“This mode of execution comes from the Orient. A Neo-Assyrian relief from the 7th century BC depicts the impalement of Judean prisoners.
It was in frequent use in Turkey, especially after the 15th century AD. A historically accurate description of an impalement in the then Turkish province of Bosnia ca. 1570 was given by the Nobel-prize winning author Ivo Andric in his novel The Bridge on the Drina:[1]
[There] was an oak stake about eight feet long, pointed as was necessary and tipped with iron, quite thin and sharp, and all well greased with lard. On the scaffolding were the blocks between which the stake would be embedded and nailed, a wooden mallet for the impalement, ropes and everything else that was needed. […] Without another word the peasant lay down as he had been ordered, face downward. The gipsies approached and the first bound his hands behind his back; then they attached a cord to each of his legs, around the ankles. Then they pulled outwards and to the side, stretching his legs wide apart. Meanwhile Merdzan [the executioner] placed the stake on two small wooden chocks so that it pointed between the peasant’s legs. Then he took from his belt a short broad knife, knelt beside the stretched-out man and leant over him to cut away the cloth of his trousers and to widen the opening through which the stake would enter the body. […] As soon as he had finished, [Merdžan] leapt up, took the wooden mallet and with slow measured blows began to strike the lower blunt end of the stake. Between each two blows he would stop for a moment and look first at the body in the stake was penetrating and then at the two gipsies, reminding them to pull slowly and evenly. The body of the peasant, spread-eagled, writhed convulsively; at each blow of the mallet his spine twisted and bent, but the cords pulled at it and kept it straight. […] At every second blow [Merdžan] went over to the stretched-out body and leant over it to see whether the stake was going in the right direction and when he had satisfied himself that it had not touched any of the more important internal organs, he returned and went on with his work.
For a moment the hammering ceased. Merdžan now saw that close to the right shoulder muscles the skin was stretched and swollen. He went forward quickly and cut the swollen place with two crossed cuts. Pale blood flowed out, at first slowly and then faster and faster. Two or three more blows, light and careful, and the iron-shod point of the stake began to break through at the place where he had cut. He struck a few more times until the point of the stake reached level with the right ear. The man was impaled on the stake as a lamb on the spit, only the tip did not come through the mouth but in the back and had not seriously damaged the intestines, the heart or the lungs. Then Merdzan threw down the mallet and came nearer. He looked at the unmoving body, avoiding the blood which poured out of the places where the stake had entered and had come out again and was gathering in little pools on the planks. The two gipsies turned the stiffened body on its back and began to bind the legs to the foot of the stake. Meanwhile Merdžan looked to see if the man were still alive and carefully examined the face that had suddenly become swollen, wider and larger. […] Since the man could no longer control some of his facial muscles the face looked like a mask. But the heart beat heavily and the lungs worked with short, quickened breath. The two gipsies began to lift him up like a sheep on a spit. Merdžan shouted to them to take care and not shake the body; he himself went to help them. Then they embedded the lower, thicker end of the stake between two beams and fixed it there with huge nails […]”
This description fascinated me so much, I thought of taking the next available flight to Turkey, and now...
I - I can't believe this. It's the 21st Century! Why did we ever come to this awful place? I'm stumbling forward, pushed on by hard-looking men in rough peasant clothes. It is almost noon. Stones on the path dig into my bare feet. Behind me I hear Greg grunt in pain as he staggers.
We're both twenty-five. We'd thought it would be an adventure – off the beaten track in Turkey – before we settled down. Spectacular, remote, country in which to celebrate our love for each other. And it was, an adventure. Then it went wrong. Last night – was it only last night? - men burst into our room. Strong hands seized us, dragged us apart. Shouting, jabbering, all incomprehensible. Beaten, taken from the hostel with nothing but our briefs, locked in a filthy cell.
