<i>What a pleasant scream.</i>To the onlookers it might have sounded ghastly, especially upon the ears of the slaves. But to Cygnus it was like a songstress' melody being woven in the air, with just the slight hint of sweet Dusanian accent. Rivulets of blood trickled down the alabaster surface of Altair's skin, like a silken scarlet dress. It trailed down to the soiled sash that the slave wore to preserve his dignity, soaking into the gossamer cloth; in hindsight, he thought it would've been better to remove the sash in its entirety from Altair's body, so that his crew and the slaves might bear witness to the humiliation the slave would receive from being shown off as if he were a common whore. Hearing the slave voice his agony while his cock daintily dangled and rubbed itself against the rough mast, which would've looked as if he were a dog in heat trying to satiate his primal urges against a pole.<br/><br/>To his surprise the slave did not beg; an oddity, considering all that Cygnus held the slave to be. Untrained to pain and narcissistic beyond belief. Perhaps it may have been that the slave was blinded by the pain, unable to speak unless he wished to bite out his tongue. Or was it that Altair's haughty pride kept him from begging for mercy? It would be degrading in its own right to submit to his punisher, especially when his punisher was the one who orchestrated the flogging to begin with. The captain did not linger long on the sentiment; either way, Altair would be receiving ten lashes or more. Likely to be more, seeing as he wasn't counting. Already Altair was setting himself up for being whipped eleven times - and Cygnus didn't intend to spare him the benefit of counting for him.<br/><br/>He raised the whip above his head once more, eyeing where the neck lash would go. Across his back again? Perhaps onto his thigh? Onto his lower back? There were many more options; any bit of untarnished skin was an invitation to the whip to take a nibble and lay ruin to the slave's back. By the end of all of the whipping he wanted Altair's back to resemble the throat of a freshly drained boar, red and dripping with sanguine fluid. What Cygnus truly desired was Altair's back to resemble mincemeat, for every insult the slave had dare lopped his way, but he knew that achieving such a result would also result in the death of the slave. Though Altair 'losing value' would have no bearing on Cygnus' earnings, losing the slave in his entirety would no doubt lead to grave consequences.<br/><br/>Finally, he decided where the next lash should go; across the lower back. He slashed the thirsty leather forward once more, parting the air with the intensity of his movement. A smile parted his lips; when would the slave realize he had to count?