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Dream Diary

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Pia

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Hélene Cixous has always kept a dream diary. She writes in the middle of the night on large paper which she keeps beside her bed. Sometimes the dreams make sense, sometimes they are just, well, dreamy. They circle back, entwining themselves, repeating, jumping. Dreams are strange things. Have you ever kept a dream diary?

Last night I had a dream. I was in a square in a town. It could have been in Germany or in Alsace. The buildings were half-timbered. I was standing on a wooden platform that rose six feet or more over the cobbles. A crowd, a large crowd, was gathered and I could hear the sound of chatter. I could distinguish no words, just a murmuring. My feet were bare, my ankles chained. At one side of the platform a brazier glowed red, sending smoke into the clear, cloudless sky.

Hands took hold of me. A man, or two men, in leather jackets, tabards perhaps. Black leather masks covering their eyes, just slits for eyes. Eyes like crows. They took my arms. They took my arms. And took me to the block of smooth, worn wood, wood that glowed in the sunlight, shimmered as though it had been washed clean and a skein of water clung to the surface. They laid me down. They laid me down. A hammer-blow broke the shackles from my ankles and I felt my toes move free. I lifted my body on my elbows and saw the rawness that the irons had cut into me.

Hands pushed me back. Not hard, not a shove, just moving me so that I was lying on my back. I felt my lips open. I felt the freshness of the air in my mouth, on the inside of my lips. I saw my open lips and my eyes looking at the two men. They took my wrists and bound them with rope to iron rings on the corners of the block. They took my ankles and bound them with rope to iron rings on the corner of the block. They pulled on each rope, each rope in turn, stretching me out on the block. I whimpered as they pulled. I felt my body strain and my skin on my ribs and my breasts against the rough grey shift they had dressed me in.

The man, the first man, took a knife. He held the knife over me. He cut the grey cloth below my collar bones, the knife cutting up, shimmering in the sun. He cut down, then pulled at the shift and tore it in two. He tore it from my neck to my sex. He tore it and made me naked. My sex, smooth and shaved by the old woman in the cells. Naked. My belly naked. My breasts naked. My chest straining. I raised my head. My belly rising and falling. He pulled the torn shift from beneath me. I felt my naked back cold on the smooth, damp block. I felt my body naked. My arms and my breasts and my belly and my legs. I looked at the men. They threw the torn shift into the brazier and I watched as it burned.

I heard the crowd murmur. I heard the crowd murmur. I saw him raise his knife to the crowd. He came to me and bent over me. He pushed my hair away from my eyes. He ran the back of his finger over my cheek. He took hold of my breast and squeezed it. He took my breast in his hand. In his hand he took it. I felt him move my breast. I felt him holding my breast. I felt my sex and my nipples and my mouth opened and I made no noise.

He held my breast and he held his knife and he pushed my breast back towards my face and he placed the knife beneath it and he pressed with his knife and I lifted my head and saw a thin stream of red run from my breast and down towards the V of my ribs and down my belly and he pushed the knife again and I watched him do it.

He pushed the knife into me, the big silver knife. He pushed into me and pushed down on my breast and I heard myself whimpering and he pushed it again and I felt the knife on my ribs and he pushed again and I felt my mouth becoming dry and I felt the sound of the knife on my ribs as he pushed. And the softness of my breast as he cut. I felt his hand still on my breast, my half-cut-away breast and he cut. I felt his fingers slide beneath the cut and over my ribs and I felt the knife cut again. I felt his other hand on the top of my breast, on my nipple. I felt his hand pushing beneath and his other hand, the hand on top, gripping my breast and pulling and I felt my breast tearing from my body and I saw my eyes fill with water and my mouth become wide and my ribs rising and falling and gasping for air. I felt him tear and my eyes opened and became clear and I saw him holding my breast.

He held my breast in his hand. He held it high in his hand. He threw my breast into the brazier. I saw my breast burn and sputter and I saw him move around to the other side of the block and I felt his hand again. His hand on my breast. On my other breast. I felt his hand and I looked at my breast and my head fell back and I looked at the sky and I felt the wetness of the inside of my lips.

I felt his hand and I felt him cut into my breast with his knife. I felt his hand inside my breast. I felt his fingers spreading between my breast and my ribs and I felt him cutting into me and tearing my breast and holding it high and I felt his hands on my body, wiping the blood over my chest and over my belly and I looked at my body and the blood over my body and over my arms.