We have been walking down an alley. It now opens on to a square at the centre of the village. The scene is medieval. No cars, nothing modern, just a sandy square defined by low, square, almost windowless buildings. In the middle, a wide timber platform, surrounded by a crowd of villagers. We are being pushed towards steps up to the scaffolding. The mob is jeering and spitting at our bare bodies as we are forced through.
At first light an official came to our cell. In perfect English he said that we had been condemned for our unnatural vices, and we would receive traditional punishment. Then he walked away, answering no questions, listening to no pleas.
Now we are on the platform. The smooth wood beneath my feet is a relief. In front of me, waiting, is a masked man, standing legs apart, massively muscled arms crossed over his bare chest, a great wooden mallet at his feet. Lying on the platform are two long, tapered, timber stakes, their points tipped with iron. I can see that there are two sockets in the centre of the platform big enough to take the wider end of each stake.
The sun burns my skin, but my blood runs cold. Impalement! We're going to be impaled! I turn to Greg to say this to him, but I receive a hard blow across my mouth that makes me dizzy. I don't understand the words, but the action says “SILENCE”. I see, though, from Greg's expression of horror that he too knows what is about to happen.
Once, a long time ago, I had jerked off to a fantasy of being impaled. What a cool way to go, I'd thought, being fucked by such a long, hard, pole, all the way up from my arse, through my body, and out of my mouth, metal grating on my teeth as the point forced wide my jaws.
Right now I'm not horny. I'm scared. I'm shaking, terrified, only held up by the men each side of me. They're forcing me down on my knees, pushing me forward, pulling my arms behind my back, My face is on the timber. One man is pressing down between my shoulder blades, the other is roping my arms together. I feel the thick, rough, rope chafe my wrists. I know I cannot escape; the rope is tight.
Now ropes are being tied around my ankles, separately. The boards of the platform creak as the executioner moves behind me. I cannot see him. I cannot see the mallet. I twist my head. One of the stakes has been removed. Men are pulling on the ropes around my ankles. My legs are being pulled apart. I am being forced to do the splits. My hips ache with the unaccustomed angle between my legs. My cock and balls are forced down against the timber.
There is a noise in the crowd, a sort of eager murmuring. A hand, hot, callused, presses down on the small of my back. There is a tug at the back of my skimpy white briefs and I hear a quiet “snick”. A moment of cool air caresses my arsehole. The executioner! He must have a knife! He has cut the cloth for the stake!
Then I feel the knife. Cold, metallic. Sharp! I try to let it in. Don't cut me, don't cut me! I feel the blade sliding inside me, smooth, like it's so gentle. But then it turns and jabs and twists; honed steel through soft flesh. Red fire and pain radiates from my savaged sphincter through my whole body. The air is filled with a high, keening wail. I realise the noise in the air is coming from me, an uncontrollable yell of agony and despair.
I am lying here, legs still outstretched. Pain throbs between my legs. Warm, sticky, blood trickles around my balls. But the knife has been withdrawn. Nothing is happening. I try, but cannot, twist my head around to look behind me. I hear sounds of blocks moving, then a rasp of something heavier.
“ Agh!” I wince. Something cold is pressing against my wound. It moves forward a little sending shocks of pain through my system. It is like an uncertain, hard, but dead cock looking for the right angle to rape me.
“Thwack!” “Thwack!” “Thwack!” I am raped! I am screaming! With three mighty blows the stake is deeper inside me than any man has ever been. I twist and writhe from my waist up, but my legs are held steady, spread-eagled. Now there is a pause. I hear the executioner pace towards me. He must be looking at the effect of his actions. I hear him speak to the men holding my legs apart. I feel a slight adjustment in their position, a greater strain on my aching muscles.
“Thwack!” “Thwack!” The stake moves inside me. I scream again. My heart is racing. I am breathing in short quick gasps. There is another pause. I feel the stake being moved slightly to one side.
“Thwack!” “Thwack!” This time I only groan. The pain seems less. It is becoming more a whole body heat than localised unbearable agony. Endorphins must be kicking in. I am even feeling a tingling in my groin, a hint of sexual arousal. Is this possible?
