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Spartacus

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Hi, seems I never posted here my rough translation polished by Eulalia. (and my big, big, THX)

The story begins when the Kubrik's movie ends.

Spartacus

Chapter I: Spartacus

Spartacus has fainted. A few seconds. Never more than a few seconds. Seconds that lasted a dizzying eternity. Each time he emerged from the void with mouth open to scream, rising to his heels to empty stale air from atrophied lungs and call for new breath.

This man, this slave, almost changed the course of history.

He now pulls on his wrists to relieve the strain on his legs, to relieve the tension that makes his muscles twitch. Unspeakable suffering runs through his wrists, which are transfixed by two thick, blunt wooden ankles. But he knows that he has to distribute the weight of his body, this killing machine, this load of suffering that he hates to carry.

This soldier, this warlord, was less than a day's march from Rome.

He would like to die, but he knows he will see the horizon turn pink at least one more time. He doesn't want to die, he has a reason for it.

He becomes aware of his erection.

He relieves himself like an animal, pushing on his buttocks to push away from his legs the hot liquid that smokes in the first light of dawn.

Well prepared over the first loops of the Tiber, Crassus' veterans stopped the horde of gladiators and rebellious slaves.

He's already pissed his pants. when they broke the first wooden nail inside his left wrist with a too quick hammer's blow. It's half the length of the other one, but they were able to preserve his artery and no life-saving haemorrhage shortened his suffering.

A few drops run together around the crusts of dry blood on her ankles. Despite their thickness, they are soon mixed. His wounds are waking up. The beneficial night's anaesthesia slowly dissipates. He becomes aware of the evaporation of the dewdrops that still scatter his Christic body.

Something's missing. He's not exactly aware of what at first. The trills of the pecking chickadee distract his attention for a few moments. Then he knows. He carefully raises his head.

David finished moaning. His head is tilted on his chest. The line of his shoulders is much lower. He last spoke to Spartacus, saying, "Why did we lose?"

They lost because Crixus and the Germanic tribe went off to raid the senators' rich estates. They lost because Rome simply cannot be defeated, that Rome will give itself centuries later when it is no longer Rome, when the poisoning from the lead pipes will have annihilated the blood of its armies and vitiated the senses of its emperors.

For the time being, an army of victors is descending the slopes of the hill whose buttresses appear beyond the top of the olive field.

To better guess the cohorts masked by the cloud of gray dust, Spartacus' gaze has moved up the road. The immensity of the disaster overwhelms him. The Romans have nailed two of his men alive and face to face every hundred paces. Tragic semaphores to the glory of Crassus, they can see a reflection of their own agony.

The first columns are getting closer. The standards of the 5th legion flap in the cool wind and set the rhythm for the legionnaires' march. With their heavy pilum risen, they make up a lively forest of pointed stakes on which even the gladiators of the Capua school have broken.

The front ranks march past Spartacus, in a strange silence of curiosity and respectful fear. Three against one they were nearly swept away.

A rich merchant's wagon rides along the columns with the impatient whip of its driver. Gracchus is saving Spartacus' reason for living.

Spartacus stands up on his mangled heels. The tank slowed at that right moment. It does not resume its foolish course.

Varinia leaned slightly forward. In a mute cry, her lips threw "I love you", his eyes answered "live for us".

He had time to see a small package of white sheets huddled behind Varinia. Long after the pounding of the wheels on the stones had faded, his dilated pupils remain fixed on the slash of the vanished tank.

The time has now come for the long wait, for the sun to rise indolently to warm him first, before bruising his closed eyes at the zenith of his run.

His lips are parched.

He carefully carries a swig of water from the stream in which Varinia is bathing to his mouth. He undresses happily and joins her in a few fathoms.

On the cross, his sex painfully straightened up to penetrate her again.
His weakened body can no longer quite bear that arousing. His heart has almost failed, his muscles are a block of pain, he breathes only with small breaths like the old men who are protected under the wheels of the carts. His penis soon falls off, without even having been able to let pearl his desire.

He raises forehead and shouts, "Crixus, why have you forsaken me?"

