Chapter 4
Most days the prisoner didn't know who he was, and on the days he could remember a name, he wasn't sure if it was in fact his own. Just as he wasn't sure if the rest of his memories, when they did come to light, were actually his own. But on most days, this wasn't something he thought about simply being unable to remember. And on the other days, he rarely got a chance to reflect on anything, for the man who guarded him - the man who was the only one dealing with him - made sure that he didn't get time to do so. At least not about matters that had nothing to do with his current situation.
However, he could recall everything that had to do with his situation, with his being in this dungeon, quite well, even if he didn't have the slightest idea how long he had been in here. He would not be surprised to learn that he had been here for years, but that was also because he could not remember any other life at all. He also understood how improbable it was that he would ever find out how long he had been here. No more than anyone would tell him the reason he was in this place and how long he had to remain here. As for the latter, he was convinced he would die here. As for the former, it could be anything.
His jailer - his personal torturer - had asked him countless questions and he might be able to figure out why he was here if he could remember them. But most of them he had forgotten already. He was quite sure, however, that he had told the man everything he knew, whether he had been asked about it or not. The prisoner was simply incapable of hiding anything from the other. He just couldn't imagine as to which of the bits he might have once known could be interesting enough for anyone to still keep him here.
He reckoned he could recall that one time there had been another person who had come down here to ask him questions. His jailer sometimes talked about the king himself being interested in what he supposedly knew, but the prisoner could absolutely not imagine that. What would the king want to know from someone like him, and why should he have come here in person to find out? Not that he could actually judge this, because naturally he did not know the king. When should he ever have met him? Therefore, he had only a vague idea of what kind of man such a highly placed person might be, but certainly being a king did not mean going to a dark, dirty and foul-smelling place, such as this dungeon. That was just a ridiculous notion.
Furthermore, it didn't matter to the prisoner who asked him questions. There were other issues that he had to deal with. Other things that he absolutely had to remember, that he must never forget. These were, first and foremost, the rules that his jailer had laid down for life down here, and keeping them was vital for the prisoner. Everything else, on the other hand, was absolutely irrelevant.
And among these irrelevant matters was who he might once have been. This memory was of no use to him at all. Therefore, he felt it was no big deal to forget about all of this. His jailer, the master over his life and probably also over his death, told him everything he needed to know about himself and if he did not behave as the other demanded of him, his everyday life would become even more painful than it usually was.
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"Good morning, Bastard", the powerfully built man wished cheerfully as he approached the prisoner. With effort, the prisoner raised his head at least enough to look briefly at his jailer - otherwise he would be punished - but he had no strength for more. After all, this was now the second night in a row that he had to spend standing upright, and that was not a position in which anyone could sleep. The reason he hadn't been able to lie down to sleep was that the chain connecting his handcuffs was on a hook so far off the floor that it was only possible for him to stand on the balls of his feet if he stretched all the way. To do this, he had to flex his leg muscles and straighten his knees. If he didn't manage to do that, he hung with all his weight on his wrists. And after a short time, he developed massive problems breathing. But to keep the muscles of his legs under tension all the time led sooner or later to cramps, which in turn prevented him from keeping his weight on the balls of his feet. And if he fell asleep due to his exhaustion despite his uncomfortable position, he was awakened again after a short time by the pain, or by the problems with his breathing. For this reason, he had hardly slept for two days now, and even though it was not the first time he had been in such a position, it was still impossible for him to get used to such a thing. At least not to such an extent that it could be of any help to him. After all, everyone had to sleep at some point.
His jailer tampered with the chain to which the hook was attached and finally loosened its fastening, allowing the prisoner to sink to the floor. He allowed him to sit there while he disconnected the handcuffs from the hook and then pulled this back up so it was out of the way. This didn't take very long, though, as the man has a lot of experience doing this, and when he was done, he kicked the prisoner in the side, whereupon the latter got up and stood, even though it was obviously difficult for him. But he had learned that if he didn't do what was asked of him, it would be even more painful for him, and he wanted to avoid suffering more than necessary at all costs. He had far too little control over what happened to him anyway, so he didn't need to make it worse by his own stupidity.
The prisoner was so tired that he was unable to form a lucid thought, but still he knew he could not afford not to react. Therefore, he picked himself up after the toe of his jailer's boot hit him in the side. He also cherished the hope that the other hadn't broken a rib, but that didn't alter the fact that he had to struggle back to an upright posture.
