The beginning of torture

When Sir Stephen Hanford was embroiled in a fierce battle with infidel warriors, fighting a desperate fight against Ebola bin Ira, the infamous desert devil of the Crusaders, the knight, in the heat of battle, fervently hoped to die a glorious death, spared from the imprisonment and torture of the Muslims. But God seemed not to answer his prayers; the unfortunate crusader fell into enemy hands.

Thus, in his lucid moments, he felt as if he were in a grave, filled with anxiety; and in his feverish, half-asleep state, his mind was filled with rumors of infidel torture. The tortures of Christian prisoners devised by Ebola bin Ira, described in detail and widely circulated by those who had escaped, were so cruel and horrific that even those who spoke of them were reluctant to repeat them in hushed tones.

Several days after his capture, the knight, weakened to the point of complete resignation, was told to meet with the infidel commander. Donned a white robe, Ser Stephen was escorted by guards to a massive tent, so large it felt like entering the most expensive cloud in heaven. Pushing aside a curtain at the entrance, Ser Stephen faced his mortal enemy—the infamous desert demon.

Although the infidel's face undeniably resembled a human, Ser Stephen felt a mixture of uncontrollable admiration and fear. Beneath the single, indifferent expression on Ebola bin Ira's face lay the most violent and cruel thoughts, and a resolute determination to carry them out.

He crossed his arms and said, “You are very famous among the believers of Allah, Sir Stephen Hanford. Your sword has sent many faithful believers to heaven. I will have the honor of showing you the hospitality taught by the Prophet to our honored guests.” The pagan’s voice was steady and perfectly controlled, yet one could hear the mockery, the attempt to frighten a child about to cry.

Sir Stephen replied, “I know you, desert devil, and I have heard much of your so-called hospitality towards prisoners. Now I ask you to give me a quick death, worthy of a warrior like myself.” Although the pagan’s expression did not lose any of its inherent cruelty, it revealed a hurt look, as if Sir Stephen had unjustly insulted him. “I, this humble servant of Allah, have no intention of killing you, glorious Crusader. On the contrary, I will offer you supreme joy, a paradise accessible only to a select few.”

“Don’t you intend to torture me?”

Ibola Bin asked. Ibn Ira gave an innocent smile, starkly incongruous with his cold, ruthless face. "Should I tear your flesh with red-hot clamps, crush you with wheels, or cut off your testicles and stuff them into your mouth?" The heretic shook his head. "Ah, I know such torture exists in your Christian kingdoms, but that's not my style. However, do not doubt it, Sir Stephen, you will know what torture is."

Ibn Ira's voice was like the whimper of a cold stream: "Yes, your days will be filled with wrath, and your nights will be even more unbearable than the days! But the torture I have prepared for you will not begin until I announce its start, and it must begin first, after you have seen what supreme pleasure is." Then Ibn Ira clapped his hands three times, summoning two armed warriors. "Take Sir Stephen to...

the black tent."

This tent was located in Ibn Ira's... The outermost perimeter of the Iraqi camp, an octagonal structure only half a person's height, was made of a deathly black material, seemingly swallowing up all the sunlight.

What kind of torture awaits me inside? Sir Stephen wondered, convinced that the black tent represented unparalleled resentment. He completely disbelieved Ebola bin Ira's earlier words, fearing that the torment he was about to face would render the piercing needles, the kicks, and the whippings insignificant.

Although Sir Stephen was speechless with astonishment when he saw the furnishings inside the tent—a stark contrast to his expectations—the tent was cool and refreshing in the scorching heat, filled with a delicate fragrance like a garden in full bloom. In the eight corners of the tent stood eight elegant brass brass stoves, glowing with white-hot coals, miraculously producing neither smoke nor heat. The floor was covered with carpets and many pillows, and in the center sat a low table with a jug of wine and a silver wine bowl.