Chapter II: Crassus

In the torpor of the afternoon, the blind limestones refract a dazzling luminosity that prevents Spartacus from sinking into the soothing darkness. Suddenly, he perceives the regular progression of a gallop, then a trot. He lifts his head so heavy with sorrow:

Crassus stands before him in the saddle.

Crassus says nothing. His horse neighs, shakes its mane, tries to run. Crassus takes the bit, pulls his nostrils, flatters its neckline. He's slightly straightened up on the saddle.

Crassus is very tall, almost skinny. The nobility of his patrician features composes with an angular face that seem to be carved with a sword. He's got a deep scar across his cheekbone since fall of Carthage.

He is still a warlord and not quite a dictator. His trousers smell like used leather, mane and ooze. He forced himself to leave his oppidum, his entrenched camp, and come to greet the senators he despises. The disgustingly fragrant skin-care creams they all smear on their pale faces made him nauseous.

He'd have wanted to take on Spartacus, sword against sword, force against force, world against world. He almost went towards him during the battle, when the Thracian found himself a hundred paces away from his colours.

He's looking behind him. Two centurions pull a woman from a cart by her hairs. Her cart. She's dragging herself through the dust Her tunic is in tatters. They finish ripping it off. She's straightening up.

Varinia contemplates her beloved. Tears of dust streak her cheeks. She blinks her eyes several times. Her prolonged wail as a little girl echoes the rumble that lifts Spartacus' chest.

"Crassus, I beg of you, let her go. You have defeated me, take my life, but let her go...for our son, I beg you." He cried, he the bullring killer, before saying "I beg you".

Crassus' very thin lips lift slightly. He gazes lenghty at Spartacus with willfully bored eyes, and then turns to Varinia, who stands naked before him. He contemplates this almost perfect body in spite of a recent maternity, this body that he has penetrated but which has refused himself.

"I already have your life. You have no more son." Those were Crassus' first and last words to Spartacus.

With a brief wave of his hand, Crassus told the soldiers to untie David.

The first one - let's call him Demetrius, will weepingly hold back his intestines spilled on the sand of Numibia in a few months. The second, the misnamed Tertius, has played his turn at the dice, but he is happy to have lost and thus be able to freely dispose of a beautiful woman.

They simply slit David's ankles and then his wrists with a sword. Varinia looked away, but she heard the fall of the flaccid body. Tertius kicks David's remains back into the ditch.

He goes back to help Demetrius who lifted the cross. The two of them turn it over to flip it over. Varinia will be crucified upside down but simply bound. She's spared the terrible suffering of crucifixion only so that she doesn't bleed to death too quickly.

The first part of his terrible ordeal begins:

Crassus turns to the two legionaries, "Defile her."

A smile lights up Demetrius' face. They seize Varinia, Varinia dazed in the heat, empty of having lost her son and her freedom, but who finds the strength to fight back before being practically knocked out with a punch.

Demetrius and Tertius have lifted their loincloth. Demetrius takes two steps forward, raises his penis and begins to urinate.

The very dense jet is first directed onto her pussyt. It aims to irrigate the petals of the rose nesting in the hairy bush
Demetrius immediately points his spear on Varinia's breasts and fragrant drops drip that mix with the small spurts of milk that appeared when her nourishing breasts fell heavily on her chin.

He then pisses on her face. She shakes her head convulsively without her nostrils escaping the intrusion of the musky waves.

She suffocates, coughs, and the first slightly sweet drops invade her palate. She spits out her disgust, but must retain the taste.

The last drops flow through her scattered hair, now gathered in long wet braids.

Tertius has an unusually long and fine sex, with an abnormally developed glans, which is pink in colour, which stands out on the legionnaire's dark skin, and which has grown big in its emotion.

His questioning gaze is upon Crassus. A flutter of his eyelids is quickly seen as encouragement. A hilarious smile complements Tertius' gaze.

Crassus turns head to break complicity that creates impossible intimacy with a trooper.

It's a cobra that has straightened up, his collar swells with his anger, and begins to curl between Varinia's breasts. Tertius gathers them together with firm hand, pressing them along his penis. He guides them by the turgid nipples that have recognized familiar touch.

