It's blisteringly hot in the huge desert that stretches out for as far as the eye can see, no hope of escape for the captured Viking young woman who has been dragged far from her home by soldiers who have enjoyed fucking and raping her every step of the way. Each night she is visited by the entire encampment of thirty soldiers, including their five dogs who have all planted their seed in her womb, ass, and mouth. During the day her arms are tied to a staff and she's forced to march in nothing but a scant loincloth for protection against the relentless sun beating down on her bare flesh. Now it seems a decision has been made by the leader of the encampment that the woman has provided enough entertainment, resulting in a day-long fuckfest which is now turning more sinister.
A couple of soldiers grab the viking girl, tearing away her loincloth as they march her over to a tall wooden pole which will serve as the vertical beam of her cross in a little while. Her arms are bound together at the wrists and tied to the beam high above her head, two soldiers approaching with viscious looking whips knotted with bits of bone and stone to tear at her back and flesh.
Night after night, torn by the men, rutted, knotted by the dogs. Fair skin is sunburnt and fiery hot to the touch, blistered and peeling. With no reprieve at the end of a march, she yields to their roughness - all of the fight long since fucked out of her. Bloodied, raw in places she shouldn't be raw, the cum of the men and animals stains her skin in a sticky mess that's crusted at the edges - looking almost like dried sweat, except the scent of so much semen on her is impossible to miss.
Battered, bruised, she whimpers as the loincloth is torn away, revealing her poor abused slit and ass as she stumbles along with them to the upright log. Finding her voice, her throat as bruised as the rest of her holes, she whispers hoarsely. "What.. what is this?" Trying to dig in her heels and likely not much more fight than a kitten.
The men gather around as the girl; who couldn't be much more than eighteen, yet still a strong and proud viking warrior, at least until they got their hands on her, has her wrists bound to the wooden pole. Their leader steps forward, passing between the two men holding their whips ready. He grasps a fistful of her soiled and dirty hair, once-straw yellow now stained from piss, semen, and gods know what else. He tugs back, forcing her gaze to the sky as he whispers dangerously into her ear. "This... is the beginning of the end for you, kitten. Valhalla awaits, as you pagans like to say... but will you meet eternity crying like a bitch, or screaming like a bezerker?" With that said he steps back, wondering if his little pep talk will put a bit more fire in the slim girl and make her death more interesting for his men.
At a nod from their commander the two men begin swinging their whips, making the air hiss and hum between the sickly crack of leather against flesh, tearing strips of skin from her back as they flog their way down from her shoulders to her ass.
He reminds her. Who she -is-, not who she -was-. How long have they had her? Driven her to the ground and broken her cunt, her ass, fucking her mouth until the blood from her lips dripped with the semen she used to fight to avoid swallowing? She is not -theirs-. And he Gods await.
As soon as he releases her to step back, she lunges forward, snapping her teeth at the commander like a wild thing. If she is to die, there's no reason to reserve strength and -hope- to find a chance to be free.
Hope is a motherfucker.
Already wracked with pain, the lashes rain down, the blood flowing, the next lash smearing the crimson life across her skin before splitting it with the fall of leather. The first few, she manages to endure, grinding her teeth and snarling behind them, until the pain layers so thick they -force- those sounds from her. Those screams they seek.
He steps back nimbly, a smirk on his lips as he looks into her crazed eyes. Yes, his words have done the job quite well. Something has awoken inside of her, or else she's just plain snapped and gone crazy like some of her ilk are wont to do in the face of battle. The men murmur amongst themselves as she throws herself at him, snapping like the very dogs that have ravaged her cunt and ass day in and day out for the past weeks.
Her torturers have no problem with her struggling, enjoying the way her body writhes and quivers under the merciless kiss of their scourges. The falls tear her skin, stripping flesh from her back until there's hardly an inch of skin remaining on her back all the way down to her ass.
The two men take a break, stretching their sore arms after the endless flurry of lashes they've delivered to her body, dipping their scourges in saltwater to wash the blood from the leather. Meanwhile another soldier walks up holding a bucket of piss, dumping it over her torn and fleshless back in a shivering shock of stale, cold piss.
