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Barb Behind Bars
- Thread starter Barbaria1
- Start date
Oh Oh! That's not good, as Eul can tell you from Villa Grimaldi!
The only kind of fabric a girl should wear (though I could understand objections from those in Minnesota (B?) during the last couple of weeks - but, what the hell, appearance before comfort I always say - for women).
As I thought, back on the menu
Few men do, except of course, yours truly!
On the left as always
We see again that the Warden is being unfairly maligned by Moore and Goldman, when he just stands up for correction and justice.
The only kind of fabric a girl should wear (though I could understand objections from those in Minnesota (B?) during the last couple of weeks - but, what the hell, appearance before comfort I always say - for women).
As I thought, back on the menu
Few men do, except of course, yours truly!
On the left as alwaysWe see again that the Warden is being unfairly maligned by Moore and Goldman, when he just stands up for correction and justice.
Stan as counting assistant is not in a comfortable position to turn the tide. Thankfully! 
This is even better than at home, because the Matron does the work and my arm doesn't get sore
Your usual superb work SJ. But the "hole" seems roomier than I imagined. Shit, she could almost stretch out and float!
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19.
...
He didn’t particularly like the beard and mustache he had grown, both dyed blond, nor the thick mop of blond hair courtesy of WiggedOut.com, but they did the trick, he thought. He clipped the name tag that said “PORTER” onto the breast pocket of the Department of Corrections uniform he wore, and clipped his ID badge with a picture of him in his current disguise to his belt.
...
He didn’t particularly like the beard and mustache he had grown, both dyed blond, nor the thick mop of blond hair courtesy of WiggedOut.com, but they did the trick, he thought. He clipped the name tag that said “PORTER” onto the breast pocket of the Department of Corrections uniform he wore, and clipped his ID badge with a picture of him in his current disguise to his belt.
14.
...
“Well, I might. Stand up and remove your top and we’ll talk about it.”
I bit my lip, considered refusing to strip naked for him again after what happened the last time, thought better of it, and rose slowly from my chair. Reaching down, I took my orange prison tee by the hem and whipped it off over my head. Then I threw it right at him!
...
“Well, I might. Stand up and remove your top and we’ll talk about it.”
I bit my lip, considered refusing to strip naked for him again after what happened the last time, thought better of it, and rose slowly from my chair. Reaching down, I took my orange prison tee by the hem and whipped it off over my head. Then I threw it right at him!
24.
When the motel desk clerk handed him the package, Stan Goldman blanked for a second. It was a small red, white and blue envelope addressed to “David Porter”, care of the motel. He was about to say that there was a mistake, that it wasn’t for him, then he remembered. “Thank you,” he said, smiling as he took the envelope from the clerk’s outstretched hand and headed for his room.
The glasses were pretty much as advertised-not bad looking, perhaps a bit nerdy, but unless you knew what you were looking for you wouldn’t notice the camera hidden inside the right temple. Despite the basic nature of the instructions it took Stan’s technologically unsophisticated brain a little while to figure them out, but eventually he felt he had the gist of them.
He tapped the little button at the front of the temple piece and scanned around the room, focusing on the TV, then the mirror above the dresser, making a few silly faces, then tapped the rear button to switch the camera off. Synching the device to his laptop, he played the footage back. The quality was pretty damn good for something that small, certainly good enough to make evident to anyone whatever perverted goings on the Warden had planned for tomorrow night’s big event.
Stan took his Correctional Officer’s uniform off, changing into a T shirt and a pair of jeans and lay back on the bed, idly flipping channels to see if Seinfeld was on. It had been quite a week.
He’d been assigned to “watch over” Barb, though that mostly meant making sure her cellmates abuse went only so far. His instructions were to make sure no serious harm came to her that would prevent her from playing her essential part in the Warden’s upcoming spectacle, though what that meant in practice wasn’t entirely clear.
It certainly didn’t involve him intervening to stop Barb from being made to service Buckner and Rodriguez and anyone else they ordered her to take care of. He couldn’t see how that constituted serious harm, especially since Barb didn’t seem to mind and even gave some indications of enjoying it.
And a couple of days ago, when Buckner had said, “Officer Porter, how’d you like to take care of Moore while she does me?” even though he was a guard and wasn’t supposed to be bossed around by inmates, he’d thought, ‘Yeah, why not?”