His penis descends then the glans emerges, with a meatus increasingly open like the mouth of a drowning man looking for air, under the fascinated eyes of Crassus and Demetrius;

His cock cocked like an arrow soon seeks another target. Tertius opens and blocks Varinia's jaw with the handle of his knife.

He makes slide for a few moments his foreskin over Varinia's full, red lips, the cap of flesh palpitates for a few moments and he wipes the first translucent drops on her cheeks.

He brutally shoves his manly limb down his throat.

Under this brutal shock, Varinia's throat abruptly retracted, she who likes nothing more than to lavish a soothing "fellatio".

Her tongue intervenes to build a dam. Tertius has slowed his pace to give him time to organise such a pleasing defense. His sex comes and goes but disappears less often behind the purple lips.

Varinia understood that by speeding up her little licks, she was blocking this beautiful fruit at the edge of her mouth.

Her tongue frantically sweeps the long slit presented to her in the reverse of the habit, goes around the foreskin and into the gaping meatus.

A long fight begins, where the slightest slackening on his part is punished by a thrust that strangles her. Because the testicles that fall heavily on her nose choke hher and the pubic hairs occasionally tickle her nostrils.

After resisting so much, Tertius surrenders, standing upon his ankles, his hands clasped around Varinia's hair.

But the last drops are ejaculated straight onto Varinia's face. He gets up, presses the base of his penis and cleans it on his udders as a last homage.

Chapter III Varinia

Varinia's scared, very scared.

She shaked with horror when her wrists came into contact with David's remains...

No doubt she would have begged Crassus, perhaps she herself would have asked him to take her back, if she had not seen Spartacus, if she had not caught his love and suffering in his eyes.

She draws from this despair the courage to face Crassus' inescapable sentence.

Demetrius and Tertius ironically lined up her loincloth at the foot of the cross, as if she was waiting to put it on again.

The legionnaires spotted an impenetrable grove of broad-leaved white nettles further up the bend. The incandescent glow of the sun reverberates in their breastplates and helmets, they move away for a few moments, giants of light in a dilated halo.

They return humming a military song that exalts Rome and its conquests. It is a beautiful day of life, sex and death, the very day they joined the legion. Demetrius wants to be a decurion within two or three years.

Crassus has thrown his purple toga upon his forearm and looks upon Varinia in disgust. She could have been his slave for love alone, holding his latifundia, his rich country house on the heights of Capua.

She's now suspended on that cross with her fragile face, which has begun to congest a little. Smears of semen that have already dried are hanging in her hairs, gathered in braids by the urine.

Spartacus has humbled himself for the last time, for he now knows their inexorable fate. With eyes closed, he is for the moment crushed by the heat, and the throbbing in his tendons becomes increasingly unbearable.

He thinks he is still overturned under his horse, so great is the oppression on his chest. But, more than anything, it is an immense sorrow that overwhelms him, the loss of his intimate meetings with Varinia near the campfires late at night, not to see again that little piece of him that he was able to hold in his arms for a few days before the battle.

He started biting his tongue to hasten his end.

Demetrius and Tertius are wearing several sturdy thick gloves full these very stinging nettles. They place themselves alongside Varinia under Crassus' command.

Their faces present a united and unshakeable forehead. They are the protectors and defenders of their people. Demetrius stands with his back arching slightly forward, his arms pressed close to his body. His attitude expresses great self-confidence, aggressiveness and a mixture of tension and excitement. He quickly readjusts his panties, and this can only be to facilitate an erection.

At Crassus' signal, the first blows rained down, on the buttocks first, they shifted slightly for that. Stinging nettles are heavy and flexible, easy to dig in the flesh.

Varinia uttered a brief first cry, weakened by the constriction of her lungs, but soon she groaned continuously begging Crassus.

Her broad buttocks were soon ploughed, but the bloody streaks almost immediately sprouted under the action of the vesicant juice.

After a few moments, the legionnaires know that they will not be able to add any more pain. They compose a new bouquet of fresh nettles, come back to stand in front of her and rub the vulval lips for a long time.

Varinia is silent, overwhelmed by the influx of burning venom into her already congested mucous membranes.