I looked at myself and I rolled my head and looked at the crowd and I felt the tears come back into my eyes.

I watched him and the other man. They took a new knife. A longer knife with an end that was curved like a hook. He came to me with the hooked knife and I felt him press the hooked end onto my bocy, onto my body beneath my ribs. He pushed it into me. I saw my blood ooze upwards and slide over me. He pushed it into me then he pulled the knife down through me, not deep into me. He pulled it through me. The hook of the knife. He pulled it through me. He pulled it down over my belly, through me . Through my navel. Down through me. Down to my sex. Down through me. A cut through me. A deep cut through me. I felt his hands in me. I raised my head and saw his hands in me. Pushing my belly open. Pushing with his hands. I saw a crimson cut through me. Through my belly. I felt his hands in my belly. I felt his hands inside me. I looked at his eyes under his mask. He wasn't looking at my eyes. I felt my mouth open. I felt the wetness of the inside of my open lips. I felt my blood beneath me. My blood running beneath me over the wooden block. My own blood running beneath me. Running between my legs. I felt his hands inside me. I felt him lifting the inside of me. I felt the hook of his knife inside me. I felt him cutting inside me. I felt my bowels lifting from me. I felt my bowels, warm and wet, being placed over me. Over my torn belly. I lifted my head and looked at my purple bowels and my blood and my torn body.

I loved my dream. Maybe tomorrow I will dream of the arena and four horses, each tied to one of my limbs. Maybe I will dream of a dark cell and my naked body stretched on a rack. Maybe I will dream of my breasts and my back under the lash. Maybe. I love dreaming.
 
I loved my dream. Maybe tomorrow I will dream of the arena and four horses, each tied to one of my limbs. Maybe I will dream of a dark cell and my naked body stretched on a rack. Maybe I will dream of my breasts and my back under the lash. Maybe. I love dreaming.

Please dream again. We all love hearing of them!
 
Says Tree as he goes off to sharpen nails
It might be nice if others could share their night dreams.... I am sure you probably have dreams that are wonderfully vivid.... just let yourself wake, write down what you can remember (do it fast!.... so have a pad and an easy to use pen - maybe a big marker pen - to hand and scribble quickly) then when you wake properly (but not too late...so you still have a few of the threads in your mind) write down as much as you can, without adding too much, and post it. I think it would be fun!
 
It might be nice if others could share their night dreams.... I am sure you probably have dreams that are wonderfully vivid.... just let yourself wake, write down what you can remember (do it fast!.... so have a pad and an easy to use pen - maybe a big marker pen - to hand and scribble quickly) then when you wake properly (but not too late...so you still have a few of the threads in your mind) write down as much as you can, without adding too much, and post it. I think it would be fun!

Wheee ... hope I dream tonight ... need a few glasses of wine ... and all set to go ....
 
He pulled it through me. The hook of the knife. He pulled it through me. He pulled it down over my belly, through me . Through my navel. Down through me. Down to my sex. Down through me. A cut through me. A deep cut through me. I felt his hands in me.

I have missed your writing style, Pia. The repetition, but not quite repetitive. The buildup, the climax, then leave it to our imagination.

How I dream that one night I will dream like that. Instead, I seem to go into a shop and knock over a pile of cans; or climb a ladder to fix the gutter and fall off.

Is it a gender thing? Do some blokes get really sexy dreams? I very rarely do.
 
Mmmmm ! Pia ! Your dream is perhaps a little too bloody for me but so much well writen !!!
I've not this kind of dreams but, often, when we make love, Judith tells me some stories where I'm on the rack, or to a cross ...
I love that and my orgasms are so much wonderful !!!:rolleyes:
 
Mmmmm ! Pia ! Your dream is perhaps a little too bloody for me but so much well writen !!!
I've not this kind of dreams but, often, when we make love, Judith tells me some stories where I'm on the rack, or to a cross ...
I love that and my orgasms are so much wonderful !!!:rolleyes:
Messa - it would be so nice if you could tell us one of your dreams - I dream of those things too.... XXX
 
I didn't have a dream last night. I promised myself I would and I tried to seed my sleepy mind with all sorts of ideas - of me standing on a stool, my back to a stake, as they chained me tight around my waist and across and between my breasts and round my calves and thighs and nailed the staple into the wood behind me.... of me tied to a tree, the cold air breathing across my naked breasts and belly....of me sitting on the sand of the arena, waiting for the soldier to come with his handful of spikes. I tried so hard, perhaps just too hard. Maybe you just have to let the dreams drift in when they choose to.... But I think I will try again tonight....
 
