old slave
FELIS RESPICIENS
Can we not have a successful escape here some time? Is it too much to ask for just once?
See The Fixer and my comment. I agree.
Can we not have a successful escape here some time? Is it too much to ask for just once?
See The Fixer and my comment. I agree.
Great Point!!! But treason can lead to the cross!Vetting the new members of the resistance is always a problem. If they join only because of the girl, and the girl is unavailable, they're predestined for betrayal even if they were originally sincere...
Is there any other way to treat an enemy?their enemy, stripped, beaten, humiliated, raped and now forced to simulate a sex act
“I will consider the sentence over night. Take her away.”
Mommius folded his arms with satisfaction. This was the beginning of it, the formal start of her execution. The two temple guards charged with thrashing her stepped forward, flexing their canes. There was relish in their actions and the crowd clearly appreciated it. They whipped them through the air, a terrifying sound although Aelia seemed unmoved as through crowds oohed and aahed. Then the first of them caressed her with it, running the cane down her back to her buttocks. He tapped them, then took three paces back and swept in. The lash was impossibly hard, the cane a blur as it cut deep into the firm flesh. She gave a twitch and a sight gasp. “One,” said Caiaphas, a look of smug cruelty on his face.
The left-hander struck, low on the curve of her buttocks. She yelped. It was worse than she’d expected it to be, far worse than running the gauntlet. She was a static target and the canes, obviously, hurt far more than the straps. She willed herself to remain calm. She would not give them the satisfaction of seeing she was suffering. She had to retain her dignity, then perhaps she could inspire others to defy Rome and the priests. The third landed square across her shoulders and drove the breath from her in a heavy grunt. Already, she could feel the sweat beading on her brow and her upper lip. She would remain calm.
The fourth whipped high on her buttocks, thudding against her pelvis. She heard the roar of the mob as the pain resounded through her. They were enjoying this. They saw her as trouble. She could be as stoical as she liked and they would still just see an uppity woman getting her comeuppance – and one with Roman blood, too. Both sides could come together in celebrating her torment. But she pushed such thoughts away. She had to endure. There was nothing else.
Clemens was struggling not to weep. He’d never felt so powerless. There she was, his leader, his beloved, being flogged, and he could do nothing. He wanted to turn away but he was transfixed by the horror, her long, lean frame stretched out on the frame, defenceless against the brutal strokes of the rod. He saw the stripes vivid across the smooth skin, eight of them now, from her thighs to her shoulders. A ninth landed across her shoulder-blades and she grunted. The crowd cheered as the tenth stroke crashed into her upper thighs. What was wrong with them? Why could they not see what she could have done? He looked at them. Two old women pointing and jeering. A group of teenage boys laughing, making lewd comments. A father with his young son, shaking his head sadly. A fat, toothless old man openly salivating at the sight of a naked woman. The soldiers, cold-faced. Three women in their thirties howling for them to lash her harder. A slightly older couple watching with approving nods. A group of youngish women giggling and making the noise of the cane. Why did they hate her? Was it for the threat she had posed? Did they love the Romans? Did they love the priests? Or was it just the sight of a beautiful girl, stripped and abused like this, a lust for her body, a lust for cruelty.
Mommius wiped the sweat from his brow. This was going better than he’d ever expected. He’d feared support for her but getting the priests to condemn her had been a masterstroke. This crowd hated her. If they could only make her scream it would be even better. She needed to be seen to be broken. But what a woman she was. He watched the cane smash into her buttocks. He heard her grunt. He saw the flesh flatten, then return to its pert roundness. He saw the pale line slowly growing a deeper red. Fifteen, came the call. And still she didn’t scream. But this was only the beginning. She had two nights and a day at the fortress even before she was scourged and led out to die on the cross. The stronger she was the better. The sixteenth landed and still they hadn’t got her howling, even though her body was streaked with red and brown and purple.
Her body was on fire. Aelia gritted her teeth and pushed her forehead into the bench. The pain was awful. The lash landed low on her thighs, just above the knees. Her legs jerked involuntarily, ankles kicking against the cuffs. She grunted, it taking all her strength not to shout out. Her eyes were watering. Sweat was coursing off her. She clenched her fists. And yet even as she prepared to absorb another blow she knew that the more lashes that were inflicted on her here, the less time she’d exist last on the cross. She was on the journey into death.
