theseus
SERVILIS CURATOR
Punishment of a slave
The slave stood in front of me, head bowed. She was heavily chained. A livid bruise showed through the dark skin of her cheek. She was one of my favourites, normally well behaved and obedient. Now I had to punish her. Her offence was serious, very serious! A simple whipping would not suffice. Hers was a capital offence. If her accuser demanded it, she would die!
I had rented the girl to a client for a week. It should have been a very simple transaction. Inexplicably, she had refused him full use of her body. When he forced her, as was his right, she had struck him!
There was no more serious offence than a slave raising a hand to a master.
“Why?” I asked.
She raised her eyes, looked at me. “He wanted to fuck my ass. I hate that!”
“Slaves have no choice. Anyway, I have buggered you on many occasions. Why now?”
“Because you are my master! He doesn’t own me.”
I shrugged. There was nothing I could do; she seemed determined to aggravate matters.
You realise you could die?
“Why should I care? Slavery is worse than death!”
Her accuser spoke for the first time. “Crucify the bitch!”
I looked at the slave. Her body had given me great pleasure. She was strong, beautiful. Crucifixion was a terrible way to die. Nevertheless there was a twitch in my groin at the thought of her on a cross.
“I don’t think we need to go that far. A good flogging, branding, should teach her her lesson.”
“You know the law! She dies!”
I knew he was right. There was no escape for her.
“Here!” He said, handing me three steel spikes. They were eight inches long, square cut boat nails with oversized heads.
“Oh! OH! Oh please, No!” The awful truth had finally struck her. The finality of what she had done. She stared wide-eyed at those nails. Two of them would pierce her slender wrists, the third her beautiful feet. She would endure agony suspended on those three pieces of steel!
I could no longer bear the sight of her, knowing her fate.
“Take her away!” I said to the guard. “Lock her up securely. You and your fellows can have her tonight. I want her in the square at dawn tomorrow!”
She was led away by the grinning guard. There would be no mercy for her tonight. She would be used and re-used in every way imaginable, and some unimaginable to her now.
The slave stumbled down the steps into the dungeon. Her eyes were blinded by tears. She had been defiant, saying that slavery was worse than death. Now she knew that life, no matter how terrible, was better than death. The way of her death terrified her. Those three spikes would be driven through her flesh, joining her to the wood. She was strong; she knew that. How many hours of agony would she suffer before death released her? The urge to live is so strong! She knew that while she would wish for death, her body would struggle for just one more breath.
The iron door clanged closed behind her. Slowly her eyes became accustomed to the gloom. Damp stone walls; a filthy stone floor. Against the one wall was a dark stain. Blood?
She sank to her knees, finally giving way to despair. She sobbed. She wanted to live! Even as a slave! Her master had been hard, but sometimes kind. Why had she resisted! Yes, she hated being buggered, but she was a slave and had been buggered before. Why had she hit the brute? Why?
She had seen a crucifixion. The victim screaming in agony as he hung on the nails, the slow death by exposure. He begged to be killed, yet his body struggled for life. He had lasted three days. All the slaves were forced to watch, as a lesson to them not to resist their fate.
The floor of the dungeon was rough, cold and covered with unknowable matter. There was no comfortable position. Later, how much later she did not know, she heard the sound of voices, clinking bottles. The voices came closer, coarse laughter echoed against the stone walls. She knew what was coming! She steeled herself for the ordeal to come.
There were six of them. They were drunk and determined to enjoy the slave who was to die in the morning. There was no restraint. For the slave it was a constant assault that carried on interminably. Eventually they tired. She lapsed into a fitful sleep, that seemed to last only seconds before a kick in the ribs started her to wakefulness.
“Come, whore! Time to die!”
She was led out of the cell. Buckets of icy water revived her and washed most of the filth of the night off her body. Shivering with cold, she followed the guards blindly into the town square. In the centre of the square was the whipping post. Lying next to it was a squared off wooden beam, about six inches square and six feet long. She looked at that beam, realising that it was part of the cross, that she would be nailed to that unyielding timber.
The chains were removed from her. For a brief moment her body was free of restraints. Then her wrists were tied together, ending the brief freedom.