I didn't have a dream last night. I promised myself I would and I tried to seed my sleepy mind with all sorts of ideas - of me standing on a stool, my back to a stake, as they chained me tight around my waist and across and between my breasts and round my calves and thighs and nailed the staple into the wood behind me.... of me tied to a tree, the cold air breathing across my naked breasts and belly....of me sitting on the sand of the arena, waiting for the soldier to come with his handful of spikes. I tried so hard, perhaps just too hard. Maybe you just have to let the dreams drift in when they choose to.... But I think I will try again tonight....

I tried last night too ... alas, with the same results ... but tonight is another night :rolleyes:
 
Well I am cheating here a little. I wasn’t able to dream last night as Pia suggested we should. But I have an old recurring dream that I once wrote out but never did anything with it. In fact, it’s an old dream that brought me to this site. Pia’s mention above of someone sitting on the sand floor of the arena waiting for a soldier to come with a handful of spikes reminded me of my old dream,

So here goes:

(Madi! How about one of your dream pics to go with it?)


Glumly I sit on the hot sand of the arena floor, hunched forward, arms wrapped tightly around my knees, eyes wet with tears. Tangles of sweat-soddened hair half cover my bare breasts. Alongside me lies a cross of rough hewn wood, to which someone has affixed a small board. My name is crudely carved upon it.

All around me, they are crucifying the others ... both men and women ... who, like me, share the misfortune of having been condemned to die in such horrible fashion ... all for the entertainment of a raucously bloodthirsty Roman crowd.

My ears ring with the sharp sounds of mallets striking iron nails, the pitiful screams, moans, pleas for mercy, curses and prayers of the crucified, along with the sweeping waves of applause and crescendos of cheering from the stands that accompany the raising of each new cross.

So many crosses and victims have already been raised. The arena masters have proven to be remarkably efficient. The nearest unfortunate casts a shadow over me, and I startle as I am unexpectedly spattered with wet specks of sand. The poor woman must have lost control of her bladder, I think to myself.

Someone directly behind me shrieks in pain as the base of his cross is dropped into its hole, hitting bottom with a thumping thud that I can both feel and hear.

My back stings from the brutal scourging meted out to me shortly after being led into the arena. I was one of a group of ten prisoners brought in through the west portal. Other groups appeared elsewhere. The crowd roared in anticipation.

We were lined up before the nearest of several scourging posts spaced evenly around the perimeter of the arena floor, ordered to disrobe and to wait our turn. I shed my outer clothing, retaining only my loincloth. I crossed my arms over my breasts and tried not to think of what was coming.

I was the fourth to be stretched and bound, arms over head, to that blood-stained post. By that time I had ample opportunity to observe the effect of the scourge on bared flesh. To take my place,I had to step over the bloody prone or slumped forms of the three who went before me.

The bite of the multi-tipped whip on my bare back was excruciating. The speed and force with which each stroke was delivered was breathtaking, repeatedly slamming my torso into the stout post, crushing my breasts against its rough surface..

I twisted, jumped about, wailed and screamed. There was no escape And when it was over, I was thrown, my back aflame, to the sand ... to lie amongst the others, while the fifth in line, another young woman, stumbled over me on her way to the post, and out of some kind of sense of propriety, excused herself.

I lay there, listening to the snapping and smacking sounds of the whip as it slashed its way up and down her back, and to the poor woman’s cries, and then to the cries of the two more who came after her, before a pair of calloused hands reached down to seize me by the arms.

I was hauled to my feet, dragged backwards across the arena floor, the heels of my feet tracing a paired trail of ruts in the sand, and deposited next to my waiting cross. He left me in a sitting position and ordered me to wait ... as if he actually thought I might somehow decide to wander off.

And since he left me here I have waited ... and waited. Curiously, no one has come to crucify me. There has been plenty of activity all around me ... a literal forest of raised crosses fill the arena floor by now, but mine still lies empty beside me ... almost as though to mock me. My mind spins. Have they forgotten me? Why? Am I dreaming?