“Thwack!” “Thwack!” I wonder how far the stake has moved inside me. Surely some vital organ must soon be punctured, some artery severed? Surely death will shortly end this torture? I can't feel the location of the tip. There is just an overall sensation of tightness and stiffness. With each blow, however, I feel my arse being opened wider, as a new, thicker part of the stake is driven inside me. And my cock is rigid, swollen, throbbing, as I squirm against the hard boards.
“Thwack!” “Thwack!” I feel a sharp pain near my right shoulder. By forcing my head back as far as I can I can just make out a strange lump under the skin. Then I see the executioners boots next to my face. He cuts me. Blood is trickling down. I lick a little off the platform.
“Thwack!” “Thwack!” “Thwack!” The bloodied tip of the stake is now in the open, close to my right ear. My torso is held rigid. I feel close to delirium. I try to speak, but my face feels swollen, my lips rubbery, my tongue immovable. But still I live, and now I'm being rolled onto my back. Men are tying my feet to the stake, tight, oh so tight! The wood is hard and rough against my ankles. There is a jerk, a shock of pain. I am being raised. The executioner shouts at the men raising me, comes to help, makes the movements smoother.
I am above them now. I am above the crowd. I can look down along the length of my body to where my hard erection tents my white briefs. To one side I can see Greg. His face is a mask of fear and horror. He is being laid face down as I was. I want to tell him that the pain is bad, but that it will subside. I want to tell him that I am now in a state of sexual ecstasy, a feeling of arousal stronger than I could ever have imagined. I can say none of this - my mouth cannot be controlled. Instead I must watch and hope that Greg's body ultimately reacts like mine, or that he dies quickly from some mistake by the executioner.
I see the executioner lining up the stake on small supporting blocks of timber – the clicking and dragging noises I had heard. He strikes heavily and methodically, checking the path of the stake after each pair of blows. Greg is stronger than I. He does not scream. His face is contorted in agony, but he makes no sound greater than a sobbing gasp at each thrust of the stake.
Eventually he too is raised up, and we are face to face some six feet apart. He seems to have some control of his facial muscles, even though he cannot talk. He gives me a weak smile as if to confirm “I love you!”. His fully engorged cock has slipped up above the waistband of his briefs and is pressed against his hard, flat, stomach.
The burning sun blazes through the afternoon. For us, little is changing. Our burnished bodies glisten with rivulets of sweat. The little blood that has escaped around the stakes has dried and darkened. I have become accustomed to the huge intrusion through my body, noticing it only occasionally when my limbs shudder involuntarily. I look across at Greg, the body that has fuelled my lust and the man who has earned my love. It is like time is standing still at the point of maximum arousal, seconds before an engulfing orgasm. It goes on like this for hour after hour.
I feel sorry for the men who have impaled us here, and their mindless religious bigotry. I know that many in that crowd will be masturbating to the sight of two fit young men mounted like insects to die a slow, agonising death. To take such a sordid pleasure in pain and death, when they could have enjoyed the love of another human; it's sad.
My reveries are interrupted. Greg is moving awkwardly, spasms shaking his body as the sun sets. Our eyes meet briefly. I can see that he is breathing badly, his chest jerking rapidly. I'm glad that his ordeal is ending. His cock jumps, and a fountain of cum spurts up. His arms and legs twitch. His head slumps to his chest. For Greg it is all over.
Night is coming. I have heard that some impaled men have lasted several days. I wonder, will I? Will I enjoy that final death orgasm? For now, I take each minute as it comes. The crowd has gone away, save for a few guards. I feel the pain of the stake inside me as only a dull ache. It seems almost natural now to be stiffly supported high above the landscape in a state of permanent sexual arousal. The pain of losing Greg is lessened by a belief that we shall be together again after death. We've all got to die sometime; maybe it is better to have an interesting death at twenty-five than to fade away in your dotage. Maybe the holiday to Turkey wasn't such a bad idea after all.