Tertius pushes the ball of thorns into her ravaged vagina, spreads his fingers, closes his fist and with a strenuous "Han", applies the swab to her cervix.

Demetrius takes advantage of the still gaping opening to wedge a larger ball that now protrudes as if it were growing from Varinia's femininity.

The day has completed more than three-fifths of its curve. The Romans put down their helmets, preferring the bite of the sun to the contact of the black, boiled leather that covers them.

They made much thicker bundles, almost branches, because they want to beat as much as whip these milk-soaked udders, which are very heavy, increasingly elongated by the gravity of their weight and Varinia's incessant jolts.

These are real whips that flog bloody udders horribly. The centurions attack the base of the breasts, and little by little, under their ferocious blows, the glands are pushed further and further down, at the top of the pockets, making the mammaries jolt.

The long brown and tetanized nipple tips are not spared in their turn. The areolas widen disproportionately and their small grains of skin end up forming a crown of broken pearls.

The breasts hit against the ribs under the merciless slaps, and Varinia could now effortlessly swallow the squirts of milk so close to her lips. Her mouth is open to a long, silent scream gagged by the extraordinary frequency of the beating.

Crassus could hardly abstract himself from a show like the circus games never offered him. But gangs of looters clinging to Spartacus' troops still linger in the region.

"I'm off to inspect the relief of the 6th legion, start torturing them, I'll be back in twenty minutes. He rummaged through his saddlebags for a few moments and threw two iron combs at them.


He raises his voice by raising his index finger "I want them alive when I return" and leaves to join the castrum, his entrenched outpost.

The iron comb is a kind of short rake with a harrow as wide as the hand, and its hook-shaped teeth are made up of short tapered daggers with drainage channels.

After a short discussion punctuated with laughter, they approach the rebel, whose slightly plump body they fondle in her recent maternity, grasping with full hands the voluminous breasts, the skin of her belly and her thighs partially invaded by cellulite.

"The combs will have something to bite on," claimed Demetrius with a clear voice.
"We won't need to rip the ribs off of this one," Tertius added.

The slave tied to the cross is so anxious about what awaits her that she doesn't even feel the pinches on her flesh.

Then she screams in terror when she sees that one of her tormentors is approaching the sinister comb on her right ankle.

The blades fall into the slippery flesh, into the dermis glistening with perspiration and the first drops of blood. The tendons are exposed, the bones appear in places as the first strips of skin slowly unroll.

"YYYYYYYAAAAAAAAHHH" "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO"

Throat suddenly blocked, Varinia's in shock. The influx of blood to her brain prevents her from fainting.

The combs meet on his belly, but they won't pierce her insides. Tertius gardens for a few seconds in the thick, curly brown bush and separates the impressive pubic hair in half.

He carefully places the tip of a tooth on the hood of the clitoris and pulls wildly.

Varinia utters a mutilated beast's moan, bowed on her elbows, her back stretched to break. She is now a cathedral of blood whose long screams have diminished in intensity.

It is a little child who feels the tips crooked in the tender flesh of her breasts, peeling the epidermis from her ribs. When the blades tear the lobules of the fragile glands, when the blood invades the alveoli, something breaks in her brain.

It is from a lifeless body that two emaciated udders fall off

Eyes half closed, Spartacus glimpses for a moment her face distorted by suffering.

Varinia has become a monstrous flower, with red and fleshy petals that fall on her head, around the green pistil of nettles poking out of her sex and around her decapitated chest.

Spartacus has been chewing his tongue for many minutes. He has just finished slicing it and spit it into a geyser of blood. Blood boils in his mouth. He allows it to invade his lungs, suffocates, spits, suffocates. He's too weak. With hoarse barking, he drowns in his own blood, which ends up flowing in tenuous spasms.

His eyes are already veiled. He has heard a steady trot, but he does not see Crassus, Crassus the terrible gaze that stares at the centurions--thirty lashes of the whip--they know it, they are happy to get away with it.

Crassus adjusts his helmet, feels with his fine fingers the caress of the smooth, burning metal, and spurs his horse


 
Last edited by a moderator:
Hi, seems I never posted here my rough translation polished by Eulalia. (and my big, big, THX)

The story begins when the Kubrik's movie ends.