Surely there can be no mistake. I was arrested along with the others. There was no doubt of our guilt. We had been conspiring and unfortunately there had been a traitor moving amongst us. We were betrayed. Justice was swift ... the plot exposed. Everyone we knew, innocent or not, were rounded up. Confessions were extracted ... the guilty, and the not guilty, condemned to the horrors of a public execution.

So why, am I still sitting here on the sand when all around me my crucified brothers and sisters are suffering ... nakedly writhing and twisting to the delight of a crowd that has taken to its feet? I feel guilty. Should I say something? Surely ....

Wait! A pair of legs have appeared before me ... deeply tanned, hairy legs with bulging muscular calves. Their owner squats down, reaches for my hair and jerks my head back. I look into his face, grizzled and fleshy, dark cruel eyes beneath hooded brows, yellowed teeth, half of them missing

“Over here!” He shouts. “One more! How did we miss her? Hurry! Ropes and nails! On the double!”

Others come running ... to lift me and lay me stretched out on my cross. The wood scrapes against my ravaged back as they position me. Swiftly, efficiently, my wrists are pressed against the cross beam, my hands bound to the wood with cord. Someone rips away my loincloth. A lewd comment is made about what its loss reveals, followed by grim laughter.

“What a waste!” someone remarks ruefully.

I feel the prick of spikes against my wrists. Raising my head, I quickly glance right and left .. one last look before the horror begins. It comes quickly. Both nails are driven through and deep into the wood, each with a powerful and shattering single blow. I arch my back, lifting myself from the wood, scream in pain and fall back hard.

Before I can recover they are already binding my ankles together, positioning the soles of my feet against the stipe with my knees raised. I offer no resistance, focusing instead on bracing myself for the coming agony. Again the spikes are positioned, one for each foot, and driven through, quickly and powerfully. Waves of pain course through my shuddering body. I am nailed! Fixed to my cross for the coming ordeal.

“She’s ready,” says someone, his face near enough to mine to smell the stench of his breath. Playfully he palms and kneads my breasts, and pinches my nipples. Then he steps away as my cross shudders and rises, lifted by straining, grunting men, and directed to its final resting place. My field of vision shifts from blue sky to the mottled colors of the crowded stands, partially obscured by neighboring crosses, each bearing a crucified form.

The sudden jarring drop into my cross’s prepared hole tears at the nail wounds in my wrists and feet, and throws my body up and away from the wood at my back. I fall back hard, cursing and gasping, tailbone crashing against the post. I can feel warm rivulets of blood seeping down my arms and under my broken feet.

It’s over now ... I have joined my friends ... all that remains are the long hours of suffering, humiliation and eventually, the release of death. How will I handle it? ... crucified beneath a merciless sun, hounded and tormented by the men who move amongst the condemned with whips, torches, red hot irons ... intent on amusing a crowd that has become bored and restless. There will be no dignity or calm for the crucified over the hours to come. They will see to that!

I despair. I am sweating profusely, flopping about ... somehow feeling aroused ...that can’t be? ... tangled in my sheets ... wet sheets ... what? ... where? ... my bed ... my own room ... it’s morning ... what the fuck! How? What a dream!
 
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Only just got to this new thread - great idea Pia.
I had a rather disjointed 'anxiety' dream, about being burgled.
But - frustratingly - the burglars didn't do anything exciting with me.
(And I don't know why I had it, it's not something I worry about much,
we don't have too much crime of that kind in the Forest,
and anyone burgling me would just find a great many obscure books :rolleyes:)
Still, I'll try and dream myself into the clutches of some more rapacious reivers!
 
But never I dream of that, Pia ... alas ! :(
Alas....
Well I am cheating here a little. I wasn’t able to dream last night as Pia suggested we should. But I have an old recurring dream that I once wrote out but never did anything with it. In fact, it’s an old dream that brought me to this site. Pia’s mention above of someone sitting on the sand floor of the arena waiting for a soldier to come with a handful of spikes reminded me of my old dream,

So here goes:

(Madi! How about one of your dream pics to go with it?)


Glumly I sit on the hot sand of the arena floor, hunched forward, arms wrapped tightly around my knees, eyes wet with tears. Tangles of sweat-soddened hair half cover my bare breasts. Alongside me lies a cross of rough hewn wood, to which someone has affixed a small board. My name is crudely carved upon it.