So, he’d taken his place between Barb’s legs as Buckner rocked herself back and forth on Barb’s face and dived in, running his tongue up and down her slit. He couldn’t hear Barb’s squeals of delight, with her mouth pressed tightly against Buckner’s pussy, but he could feel her leg muscles tensing.
What he could hear was Buckner’s chanting, “Yeah, fuck, oh, yeah, Moore,” as Barb brought her to the peak of pleasure. Slowly, Buckner came down from her orgasm and slid off Barb’s face. “You want a turn, Rodriguez?” she asked.
“Yeah!” Rodriguez replied taking her place. Stan still wasn’t sure that she knew any other words and her wordless mewing as Barb worked on her didn’t offer any further clues.
Once Rodriguez had been satisfied, Buckner proclaimed, “Moore, you still need more practice on dicks. You up for that, Officer Porter?”
Stan had shrugged and unbuckled his belt. He was the new kid on the block and wasn’t going to rock the boat. And he had to admit Barb’s oral skills had really blossomed and developed. Her mouth enveloped his cock like it belonged there and she sucked out every last drop to the applause of her cellmates.
But a couple of days later, when Cindy Chao had pulled her shirt over her head and asked if he wanted to fuck her, Stan had seen the look Barb gave him and begged off.
“What’s the matter, Officer Porter?” Cindy had asked, rubbing her tits in his face. “Don’t you like what you see?”
“Very much, Chao,” he had replied, quite truthfully, “But I don’t have any condoms on me and if you got knocked up while in prison, that might take some explaining.”
“Sure, whatever,” Cindy had answered, rolling her eyes. Stan saw Barb shaking her head.
Stan sat with several other guards, both male and female, in a small classroom that was used for various group therapy sessions that the inmates participated in-things like Anger Management and Oppositional Personality Disorder. He hoped Barb would be signed up for the latter one and imagined it might improve their relationship when she came home. Her willingness to obey and please him here in the prison boded well, but he hoped she wouldn’t slip back into her old habits when she was a free woman again.
The Warden was briefing the staff on that night’s program. “We’ve got a good selection of guests coming-very wealthy and important people, and they’re paying a lot of money to attend, so we want everything to go perfectly. If it does, there will be a little envelope of cash for each of you at the end of the evening.” He smiled.
“Now the theme for the evening is,” the Warden paused for emphasis, “Roman!” The guards whistled and hooted loudly. “In keeping with the theme, all of you have been provided with the appropriate costume of a Roman legionnaire. Officer Gibbons, would you do the honors, please,” the Warden added indicating a large box that stood at the back of the classroom.
Gibbons, a husky older guard, veteran of many such evenings, opened the box and passed to each of his fellow guards a plastic bag that contained a toga, breast plate and sandals. He handed each of them a helmet, which Stan noted was made of plastic rather than the thick leather of the originals. According to what was stamped inside, it had been made in China, which he doubted was the case for the originals, but it did have a rather nifty looking plastic comb on top.
“You can put those on in the locker room,” the Warden continued. “As far as the contests, Matron will be in charge, so you follow her lead.” Stan glanced over at Matron Armstrong who was glaring at them like a gargoyle on a medieval building.
Matron spoke up,” We want to make sure the combatants put on a good show. Anyone tries to run away, you drag them back into the arena. These bitches will always try to weasel out of a job.”
The Warden indicated six of the guards, Stan included, who would patrol the stands. “You make sure the girls are taking care of the guests. Anything they want, within reason, they get. The girls have been warned that failure to perform will be punished severely.”
Matron Armstrong cackled. “None of them want to spend the next two weeks in the hole.” Everyone shook their heads.
Stan put his hand up. “Yes, Porter,” the Warden said. “By, the way, I didn’t know you wore glasses.”
“I lost one of my contacts and these are my backup, sir. I’m blind as a bat without them.” The Warden nodded. “When you say within reason, what do you mean?” Stan asked. The other guards snickered, knowingly.
“Now, now, people,” the Warden said. “Officer Porter is new.” He looked at Stan. “The guests want to have some fun, relieve the tensions of their important jobs. But we can’t have them killing any of the inmates. Dead bodies generate a lot of paperwork. So, if any of them are going a bit too far, a gentle reminder may be needed. But hopefully, none of that will be needed. They are gentlemen after all.” The other guards laughed and Stan felt it wise to join in.