Spartacus

Chapter I: Spartacus

Spartacus has fainted. A few seconds. Never more than a few seconds. Seconds that lasted a dizzying eternity. Each time he emerged from the void with mouth open to scream, rising to his heels to empty stale air from atrophied lungs and call for new breath.

This man, this slave, almost changed the course of history.

He now pulls on his wrists to relieve the strain on his legs, to relieve the tension that makes his muscles twitch. Unspeakable suffering runs through his wrists, which are transfixed by two thick, blunt wooden ankles. But he knows that he has to distribute the weight of his body, this killing machine, this load of suffering that he hates to carry.

This soldier, this warlord, was less than a day's march from Rome.

He would like to die, but he knows he will see the horizon turn pink at least one more time. He doesn't want to die, he has a reason for it.

He becomes aware of his erection.

He relieves himself like an animal, pushing on his buttocks to push away from his legs the hot liquid that smokes in the first light of dawn.

Well prepared over the first loops of the Tiber, Crassus' veterans stopped the horde of gladiators and rebellious slaves.

He's already pissed his pants. when they broke the first wooden nail inside his left wrist with a too quick hammer's blow. It's half the length of the other one, but they were able to preserve his artery and no life-saving haemorrhage shortened his suffering.

A few drops run together around the crusts of dry blood on her ankles. Despite their thickness, they are soon mixed. His wounds are waking up. The beneficial night's anaesthesia slowly dissipates. He becomes aware of the evaporation of the dewdrops that still scatter his Christic body.

Something's missing. He's not exactly aware of what at first. The trills of the pecking chickadee distract his attention for a few moments. Then he knows. He carefully raises his head.

David finished moaning. His head is tilted on his chest. The line of his shoulders is much lower. He last spoke to Spartacus, saying, "Why did we lose?"

They lost because Crixus and the Germanic tribe went off to raid the senators' rich estates. They lost because Rome simply cannot be defeated, that Rome will give itself centuries later when it is no longer Rome, when the poisoning from the lead pipes will have annihilated the blood of its armies and vitiated the senses of its emperors.

For the time being, an army of victors is descending the slopes of the hill whose buttresses appear beyond the top of the olive field.

To better guess the cohorts masked by the cloud of gray dust, Spartacus' gaze has moved up the road. The immensity of the disaster overwhelms him. The Romans have nailed two of his men alive and face to face every hundred paces. Tragic semaphores to the glory of Crassus, they can see a reflection of their own agony.

The first columns are getting closer. The standards of the 5th legion flap in the cool wind and set the rhythm for the legionnaires' march. With their heavy pilum risen, they make up a lively forest of pointed stakes on which even the gladiators of the Capua school have broken.

The front ranks march past Spartacus, in a strange silence of curiosity and respectful fear. Three against one they were nearly swept away.

A rich merchant's wagon rides along the columns with the impatient whip of its driver. Gracchus is saving Spartacus' reason for living.

Spartacus stands up on his mangled heels. The tank slowed at that right moment. It does not resume its foolish course.

Varinia leaned slightly forward. In a mute cry, her lips threw "I love you", his eyes answered "live for us".

He had time to see a small package of white sheets huddled behind Varinia. Long after the pounding of the wheels on the stones had faded, his dilated pupils remain fixed on the slash of the vanished tank.

The time has now come for the long wait, for the sun to rise indolently to warm him first, before bruising his closed eyes at the zenith of his run.

His lips are parched.

He carefully carries a swig of water from the stream in which Varinia is bathing to his mouth. He undresses happily and joins her in a few fathoms.

On the cross, his sex painfully straightened up to penetrate her again.
His weakened body can no longer quite bear that arousing. His heart has almost failed, his muscles are a block of pain, he breathes only with small breaths like the old men who are protected under the wheels of the carts. His penis soon falls off, without even having been able to let pearl his desire.

He raises forehead and shouts, "Crixus, why have you forsaken me?"