She was led to the post, site of so much suffering. Her hands were pulled up high above her head, higher and higher until she was on tiptoe. Her body was stretched tight, displayed to the view of the gathering crowd. The executioner came up to her. He leaned toward her, his breath foul with stale alcohol. “I enjoyed your body last night, whore. Now I am going to destroy it.” With an evil smile he showed her the many-stranded whip that would soon be lashing her back. Each long leather lash was tipped with a shard of bone.
The slave shuddered. She had been whipped before; she was, after all, a slave. This whip was designed to rip her back to shreds! This was an instrument to be used on someone who was not expected to live! He stepped back. She waited, the early rays of the sun already hot on her skin.
She saw her owner and her accuser arrive. Her owner’s eyes slowly examined her body, a body he had so often enjoyed. She thought she detected sadness and pity in his eyes. Then he nodded. “Begin.” He said softly.
She heard the swish of the whip. Then the breath was knocked from her body by the impact. For a brief moment she was just winded, then the blinding pain struck. Her back had been clawed by a giant cat! She screamed! “NO! PLEASE!” There was that awful swishing sound again. This time it was even worse! She couldn’t bear it! She begged, pleaded as the swish and crack continued. She saw specks of blood in the dust around her, her blood. The lashes had curled around her body, licking her breasts and belly with tongues of fire. After an eternity, but in reality only six lashes, the executioner walked to her owner. His fingers were combing the lashes, squeezing blood out of them.
“Six more,” she heard her owner say. “Left handed.”
A left handed flogger took over, allowing the lashes to land from the other side, licking across the opposite side of her body. She hung by her wrists, unable to control the trembling muscles in her legs.
Her wrists were untied and she collapsed at the foot of the post. For some minutes she lay there, sobbing. She became aware of her master’s feet next to her face. Turning painfully, she looked up at him.
“Please, master. I’m sorry. Please! No more.”
He looked down at her, his face troubled. He knelt beside her, smoothing the hair from her face. “I’m sorry! It has to happen.” He cupped her cheek for a moment. “Get on with it!” He said harshly.
She was pulled to her knees. The beam was laid across her raw, bloody shoulders. She screamed at the new pain, screamed as her arms were tied to the beam, the rough wood ripping her mutilated flesh. The weight of the beam almost caused her to collapse. A whip curled around her body, bringing more pain. “On your feet, whore!”
Somehow she staggered to her feet, encouraged by the whip. The guard pointed up the steep hill leading to the ridge above the sea. “Your master is very kind. He is giving you a nice view. Get your carcass up there!”
The whip cracked again. Slowly she started the trudge up the steep incline. Many times she stumbled and fell. Each time the whip goaded her back onto her feet. Finally she reached the top, was guided to a freshly dug hole next to a long square beam. She collapsed next to it, panting.
The beam was removed from her shoulders. Numbly she watched as it was fixed firmly to the upright. Nobody held her, she was not tied. The thought of escape no longer occurred to her. Numbly she watched the instrument of her final torture being prepared. She saw the heavy hammer laid beside the crossbeam, the three long sharp spikes.
She did not resist as she was lifted to her feet and led to the cross. Two men laid her on the cross, the rough wood ripping at the wounds on her back. Roughly they positioned her. “No. Please.” She whispered.
Four men held her down. The executioner picked up the hammer, chose a spike. Using the sharp tip he probed her wrist, looking for the perfect spot to drive the spike home. “Please!” She whimpered, “Please! Please don’t hurt me any more.” He smiled at her, a smile that sent shivers down her spine.
The hammer rose and fell. Searing pain ran up her arm. The men struggled to hold her down. “NOOOOOOOOO!!!!!” her scream was ragged, desperate. She looked at her wrist, so slim, the thick spike driven through it into the wood below. “No! You can’t do this. No….” her voice trailed off as the hammer rose and fell again, and again, driving the spike home in the hard wood. Three blows were enough. The head of the nail stood just proud of the skin of her wrist.
They let her go.
She curled her body over the nailed wrist, cradling it. The spike split the flesh, grated against bone. The slightest movement sent spears of pain down her arm. Her fingers curled inwards involuntarily. For several minutes they let her lie like that. Eventually they came back, almost gently stretching her out again. There was no need to hold the nailed wrist. This time she knew what was coming!
Again the executioner probed with the tip of the spike, found the spot he wanted. She whimpered in anticipation. The hammer rose! Fell! Her screams echoed from the hills! Two more blows and the spike was home.