“Now go get into your costumes and we’ll see you in the old gym,” the Warden concluded. Stan followed his fellow male guards into the men’s locker room where they all stripped down to their underwear and donned the toga and sandals, before strapping on their breastplates and lowering the helmets onto their heads.
“Hey, Porter, you look like Charlton Heston in Ben Hur,” Gibbons said.
“Who’s that?” one of the younger guards asked. “I was thinking he looked like John Belushi in Animal House.”
“Toga! Toga Toga!” several of the guards chanted.
Stan gave them the thumbs up. “Veni, vidi, vici,” he said, though even he knew that was from another movie. “You guys go ahead, I gotta use the Roman toilet,” he told them. “I’ll catch up with you in a couple.”
“Veni, vidi, peepee,” Gibbons exclaimed to general mirth as they filed out.
Stan took a couple of moments to collect himself and prepare for what would no doubt be a very busy evening, then made his way to the site of the upcoming orgy.
When the motel desk clerk handed him the package, Stan Goldman blanked for a second. It was a small red, white and blue envelope addressed to “David Porter”, care of the motel. He was about to say that there was a mistake, that it wasn’t for him, then he remembered. “Thank you,” he said, smiling as he took the envelope from the clerk’s outstretched hand and headed for his room.
The glasses were pretty much as advertised-not bad looking, perhaps a bit nerdy, but unless you knew what you were looking for you wouldn’t notice the camera hidden inside the right temple. Despite the basic nature of the instructions it took Stan’s technologically unsophisticated brain a little while to figure them out, but eventually he felt he had the gist of them.
He tapped the little button at the front of the temple piece and scanned around the room, focusing on the TV, then the mirror above the dresser, making a few silly faces, then tapped the rear button to switch the camera off. Synching the device to his laptop, he played the footage back. The quality was pretty damn good for something that small, certainly good enough to make evident to anyone whatever perverted goings on the Warden had planned for tomorrow night’s big event.
Stan took his Correctional Officer’s uniform off, changing into a T shirt and a pair of jeans and lay back on the bed, idly flipping channels to see if Seinfeld was on. It had been quite a week.
He’d been assigned to “watch over” Barb, though that mostly meant making sure her cellmates abuse went only so far. His instructions were to make sure no serious harm came to her that would prevent her from playing her essential part in the Warden’s upcoming spectacle, though what that meant in practice wasn’t entirely clear.
It certainly didn’t involve him intervening to stop Barb from being made to service Buckner and Rodriguez and anyone else they ordered her to take care of. He couldn’t see how that constituted serious harm, especially since Barb didn’t seem to mind and even gave some indications of enjoying it.
And a couple of days ago, when Buckner had said, “Officer Porter, how’d you like to take care of Moore while she does me?” even though he was a guard and wasn’t supposed to be bossed around by inmates, he’d thought, ‘Yeah, why not?”
So, he’d taken his place between Barb’s legs as Buckner rocked herself back and forth on Barb’s face and dived in, running his tongue up and down her slit. He couldn’t hear Barb’s squeals of delight, with her mouth pressed tightly against Buckner’s pussy, but he could feel her leg muscles tensing.
What he could hear was Buckner’s chanting, “Yeah, fuck, oh, yeah, Moore,” as Barb brought her to the peak of pleasure. Slowly, Buckner came down from her orgasm and slid off Barb’s face. “You want a turn, Rodriguez?” she asked.
“Yeah!” Rodriguez replied taking her place. Stan still wasn’t sure that she knew any other words and her wordless mewing as Barb worked on her didn’t offer any further clues.
Once Rodriguez had been satisfied, Buckner proclaimed, “Moore, you still need more practice on dicks. You up for that, Officer Porter?”
Stan had shrugged and unbuckled his belt. He was the new kid on the block and wasn’t going to rock the boat. And he had to admit Barb’s oral skills had really blossomed and developed. Her mouth enveloped his cock like it belonged there and she sucked out every last drop to the applause of her cellmates.
But a couple of days later, when Cindy Chao had pulled her shirt over her head and asked if he wanted to fuck her, Stan had seen the look Barb gave him and begged off.
“What’s the matter, Officer Porter?” Cindy had asked, rubbing her tits in his face. “Don’t you like what you see?”