Chapter II: Crassus

In the torpor of the afternoon, the blind limestones refract a dazzling luminosity that prevents Spartacus from sinking into the soothing darkness. Suddenly, he perceives the regular progression of a gallop, then a trot. He lifts his head so heavy with sorrow:

Crassus stands before him in the saddle.

Crassus says nothing. His horse neighs, shakes its mane, tries to run. Crassus takes the bit, pulls his nostrils, flatters its neckline. He's slightly straightened up on the saddle.

Crassus is very tall, almost skinny. The nobility of his patrician features composes with an angular face that seem to be carved with a sword. He's got a deep scar across his cheekbone since fall of Carthage.

He is still a warlord and not quite a dictator. His trousers smell like used leather, mane and ooze. He forced himself to leave his oppidum, his entrenched camp, and come to greet the senators he despises. The disgustingly fragrant skin-care creams they all smear on their pale faces made him nauseous.

He'd have wanted to take on Spartacus, sword against sword, force against force, world against world. He almost went towards him during the battle, when the Thracian found himself a hundred paces away from his colours.

He's looking behind him. Two centurions pull a woman from a cart by her hairs. Her cart. She's dragging herself through the dust Her tunic is in tatters. They finish ripping it off. She's straightening up.

Varinia contemplates her beloved. Tears of dust streak her cheeks. She blinks her eyes several times. Her prolonged wail as a little girl echoes the rumble that lifts Spartacus' chest.

"Crassus, I beg of you, let her go. You have defeated me, take my life, but let her go...for our son, I beg you." He cried, he the bullring killer, before saying "I beg you".

Crassus' very thin lips lift slightly. He gazes lenghty at Spartacus with willfully bored eyes, and then turns to Varinia, who stands naked before him. He contemplates this almost perfect body in spite of a recent maternity, this body that he has penetrated but which has refused himself.

"I already have your life. You have no more son." Those were Crassus' first and last words to Spartacus.

With a brief wave of his hand, Crassus told the soldiers to untie David.

The first one - let's call him Demetrius, will weepingly hold back his intestines spilled on the sand of Numibia in a few months. The second, the misnamed Tertius, has played his turn at the dice, but he is happy to have lost and thus be able to freely dispose of a beautiful woman.

They simply slit David's ankles and then his wrists with a sword. Varinia looked away, but she heard the fall of the flaccid body. Tertius kicks David's remains back into the ditch.

He goes back to help Demetrius who lifted the cross. The two of them turn it over to flip it over. Varinia will be crucified upside down but simply bound. She's spared the terrible suffering of crucifixion only so that she doesn't bleed to death too quickly.

The first part of his terrible ordeal begins:

Crassus turns to the two legionaries, "Defile her."

A smile lights up Demetrius' face. They seize Varinia, Varinia dazed in the heat, empty of having lost her son and her freedom, but who finds the strength to fight back before being practically knocked out with a punch.

Demetrius and Tertius have lifted their loincloth. Demetrius takes two steps forward, raises his penis and begins to urinate.

The very dense jet is first directed onto her pussyt. It aims to irrigate the petals of the rose nesting in the hairy bush
Demetrius immediately points his spear on Varinia's breasts and fragrant drops drip that mix with the small spurts of milk that appeared when her nourishing breasts fell heavily on her chin.

He then pisses on her face. She shakes her head convulsively without her nostrils escaping the intrusion of the musky waves.

She suffocates, coughs, and the first slightly sweet drops invade her palate. She spits out her disgust, but must retain the taste.

The last drops flow through her scattered hair, now gathered in long wet braids.

Tertius has an unusually long and fine sex, with an abnormally developed glans, which is pink in colour, which stands out on the legionnaire's dark skin, and which has grown big in its emotion.

His questioning gaze is upon Crassus. A flutter of his eyelids is quickly seen as encouragement. A hilarious smile complements Tertius' gaze.

Crassus turns head to break complicity that creates impossible intimacy with a trooper.

It's a cobra that has straightened up, his collar swells with his anger, and begins to curl between Varinia's breasts. Tertius gathers them together with firm hand, pressing them along his penis. He guides them by the turgid nipples that have recognized familiar touch.