"You really are a tough bastard", the other man went on, still using that cheerful tone of voice. He almost gave the impression that he wanted to express his appreciation to the other for this physical feat, but of course that was not true. His behavior simply resulted from the fact that he really enjoyed addressing and treating his prisoner in this manner. He derived more than a little satisfaction from the fact as to how badly the other had to suffer as a result of his actions, and he did not get tired of tormenting him either. On top of that, the jailer was actually very good at getting prisoners to talk, though they usually weren't available to him for as long as this one was. In the meantime, he had really trained him and so the man actually tried to please his jailer, but of course he was not able to do so. Man, in itself - and this one in particular - was only made to endure a certain amount of pain and agony before he collapsed. But that was just fine with the jailer, because then he could subject him to further torture and humiliation. This was a cycle in which the prisoner had no chance to improve his lot as long as he was in the clutches of his torturer.
As soon as the prisoner was standing, his jailer mustered him from head to toe to decide how much more he could put him through that day, for he had no intention of letting him die, of course. As the man was coated with a thick layer of dirt - including dried blood and other bodily fluids - his jailer could not clearly determine the state of his older injuries, but as these had not killed him so far, they were not overly important. The prisoner stood a bit hunched over, which was due to the kick he had just received, but even that was negligible. The jailer was always amazed at how quickly it was possible to overlook the fact that the prisoner was naked -the layers of dirt could almost take the place of clothing- but by now he could no longer overlook how gaunt the other was. Probably he should see to it that he received more food again in the near future. He had let the prisoner starve long enough and he had no problem to alter that now. He would also have his fun torturing the man with food that tasted bad enough to be called inedible, and yet the other would gorge on it as if it were a feast after the involuntary fast. The jailer, however, was certain that the other could not remember any kind of feast.
Finally, he came to the conclusion that exhaustion would be the biggest problem today, but he wasn't surprised about that. He had planned to add to that exhaustion anyway, and already had an idea of how to accomplish that. There were plenty of opportunities down here to keep the prisoner busy with useless chores.
"That pile of rocks back there needs some rearranging. As soon as you're done with it, I'll have a reward for you. So, you'd better hurry up, Bastard." The torturer laughed, loud and long. Both at the idea of the prisoner straining for a bowl of inedible porridge, and at the fact that the other was now reacting as if " Bastard" was his name, just because he always addressed him like that.
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In the dark, the prisoner lay on the cold, hard floor of his prison. He was not sure what had awoken him, since he was not able to see anything and he could not hear anything either, but he assumed anyway that he had rather woken up for some other reason. The most likely cause could be that he was unable to adjust his sleeping position because his shackles prevented him from doing so. Most of the time he was too exhausted to let that stop him from sleeping as much as he was able to, or rather, sleeping as much as he was allowed to. But that night, things obviously turned out differently.
Once he was sure his tormentor wasn't around, he was able to relax a bit, as odd as that might seem in his situation. And then, all at once, he realized that this was one of the rare moments when he could remember some of the things from his past life, a time before he had ended up in this dungeon, as well as with the man who tortured and humiliated him.
While nothing personal ever crossed his mind in those moments, there were still impressions from a life he had obviously once led outside these walls. With them came memories of sunshine and of warmth. Right now, warmth was something he only experienced when he got too close to a torch or a fire bowl, while he hadn't experienced sunshine since he'd been here. The same was true of rain or snow or wind. In those special moments, he also recalled such things as trees or the sky, a blue one or one strewn with stars. He remembered the scent of earth or rough wood or smooth metal when he put his fingers on it.
The prisoner couldn't stop the tears from welling up in his eyes. These tears had nothing to do with the pain he had to endure or the humiliation he had to suffer. They also had nothing to do with hunger, thirst or exhaustion. And they certainly had nothing to do with the fact that his jailer forced him to do things that were deeply repugnant to him, especially since it was not the first time in his life that someone abused him. In this respect, he was quite sure, even if he could not remember those previous situations. But he had not been able to forget that sense of helplessness that welled up inside him when someone forcibly penetrated his body. He had shed more tears because of this than because of any physical pain, and of course this had not escaped his tormentor. This, in turn, had led to his being abused every day from that point on.
Meanwhile, it only caused him pain when that particular old memory - or at least part of that memory - surfaced in him again, for he had unfortunately realized that he had grown accustomed to this treatment. He could now bear the resulting pain as well - or as poorly - as the others he had to endure. For him, the abuse had no other significance than being whipped. Or than being maltreated with a hot iron, a blade, or a club, for all of these were now part of his daily life.
But in the rare moments when he realized all that he had lost, the rape inflicted by his tormentor pained him more than anything else.