“Very much, Chao,” he had replied, quite truthfully, “But I don’t have any condoms on me and if you got knocked up while in prison, that might take some explaining.”
“Sure, whatever,” Cindy had answered, rolling her eyes. Stan saw Barb shaking her head.
***
Stan sat with several other guards, both male and female, in a small classroom that was used for various group therapy sessions that the inmates participated in-things like Anger Management and Oppositional Personality Disorder. He hoped Barb would be signed up for the latter one and imagined it might improve their relationship when she came home. Her willingness to obey and please him here in the prison boded well, but he hoped she wouldn’t slip back into her old habits when she was a free woman again.
The Warden was briefing the staff on that night’s program. “We’ve got a good selection of guests coming-very wealthy and important people, and they’re paying a lot of money to attend, so we want everything to go perfectly. If it does, there will be a little envelope of cash for each of you at the end of the evening.” He smiled.
“Now the theme for the evening is,” the Warden paused for emphasis, “Roman!” The guards whistled and hooted loudly. “In keeping with the theme, all of you have been provided with the appropriate costume of a Roman legionnaire. Officer Gibbons, would you do the honors, please,” the Warden added indicating a large box that stood at the back of the classroom.
Gibbons, a husky older guard, veteran of many such evenings, opened the box and passed to each of his fellow guards a plastic bag that contained a toga, breast plate and sandals. He handed each of them a helmet, which Stan noted was made of plastic rather than the thick leather of the originals. According to what was stamped inside, it had been made in China, which he doubted was the case for the originals, but it did have a rather nifty looking plastic comb on top.
“You can put those on in the locker room,” the Warden continued. “As far as the contests, Matron will be in charge, so you follow her lead.” Stan glanced over at Matron Armstrong who was glaring at them like a gargoyle on a medieval building.
Matron spoke up,” We want to make sure the combatants put on a good show. Anyone tries to run away, you drag them back into the arena. These bitches will always try to weasel out of a job.”
The Warden indicated six of the guards, Stan included, who would patrol the stands. “You make sure the girls are taking care of the guests. Anything they want, within reason, they get. The girls have been warned that failure to perform will be punished severely.”
Matron Armstrong cackled. “None of them want to spend the next two weeks in the hole.” Everyone shook their heads.
Stan put his hand up. “Yes, Porter,” the Warden said. “By, the way, I didn’t know you wore glasses.”
“I lost one of my contacts and these are my backup, sir. I’m blind as a bat without them.” The Warden nodded. “When you say within reason, what do you mean?” Stan asked. The other guards snickered, knowingly.
“Now, now, people,” the Warden said. “Officer Porter is new.” He looked at Stan. “The guests want to have some fun, relieve the tensions of their important jobs. But we can’t have them killing any of the inmates. Dead bodies generate a lot of paperwork. So, if any of them are going a bit too far, a gentle reminder may be needed. But hopefully, none of that will be needed. They are gentlemen after all.” The other guards laughed and Stan felt it wise to join in.
“Now go get into your costumes and we’ll see you in the old gym,” the Warden concluded. Stan followed his fellow male guards into the men’s locker room where they all stripped down to their underwear and donned the toga and sandals, before strapping on their breastplates and lowering the helmets onto their heads.
“Hey, Porter, you look like Charlton Heston in Ben Hur,” Gibbons said.
“Who’s that?” one of the younger guards asked. “I was thinking he looked like John Belushi in Animal House.”
“Toga! Toga Toga!” several of the guards chanted.
Stan gave them the thumbs up. “Veni, vidi, vici,” he said, though even he knew that was from another movie. “You guys go ahead, I gotta use the Roman toilet,” he told them. “I’ll catch up with you in a couple.”
“Veni, vidi, peepee,” Gibbons exclaimed to general mirth as they filed out.
Stan took a couple of moments to collect himself and prepare for what would no doubt be a very busy evening, then made his way to the site of the upcoming orgy.
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15. B
General murmurs of agreement filled the air. I sensed "X" going around behind me. I wondered just what it was that he would be using to deliver my ten lashes. I braced myself for the worst.
It's replaced with the reworked version, @Barbaria1
General murmurs of agreement filled the air. I sensed "X" going around behind me. I wondered just what it was that he would be using to deliver my ten lashes. I braced myself for the worst.
It's replaced with the reworked version, @Barbaria1
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25.
