Chapter 240 - The Man in the Iron Chastity Belt (Patreon)

On our way to Castle Mourneheart’s dungeon, I end up making small talk with the imposing knight. His answers are curt and short, rarely using more than a few words at a time. Fortunately, I get the feeling that he’s just not a very talkative person and not that he’s disinterested or annoyed with me. Both Opalina and Abigail have high opinions of the man, and it’s not hard to see why. Victor can wear all the spiky, evil armor he wants, but it’s not enough to hide his soft-spoken yet warm personality. I guess, seeing as how he’s a commoner like myself, he’s just naturally more humble than his peers. The Marshal makes for a refreshing contrast after dealing with Bertrand and even Solomon.

During our conversation, the knight tells me he just returned a few days ago from patrolling the western border. He was tasked by Solomon to reinforce multiple forts with knights, soldiers, weapons, and supplies to improve defenses. That’s worrisome, but Victor claims it’s only a deterrent and doesn’t expect Duke Glorigold to actually ever attack Arrark full-on... knock on wood.

As we grow nearer to our destination, the topic changes to that of my fallen foe. According to the Marshal, Pimpington had his wounds treated, but he’s been continually tortured on and off ever since his arrival. I’m almost afraid of what I’ll see when we reach him. He’s undoubtedly a villain on the wrong side of the law, but after witnessing the grace and dignity of his defeat, I can’t bring myself to hate the man any longer. I don’t think he deserves to be tortured.

At long last, we come to an out-of-the-way staircase hidden on the first floor of the dark castle. Its dirty, cobweb-infested steps lead down to a large steel door barred by many iron locks. Victor undoes each lock and advises me to stick close to him and not approach any of the cells. He says we have to pass through two huge chambers before we reach the VIP room.

Here, Arrark’s worst watch the two of us go by. Guards salute my knightly escort while decrepit prisoners wearing little more than rags run to the bars of their cages so they can scream insults at Victor. Shockingly, the Marshal finds little love within this prison.

“How many of them are from Dewhurst?” I ask, after recognizing a few townsfolk sitting behind bars. Pretty sure that gnome over there napping in a puddle of his own piss used to be an adventurer back in my grandfather’s era, too. Glad to see he’s doing alright for himself.

“Half?” He shrugs.

Huh. Lower than I would have thought. Though I guess since we lack proper law enforcement in town, they don’t actually ship most of the city’s worst out to Dawnstead’s dungeons.

We pass through the first chamber and onto the next. This one is more of the same, just worse in every way. The criminals look even meaner, and the cells are somehow even dingier. The scent of mildew is thick in the air, as well as the unmistakable stink of resentment and regret. Or maybe that’s just all of the prisoner’s waste piling up. Probably that, now that I think about it.

If this is only the second chamber, I fear what sort of conditions they’re keeping Pimpington in. My fear grows exponentially as once we reach halfway through the massive rows of iron cells, I hear a familiar voice screaming, “Stop! Stop all this, ya feel me?! It ain’t- AH- It ain’t right! Help! HELP!”

Pimpington sounds like he’s on the verge of death, his shout curdled with blood. I stop in my tracks and ask Victor, “Is he alright? I know it sounds odd, but a mutual respect developed during our battle. I don’t exactly wish to visit him in pain.”

Victor stops in front of the door and cranes his massive, tree-trunk-sized neck to face me. “See for yourself,” He says, gesturing to the sealed metal barricade with his finger.

I take him up on it, and with a fit of anxiety brewing in my heart, I undo all of the latches and open the door, stepping forward into the deepest pits of Dawnstead’s dungeons.

This room is larger than the other two by far, and instead of a narrow corridor, it’s shaped like an open rectangle. Twenty-five large cells with fancier accommodations than the prisons before are built into the backmost wall in five stacks of three. Catwalks with stone stairways allow the guards to patrol the different rows, and when standing far away enough like I am now, you can get a good look at all of the prisoners at once. Not many of them are occupied, but my attention is drawn to the nearest one that is.

On the first floor row in the center cell, Pimpington is forced to suffer torture most foul. “Stop, please! Mercy!” He screams, to no avail. The former adventurer is strapped to a large four-poster bed, entirely naked except an iron chastity belt. He’s not alone. Joining him are four of the five girls Sam, Meri, and Zutiria beat up during the dungeon crawl, as well as Lemira and Rhaelyn and that one Elf from the puzzle room which Sam knocked out. The pregnant Human is in the adjacent cell to the left, sitting up in her bed while leaning against the wall and frustratedly masturbating at her exclusion.

Each girl is rubbing their bodies up against the pimp, kissing him, grinding against him, kneading their breasts into his body while they moan sexually and do their best to give the man pleasure that he can’t truly appreciate. Even worse, Left and Right Hoe seem to be taking this chance to tease their boss with a bit of femdom play. The dark-skinned Human and the naughty Elf both hover over his head, intermittently shoving their sopping pussies onto his mouth. They scream with joy as he pleasures them, somewhat against his will.