Again the let her go, to become used to the pain. Now she couldn’t cradle her hands. She lay, her heels drumming against the upright, her back arching with pain.
Now the men took hold of her legs. Her feet were placed one on top of the other, her knees bent at a ninety degree angle. The spike was placed high on the arch of the top foot. The hammer fell! Steel crushed bones as the nail drove through both feet and into the wood.
She screamed! Bucked! The four men struggled to hold her legs. The hammer fell again, and again, and again. She was firmly nailed to her cross!
Men crowded around the cross. The foot of the cross was placed next to the hole dug for it. The head of the cross was slowly lifted. The slave screamed again as her raw back scraped against the wood, her weight starting to pull on her nailed wrists. Her screams intensified as the cross became more vertical. Finally there was an agonised shriek as the cross thumped into the hole, jerking her with the impact. The cross was wedged upright.
Her body twisted and turned in her agony, her screams shrill and continuous. Finally, her throat raw from screaming, she quietened down, hanging from her nailed wrists. Her tear-filled eyes looked at the horizon. From her viewpoint the view was spectacular! The horizon was dotted with sails, silhouetted against a sea that shone like polished copper. Her home was somewhere over that horizon, a home she had been torn from to end up here.
She looked from side to side, at her nailed wrists. She was hanging from them, her knees still bent. She longed to take some of the weight off them by straightening her legs, but she could feel the grating of broken bones in her feet and couldn’t bear the thought of standing on them. Breathing became more difficult. She had to take the pressure off her chest. Moaning with pain, she slowly straightened her legs, most of her weight now on her mangled feet. There was no relief of pain, just a redistribution of it.
She could breathe now, but the pain was intense, and her legs started to quiver with the strain. Slowly she bent her legs, knees splaying wide. The strain was back on her arms. The pain shifted again. She looked down, looked at the faces grinning up at her, realised that she was obscenely exposed to their gaze.
Now began her dance. Rising up on her feet in order to breathe, sinking down to hang by her wrists when her legs could no longer hold her.
Her owner looked at the spectacle before him. She looked magnificent! Her bronze body was soaked in sweat, gleaming in the morning light. Her muscles played beneath her skin as she struggled, dancing her agonised dance. Why did she have to resist? Why did she have to strike the client? He looked at the man standing beside him, gloating at the slave’s pain.
An hour passed. The slave was desperate for water, the hot sun and the pain leeching the moisture from her body. She begged for something to drink. Finally her master ordered a short ladder brought up. He himself climbed up with a cup of water. She drank thirstily. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly as he took away the empty cup.
The dance continued. Her accuser walked up to the cross. Her groin was just below the level of his face. He started at her gaping cunt for a while. “You’re open now, whore!” His fingers entered her, pushing deeper, mercilessly. He pushed harder, his hand slowly entering her. She straightened her legs in an attempt to escape, but she could go only so far. His whole hand was inside her, his fingers rummaging about in her womb. She was aware of another man, hammering. The hand in her body was tearing her apart! She moaned desperately. “Please! At least allow me some dignity.”
“Whoreslaves have no dignity! He growled, pulling his hand out of her.
Gratefully she sank down as her legs gave way, but this time there was something new. A pressure against her anus. She couldn’t see anything, but something was stopping her progress. Desperately she tried to rise up again, but now her legs were too weak. Slowly, inexorably, the object forced its way past her sphincter. Her accuser smiled evilly. “Now you will be buttfucked until you die!”
Her torture continued. Each time she rose to breathe the object would slide out of her, only to force its way back inside her as she settled. Despite the pain she gave a wry smile. She was here because she would not allow her arse to be used. Now she was buggering herself for the entertainment of the crowd.
The sun rose ever higher. She was half delirious now. At some stage she realised it was no longer shining in her eyes, it was past noon. She saw her accuser say something to her master. Accept a bag that looked like coins, and leave.
Men approached her cross. What new indignity was in store for her? All she wanted to do was die! Please!
They started shaking the cross, adding to her agony. Then she became aware of the angle changing. All she could see was sky. The weight on her wrists and feet lessened. They were lowering the cross!
Her owner knelt beside her, a cup in his hands. “Drink this, it will help the pain.”