Even the strongest of men buckle under such an onslaught. They drive the filthy blonde to the ground, the earth stained red and well fed with her blood and the bits of skin that snaps off the falls of the biting whips. To her knees. To a three-point, to four. She bucks and shudders as the whips bare her, exposing things that should never see the light of day. Like a beast, she lifts her head and howls to her Gods. Calling Odin to witness her. Calling Freya, her namesake, to send the Valkyries as escort when her fight is done.
No one would be sane after weeks of such excruciating torment. After weeks of being bred by every man and his dog, does she even go to the cross alone? Did their filthy seed take?
Tepid, rancid piss hits her skin and she grinds her teeth once more, the exposed meat under the skin set on fire by the infection carrying fluid. If the cross doesn't kill her, the fevers will.
"Enough, spare your whips men... we want her at least a full day and night on the cross before we let her pagan demon gods take her soul." The leader waves his hand, gesturing for his men to carry out their duties. The crossbeam is produced next, a rough and unhewn length of timber about eight feet long. A bag of crude iron spikes is brought forward next, along with a mallet to drive them through soft flesh and hard bone into the wood.
"Nail her" The command is obeyed as men reach out, taking the struggling girl with strong arms as they bear her to the beam of wood and stretch her arms out along the rough splintered length. Her raw back reignites with flame as it is rubbed by the wood behind her back, drowning out the discomfort of having her arms stretched so far apart.
She may not even notice the spikes until they are set at each of her wrists, positioned just below the joint of hand to arm. A pair of mallets rise and fall in perfect unison, ringing out a metallic clang followed by a sickening crunch of flesh as the iron spikes drive into the wood and fasten the girl to her cross.
Teeth are the only easy weapon that she has. Everything else takes more strength and coordination than her battered body has. Lunging, snapping her teeth, screaming like a mad thing. She fights with every ounce of her strength as they hoist her up and pin her to the roughened wood. In a moment, her blood and their stale piss soaks the rough hewn timber, tainting it near-black.
"COWARDS! You will never see Valhalla! May your souls rot where your flesh falls!" The hammers strike and she screams until her voice breaks, blood welling up as the spikes dimple the flesh and break through. Every blow, every inch is felt. Bones spread, splitting as the thick nails are driven deep, through, and pin her to the arms of the cross.
Tears well up, making clean lines on her face as they run down. "ODIN! Wit... Witness!" Hope. Still a motherfucker that she clings to. As if Sleipnir will thunder down and the God himself will save her.
"Hear that boys? The bitch say's we can't enter her Valhalla!" The leader steps up again, not one to miss this golden opportunity to pile more disgrace and shame on the viking, perhaps hoping to utterly break her spirit after he's roused it so skillfully. "Well she can't do a thing about us entering her cunt or ass... anyone up for a last go before we hoist this pretty cunt up for the crows?"
A few of the men seem quite eager to wet their cocks one last time in the cunt of their captive, unbelting their tunics and fishing out their cocks as they prepare to take her as she lays on the dirt nailed to her crossbeam. Cock after cock drives into her body, some lancing her cunt while others simply drive up her asshole with no respect for the suffering young woman. Others of the men amuse themselves by pissing in her open mouth as she screams from the pain of being raped one last time.
Finally the last of the dozen men finishes inside her cunt, spilling his seed and ensuring that her cunt will bleed their semen as she hangs there on the cross. Now they set to work hoisting her up, fastening ropes from her crossbeam to the top of the post, using winches to slowly raise her up the length of the beam until her crossbeam fits into the notch near the top of the vertical pole. Now her feet are placed over each other against the triangular wedge near the bottom of the cross, and a final spike is driven through her feet, securing them to the wedge and allowing her to push up for air when needed.
She can't even get leverage to try and kick or struggle. Every motions is an utter agony in her wrists that ripples up her arms and through her body. Her back, ground to the rough lumber with every thrust, paints the wood red. So much blood. Already the crows gather - not to bring salvation or to witness, but to feast in a day or three.