All around me, they are crucifying the others ... both men and women ... who, like me, share the misfortune of having been condemned to die in such horrible fashion ... all for the entertainment of a raucously bloodthirsty Roman crowd.

My ears ring with the sharp sounds of mallets striking iron nails, the pitiful screams, moans, pleas for mercy, curses and prayers of the crucified, along with the sweeping waves of applause and crescendos of cheering from the stands that accompany the raising of each new cross.

So many crosses and victims have already been raised. The arena masters have proven to be remarkably efficient. The nearest unfortunate casts a shadow over me, and I startle as I am unexpectedly spattered with wet specks of sand. The poor woman must have lost control of her bladder, I think to myself.

Someone directly behind me shrieks in pain as the base of his cross is dropped into its hole, hitting bottom with a thumping thud that I can both feel and hear.

My back stings from the brutal scourging meted out to me shortly after being led into the arena. I was one of a group of ten prisoners brought in through the west portal. Other groups appeared elsewhere. The crowd roared in anticipation.

We were lined up before the nearest of several scourging posts spaced evenly around the perimeter of the arena floor, ordered to disrobe and to wait our turn. I shed my outer clothing, retaining only my loincloth. I crossed my arms over my breasts and tried not to think of what was coming.

I was the fourth to be stretched and bound, arms over head, to that blood-stained post. By that time I had ample opportunity to observe the effect of the scourge on bared flesh. To take my place,I had to step over the bloody prone or slumped forms of the three who went before me.

The bite of the multi-tipped whip on my bare back was excruciating. The speed and force with which each stroke was delivered was breathtaking, repeatedly slamming my torso into the stout post, crushing my breasts against its rough surface..

I twisted, jumped about, wailed and screamed. There was no escape And when it was over, I was thrown, my back aflame, to the sand ... to lie amongst the others, while the fifth in line, another young woman, stumbled over me on her way to the post, and out of some kind of sense of propriety, excused herself.

I lay there, listening to the snapping and smacking sounds of the whip as it slashed its way up and down her back, and to the poor woman’s cries, and then to the cries of the two more who came after her, before a pair of calloused hands reached down to seize me by the arms.

I was hauled to my feet, dragged backwards across the arena floor, the heels of my feet tracing a paired trail of ruts in the sand, and deposited next to my waiting cross. He left me in a sitting position and ordered me to wait ... as if he actually thought I might somehow decide to wander off.

And since he left me here I have waited ... and waited. Curiously, no one has come to crucify me. There has been plenty of activity all around me ... a literal forest of raised crosses fill the arena floor by now, but mine still lies empty beside me ... almost as though to mock me. My mind spins. Have they forgotten me? Why? Am I dreaming?

Surely there can be no mistake. I was arrested along with the others. There was no doubt of our guilt. We had been conspiring and unfortunately there had been a traitor moving amongst us. We were betrayed. Justice was swift ... the plot exposed. Everyone we knew, innocent or not, were rounded up. Confessions were extracted ... the guilty, and the not guilty, condemned to the horrors of a public execution.

So why, am I still sitting here on the sand when all around me my crucified brothers and sisters are suffering ... nakedly writhing and twisting to the delight of a crowd that has taken to its feet? I feel guilty. Should I say something? Surely ....

Wait! A pair of legs have appeared before me ... deeply tanned, hairy legs with bulging muscular calves. Their owner squats down, reaches for my hair and jerks my head back. I look into his face, grizzled and fleshy, dark cruel eyes beneath hooded brows, yellowed teeth, half of them missing

“Over here!” He shouts. “One more! How did we miss her? Hurry! Ropes and nails! On the double!”

Others come running ... to lift me and lay me stretched out on my cross. The wood scrapes against my ravaged back as they position me. Swiftly, efficiently, my wrists are pressed against the cross beam, my hands bound to the wood with cord. Someone rips away my loincloth. A lewd comment is made about what its loss reveals, followed by grim laughter.

“What a waste!” someone remarks ruefully.

I feel the prick of spikes against my wrists. Raising my head, I quickly glance right and left .. one last look before the horror begins. It comes quickly. Both nails are driven through and deep into the wood, each with a powerful and shattering single blow. I arch my back, lifting myself from the wood, scream in pain and fall back hard.