It was in frequent use in Turkey, especially after the 15th century AD. A historically accurate description of an impalement in the then Turkish province of Bosnia ca. 1570 was given by the Nobel-prize winning author Ivo Andric in his novel The Bridge on the Drina:[1]
[There] was an oak stake about eight feet long, pointed as was necessary and tipped with iron, quite thin and sharp, and all well greased with lard. On the scaffolding were the blocks between which the stake would be embedded and nailed, a wooden mallet for the impalement, ropes and everything else that was needed. […] Without another word the peasant lay down as he had been ordered, face downward. The gipsies approached and the first bound his hands behind his back; then they attached a cord to each of his legs, around the ankles. Then they pulled outwards and to the side, stretching his legs wide apart. Meanwhile Merdzan [the executioner] placed the stake on two small wooden chocks so that it pointed between the peasant’s legs. Then he took from his belt a short broad knife, knelt beside the stretched-out man and leant over him to cut away the cloth of his trousers and to widen the opening through which the stake would enter the body. […] As soon as he had finished, [Merdžan] leapt up, took the wooden mallet and with slow measured blows began to strike the lower blunt end of the stake. Between each two blows he would stop for a moment and look first at the body in the stake was penetrating and then at the two gipsies, reminding them to pull slowly and evenly. The body of the peasant, spread-eagled, writhed convulsively; at each blow of the mallet his spine twisted and bent, but the cords pulled at it and kept it straight. […] At every second blow [Merdžan] went over to the stretched-out body and leant over it to see whether the stake was going in the right direction and when he had satisfied himself that it had not touched any of the more important internal organs, he returned and went on with his work.
For a moment the hammering ceased. Merdžan now saw that close to the right shoulder muscles the skin was stretched and swollen. He went forward quickly and cut the swollen place with two crossed cuts. Pale blood flowed out, at first slowly and then faster and faster. Two or three more blows, light and careful, and the iron-shod point of the stake began to break through at the place where he had cut. He struck a few more times until the point of the stake reached level with the right ear. The man was impaled on the stake as a lamb on the spit, only the tip did not come through the mouth but in the back and had not seriously damaged the intestines, the heart or the lungs. Then Merdzan threw down the mallet and came nearer. He looked at the unmoving body, avoiding the blood which poured out of the places where the stake had entered and had come out again and was gathering in little pools on the planks. The two gipsies turned the stiffened body on its back and began to bind the legs to the foot of the stake. Meanwhile Merdžan looked to see if the man were still alive and carefully examined the face that had suddenly become swollen, wider and larger. […] Since the man could no longer control some of his facial muscles the face looked like a mask. But the heart beat heavily and the lungs worked with short, quickened breath. The two gipsies began to lift him up like a sheep on a spit. Merdžan shouted to them to take care and not shake the body; he himself went to help them. Then they embedded the lower, thicker end of the stake between two beams and fixed it there with huge nails […]”
This description fascinated me so much, I thought of taking the next available flight to Turkey, and now...
I - I can't believe this. It's the 21st Century! Why did we ever come to this awful place? I'm stumbling forward, pushed on by hard-looking men in rough peasant clothes. It is almost noon. Stones on the path dig into my bare feet. Behind me I hear Greg grunt in pain as he staggers.
We're both twenty-five. We'd thought it would be an adventure – off the beaten track in Turkey – before we settled down. Spectacular, remote, country in which to celebrate our love for each other. And it was, an adventure. Then it went wrong. Last night – was it only last night? - men burst into our room. Strong hands seized us, dragged us apart. Shouting, jabbering, all incomprehensible. Beaten, taken from the hostel with nothing but our briefs, locked in a filthy cell.
We have been walking down an alley. It now opens on to a square at the centre of the village. The scene is medieval. No cars, nothing modern, just a sandy square defined by low, square, almost windowless buildings. In the middle, a wide timber platform, surrounded by a crowd of villagers. We are being pushed towards steps up to the scaffolding. The mob is jeering and spitting at our bare bodies as we are forced through.
