of his torment.

Locking eyes with the demigod, Demetrius' lips curled into a cruel smile. "It seems we have saved the best for last, Hercules," the tyrant purred, his voice dripping with malicious delight. Demetrius slowly raised the needles, his gaze fixed upon Hercules' face, as he placed the sharp points against the demigod's sensitive nipples. Hercules felt a shiver of dread run down his spine as he knew that the vulnerability of his nipples would only amplify the torment.

"This," Demetrius murmured, "will be the finishing touch to your torment, Hercules."

Without hesitation, the tyrant began to guide the small needles into the demigod's flesh, the sharp metal slicing through the delicate skin and muscle. Hercules let out a strangled cry, his body convulsing as the searing pain radiated outward from his violated nipples. Demetrius watched, as Hercules struggled against the unyielding restraints, his powerful muscles straining but ironically his every movement would only amplify the pain. The demigod's tormented screams echoed through the chamber, a cry of anguish that only served to fuel the tyrant's sadistic delight.

"Yes, Hercules, you can make this go away just by begging me to stop" Demetrius purred, his fingers drumming against the needles as he drove them deeper into the demigod's nipples. The pain was excruciating, a torment that threatened to shatter his very will, but the demigod refused to surrender. Hercules felt the darkness closing in, the relentless assault on his body pushing him to the brink of collapse. The pain was all-consuming, a torment that robbed him of his strength and threatened to shatter his indomitable will. Demetrius watched as Hercules finally succumbed to the overwhelming torment. The demigod's body went limp, his head falling forward as the darkness claimed him, the last remnants of his indomitable spirit extinguished by the tyrant's cruel and relentless assault.

The chamber fell silent, save for the sound of Hercules' ragged breathing, as Demetrius stepped back, his fingers drumming against his chin in contemplation. The demigod had proven to be a far more formidable adversary than the tyrant had anticipated, but in the end, even Hercules' legendary resilience had been broken. As Demetrius turned and strode from the chamber, his features fused into a mix of frustration and impatience. The tyrant had grown weary of the seemingly endless torment he had inflicted upon the legendary Hercules, his thirst for cruelty momentarily sated.

With a casual wave of his hand, Demetrius addressed the old man, his voice laced with a thinly veiled disdain. "Leave the needles as they are," he ordered, his lips curling into a sneer. "I've had my fill of this... entertainment for now."

Pavlos tensed, his weathered features etched with a mixture of fear and reverence as he watched the tyrant depart. Alone now with the battered form of the demigod, the old man couldn't help but be drawn to Hercules' impressive physique, his eyes roaming over the demigod's muscular frame. Despite the grim array of gleaming needles that pierced his flesh, Hercules' body remained the epitome of strength and resilience. The demigod's broad shoulders, thick chest, his rippling abdominal muscles, and his powerful limbs were a sight to behold. The old man found himself captivated, his fingers twitching with a sudden, overwhelming urge to touch the demigod's magnificent form. Glancing around nervously, as if fearful of unseen eyes, the old man slowly reached out, his weathered hand tentatively brushing against the taut expanse of Hercules' abdomen.

A shudder ran through the demigod's body, but Hercules remained motionless, his consciousness still shrouded in the veil of darkness that had claimed him. The old man marveled at the sheer power that lay dormant beneath the demigod's skin, his fingers tracing the contours of Hercules' impressive musculature. Emboldened by the demigod's seeming oblivion, the old man's touch grew bolder, his calloused hands caressing the curves of Hercules' biceps and the ridges of his pectorals. A sense of awe and reverence washed over him, mingling with a strange, almost primal fascination.

Fearing Demetrius’ sudden return, the old man reluctantly stepped away from the king’s prized possession. As the old man cast one final glance at Hercules’ battered form, the old man whispered, “Truly,” his voice tinged with a hushed reverence, "you are a living proof of the gods' own handiwork, Hercules”, as his gaze fixated hungrily at the proud manhood hanging between Hercules’ magnificent legs.

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