She drank thirstily. Reality faded. The sky went dark.
The slave stood in front of me, head bowed. She was heavily chained. A livid bruise showed through the dark skin of her cheek. She was one of my favourites, normally well behaved and obedient. Now I had to punish her. Her offence was serious, very serious! A simple whipping would not suffice. Hers was a capital offence. If her accuser demanded it, she would die!
I had rented the girl to a client for a week. It should have been a very simple transaction. Inexplicably, she had refused him full use of her body. When he forced her, as was his right, she had struck him!
There was no more serious offence than a slave raising a hand to a master.
“Why?” I asked.
She raised her eyes, looked at me. “He wanted to fuck my ass. I hate that!”
“Slaves have no choice. Anyway, I have buggered you on many occasions. Why now?”
“Because you are my master! He doesn’t own me.”
I shrugged. There was nothing I could do; she seemed determined to aggravate matters.
You realise you could die?
“Why should I care? Slavery is worse than death!”
Her accuser spoke for the first time. “Crucify the bitch!”
I looked at the slave. Her body had given me great pleasure. She was strong, beautiful. Crucifixion was a terrible way to die. Nevertheless there was a twitch in my groin at the thought of her on a cross.
“I don’t think we need to go that far. A good flogging, branding, should teach her her lesson.”
“You know the law! She dies!”
I knew he was right. There was no escape for her.
“Here!” He said, handing me three steel spikes. They were eight inches long, square cut boat nails with oversized heads.
“Oh! OH! Oh please, No!” The awful truth had finally struck her. The finality of what she had done. She stared wide-eyed at those nails. Two of them would pierce her slender wrists, the third her beautiful feet. She would endure agony suspended on those three pieces of steel!
I could no longer bear the sight of her, knowing her fate.
“Take her away!” I said to the guard. “Lock her up securely. You and your fellows can have her tonight. I want her in the square at dawn tomorrow!”
She was led away by the grinning guard. There would be no mercy for her tonight. She would be used and re-used in every way imaginable, and some unimaginable to her now.
The slave stumbled down the steps into the dungeon. Her eyes were blinded by tears. She had been defiant, saying that slavery was worse than death. Now she knew that life, no matter how terrible, was better than death. The way of her death terrified her. Those three spikes would be driven through her flesh, joining her to the wood. She was strong; she knew that. How many hours of agony would she suffer before death released her? The urge to live is so strong! She knew that while she would wish for death, her body would struggle for just one more breath.
The iron door clanged closed behind her. Slowly her eyes became accustomed to the gloom. Damp stone walls; a filthy stone floor. Against the one wall was a dark stain. Blood?
She sank to her knees, finally giving way to despair. She sobbed. She wanted to live! Even as a slave! Her master had been hard, but sometimes kind. Why had she resisted! Yes, she hated being buggered, but she was a slave and had been buggered before. Why had she hit the brute? Why?
She had seen a crucifixion. The victim screaming in agony as he hung on the nails, the slow death by exposure. He begged to be killed, yet his body struggled for life. He had lasted three days. All the slaves were forced to watch, as a lesson to them not to resist their fate.
The floor of the dungeon was rough, cold and covered with unknowable matter. There was no comfortable position. Later, how much later she did not know, she heard the sound of voices, clinking bottles. The voices came closer, coarse laughter echoed against the stone walls. She knew what was coming! She steeled herself for the ordeal to come.
There were six of them. They were drunk and determined to enjoy the slave who was to die in the morning. There was no restraint. For the slave it was a constant assault that carried on interminably. Eventually they tired. She lapsed into a fitful sleep, that seemed to last only seconds before a kick in the ribs started her to wakefulness.
“Come, whore! Time to die!”
She was led out of the cell. Buckets of icy water revived her and washed most of the filth of the night off her body. Shivering with cold, she followed the guards blindly into the town square. In the centre of the square was the whipping post. Lying next to it was a squared off wooden beam, about six inches square and six feet long. She looked at that beam, realising that it was part of the cross, that she would be nailed to that unyielding timber.
The chains were removed from her. For a brief moment her body was free of restraints. Then her wrists were tied together, ending the brief freedom.