At first light an official came to our cell. In perfect English he said that we had been condemned for our unnatural vices, and we would receive traditional punishment. Then he walked away, answering no questions, listening to no pleas.
Now we are on the platform. The smooth wood beneath my feet is a relief. In front of me, waiting, is a masked man, standing legs apart, massively muscled arms crossed over his bare chest, a great wooden mallet at his feet. Lying on the platform are two long, tapered, timber stakes, their points tipped with iron. I can see that there are two sockets in the centre of the platform big enough to take the wider end of each stake.
The sun burns my skin, but my blood runs cold. Impalement! We're going to be impaled! I turn to Greg to say this to him, but I receive a hard blow across my mouth that makes me dizzy. I don't understand the words, but the action says “SILENCE”. I see, though, from Greg's expression of horror that he too knows what is about to happen.
Once, a long time ago, I had jerked off to a fantasy of being impaled. What a cool way to go, I'd thought, being fucked by such a long, hard, pole, all the way up from my arse, through my body, and out of my mouth, metal grating on my teeth as the point forced wide my jaws.
Right now I'm not horny. I'm scared. I'm shaking, terrified, only held up by the men each side of me. They're forcing me down on my knees, pushing me forward, pulling my arms behind my back, My face is on the timber. One man is pressing down between my shoulder blades, the other is roping my arms together. I feel the thick, rough, rope chafe my wrists. I know I cannot escape; the rope is tight.
Now ropes are being tied around my ankles, separately. The boards of the platform creak as the executioner moves behind me. I cannot see him. I cannot see the mallet. I twist my head. One of the stakes has been removed. Men are pulling on the ropes around my ankles. My legs are being pulled apart. I am being forced to do the splits. My hips ache with the unaccustomed angle between my legs. My cock and balls are forced down against the timber.
There is a noise in the crowd, a sort of eager murmuring. A hand, hot, callused, presses down on the small of my back. There is a tug at the back of my skimpy white briefs and I hear a quiet “snick”. A moment of cool air caresses my arsehole. The executioner! He must have a knife! He has cut the cloth for the stake!
Then I feel the knife. Cold, metallic. Sharp! I try to let it in. Don't cut me, don't cut me! I feel the blade sliding inside me, smooth, like it's so gentle. But then it turns and jabs and twists; honed steel through soft flesh. Red fire and pain radiates from my savaged sphincter through my whole body. The air is filled with a high, keening wail. I realise the noise in the air is coming from me, an uncontrollable yell of agony and despair.
I am lying here, legs still outstretched. Pain throbs between my legs. Warm, sticky, blood trickles around my balls. But the knife has been withdrawn. Nothing is happening. I try, but cannot, twist my head around to look behind me. I hear sounds of blocks moving, then a rasp of something heavier.
“ Agh!” I wince. Something cold is pressing against my wound. It moves forward a little sending shocks of pain through my system. It is like an uncertain, hard, but dead cock looking for the right angle to rape me.
“Thwack!” “Thwack!” “Thwack!” I am raped! I am screaming! With three mighty blows the stake is deeper inside me than any man has ever been. I twist and writhe from my waist up, but my legs are held steady, spread-eagled. Now there is a pause. I hear the executioner pace towards me. He must be looking at the effect of his actions. I hear him speak to the men holding my legs apart. I feel a slight adjustment in their position, a greater strain on my aching muscles.
“Thwack!” “Thwack!” The stake moves inside me. I scream again. My heart is racing. I am breathing in short quick gasps. There is another pause. I feel the stake being moved slightly to one side.
“Thwack!” “Thwack!” This time I only groan. The pain seems less. It is becoming more a whole body heat than localised unbearable agony. Endorphins must be kicking in. I am even feeling a tingling in my groin, a hint of sexual arousal. Is this possible?