His mind was filled with many questions about the current situation. Sir Stephen sat down on a cushion at the table. Out of curiosity, he picked up the jug and smelled the bright red wine, expecting to detect the scent of an oriental poison. He found nothing amiss, but the hidden aroma of the wine was enticing, so he poured himself a bowl.

Then he noticed that the bowl was decorated with exquisitely detailed carvings. The part in front of him depicted a man and a woman, completely naked. She was kneeling with her buttocks raised, and he was about to penetrate her with his erect penis, his hand on her buttocks. The artist had emphasized this part with the most prominent luster.

As Sir Stephen spun the bowl, he was very curious about this unusual and peculiar work of art. He then saw a small relief of a reclining woman with her legs raised to her shoulders, and a man between her legs. He counted eight carvings in total, all depicting different sexual acts.

Filled with surprise, yet also feeling a stirring deep within, Sir Stephen downed the wine in his bowl. The wine was stronger than any English wine, with a rich, honeyed flavor that was quite pleasant. After finishing one bowl, Sir Stephen wanted a second, and then a third.

As he drank, a great weight lifted from his heart. Smiling, he realized that his inner turmoil, the reason for which he didn't know, had completely vanished. The fear that had long plagued his nerves was gone too. He felt an extreme sense of ease, thinking, "I'm going to sleep now, drifting into dreams." But his eyes remained open, and he wasn't dreaming.

He experienced a new sensation, a gentle warmth in his abdomen, a feeling of ease, an indescribable—pleasure, supreme pleasure—that intensified, as if a warm liquid enveloped his groin.

Unconsciously, he pulled up the hem of his robe with his hand. As his fingers circled his velvety smooth penis, he thought he had never felt such heightened sexual desire. His member was so magnificently erect, the blue veins at the base seemingly ready to burst through the surrounding skin at any moment, the purplish-red glans proudly projecting from the foreskin. A

distant, delicate, tinkling sound vibrated his auditory nerves, a sound that simultaneously stirred a restless unease in the knight's soul and soothed his heart. Without losing any of its musical rhythm, the sound grew clearer and clearer until the knight finally recognized a woman calling his name.

Startled, the knight's eyes widened. Of course, this must be a dream, he thought. After drinking a few cups of fine wine, his mind drifted into a fantasy—like the woman standing before him, who should never have existed in this world.

Sir Stephen desperately tried to cover his body and his shame, to hide his swollen genitals, but he seemed to have lost all strength. He could only release his grip on his penis, his mouth agape in astonishment as he stared at the woman who could not possibly exist in the real world, yet seemed to truly exist within the black tent.

Her hair was jet black and glossy, naturally curly and cascading over her shoulders. Her forehead was like that of a Greek goddess, her skin the color of the purest ivory, and her sweet lips surpassed everything in heaven—her upper lip displayed a graceful curve, her lower lip soft and full, and her delicately arched nose could only have been nurtured in the fertile soil of Hebrew.

Looking further down, Sir Stephen felt his heart pounding twice as fast. This beauty was draped in a thin white veil, creating the effect that made the Sir Stephen feel as if she were almost naked. That is to say, he could almost see the buds protruding from her full breasts, almost see the curves of her smooth abdomen, almost see every single, intertwined hair on the soft, black, inverted triangle covering her mysterious mound!

His tongue lolled out, his thoughts sluggish, and Sir Stephen cried out, "No, my desires have been revealed! This must be a phantom leaping from my passionate imagination!" The woman answered calmly, and with utmost composure, "I am not a dream, nor a ghost or a phantom, but a woman who will bring you unparalleled temptation, making you never forget the pleasures that the flesh can bring you."

Like magic, like dew sliding down a flower stem, the woman's robe fell down, and Sir Stephen was stunned. Before him lay breasts as full and round as melons, topped with purple nipples, a soft belly and the curves of full hips, plus long legs—such a perfect combination that it seemed not to be made of flesh and blood, but of nectar.