She was led to the post, site of so much suffering. Her hands were pulled up high above her head, higher and higher until she was on tiptoe. Her body was stretched tight, displayed to the view of the gathering crowd. The executioner came up to her. He leaned toward her, his breath foul with stale alcohol. “I enjoyed your body last night, whore. Now I am going to destroy it.” With an evil smile he showed her the many-stranded whip that would soon be lashing her back. Each long leather lash was tipped with a shard of bone.
The slave shuddered. She had been whipped before; she was, after all, a slave. This whip was designed to rip her back to shreds! This was an instrument to be used on someone who was not expected to live! He stepped back. She waited, the early rays of the sun already hot on her skin.
She saw her owner and her accuser arrive. Her owner’s eyes slowly examined her body, a body he had so often enjoyed. She thought she detected sadness and pity in his eyes. Then he nodded. “Begin.” He said softly.
She heard the swish of the whip. Then the breath was knocked from her body by the impact. For a brief moment she was just winded, then the blinding pain struck. Her back had been clawed by a giant cat! She screamed! “NO! PLEASE!” There was that awful swishing sound again. This time it was even worse! She couldn’t bear it! She begged, pleaded as the swish and crack continued. She saw specks of blood in the dust around her, her blood. The lashes had curled around her body, licking her breasts and belly with tongues of fire. After an eternity, but in reality only six lashes, the executioner walked to her owner. His fingers were combing the lashes, squeezing blood out of them.
“Six more,” she heard her owner say. “Left handed.”
A left handed flogger took over, allowing the lashes to land from the other side, licking across the opposite side of her body. She hung by her wrists, unable to control the trembling muscles in her legs.
Her wrists were untied and she collapsed at the foot of the post. For some minutes she lay there, sobbing. She became aware of her master’s feet next to her face. Turning painfully, she looked up at him.
“Please, master. I’m sorry. Please! No more.”
He looked down at her, his face troubled. He knelt beside her, smoothing the hair from her face. “I’m sorry! It has to happen.” He cupped her cheek for a moment. “Get on with it!” He said harshly.
She was pulled to her knees. The beam was laid across her raw, bloody shoulders. She screamed at the new pain, screamed as her arms were tied to the beam, the rough wood ripping her mutilated flesh. The weight of the beam almost caused her to collapse. A whip curled around her body, bringing more pain. “On your feet, whore!”
Somehow she staggered to her feet, encouraged by the whip. The guard pointed up the steep hill leading to the ridge above the sea. “Your master is very kind. He is giving you a nice view. Get your carcass up there!”
The whip cracked again. Slowly she started the trudge up the steep incline. Many times she stumbled and fell. Each time the whip goaded her back onto her feet. Finally she reached the top, was guided to a freshly dug hole next to a long square beam. She collapsed next to it, panting.
The beam was removed from her shoulders. Numbly she watched as it was fixed firmly to the upright. Nobody held her, she was not tied. The thought of escape no longer occurred to her. Numbly she watched the instrument of her final torture being prepared. She saw the heavy hammer laid beside the crossbeam, the three long sharp spikes.
She did not resist as she was lifted to her feet and led to the cross. Two men laid her on the cross, the rough wood ripping at the wounds on her back. Roughly they positioned her. “No. Please.” She whispered.
Four men held her down. The executioner picked up the hammer, chose a spike. Using the sharp tip he probed her wrist, looking for the perfect spot to drive the spike home. “Please!” She whimpered, “Please! Please don’t hurt me any more.” He smiled at her, a smile that sent shivers down her spine.
The hammer rose and fell. Searing pain ran up her arm. The men struggled to hold her down. “NOOOOOOOOO!!!!!” her scream was ragged, desperate. She looked at her wrist, so slim, the thick spike driven through it into the wood below. “No! You can’t do this. No….” her voice trailed off as the hammer rose and fell again, and again, driving the spike home in the hard wood. Three blows were enough. The head of the nail stood just proud of the skin of her wrist.
They let her go.
She curled her body over the nailed wrist, cradling it. The spike split the flesh, grated against bone. The slightest movement sent spears of pain down her arm. Her fingers curled inwards involuntarily. For several minutes they let her lie like that. Eventually they came back, almost gently stretching her out again. There was no need to hold the nailed wrist. This time she knew what was coming!
Again the executioner probed with the tip of the spike, found the spot he wanted. She whimpered in anticipation. The hammer rose! Fell! Her screams echoed from the hills! Two more blows and the spike was home.