Well... at least he’s alright, I guess.

“You can cry all you want,” Lemira teases, biting her thick lower lip and pushing down her fat ass on the pimp’s face. “You love it.”

“N-No! This pimp would never like this femdom shit, ya feel me?! It ain’t my style! It ain’t! I-” His protests are loud but unconvincing. Pimpington gets distracted halfway through, much to the black woman’s delight.

The tiny Halfling pulls her mouth away from Pimpington’s nipple and looks our way. Her eyes are much clearer than that last time I saw her, no doubt because they’re keeping her off of steezweed during her imprisonment. Her tiny a-cup breasts barely peak up from her chest as she sits up. Even as she tilts her head and stares right at us, the little Rogue’s hand is buried between her legs, furiously teasing and pleasing her narrow slit. “He’s here, I think...”

The tattooed Frost Dwarf stops grinding on his leg, the huge Orc woman sits up off one of his hands, the trumpet playing Elf off of the other, while the Elf mage stops sucking his opposite nipple. Lemira and Rhaelyn are the last to stop and look very disappointed that they have to.

“You’re all dismissed. Guards.” Victor raises a single hand, and armored prison guards unlock the cell. One by one, the prisoners willingly shuffle out of the room without a hint of resistance. At first, I find it odd that there are no handcuffs on any of the girls. Then I realize there’s no point since Victor is here and could quickly subdue any of them. Even then, though... they all look strangely compliant.

Pimpington’s lieutenants are led to different cells on the third floor, while the hooker squad is escorted out of the third chamber entirely. Guess that means the pregnant girl is only back here because the cells are nicer.

Victor and I approach the pimp’s cell, and the smell of harem sex hits me like an explosion. It’s probably a weird thing to admit, but it makes me homesick even though it’s only been a day.

“Visitor.” The towering Knight proclaims to the criminal in a gruff, commanding tone. Victor undoes the locks on the cell with a set of keys he takes from a pouch on his belt and leads me inside the posh prison.

“Oh, oh, bless you, Guild Master...!” Pimpington says, breathing heavily and covered with sweat. “They... they’ve been torturing this pimp since I got here, but I ain’t sayin’ shit to anyone but you, ya feel me? They won’t let a pimp nut unless he sells out all his friends! What kinda whack ass shit is that, for real?”

“Talk first, nut later.” Victor narrows his eyes, delivering that line more threateningly than should be possible.

“Guess this pimp ain’t ever gonna nut then,” Pimpington looks up from his bed but can’t sit up thanks to the bondage on his limbs chaining him to the posters.

“Guess he’s not.” Victor nods his head.

“Wait, wait, wait!!” Pimpington becomes desperate. “Let’s not be so hasty here, ya feel me?! Master, this torture is too much! You gotta get me a lawyer or some shit, I’ll die in here!”

Shaking my head, I tell my fallen foe, “Sorry, but I don’t think so. You’re getting what you des-”

Pimpington lets out a pitiful cry as he thrusts his pelvis weakly into the air, shouting, “Fuck!! T-The blue balls... they’re... they’re starting up again! AGH-”

“Well, maybe it’s a little cruel...” As mean as she is, at least Snow let me get off eventually. My balls are suffering second-hand pain just looking at this sad display.

Victor pulls a lever on the wall, forcing the bed to recline upwards until the pimp is presented on a slab. I look up into the eyes of this powerful criminal that my girls brought down as a team, and beneath the delirious pain, I see in them a renewed light. Something stirs within him that wasn’t there before, or rather, something that used to be there a long, long time ago, has finally returned.

Even in defeat and with a horrific case of blue balls, he looks at me with the pride and poise of a gentleman knight. Pimpington sighs before eventually giving me a genuine smile. “Glad you could make it, Guild Master. Your girls alright?”

“Mostly. They’re all healed, but the healing potions had some side effects, so they had to rest for a few days.”

“Good, this pimp is happy for ya. I’m sorry for all the shit I did to ‘em, but business is business.” He turns to Victor and scowls. “Anyway, this mothafucka ever heard of privacy?”

“You either talk to your visitor with me present, or you don’t talk, period.” The Marshal responds.

Although reluctant, the Pimp hangs his head and sighs. “Man fuck you, ya brick shithouse lookin’ ass.”

“Guild Master,” Victor looks at me with a dead, serious expression. “You may have to come back later. It sounds to me like the prisoner wants me to return his accomplices. Perhaps it’s time to give them strap-ons?”

“NO!” Pimpington shrieks, tears streaming down his face with unrelenting misery. “You can stay! I don’t care anymore, just please, Gods, no!!”

Victor nods without even a hint of a smile. “Go ahead, then. The floor is yours, Guild Master.”