Before I can recover they are already binding my ankles together, positioning the soles of my feet against the stipe with my knees raised. I offer no resistance, focusing instead on bracing myself for the coming agony. Again the spikes are positioned, one for each foot, and driven through, quickly and powerfully. Waves of pain course through my shuddering body. I am nailed! Fixed to my cross for the coming ordeal.

“She’s ready,” says someone, his face near enough to mine to smell the stench of his breath. Playfully he palms and kneads my breasts, and pinches my nipples. Then he steps away as my cross shudders and rises, lifted by straining, grunting men, and directed to its final resting place. My field of vision shifts from blue sky to the mottled colors of the crowded stands, partially obscured by neighboring crosses, each bearing a crucified form.

The sudden jarring drop into my cross’s prepared hole tears at the nail wounds in my wrists and feet, and throws my body up and away from the wood at my back. I fall back hard, cursing and gasping, tailbone crashing against the post. I can feel warm rivulets of blood seeping down my arms and under my broken feet.

It’s over now ... I have joined my friends ... all that remains are the long hours of suffering, humiliation and eventually, the release of death. How will I handle it? ... bentath a merciless sun, hounded and tormented by the men who move amongst the crowd with whips, torches, red hot irons ... intent on amusing a crowd that has become bored and restless. There will be no dignity or calm for the crucified over the hours to come. They will see to that!

I despair. I am sweating profusely, flopping about ... somehow feeling aroused ...that can’t be? ... tangled in my sheets ... wet sheets ... what? ... where? ... my bed ... my own room ... it’s morning ... what the fuck! How? What a dream!
A wonderful dream.... how wonderful if dreams could become real? But at least we can dream afresh each night.... XXX
 
Well I am cheating here a little. I wasn’t able to dream last night as Pia suggested we should. But I have an old recurring dream that I once wrote out but never did anything with it. In fact, it’s an old dream that brought me to this site. Pia’s mention above of someone sitting on the sand floor of the arena waiting for a soldier to come with a handful of spikes reminded me of my old dream,

So here goes:

(Madi! How about one of your dream pics to go with it?)


Glumly I sit on the hot sand of the arena floor, hunched forward, arms wrapped tightly around my knees, eyes wet with tears. Tangles of sweat-soddened hair half cover my bare breasts. Alongside me lies a cross of rough hewn wood, to which someone has affixed a small board. My name is crudely carved upon it.

All around me, they are crucifying the others ... both men and women ... who, like me, share the misfortune of having been condemned to die in such horrible fashion ... all for the entertainment of a raucously bloodthirsty Roman crowd.

My ears ring with the sharp sounds of mallets striking iron nails, the pitiful screams, moans, pleas for mercy, curses and prayers of the crucified, along with the sweeping waves of applause and crescendos of cheering from the stands that accompany the raising of each new cross.

So many crosses and victims have already been raised. The arena masters have proven to be remarkably efficient. The nearest unfortunate casts a shadow over me, and I startle as I am unexpectedly spattered with wet specks of sand. The poor woman must have lost control of her bladder, I think to myself.

Someone directly behind me shrieks in pain as the base of his cross is dropped into its hole, hitting bottom with a thumping thud that I can both feel and hear.

My back stings from the brutal scourging meted out to me shortly after being led into the arena. I was one of a group of ten prisoners brought in through the west portal. Other groups appeared elsewhere. The crowd roared in anticipation.

We were lined up before the nearest of several scourging posts spaced evenly around the perimeter of the arena floor, ordered to disrobe and to wait our turn. I shed my outer clothing, retaining only my loincloth. I crossed my arms over my breasts and tried not to think of what was coming.

I was the fourth to be stretched and bound, arms over head, to that blood-stained post. By that time I had ample opportunity to observe the effect of the scourge on bared flesh. To take my place,I had to step over the bloody prone or slumped forms of the three who went before me.

The bite of the multi-tipped whip on my bare back was excruciating. The speed and force with which each stroke was delivered was breathtaking, repeatedly slamming my torso into the stout post, crushing my breasts against its rough surface..

I twisted, jumped about, wailed and screamed. There was no escape And when it was over, I was thrown, my back aflame, to the sand ... to lie amongst the others, while the fifth in line, another young woman, stumbled over me on her way to the post, and out of some kind of sense of propriety, excused herself.