The sound of their jeering caws brings that hope, though. Even as they seek to break her. She's nothing to lose. There's no coming down, now.
Covered in piss and the seed of her tormentors, she howls as she is lifted and the post is set. Thighs stained with blood from too many cocks that are too rough with her broken cunt, the blood diluted to a pinkish hue by the loads of so many that seek to degrade her. She suffers utterly for them as they drive the spikes through her feet to finish pinning the proud shieldmaiden in place.
There isn't a place that does not hurt. And she weeps with it, head hanging and chest heaving, her skin glistening and wet from the salty hot piss that rained down on her.
It's only after she's been completely raised on the cross that she will begin to enjoy the added torment offered by the sedile attached to the cross, a small pointed triangle of wood nestled right beneath her cunt to provide a cruel 'seat' for the weary girl. It's placed low enough that it won't ease her breathing enough to eliminate the need to push up for a breath now and then, but high enough to put uncomfortable and eventually painful pressure on her pussy.
The men set themselves at ease now that she's been properly crucified, ready to play the waiting game to see how long she might last, and entertain themselves by prodding at her writhing body with the butts of their spears. The leader positions himself comfortably under the shade of his tent, watching her while stroking his cock underneath his tunic, breathing hard as he watches the pain radiating through her body.
Overhead the sun beats down mercilessly on the unfortunate viking girl, baking her and adding to her torment as the shadows slowly lengthen and the sun begins to dip toward the horizon, signaling the end of her first day of torment.
There is no comfort. The strength to rise up makes the nails in her wrists and feet scream. When she sags, her torn pussy is split by the sharp edge of the triangle. It's a slow dance. A steady rise and fall that spans hours. Almost the way a woman might ride a lover, but for the nature of the sedile.
The sun licks every piece of exposed skin, reddening her with a terrible sunburn and drying the 'gifts' of her tormentors into a filthy, disgusting crust. Th flies are drawn to the stink on her, to the blood and her wounds. They feast on her growing weakness, getting their fill until the sun goes down.
Night is a relief, even if they refuse to leave her be long enough to sleep. The bugs leave her alone after the sun sets.
Torches sputter to life as the last rays of the sun wink out at the edge of the desert, casting everything into darkness. The men look up at the crucified young woman, braided hair crusted in dried cum and blood, so soiled that it could hardly be called blonde anymore. Her wrists impaled with spikes, nailing her there to the unfeeling cross that displays her body for them all to witness as she suffers for their amusement.
Quinius approaches her body, having watched her endless dance as she rises and falls on the cross in such a sexual manner. He looks up at her, studying her nailed feet before leaning his head forward to lick a rivulet of blood from her foot. "Mnnn... you die well girl... but tonight will be long and sleepless for you. The cross is a hard lover, he gives no reprive... no matter how tired or raw you are from riding him." He slides a hand up her crossed legs, caressing the muscles under her skin. "But I might be pursuaded to offer you a support... so that you can try to sleep tonight." He looks up at her, studying her face intently. "But if you want my help, you will beg for it. Understand, girl?"
Moans have died to soft hitches of breath - at least, between the effort of the rise and the fall. In her misery, she doesn't see the approach of her enemy, her focus driven inward to try and hide herself from the agony of her flesh.
A warm, wet tongue against her foot draws her out again, the girl lifting a head that's too heavy, just to look down and see -him-. She tries to speak, but she has to get the saliva flowing again to unstick her tongue from the roof of her mouth. Even so, her voice is a rough croak, colored with the agony she suffers.
"Why?" A simple word, laden with so much meaning, her blue eyes blood shot and swollen, blackened with casual blows over the weeks. His hand has her trying to rally, to muster any last dregs of strength, to try and draw herself upright and sag less. Her feet and wrists bleed anew, and the massive scab trying to form on her back cracks open. "If you let me down..." her lower lip trembles before she bites it, more tears winding down her cheeks.
"Please."