His penis descends then the glans emerges, with a meatus increasingly open like the mouth of a drowning man looking for air, under the fascinated eyes of Crassus and Demetrius;

His cock cocked like an arrow soon seeks another target. Tertius opens and blocks Varinia's jaw with the handle of his knife.

He makes slide for a few moments his foreskin over Varinia's full, red lips, the cap of flesh palpitates for a few moments and he wipes the first translucent drops on her cheeks.

He brutally shoves his manly limb down his throat.

Under this brutal shock, Varinia's throat abruptly retracted, she who likes nothing more than to lavish a soothing "fellatio".

Her tongue intervenes to build a dam. Tertius has slowed his pace to give him time to organise such a pleasing defense. His sex comes and goes but disappears less often behind the purple lips.

Varinia understood that by speeding up her little licks, she was blocking this beautiful fruit at the edge of her mouth.

Her tongue frantically sweeps the long slit presented to her in the reverse of the habit, goes around the foreskin and into the gaping meatus.

A long fight begins, where the slightest slackening on his part is punished by a thrust that strangles her. Because the testicles that fall heavily on her nose choke hher and the pubic hairs occasionally tickle her nostrils.

After resisting so much, Tertius surrenders, standing upon his ankles, his hands clasped around Varinia's hair.

But the last drops are ejaculated straight onto Varinia's face. He gets up, presses the base of his penis and cleans it on his udders as a last homage.

Chapter III Varinia

Varinia's scared, very scared.

She shaked with horror when her wrists came into contact with David's remains...

No doubt she would have begged Crassus, perhaps she herself would have asked him to take her back, if she had not seen Spartacus, if she had not caught his love and suffering in his eyes.

She draws from this despair the courage to face Crassus' inescapable sentence.

Demetrius and Tertius ironically lined up her loincloth at the foot of the cross, as if she was waiting to put it on again.

The legionnaires spotted an impenetrable grove of broad-leaved white nettles further up the bend. The incandescent glow of the sun reverberates in their breastplates and helmets, they move away for a few moments, giants of light in a dilated halo.

They return humming a military song that exalts Rome and its conquests. It is a beautiful day of life, sex and death, the very day they joined the legion. Demetrius wants to be a decurion within two or three years.

Crassus has thrown his purple toga upon his forearm and looks upon Varinia in disgust. She could have been his slave for love alone, holding his latifundia, his rich country house on the heights of Capua.

She's now suspended on that cross with her fragile face, which has begun to congest a little. Smears of semen that have already dried are hanging in her hairs, gathered in braids by the urine.

Spartacus has humbled himself for the last time, for he now knows their inexorable fate. With eyes closed, he is for the moment crushed by the heat, and the throbbing in his tendons becomes increasingly unbearable.

He thinks he is still overturned under his horse, so great is the oppression on his chest. But, more than anything, it is an immense sorrow that overwhelms him, the loss of his intimate meetings with Varinia near the campfires late at night, not to see again that little piece of him that he was able to hold in his arms for a few days before the battle.

He started biting his tongue to hasten his end.

Demetrius and Tertius are wearing several sturdy thick gloves full these very stinging nettles. They place themselves alongside Varinia under Crassus' command.

Their faces present a united and unshakeable forehead. They are the protectors and defenders of their people. Demetrius stands with his back arching slightly forward, his arms pressed close to his body. His attitude expresses great self-confidence, aggressiveness and a mixture of tension and excitement. He quickly readjusts his panties, and this can only be to facilitate an erection.

At Crassus' signal, the first blows rained down, on the buttocks first, they shifted slightly for that. Stinging nettles are heavy and flexible, easy to dig in the flesh.

Varinia uttered a brief first cry, weakened by the constriction of her lungs, but soon she groaned continuously begging Crassus.

Her broad buttocks were soon ploughed, but the bloody streaks almost immediately sprouted under the action of the vesicant juice.

After a few moments, the legionnaires know that they will not be able to add any more pain. They compose a new bouquet of fresh nettles, come back to stand in front of her and rub the vulval lips for a long time.

Varinia is silent, overwhelmed by the influx of burning venom into her already congested mucous membranes.