Clemens could barely look and yet some grim fascination kept him watching. The guards inflicting the beating were tough men, lashing with all their might. She was strong and brave but she was naked and defenceless, her skin now ravaged with bruises and welts. As a lash cut low across her back, a little above her waist, she gave an agonised gasp of pain. Twenty-four. She twitched, body shaking and the other flogger, cold-faced, struck hard into her shoulders. She gave a roar, bellowing through gritted teeth, fists clenched, head lifting slightly so he could see that noble profile, sweat dripping from it. The crowd hooted in glee.
At last, though Mommius. He’d worried she was so tough she’d take the beating without showing she was suffering and the whole point of this public punishment was to show her weakness, to humiliate her, to make clear that when you took on Rome you lost, and the consequences were severe. She absorbed a couple more, but the twenty-seventh, smashed into her thighs brought a shriek of pain. She controlled it, swallowing the shout, but her suffering was clear. He didn’t really understand the local custom of capping floggings at 39 lashes. She could clearly have taken several times that before death might have become an issue, but he understood it played to their favour here. It was severe, would hurt her, but it wouldn’t weaken her unduly. They could scourge her and she’d still last several hours on the cross, and that was vital. She had to hang in pain as long as possible, her shame and degradation were essential. He would have a physician look in on her that night, let her recover a little before she was handed over to the legion.
She was sweating so much her body was slithering on the bench, increasing the strain on her arms. The whole of the back of her body was on fire. A lash slapped just below her shoulder blades. She felt faint, a nausea sweeping over her. “Thirty,” came the call. Just nine more. She could do nine more. She clenched her fists. She could take this. But another voice in her head shouted back that what was to come was worse. The next blow clipped hard into her shoulders and, despite herself, she screamed, head flying back, spraying sweat. She heard the roar of appreciation from the crowd.
Clemens but his lower lip. He couldn’t be seen crying but this was awful. His heroine humiliated and howling as they flogged her, the mob cheering her agony. He’d had faith in her. He remembered raids when they’d seemed in trouble and she’d suddenly killed a man and the balance of the fight had changed. He’d listened to her calm speeches outlining their strategy. He’d believed she could do anything. But they’d won. Now she was naked and screaming, as helpless as anyone else. He saw the relish on the guard’s face as he lashed her hard across her buttocks. She bucked, legs and shoulders lifting and gave a desperate grunt of pain. He saw her face above her arm momentarily, flushed and twisted in pain, damp with sweat and tears, snot hanging from her nostrils. Thirty-three.
It occurred to Mommius quite abruptly that he could fuck her. Why not? Why let the soldiers have all the fun? His wife would never know. What he wouldn’t give to have those long legs wrapped around him. His wife tended merely to lie there to accept him as though it was her duty when he wanted something a little more stimulating and this one, he suspected, like that whore in Caesarea all those years ago, was capable of wildness. She shrieked again, blood oozing from the left side of her back where the latest lash had opened a welt. She wouldn’t be wild that night, he knew, and besides he would probably have to have her chained down but still, to possess that string body, to feel those breasts flattened against his chest, he would do it. The thirty-seventh lash bit into the flesh above her waist and she gave an agonised groan. He’d watched plenty of thrashings before and he knew she was bearing up well. It was when they stopped screaming that you began to worry, when they bodies became a carcass absorbing the blows. But this one had plenty of fight left in her.
The sweat stung her eyes. It dripped from her forehead and nose. She could feel the layer of damp between her body and the bench. Just two more. But it was agony. Her back, buttocks and thighs burned. She lay her right cheek against the bench and waited. She could feel blood trickling in a couple of places down her back. Her shoulders and wrists ached from the strain of holding her. She was acutely aware of the crowd, their breathing, their excitement, their smell. She heard the whoosh of the cane, felt the impact drove the breath from her. She squawked and then the familiar swell of pain began, shock becoming agony building and building as the mob cheered their approval and then slowly ebbing again. She shuddered. She felt sick.
Clemens watched as the flogger prepared to administer the final lash. He could almost see the thought process. Where would he put it? On the finely muscled back, now bruised and torn? On those sumptuous buttocks, streaked and bloodied? Or on those long lissom thighs, striped with purples and browns? He went low, just above the knees. She jerked savagely, holding back a scream so it was an agonised gargle, then falling back onto the bench, torso heaving. Clemens felt a terrible dryness in his throat, a pain that extended from his chest to his eyes. They were killing her brutally and there was no hope.[/QUOTE
Very good writing, thanks!