“Now you see me in truth,” she said. “I now belong to you for a time—I—Calia!” “Calia,” Sir Stephen murmured, his erection throbbing with pain, his testicles hard as stone from the contraction of his scrotum. Sir Stephen wanted to hold her—Calia—spread her soft thighs, and thrust into her with the head of his purplish-red penis, pointing it directly at the coral-red lips of her vulva. He wanted to use such brute force that if she were a phantom, she would be scattered and disappear from where she came from—or if she were truly an impossible, unreal, extraordinarily beautiful woman, she would surely scream under his beastly thrusts.

But Sir Stephen could not move. He was so weak and trembling that he could not do anything but fantasize about possessing this Calia, to unleash the desire hidden deep in his bones.

As Galina's fingers gently caressed Sir Stephen's face, eyelids, and eyebrows, as cool as morning dew, Sir Stephen could only tremble helplessly like an extremely dependent child. Galina placed a hand on his shoulder and gently pressed him down, letting his head rest on the pillow. He lay there helplessly like an infant, his genitals like a totem pole erected by savage phallus worshippers on a jungle island. He neither objected nor resisted Galina's actions of undressing him.

Once he was completely naked, Galina knelt beside him, her fingers encircling his thick penis. She lowered herself, her hair whispering across his abdomen, while her full breasts pressed softly against his groin.

Her sweet, perfect mouth took him in, first the glans of his penis, then her alluring lips descended, creating a sharp, intense tingling sensation on his unprecedentedly sensitive shaft. Galina lifted her head, lowered it, and lifted it again; her tongue was playful, like a fluttering mosquito, while her mouth became a fierce sucker, struggling to extract his life force.

In the escalating pleasure, the sensations exceeded their limits. Sir Stephen groaned, his heart threatening to burst, his muscles tense as if on a torture rack. Pleasure, exoticism, the impending explosion of ecstasy—Sir Stephen had never experienced such a wonder. No man who had never experienced Galina's sexual services could truly understand.

Gazing at him, a perfect smile spread across her lips. "Now is the highest favor—Calia herself," she said.

With the fluid movements of a cat, Calia lay down, seducing Sir Stephen with alluring gestures. Trembling, he climbed onto her, her legs spread wide. She embraced him, and he lay on top of her, his heart pounding, his chest heaving, her full, soft breasts cushioning his movements. His legs were enveloped by her incredibly warm and smooth thighs.

His throbbing penis touched the labia of her vulva, and his entire shaft was about to be drawn into that fragrant, moist opening.

Calia said to him, "Now you are in paradise. If you can, enjoy it while you can." Sir Stephen struggled with the impending climax, his hips rising and falling, his sweaty abdomen slamming against hers. Beneath him, Calia, like a small boat in a typhoon, frantically undulated her slender waist and full hips.

"Woman," Sir Stephen thought, "I have never seen a real woman. Compared to Calia, are there any other women? Like being in the shadows, or even less than shadows, lacking fullness and reality, he could give up his lands, his titles, his loyalty to the king, even his faith in God, as long as he could possess Calia forever!"

Like a bolt of lightning striking Sir Stephen's spine, he screamed, inevitably causing the knight to convulse violently, screaming out the ecstasy and satisfaction he released. His senses—even his very soul—had abandoned him in this extreme pleasure.

Calia rose, and Sir Stephen, seemingly seeing her through a fog, said, "I am leaving you now—leaving forever."

His arms were outstretched, pleading, "Calia, stay!" But exhaustion overwhelmed him, and the knight collapsed, falling into a deep, dreamless sleep.

In the morning, Sir Stephen thought it should be the next morning, Ebola Bin... Ira led a band of pagans, under a white flag, to escort the knight back to the Christian camp. The desert devil coldly said to the knight, "I have a gift for you, Sir Stephen, a memento of your time with us, so that you may always remember us." He presented Sir Stephen with the silver bowl.

"Now you are a free man, Sir Stephen, and now the torture begins."

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The beginning of torture

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