“Thwack!” “Thwack!” I wonder how far the stake has moved inside me. Surely some vital organ must soon be punctured, some artery severed? Surely death will shortly end this torture? I can't feel the location of the tip. There is just an overall sensation of tightness and stiffness. With each blow, however, I feel my arse being opened wider, as a new, thicker part of the stake is driven inside me. And my cock is rigid, swollen, throbbing, as I squirm against the hard boards.
“Thwack!” “Thwack!” I feel a sharp pain near my right shoulder. By forcing my head back as far as I can I can just make out a strange lump under the skin. Then I see the executioners boots next to my face. He cuts me. Blood is trickling down. I lick a little off the platform.
“Thwack!” “Thwack!” “Thwack!” The bloodied tip of the stake is now in the open, close to my right ear. My torso is held rigid. I feel close to delirium. I try to speak, but my face feels swollen, my lips rubbery, my tongue immovable. But still I live, and now I'm being rolled onto my back. Men are tying my feet to the stake, tight, oh so tight! The wood is hard and rough against my ankles. There is a jerk, a shock of pain. I am being raised. The executioner shouts at the men raising me, comes to help, makes the movements smoother.
I am above them now. I am above the crowd. I can look down along the length of my body to where my hard erection tents my white briefs. To one side I can see Greg. His face is a mask of fear and horror. He is being laid face down as I was. I want to tell him that the pain is bad, but that it will subside. I want to tell him that I am now in a state of sexual ecstasy, a feeling of arousal stronger than I could ever have imagined. I can say none of this - my mouth cannot be controlled. Instead I must watch and hope that Greg's body ultimately reacts like mine, or that he dies quickly from some mistake by the executioner.
I see the executioner lining up the stake on small supporting blocks of timber – the clicking and dragging noises I had heard. He strikes heavily and methodically, checking the path of the stake after each pair of blows. Greg is stronger than I. He does not scream. His face is contorted in agony, but he makes no sound greater than a sobbing gasp at each thrust of the stake.
Eventually he too is raised up, and we are face to face some six feet apart. He seems to have some control of his facial muscles, even though he cannot talk. He gives me a weak smile as if to confirm “I love you!”. His fully engorged cock has slipped up above the waistband of his briefs and is pressed against his hard, flat, stomach.
The burning sun blazes through the afternoon. For us, little is changing. Our burnished bodies glisten with rivulets of sweat. The little blood that has escaped around the stakes has dried and darkened. I have become accustomed to the huge intrusion through my body, noticing it only occasionally when my limbs shudder involuntarily. I look across at Greg, the body that has fuelled my lust and the man who has earned my love. It is like time is standing still at the point of maximum arousal, seconds before an engulfing orgasm. It goes on like this for hour after hour.
I feel sorry for the men who have impaled us here, and their mindless religious bigotry. I know that many in that crowd will be masturbating to the sight of two fit young men mounted like insects to die a slow, agonising death. To take such a sordid pleasure in pain and death, when they could have enjoyed the love of another human; it's sad.
My reveries are interrupted. Greg is moving awkwardly, spasms shaking his body as the sun sets. Our eyes meet briefly. I can see that he is breathing badly, his chest jerking rapidly. I'm glad that his ordeal is ending. His cock jumps, and a fountain of cum spurts up. His arms and legs twitch. His head slumps to his chest. For Greg it is all over.
Night is coming. I have heard that some impaled men have lasted several days. I wonder, will I? Will I enjoy that final death orgasm? For now, I take each minute as it comes. The crowd has gone away, save for a few guards. I feel the pain of the stake inside me as only a dull ache. It seems almost natural now to be stiffly supported high above the landscape in a state of permanent sexual arousal. The pain of losing Greg is lessened by a belief that we shall be together again after death. We've all got to die sometime; maybe it is better to have an interesting death at twenty-five than to fade away in your dotage. Maybe the holiday to Turkey wasn't such a bad idea after all.