Again the let her go, to become used to the pain. Now she couldn’t cradle her hands. She lay, her heels drumming against the upright, her back arching with pain.
Now the men took hold of her legs. Her feet were placed one on top of the other, her knees bent at a ninety degree angle. The spike was placed high on the arch of the top foot. The hammer fell! Steel crushed bones as the nail drove through both feet and into the wood.
She screamed! Bucked! The four men struggled to hold her legs. The hammer fell again, and again, and again. She was firmly nailed to her cross!
Men crowded around the cross. The foot of the cross was placed next to the hole dug for it. The head of the cross was slowly lifted. The slave screamed again as her raw back scraped against the wood, her weight starting to pull on her nailed wrists. Her screams intensified as the cross became more vertical. Finally there was an agonised shriek as the cross thumped into the hole, jerking her with the impact. The cross was wedged upright.
Her body twisted and turned in her agony, her screams shrill and continuous. Finally, her throat raw from screaming, she quietened down, hanging from her nailed wrists. Her tear-filled eyes looked at the horizon. From her viewpoint the view was spectacular! The horizon was dotted with sails, silhouetted against a sea that shone like polished copper. Her home was somewhere over that horizon, a home she had been torn from to end up here.
She looked from side to side, at her nailed wrists. She was hanging from them, her knees still bent. She longed to take some of the weight off them by straightening her legs, but she could feel the grating of broken bones in her feet and couldn’t bear the thought of standing on them. Breathing became more difficult. She had to take the pressure off her chest. Moaning with pain, she slowly straightened her legs, most of her weight now on her mangled feet. There was no relief of pain, just a redistribution of it.
She could breathe now, but the pain was intense, and her legs started to quiver with the strain. Slowly she bent her legs, knees splaying wide. The strain was back on her arms. The pain shifted again. She looked down, looked at the faces grinning up at her, realised that she was obscenely exposed to their gaze.
Now began her dance. Rising up on her feet in order to breathe, sinking down to hang by her wrists when her legs could no longer hold her.
Her owner looked at the spectacle before him. She looked magnificent! Her bronze body was soaked in sweat, gleaming in the morning light. Her muscles played beneath her skin as she struggled, dancing her agonised dance. Why did she have to resist? Why did she have to strike the client? He looked at the man standing beside him, gloating at the slave’s pain.
An hour passed. The slave was desperate for water, the hot sun and the pain leeching the moisture from her body. She begged for something to drink. Finally her master ordered a short ladder brought up. He himself climbed up with a cup of water. She drank thirstily. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly as he took away the empty cup.
The dance continued. Her accuser walked up to the cross. Her groin was just below the level of his face. He started at her gaping cunt for a while. “You’re open now, whore!” His fingers entered her, pushing deeper, mercilessly. He pushed harder, his hand slowly entering her. She straightened her legs in an attempt to escape, but she could go only so far. His whole hand was inside her, his fingers rummaging about in her womb. She was aware of another man, hammering. The hand in her body was tearing her apart! She moaned desperately. “Please! At least allow me some dignity.”
“Whoreslaves have no dignity! He growled, pulling his hand out of her.
Gratefully she sank down as her legs gave way, but this time there was something new. A pressure against her anus. She couldn’t see anything, but something was stopping her progress. Desperately she tried to rise up again, but now her legs were too weak. Slowly, inexorably, the object forced its way past her sphincter. Her accuser smiled evilly. “Now you will be buttfucked until you die!”
Her torture continued. Each time she rose to breathe the object would slide out of her, only to force its way back inside her as she settled. Despite the pain she gave a wry smile. She was here because she would not allow her arse to be used. Now she was buggering herself for the entertainment of the crowd.
The sun rose ever higher. She was half delirious now. At some stage she realised it was no longer shining in her eyes, it was past noon. She saw her accuser say something to her master. Accept a bag that looked like coins, and leave.
Men approached her cross. What new indignity was in store for her? All she wanted to do was die! Please!
They started shaking the cross, adding to her agony. Then she became aware of the angle changing. All she could see was sky. The weight on her wrists and feet lessened. They were lowering the cross!
Her owner knelt beside her, a cup in his hands. “Drink this, it will help the pain.”
She drank thirstily. Reality faded. The sky went dark.