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The torturer was not squeamish when it came to blood, so it was not surprising that he was not bothered by the thick layer of dirt that covered his prisoner. In any case, this did not prevent him from dealing with the other very intensively and - literally - up close, and that every day and more often even at night. It was no problem for him to do whatever he could imagine to this man, to his prisoner. It was also no problem for him to do this at any time, if he wanted to, because he practically lived in this dungeon himself. But unlike his prisoner he had the option to go outside and enjoy the sun and the fresh air, and he did so almost every day. And sometimes, when he returned to the prisoner, he would tell him about what it was like outside, observing very closely the pain he was causing the other person with his words. This pleased him very much, because it aroused him to inflict pain on others. Then, when he was sure that his prisoner had again managed to forget what he had told him, he repeated the whole thing. And always with the same effect. This was simply marvelous.
All that he could do to the man was just marvelous for him, but the best part of it all was that no one was interfering with him in anything he was doing. By now he was sure that those who had to decide here had forgotten the existence of this prisoner. They even seemed to have forgotten that this part of the dungeon where the man was held existed, however improbable that might be. But no one ever came down here except the torturer himself, which of course suited him just fine. He had never had such a good time as he was having now, and he hoped this would continue for a long time.
Still, he acted as if any day could be the last he had access to the prisoner, for this was better than giving in to the hope that this would never end. After all, he had been disappointed in this regard many times before, and then had to wait for his special skills to be needed again so he could get his hands on a man again.
"Come here, Bastard!" he ordered the prisoner, who was squatting on the ground not far from him.
The man struggled to get up, having to brace himself against the wall, for his jailer had previously worked him over with his fists and so he was very unsteady on his feet. As he slowly moved forward, with one hand on the wall, he left bloody marks. Arriving at his tormentor, the latter administered a slap to his face, which was so severe that it immediately sent him back to the floor.
"Next time move faster, Bastard!" he yelled at him, but then laughed. "But if you're going to kneel down there, you might as well make yourself useful." He laughed again and looked down at the man at his feet.
The prisoner winced, for he had immediately grasped what his jailer wanted him to do, and try as he might, he was unable to suppress this involuntary reaction. He never succeeded in doing so, although he knew very well that this would lead to further punishment. Although by now he had become accustomed to the things his tormentor did to him every day - as much as someone could become accustomed to such a thing - still he could not stop his body from all reactions, as much as he wished to.
The torturer was already busy untying the lacing of his pants and letting them slip down to his ankles, so that he stood before his prisoner with a naked abdomen. Just the thought of what was about to happen aroused him and so his cock had already filled sufficiently with blood and had also thickened and lengthened. However, he now didn't want to wait for this to proceed, so he reached with one hand into his victim's long, matted hair and pulled his head closer. He had no fears that the other would resist in any way or do anything to hurt his tormentor, for he had trained him too well for that.
"Make yourself useful, Bastard!" he ordered him in a harsh voice.
The prisoner hurried to take his tormentor's penis in his mouth. He used his lips and tongue to stimulate the other man, while at the same time trying not to think about what he was doing here. He also tried not to think about why he wasn't resisting doing what he was being forced to do, but deep down he knew that the other man had broken him some time ago.
He continued to struggle to please his jailer in a way that would ensure that after all his punishment would not be quite as rigorous as he feared. By now he had a lot of practice in doing everything the other demanded of him and therefore it didn't take long until his tormentor experienced his climax and squirted his semen into the prisoner's mouth. He swallowed it all, avoiding shuddering in disgust, for that would have led to him being punished again. But he was never able to avoid being punished, because his jailer always found a pretext. And on the days when he was actually unable to find something, he punished him just because he enjoyed it. And because he was able to do it.
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Once again, the prisoner found himself awake - and tethered - in the darkness of the prison, lying on the cold floor in the middle of the night - at least he believed it was night, but he had no way to verify if that was actually true. But this time it wasn't shreds of memories that kept him from sleeping, this time it was due to the fact that he was thinking hard about how to bring about his death. However, he himself was not aware that he had been preoccupied with these particular thoughts more and more lately. He had also forgotten how vehemently he had clung to his life at the beginning of his imprisonment, which was why at that time he was willing to accept and endure whatever he was subjected to. His tormentor, however, had made sure that he could not remember and he had also made sure that for a long time he was not even able to reflect on not wanting to go on living.
But that night, things turned out differently. Even though he had absolutely no idea who he was, he still realized that he didn't want to go on living like this. And for some time, he actually started to consider how he could take his own life, although this idea in turn also gave him a horror, the source of which he did not know.
To his great sorrow, he had not yet found a way to put an end to his unbearable life. On the one hand, this was due to the fact that he often thought of getting his tormentor to kill him, but then realized that it would be impossible for him to provoke the other person accordingly when he actually found himself in such a situation. On the other hand, he had not yet found a way to take his own life, no matter how much he wished for death. The biggest obstacle in the realization of this ardent desire, however, was the fact that he kept forgetting that he had already thought about it. For these reasons, he had to continue to persevere in this situation, desperate as he was. But escape, of any kind, simply was out of his own hands.