I lay there, listening to the snapping and smacking sounds of the whip as it slashed its way up and down her back, and to the poor woman’s cries, and then to the cries of the two more who came after her, before a pair of calloused hands reached down to seize me by the arms.

I was hauled to my feet, dragged backwards across the arena floor, the heels of my feet tracing a paired trail of ruts in the sand, and deposited next to my waiting cross. He left me in a sitting position and ordered me to wait ... as if he actually thought I might somehow decide to wander off.

And since he left me here I have waited ... and waited. Curiously, no one has come to crucify me. There has been plenty of activity all around me ... a literal forest of raised crosses fill the arena floor by now, but mine still lies empty beside me ... almost as though to mock me. My mind spins. Have they forgotten me? Why? Am I dreaming?

Surely there can be no mistake. I was arrested along with the others. There was no doubt of our guilt. We had been conspiring and unfortunately there had been a traitor moving amongst us. We were betrayed. Justice was swift ... the plot exposed. Everyone we knew, innocent or not, were rounded up. Confessions were extracted ... the guilty, and the not guilty, condemned to the horrors of a public execution.

So why, am I still sitting here on the sand when all around me my crucified brothers and sisters are suffering ... nakedly writhing and twisting to the delight of a crowd that has taken to its feet? I feel guilty. Should I say something? Surely ....

Wait! A pair of legs have appeared before me ... deeply tanned, hairy legs with bulging muscular calves. Their owner squats down, reaches for my hair and jerks my head back. I look into his face, grizzled and fleshy, dark cruel eyes beneath hooded brows, yellowed teeth, half of them missing

“Over here!” He shouts. “One more! How did we miss her? Hurry! Ropes and nails! On the double!”

Others come running ... to lift me and lay me stretched out on my cross. The wood scrapes against my ravaged back as they position me. Swiftly, efficiently, my wrists are pressed against the cross beam, my hands bound to the wood with cord. Someone rips away my loincloth. A lewd comment is made about what its loss reveals, followed by grim laughter.

“What a waste!” someone remarks ruefully.

I feel the prick of spikes against my wrists. Raising my head, I quickly glance right and left .. one last look before the horror begins. It comes quickly. Both nails are driven through and deep into the wood, each with a powerful and shattering single blow. I arch my back, lifting myself from the wood, scream in pain and fall back hard.

Before I can recover they are already binding my ankles together, positioning the soles of my feet against the stipe with my knees raised. I offer no resistance, focusing instead on bracing myself for the coming agony. Again the spikes are positioned, one for each foot, and driven through, quickly and powerfully. Waves of pain course through my shuddering body. I am nailed! Fixed to my cross for the coming ordeal.

“She’s ready,” says someone, his face near enough to mine to smell the stench of his breath. Playfully he palms and kneads my breasts, and pinches my nipples. Then he steps away as my cross shudders and rises, lifted by straining, grunting men, and directed to its final resting place. My field of vision shifts from blue sky to the mottled colors of the crowded stands, partially obscured by neighboring crosses, each bearing a crucified form.

The sudden jarring drop into my cross’s prepared hole tears at the nail wounds in my wrists and feet, and throws my body up and away from the wood at my back. I fall back hard, cursing and gasping, tailbone crashing against the post. I can feel warm rivulets of blood seeping down my arms and under my broken feet.

It’s over now ... I have joined my friends ... all that remains are the long hours of suffering, humiliation and eventually, the release of death. How will I handle it? ... bentath a merciless sun, hounded and tormented by the men who move amongst the crowd with whips, torches, red hot irons ... intent on amusing a crowd that has become bored and restless. There will be no dignity or calm for the crucified over the hours to come. They will see to that!

I despair. I am sweating profusely, flopping about ... somehow feeling aroused ...that can’t be? ... tangled in my sheets ... wet sheets ... what? ... where? ... my bed ... my own room ... it’s morning ... what the fuck! How? What a dream!
Fantastic words Barb! As you well know, the thought of having to wait my turn naked for a flogging, along with other prisoners, very much floats my boat. As does any group punishment.
 
I am wondering whether I might try to conjure up a dream about flaying alive.... would that be too unpleasant?

that would be nightmarish! A horror story. Not sure that I would find it erotic. But then, I’ve never really thought about it.
 
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