With a sharp overhead electronic ‘klunk’ the overhead lights switched on, illuminating the floor of the arena and signaling the start of the second part of the evening’s staged entertainment. The arena had been kept in relative darkness for roughly half an hour so that the stage could be set for the promised mock crucifixion. While these preparations were going on, a full-scale orgy had been underway in the bleachers above. As expected of them, the girls gave their all to service the needs of Warden’s client-guests.
Buckner and Rodriguez, Chao and Greene had, as victors, earned a reprieve. Excused, they left the arena, presumably for a hot shower and some rest.
Down on the floor, Matron, along with a couple of the guards, had busied herself during the intermission with the task of readying Deb and me for our coming ordeal. We were helped up from where we had been left lying on the sandy arena floor ... bloodied and beaten ... following our ignominious defeat at gladiatorial combat which had condemned us to the cross. Our wounds were tended to, our bodies re-hydrated, and we were told ... in no uncertain terms ... exactly what was expected of us.
As she administered salve, Matron sternly reminded us of our sworn commitment to do without question whatever was asked of us. That was the arrangement we had made with Warden in return for his good will and protection during our time at Newtown.
I protested, saying that I wasn’t keen on hanging naked on a cross just so that Warden’s high-rolling pals could get their jollies watching me writhe about while the other girls blew them off. Matron’s face darkened. She told me to think again, warning me of the terrible ‘accidental’ mishaps, often fatal, that had a funny habit of befalling those who crossed Warden.
Subdued by that thought, but still in a questioning mood, I inquired ... recalling the horror of my previous experience with crucifixion in the so-called ‘Bronx Crux Murders’ case ... whether nails would be used to affix Deb and me to our crosses. Matron was quick to assure me that, although Warden always strove for realism, ropes would be used rather than nails. Deb wanted to know whether there was any chance we might die ... crucifixion, after all, being a means of execution. Matron said no, pointing out that death by crucifixion typically would require many, many long hours, even days, on the cross. We’d only be up there for a few hours, at most.
“Look, you’ll live,” she said, cutting off any further discussion. “And you can both look forward to a nice cushy week or two in the infirmary when this is over. I’ll see to it.”
And so, all was in readiness. When the lights went up, Deb and I were positioned ... kneeling side by side, heads bowed ... at one end of the arena ... flanked on either side by guards playing the role of executioners. The two crosses that had previously stood at the far end of the arena had been taken down, brought to our end of the arena and laid on the sand before us. And a new, rather stout-looking post with two pairs of iron cuffs dangling from its crown had been erected near the far end. I kind of knew what that was for and was not happy about it.
Warden, meanwhile, had re-appeared ... making another one of his theatrical entrances, calling on his guests, who were hastily untangling themselves up in the stands from their various sensual dalliances with the girls and reaching for their togas, to come down on the arena floor and participate in the ‘fun’.
“Gentlemen!” he gustily roared, “Don’t be shy! Come down and be a part of the show. It's intended to be participatory. Come play a role in what I promise to be a fascinating and unforgettable experience ... the mock execution of these two lovely ladies ... inmates Moore and Morton ... by one of the most cruel, yet highly sensual, means ever devised ... none other than ... a Roman crucifixion!”
Applause and enthusiastic cheers.
“Now, mind you, while this may be a mock execution, I assure you every attention has been made this evening to achieve maximum realism. Our two condemned slave girls will suffer terribly, just as they might have two millennia ago in some faraway Roman arena. We shall force them, as the Romans themselves might have done, to carry their crosses to the place of their execution while we mock and harass them at every step. We shall bind them to a whipping post, strip away their loincloths and see them brutally scourged ... after which, we shall bind them to their waiting crosses and take turns at ravaging them as they lie there at our mercy. And then ... we shall raise them up on high and sit back with drink in hand .... while the rest of our lovely slave girls satiate our lust ... and raise a toast to inmates Morton and Moore as they hang naked from their crosses and perform ... for our enjoyment ... the desperate and sensuous dance of the crucified!”
I glanced at Deb, who looked absolutely terrified. Then I felt a soft nudge at the shoulder. I looked up and gasped. It was Stan ... standing alongside me in his phony Roman legionary get up ... my God, I thought ... what next? ... now he’s managed to get himself assigned as my executioner! And what's with the glasses? I didn't remember him ever wearing eyeglasses before. Where did they come from?
“Guards!” barked Warden. “Get these two condemned criminals on their feet and help them shoulder their crosses! The show is about to begin!”
I watched warily as Stan stepped forward, bent down and, with visible effort, lifted my heavy cross from the sand. With a wave of his hand he signaled me forward, and after a moment ‘s hesitation I complied, rising slowly from my knees and tentatively re-positioning myself under the wood. To my left, Deb was doing the same.
“Grab onto it here,” instructed Stan, helpfully pointing to a pair of places on the lower end of the crossbeam directly before my chest. "That way you can rest the intersection of the post and crossbeam on your right shoulder and drag the base in the sand behind you.”
“Easy for you to say, Goldm .... I mean Porter!”
Horrified, I glance over at Deb who was peering at me curiously from under the weight of the beam resting on her shoulder. Had she picked up on my gaffe?
“Forward! Put your backs into it! Mush!” screamed Warden.
My cross was fucking heavy ... probably weighed more than I did. Sucking it up, I staggered valiantly ahead under my burden for several unsteady steps ... leaning well forward, knees bent, dangling breasts swaying freely.
“You’re doing ok, keep going,” whispered Stan encouragingly.
I took two more steps and sank to one knee. Deb passed me by in a stumbling, hurried rush that ended with her sprawled face down in the sand with her cross landing full on top of her.
I took a deep breath, struggled determinedly to my feet, staggered forward a few more steps, nearly lost my balance and sank to my knees. Someone ... playing his role with gusto ... cursed me and spat on me. Doggedly I rose again and set a wobbly course forward.
Each time Deb or I faltered, the spectators crowded around, encouraged by Warden to mock us and drive us forward using the leather straps they had been issued to apply to our backsides. We spent almost as much time sprawled on the sand as we did staggering forward under the weight of our crosses.Again and again, we regained our footing and worked our way forward across the hot sand, and again and again we faltered, collapsed, and felt the sting of leather on sweat-sheened flesh until we shouldered our burdens and lurched forward once more. Mockery, pain and humiliation accompanied every break down. At one point, we were even pissed on as we lay panting on the sand.
With a sharp overhead electronic ‘klunk’ the overhead lights switched on, illuminating the floor of the arena and signaling the start of the second part of the evening’s staged entertainment. The arena had been kept in relative darkness for roughly half an hour so that the stage could be set for the promised mock crucifixion. While these preparations were going on, a full-scale orgy had been underway in the bleachers above. As expected of them, the girls gave their all to service the needs of Warden’s client-guests.
Buckner and Rodriguez, Chao and Greene had, as victors, earned a reprieve. Excused, they left the arena, presumably for a hot shower and some rest.
Down on the floor, Matron, along with a couple of the guards, had busied herself during the intermission with the task of readying Deb and me for our coming ordeal. We were helped up from where we had been left lying on the sandy arena floor ... bloodied and beaten ... following our ignominious defeat at gladiatorial combat which had condemned us to the cross. Our wounds were tended to, our bodies re-hydrated, and we were told ... in no uncertain terms ... exactly what was expected of us.
As she administered salve, Matron sternly reminded us of our sworn commitment to do without question whatever was asked of us. That was the arrangement we had made with Warden in return for his good will and protection during our time at Newtown.
I protested, saying that I wasn’t keen on hanging naked on a cross just so that Warden’s high-rolling pals could get their jollies watching me writhe about while the other girls blew them off. Matron’s face darkened. She told me to think again, warning me of the terrible ‘accidental’ mishaps, often fatal, that had a funny habit of befalling those who crossed Warden.
Subdued by that thought, but still in a questioning mood, I inquired ... recalling the horror of my previous experience with crucifixion in the so-called ‘Bronx Crux Murders’ case ... whether nails would be used to affix Deb and me to our crosses. Matron was quick to assure me that, although Warden always strove for realism, ropes would be used rather than nails. Deb wanted to know whether there was any chance we might die ... crucifixion, after all, being a means of execution. Matron said no, pointing out that death by crucifixion typically would require many, many long hours, even days, on the cross. We’d only be up there for a few hours, at most.
“Look, you’ll live,” she said, cutting off any further discussion. “And you can both look forward to a nice cushy week or two in the infirmary when this is over. I’ll see to it.”
And so, all was in readiness. When the lights went up, Deb and I were positioned ... kneeling side by side, heads bowed ... at one end of the arena ... flanked on either side by guards playing the role of executioners. The two crosses that had previously stood at the far end of the arena had been taken down, brought to our end of the arena and laid on the sand before us. And a new, rather stout-looking post with two pairs of iron cuffs dangling from its crown had been erected near the far end. I kind of knew what that was for and was not happy about it.
Warden, meanwhile, had re-appeared ... making another one of his theatrical entrances, calling on his guests, who were hastily untangling themselves up in the stands from their various sensual dalliances with the girls and reaching for their togas, to come down on the arena floor and participate in the ‘fun’.
“Gentlemen!” he gustily roared, “Don’t be shy! Come down and be a part of the show. It's intended to be participatory. Come play a role in what I promise to be a fascinating and unforgettable experience ... the mock execution of these two lovely ladies ... inmates Moore and Morton ... by one of the most cruel, yet highly sensual, means ever devised ... none other than ... a Roman crucifixion!”
Applause and enthusiastic cheers.
“Now, mind you, while this may be a mock execution, I assure you every attention has been made this evening to achieve maximum realism. Our two condemned slave girls will suffer terribly, just as they might have two millennia ago in some faraway Roman arena. We shall force them, as the Romans themselves might have done, to carry their crosses to the place of their execution while we mock and harass them at every step. We shall bind them to a whipping post, strip away their loincloths and see them brutally scourged ... after which, we shall bind them to their waiting crosses and take turns at ravaging them as they lie there at our mercy. And then ... we shall raise them up on high and sit back with drink in hand .... while the rest of our lovely slave girls satiate our lust ... and raise a toast to inmates Morton and Moore as they hang naked from their crosses and perform ... for our enjoyment ... the desperate and sensuous dance of the crucified!”
I glanced at Deb, who looked absolutely terrified. Then I felt a soft nudge at the shoulder. I looked up and gasped. It was Stan ... standing alongside me in his phony Roman legionary get up ... my God, I thought ... what next? ... now he’s managed to get himself assigned as my executioner! And what's with the glasses? I didn't remember him ever wearing eyeglasses before. Where did they come from?
“Guards!” barked Warden. “Get these two condemned criminals on their feet and help them shoulder their crosses! The show is about to begin!”
I watched warily as Stan stepped forward, bent down and, with visible effort, lifted my heavy cross from the sand. With a wave of his hand he signaled me forward, and after a moment ‘s hesitation I complied, rising slowly from my knees and tentatively re-positioning myself under the wood. To my left, Deb was doing the same.
“Grab onto it here,” instructed Stan, helpfully pointing to a pair of places on the lower end of the crossbeam directly before my chest. "That way you can rest the intersection of the post and crossbeam on your right shoulder and drag the base in the sand behind you.”
“Easy for you to say, Goldm .... I mean Porter!”
Horrified, I glance over at Deb who was peering at me curiously from under the weight of the beam resting on her shoulder. Had she picked up on my gaffe?
“Forward! Put your backs into it! Mush!” screamed Warden.
My cross was fucking heavy ... probably weighed more than I did. Sucking it up, I staggered valiantly ahead under my burden for several unsteady steps ... leaning well forward, knees bent, dangling breasts swaying freely.
“You’re doing ok, keep going,” whispered Stan encouragingly.
I took two more steps and sank to one knee. Deb passed me by in a stumbling, hurried rush that ended with her sprawled face down in the sand with her cross landing full on top of her.
I took a deep breath, struggled determinedly to my feet, staggered forward a few more steps, nearly lost my balance and sank to my knees. Someone ... playing his role with gusto ... cursed me and spat on me. Doggedly I rose again and set a wobbly course forward.
Each time Deb or I faltered, the spectators crowded around, encouraged by Warden to mock us and drive us forward using the leather straps they had been issued to apply to our backsides. We spent almost as much time sprawled on the sand as we did staggering forward under the weight of our crosses.Again and again, we regained our footing and worked our way forward across the hot sand, and again and again we faltered, collapsed, and felt the sting of leather on sweat-sheened flesh until we shouldered our burdens and lurched forward once more. Mockery, pain and humiliation accompanied every break down. At one point, we were even pissed on as we lay panting on the sand.
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