Tertius pushes the ball of thorns into her ravaged vagina, spreads his fingers, closes his fist and with a strenuous "Han", applies the swab to her cervix.

Demetrius takes advantage of the still gaping opening to wedge a larger ball that now protrudes as if it were growing from Varinia's femininity.

The day has completed more than three-fifths of its curve. The Romans put down their helmets, preferring the bite of the sun to the contact of the black, boiled leather that covers them.

They made much thicker bundles, almost branches, because they want to beat as much as whip these milk-soaked udders, which are very heavy, increasingly elongated by the gravity of their weight and Varinia's incessant jolts.

These are real whips that flog bloody udders horribly. The centurions attack the base of the breasts, and little by little, under their ferocious blows, the glands are pushed further and further down, at the top of the pockets, making the mammaries jolt.

The long brown and tetanized nipple tips are not spared in their turn. The areolas widen disproportionately and their small grains of skin end up forming a crown of broken pearls.

The breasts hit against the ribs under the merciless slaps, and Varinia could now effortlessly swallow the squirts of milk so close to her lips. Her mouth is open to a long, silent scream gagged by the extraordinary frequency of the beating.

Crassus could hardly abstract himself from a show like the circus games never offered him. But gangs of looters clinging to Spartacus' troops still linger in the region.

"I'm off to inspect the relief of the 6th legion, start torturing them, I'll be back in twenty minutes. He rummaged through his saddlebags for a few moments and threw two iron combs at them.


He raises his voice by raising his index finger "I want them alive when I return" and leaves to join the castrum, his entrenched outpost.

The iron comb is a kind of short rake with a harrow as wide as the hand, and its hook-shaped teeth are made up of short tapered daggers with drainage channels.

After a short discussion punctuated with laughter, they approach the rebel, whose slightly plump body they fondle in her recent maternity, grasping with full hands the voluminous breasts, the skin of her belly and her thighs partially invaded by cellulite.

"The combs will have something to bite on," claimed Demetrius with a clear voice.
"We won't need to rip the ribs off of this one," Tertius added.

The slave tied to the cross is so anxious about what awaits her that she doesn't even feel the pinches on her flesh.

Then she screams in terror when she sees that one of her tormentors is approaching the sinister comb on her right ankle.

The blades fall into the slippery flesh, into the dermis glistening with perspiration and the first drops of blood. The tendons are exposed, the bones appear in places as the first strips of skin slowly unroll.

"YYYYYYYAAAAAAAAHHH" "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO"

Throat suddenly blocked, Varinia's in shock. The influx of blood to her brain prevents her from fainting.

The combs meet on his belly, but they won't pierce her insides. Tertius gardens for a few seconds in the thick, curly brown bush and separates the impressive pubic hair in half.

He carefully places the tip of a tooth on the hood of the clitoris and pulls wildly.

Varinia utters a mutilated beast's moan, bowed on her elbows, her back stretched to break. She is now a cathedral of blood whose long screams have diminished in intensity.

It is a little child who feels the tips crooked in the tender flesh of her breasts, peeling the epidermis from her ribs. When the blades tear the lobules of the fragile glands, when the blood invades the alveoli, something breaks in her brain.

It is from a lifeless body that two emaciated udders fall off

Eyes half closed, Spartacus glimpses for a moment her face distorted by suffering.

Varinia has become a monstrous flower, with red and fleshy petals that fall on her head, around the green pistil of nettles poking out of her sex and around her decapitated chest.

Spartacus has been chewing his tongue for many minutes. He has just finished slicing it and spit it into a geyser of blood. Blood boils in his mouth. He allows it to invade his lungs, suffocates, spits, suffocates. He's too weak. With hoarse barking, he drowns in his own blood, which ends up flowing in tenuous spasms.

His eyes are already veiled. He has heard a steady trot, but he does not see Crassus, Crassus the terrible gaze that stares at the centurions--thirty lashes of the whip--they know it, they are happy to get away with it.

Crassus adjusts his helmet, feels with his fine fingers the caress of the smooth, burning metal, and spurs his horse


I've inserted the story in the next Cruxer's Digest (unfortunateley without the remarkable illustrations).
 
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