Cella
Spectator
What am I doing? What the eternal fuck am I doing? I’m letting this guy take me . . . where?
“No,” I shout at him as I try to wriggle out of his grasp. “No! I don’t want to do anything with you, you fucking prick! Leave me alone!”
He ignores me. I’m helpless in his grasp. He’s so much bigger and stronger than I am. I scream for help. He's been squeezing my tits through my tunic top with his free hand since he grabbed me. Now he takes his hand off my breasts and puts it over my mouth.
“No one’s going to help you,” he says quietly in my ear. We’re at a crucifixion. ‘Respectable’ people are nowhere around.”
He’s right. This bastard is holding me close to make the other spectators think we’re together. I wasn’t prepared for the kind of behavior that goes on by people—men and women—who come out to watch crucifixions, especially the crucifixion of women. It’s reckless, uncontrolled, lusty, bawdy. The kind of behavior no one would dare exhibit on a public street. The worst kind of behavior. And so dangerous for any woman.
The guards here do not care what happens to me. They’re not here to protect me or any other woman so reckless as to be here. They’re present to make sure no one interferes with the crucifixions. To maintain a certain level or order that does not include protecting spectators from each other. Still, I returned. I had to. The fantasy urge in me was too strong. As awful as this place is, I want to be here! What does that say about me?
Shit! I just exposed my breasts to a crucified man. (But he was so beautiful, with such a lovely erect cock.) Oh gods! Only a wanton slut would behave like I did. Why? Why does this place make me want to live out my darkest, most intense fantasies? I’m not that kind of woman. I’m respectable, dammit! Yet I did expose myself in public. And I know, despite my shame, that I’d do it again. Mother and Thessela would be horrified if they knew what I did! What kind of pervert does that make me? Am I woman who wants to watch other women hanging nailed to crosses? Yes! Yes, I am. I’m ashamed to admit it, but it’s true. I want to live out my fantasy through their suffering. I want to stay and watch them, but this fucking bastard is dragging me away! Insisting that I want something. All I know is that I want nothing from him!
I hear the crucified women screaming in agony. I turn my head towards them and see their naked bodies, glistening with sweat, twisting and squirming on their crosses as they strain against the huge nails driven through their wrists and feet. Shit! I ache to be with them, to somehow share in their horrible sufferings. I came here because of them. This wasn’t supposed to happen!
"Let me go!" I shout at him again. "I want to stay here! This is where I want to be!" But he ignores my pleas and continues to force me to walk along with him.
Now I’m scared. Really fucking scared. This guy, who is he? Didn’t he have someone else with him last week? Where’s his friend? Waiting for us somewhere? What is he—or they—going to do to me? Rape! Yeah, that’s got to be it. They’re going to rape me! I know it! Oh shit, shit, shit, shit, shit! I don’t want to lose my virginity like this! Have it taken from me by force. To have my body violated so horribly. My virginity is mine to keep until I choose to give up. Not like this! No! Not like this!
What if I get with child? What will my family think? Mother will be devastated. My sister humiliated. I come from a good family. We have social status. Oh gods! What will my father think of me? What will he do if his younger daughter—whom he so doted on—gets pregnant? I'll have shamed my family. He'll be within his rights to have me killed! He'll never do it, I'm sure. But he will disown me. Throw me out into the streets. I’ll have to become a whore to survive. A pregnant one at that! Or at best a lowly bar maid in some dark alley establishment where drunken men will grab and paw at me all the time while whores noisily ply their trade upstairs. Wait . . . no, no. My father would never throw me out, or have me killed. He’d just send me away, to live with relatives or business associates (he knows so many people) in some distant province. To spare our family the shame. But still, I’d lose his respect—and love.
We’re getting near a narrow, dark side street between buildings close to the execution site. Is this where he’s going to rape me? Who else is there? Terror runs though me. Wait! He’s going to kill me! I know it. He’s going to rape me and then kill me. I don’t want to die! I don’t want to die!
If I can only get to my knife. It's my one chance to save myself.
He pulls me down the side street. Then pushes my back against a wall. In the dim light I can see he’s not unattractive. Rather handsome, really. Not like the boyish men I dream about at night, who I invite between my legs. No, not like them at all. Still, he terrifies me. What are his intentions? I’m breathing hard and sweating. My heart is pounding. Far off I can still hear the screams of the crucified women. I try to imagine what they’re going through right now, hanging naked on their crosses, elevated above the heads of the leering spectators. Everyone is staring up at their obscenely exposed bodies. It’s so exciting! Yet, yet, I’m here, taken captive against my will by this man. I’m very scared—fucking terrified—about what’s going to happen to me.
Terror and excitement fight for control of my emotions. My abductor pushes his hips against me. Is that an erection I feel? His hand slips between the folds of my tunic top and finds my breast. He cups and squeezes my bare tit. Too hard, too hard! It hurts. I yelp. He eases up, gently caressing now. His fingers find my already tumescent nipple. Oh gods! What a feeling! Waves of pleasure spread though me. No man has ever had his hand on my bare breast before. When he grabbed at me before his hand was feeling me through my tunic top. This is a much worse violation. I’m a virgin. No man has ever touched me in such a private place before. Still, it feels so . . . so . . . wonderful. (Much better than when my best friend, Cassia, touches me in the baths. But that’s a girl’s touch. This is so, so different.) An ache grows in my loins. A familiar heat spreads through me. How can I get wet at a time like this? My face burns with shame. What kind of depraved, wanton slut am I?
He leans his head in towards mine. He’s trying to kiss me! I turn my head away. He’s unshaven and the short whiskers scratch my cheek. I force myself to focus clearly on the danger I’m in. What the fuck! He insisting that I want to be here as he mauls at my body. Isn’t that what he said when he abducted me? But I’m very aware of the terrible danger I’m in. I’m not here of my free will. I’m his prisoner, soon to be terribly assaulted. I’m sure of that. I want to be back at the crucifixions. That’s my fantasy now, Not this terrible reality. This real threat to my life. I push against his muscular chest with my captive arms, to make some space between us. I must get to my knife. I want to stab this bastard and get away from him. I don’t want to be raped!
I struggle enough to drop an arm to my leg where the knife is strapped. I pull up the hem of my tunic and feel for the knife as he gets a knee between my thighs, spreading them apart. He’s grabbing at my cunnus as I pull the weapon from its scabbard and raise it up. I feel his strong fingers probing me, penetrating me, violating me. I grunt with the pain and humiliation of his assault. My terror has turned into rage. I’m ready to cut him to save myself. I'm breathing rapidly as I look at the short, deadly blade. It seems to gleam in the shadows around me. Soon it will be gleaming with his blood! His neck is exposed.
I strike at him.
Last edited:
