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The Red Stripe

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jacksjg89

PROCRASTINATOR
(This story is inspired by painfully true events)
The excitement of being here had never gone stale. I felt as I did when I was a young lad, brought by my father to enjoy high stakes competitions of strength, athleticism, and wits. Mostly. I watched in agitation as the last of the unfortunates was hopelessly trying to outrun the lion. I finished off my glass of Barleywine when the man's loincloth slipped around his ankles, ending the preliminary entertainment.

“Eat something,” said Cecilia, tapping my shoulder gently as the animal feasted on his preys entrails. I had had no solid nutrition all day. I had awaken with excitement while bright Luna still rode through the night, and I had taken in nothing but drink throughout the day. Short of breath and hands shaking, I put a piece of bread in my mouth, and chewed slowly as the maned cat was lured back into his lower level quarters, taking with him a souvenir intestine.

The victorious beast had left behind 8 corpses that needed removing before the program could continue. The last victim had died with an erection, and there was much mirth as he was dragged away and thrown into a pit under the sandy stage. Some excited young men were throwing coins at the custodian dragging the sole female corpse to her final resting place. She had been a pretty young thing, given a full toga to protect her modesty, but unfortunately not her neck. The stone faced man left the coins where they were, and allowed the lifeless corpse to retain her modesty as he dropped her out of sight.

“Perverts,” Cecilia muttered, as she refilled my goblet before her own. “Keep eating.”

“I am,” I told her indignantly. The red sand was being raked until it was a faint discoloration. I shoved what was left of the bread into my mouth. It tasted good, but did little to level my heart rate. It was going to begin soon.

I took a moment to observe those around me, and searched for those I shared a common cause with. A young man and woman a few rows behind me had painted a blood red line down their face. She had colored her hair the same shade, and he had shaved his head so that the stripe went all the way over his scalp. I nodded to the man, and he returned my gesture. There were a few others I appeared to share common cause with, weather they held decorative spears, or had else costumed themselves. But the majority of the crowd was no on our side.

Fish painted on their cheeks, and wearing disgusting crosses around their necks, they talked obnoxiously amongst themselves, and overindulged in alcohol while talking confidently about what the future held in store for them. Many, I noticed, had water hides with hanging from their shoulders that shook autonomously. Directly behind us was a company of moron’s who threatened trouble. To Cecilia’s left was an unthreatening young man accompanied by his father, and to my right a bald fellow I decided to introduce myself to.

Daedalus was pleasant to converse with, a retired Centurion who had gotten a bit round and aspired to own a fighting pit. He would prefer men, but he’d take anyone he’d thought was a winner.

The drums started beating, and the crowd erupted in wild cheering and shouts and screams and whistles. I raised my head to the heavens and expelled all the voice I had. We were united in an assault of eardrums of lesser beings until the man in the gold leafed crown had risen from his cushioned seat and raised his hand. He kept it there for a few seconds, reveling in the perfect silence he had created. No one dared wheeze so long as the Emperor commanded silence. And when he dropped his arm, we returned to our noise making, louder than before. It had begun.
 
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A gate opened below us, just out of my vision, but there was eruption of jeers and taunts, that drowned out the cries of encouragement the heroes among the audience were intending to convey. Eventually, just over the ledge before me, the beloved image of The Red Stripe’s backside came into view.

She was being marched up to the emperor's dais, in step with the two guards that accompanied her, naked, wrist bound behind her back and the rope that acted as a leash was loose in the soldiers grip. Running up her muscled legs were a collection of bruises and scars, some healing slowly, other having a permanent resident. There was no fat in her buttocks and she moved gracefully across the field, ignoring the jeers of the onlookers. As always, the sides of her head were shaved, so that only a shallow strip of red orange hair decorated her scalp.

Celiste was a Hibernian slave with nineteen victories under her figurative belt, and not against frightened helpless little girls who had never held weapon before. Her first fight was against The Tiger Hunter, a tall fast negress who was thirteen victories in before falling to first time Celtic girl no one had ever heard of. From there, she had skewered the Lady Silence through the neck, and her most historic victory was the strangulation of River Goddess, who at thirty two kills was the most successful Gladiatrix in history. But it was not for these dominant matches that I loved Red Stripe for, but the vicious brawls she had one by the length of a courtesans pubic hair.

Early in her career she fought a tiny little Greek girl wielding an oversized club and tried to smash her to death with it. But my lady, after taking some surprisingly vicious blows, knocked the weapon away from her opponent and made her beg for mercy before beating her to death with her bare hands, forgetting to ask for the Emperor's decision until her opponent had already expired. I was there for her scourging after, and it’s the closest I’ve ever been to The Red Stripe, who was strung up to a wood frame and dealt 30 lashes. Stretched out before me, naked and vulnerable, she was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. I’ll never forget it, loud shouts of pain strangely paired with a smile. At whip 12, she looked directly at me, as if to say, ‘We both know that this is a ridiculous spectacle, but I’m glad we can laugh about it together.’

Back in the present, they were making their parade without incident when her leash holder, appeasing the will of the plebeians, gave a sudden tug at the rope, and she lost her footing and tumbled to the ground.

For the vocal minority of us, we wanted that man dead, while the popular opinion seemed to be that a great joke had played on a deserving target. A Mohawked fanatic was particularly upset, and ready to come to blows with a cross wearing idiot who was goading him. I was shouting angrily as much as anyone. I can’t remember what I said, only that Cecilia was embarrassed to be with me. But then Daedalus happened to say something that made all else seem unimportant.

“She's Still injured!”

With no assistance offered, The Red Stripe was trying to push herself up on her left leg, while trying to protect her right, where the evidence of her last fight was kept. The Crow, a quick footed light skinned woman from North Africa, had assailed her, equipped with two knives. The Celtic woman had lost her spear, and she could do no more than hold her shield out in front of her, while enduring the cuts from her unseen attacker. A dagger was driven deep into Celiste thigh, and fell, sliding away from the Crow as the latter riled up the crowd with athletic front flips and cartwheels. To everyone else, it seemed like the end. But I hadn’t been looking at the end. I was only seeing how she could win. To my annoyance she abandoned the shield and turned her back on her opponent in order to crawl to her spear, leaving a trail of blood behind her. The Crow gave a theatrical laugh, and pretended to be sneaking up on the defenseless opponent. Except she had a weapon now. Looking at the shadows, she felt The Crow standing over her, when she flipped herself over in an instant just as The Crow came down. The knife the Red Stripe had left in her leg, had within a split second been thrust in the African women’s navel, and sliced down. The Crow dropped her knife in shock and crumbled. She tried to keep her insides in as the Celiste had shoved her hand in to remove them. They passed out at the same time, Red Stripe was taken straight to the physician, The Crow to Losers Alley. It was an epic fight, but one she had clearly not yet recovered from.

She walked with a distinct limp, though there were no more tricks from the dishonest soldier. She knelt down low before the Emperor, and then turned to face in my direction. Tight, scarred and callous body, and a thin red/orange stripe down her pubis was a sight that always gave me the most exciting chills. Yes, I was becoming erect at the sight of a naked female, but it was more than that. It’s was admiration and excitement and also a strange sense of patriotism. She connected everyone who supported her together, against the vocal majority.

All at once the jeering turned to wild applause as from the opposite end of the arena The Christian was brought out.

Five years ago a young girl named Honoria Octavo had rejected the marriage her father had arranged for her, declaring that she given her virginity to Christ, a false prophet who had been dead for many years now. She was immediately arrested and condemned to death, but fate, or rather the mysterious Boccelo Brutus had offered to take her into his facility where he promised to fix her sacrilegious beliefs. No one knows what he did, but several months later she emerged in the fighting pits, and tore her enemies to shreds.

She never renounced the Christian faith. In fact, she never said a coherent sentence ever again. She did say that she was the daughter of Mars, who was born as Jesus on this Earth, and after his death turned into a rabbit so he could fuck his enemies to death.

Twenty Seven victories in her career to go with a grating personality and inspiring the worst in her supporters. As they continued cheering, those with the sacks of water on them reached in and grabbed living trouts to chuck onto the field. Celiste was being assaulted with them, but ignored the fishes around her feet that were slowly and violently suffocating.

The Christian was a wild looking young woman, with long blonde hair upon her head but nowhere else, an unhealthy frame and intense eyes that cut at me from the other side of the colosseum. There were four chains that were attached to both wrist and ankles, and she dramatically resisted being pulled by the four guards that were assigned her. If they were annoyed by her resistance, they refrained from playing any tricks on her.
“This is going to be a massacre,” said the bald man next to me.

Cecilia knew I was going to start something with him, and she grabbed my face to kiss me, but I managed to dodge it.

“What do you mean by that?” I asked him, as politely as I could.

“You one of the stripers?” he asked me pleasantly.

“You can say that,” I assured him.

“Well, I don’t think it’s going to turn out well for your girl.” He said.

“Yeah! Red cunt is going down!” said a moron eavesdropping on our conversation. I gave him a dismissive look before I continued my mature conversation with my neighbor.

“I have faith that she will wipe the floor with The Christian,” I said confidently. “But we can agree to disagree.”

The gladiatrixes were on their knees, bowing to the Emperor. On his signal, the women would be marched to opposite ends of the arena, unbound, and given their weapons, and then it would be on.

“I don’t have a bias, other than I put 100 marks on Octavo. I just don’t see how Red Stripe is going to win.”

“Yeah,” said the moron again, slapping the back of my head. “She’s gonna get fucked!”

“Shut your ugly trap,” said the man with the stripe and shaved head behind us, waving a nasty finger in morons face.

“Aww, you gonna cry pussy head?” Moron said, and found support in the surrounding spectators, and a hide of water was thrown over my friend, ruining his appearance. Before things escalated, a guard knocked the perpetrator unconscious and he was dragged away, as things quieted down.

“I’m not with them, by the way,” Daedalus assured me. “I hate the Christian, and her supporters, just as much as you. I don’t like either fighter, to be honest. I just think Red Stripes abilities match up well in this one.”
“Why don’t you like Celise?” I asked him, knowing I was beginning to worry Cecilia quite a bit.

“She’s not a dominating fighter, which is why all her matches are extremely close. She’s been lucky far more often than she has overpowered her opponents. She’s also a barbarian, and she fights like a slave. I just don’t enjoy watching her.”

“Ok,” was all I said.

“Ok,” he agreed, and things settled down. Before I picked it up again.

“So you expect The Christian to dominate?” I asked, ignoring Cecilia’s groan as she drowned herself in wine in order to find enjoyment in her surroundings.

“I think the fight itself last three minutes,” he said. “I think there will definitely be entertainment before the killing blow is delivered, but we’ll not need to stay for that.”

“I will!” Moron interjected again. “I came so hard last time.” Wet mohawk gave him the finger, but it didn’t incite violence.

At the Emperor's signal, the ladies were being escorted to opposite ends of the arena, and Celiste, The Red Stripe, was approaching our section. I tried to push the vision of my neighbors prophecy out of my head and made a fool of myself giving her as much cheers and encouragement as I could. She stared up emotionlessly at us as they restraints were being struck. There was no possible way she could lose today. Not against The Christian bitch, with this crowd acting this way. She was going to win. I needed her to win.
 
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Because the image I have in my head for this story is so specific, they are know really good pictures that I can say represent the characters.

So imagine, if you will, The Red Stripe a cross between
Syd Blakovich
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And whoever this is
1FC2DDC1-2FD7-4FBB-86CC-44264CFC570D.jpeg
Of course, she would have a red Mohawk. Cause I said so.

With this image surving at the inspiration for the flogging scene
B86127B8-1975-4866-ACF7-BE1772EFABAE.jpeg


And here is a pretty good representation of The Christian
ECA91D8C-2E74-483F-841F-55C363F54EF7.jpegC57882D1-2D36-41E6-9FCA-A3AD1ABCBA88.jpeg

Just to help you visualize the story better. Hope you all enjoy.
 
There was some technical problem with Jacks's first two posts, such that I couldn't see them, though evidently others could.
I've edited to remove the formatting which means I can see them now.
If anyone can't, or sees any problem with them, please let me know.
(This story is inspired by painfully true events)
The excitement of being here had never gone stale. I felt as I did when I was a young lad, brought by my father to enjoy high stakes competitions of strength,
 
A shield and spear was being lowered down to Celiste. Getting her grip, she banged them together, which stirred up those of us who wished her well to cheer.

“What in Jupiter’s name is she doing,” said the bald man, suddenly concerned. At the other corner of the Arena, The Christian had been thrown down a black string, and nothing else.

“Is that dumb?” Asked Cecilia.

I thought so, and so did all of her supporters. There were moans, and shouts and angry cries. “What is she doing? Where’s the lethal?” Cried moron.

“Hahaha,” his adversary, my comrade, laughed in his face, daring an amateur fist.

Moron was able to restrain himself. “Don’t care, bullwhip, bare fisted, the Celt-tits is gonna get massacred.”

“I don’t disagree,” said the bald man. “The Christians insanity is a fraud. She is so much smarter than she appears.”

“Fine, let her prove it,” I said.

The Red Stripe came into view. If ever I could has a statue commissioned, I would want this moment captured for eternity in marble. She casually leaned on her spear, relaxing the arm holding her shield, in a perfect contrapposto pose. Beautifully firm buttocks, a muscled back and athletic legs, all displaying the trophies of previous battles. And she just stared ahead of her, at her opponent. Nothing else mattered to her.

The Christian gave an evil crazy grin I could see from across the sands, which gave credence to my neighbors claim that her insanity was an act, and cracked her whip in the air. It energized her base, and they cheered and jeered and held up their crucifixes and gave mock praise to Jesus, to god of the Christian. As the fishes out of water finally suffocated, the fight had begun.

The two naked women approached each other. Celiste at an up tempo walk, Octavo skipping like a little girl. When they got within reach of each other, The Christian lashed out at The Red Stripes unprotected legs, and caused her to stumble back a bit.

“You see. Octavo knew that Red’s legs weren’t healthy,” pointed out bald man as the arena erupted in applause. Celiste began stumbling backwards, but as The Christian started skipping to attack, The Red Stripe dived forward and swung her spear to trip her opponent. With The Christian on the ground, Celiste mad quick short jabs while she tried to rolled away. Octavo was on her feet, and trying to laugh through the pain. She had been gotten in the right thigh and under her left breast.

“If she had committed to the thrust this match would be over,” I observed, slightly annoyed.

“Why didn’t she?” Asked Cecilia.

“Because she was afraid of missing,” said bald man.

The Christians wounds were shallow, barely trickling blood, and she began stumbling back pathetically thinking that The Red Stripe would fall for it.

Except she did. She pressed forward and exposed herself by lowered her shield to lunge, and in a flash the whip cracked against her stomach, knocking her back before it came down again on her hip, and as she turn around it came a third time on her buttocks before she was able to get her shield around and jab at The Christian to have her keep her distance.

“Like I said, I don’t like either, but what she’s doing to your girl is genius,” Said the Bald man.

“Yeah!” Said Moron, trying to clap hands with him. “Red Cunt is getting a whoopin’!”

“I’ve seen her get a lot more than four lashes,” I told them. “This isn’t anything.”

I turned to look back at the women trying to circle each other, and noticed Cecilia was trying to shove a piece of bread into my mouth.

“Eat,” she said. “You’re stomachs growling and your hands are shaking.”

I was going to laugh it off when I realized that she was right. I did have a bit of a rumbling tummy, and I was jittery. But I pushed her hand down. I was way too excited to eat.

Red Stripe pushed forward jabbing in front of her, with The Christian just out of reach. And then, instead of dodging, Octavo lept to the spear, got both hands around it, and tried to drag it from her.

“Oh, she’s going to make her choose,” said Bald man, and before I knew what he was talking about Celiste abandoned her shield and was able to yank the spear away from The Christian, who let it go and immediately launched an all out offensive. Sometimes, the whip cracked in the air, as The Red Stripe tried to block the attacks, and then it would hit inside, her breast, her stomach, her thighs, her ribs were all victimized.

“Yep, it’s over.” Said bald man.

“No it’s not,” I yelled indignantly at him.

“Yeah,” said moron in my ear. “The good part is only just starting.”
 
Criticism is highly encouraged. I feel like there’s something off about this story, but I can’t quite put my finger on it.

The story is in danger of getting too repetitious, if the next chapter is like this one.

Overall concept, especially the crowd comments, is very good.

A little bit of back story, why the narrator favours Red Stripe, would add depth.
 
Her wounds were bleeding profusely, but that wasn’t going to stop my lady. A blocked strike caused the whip to coil around the spear. And used the opportunity to spin The Christian away. There was a split second where the blonde woman was disoriented, and Celiste drew back her spear and threw it. Her leg slipped from weakness, and the spear grazed The Christian's shoulder, and fell away.

“Over,” yelled Moron right behind me. There was commotion going on behind me and I saw my mohawked friend on the attack, and the guards were quickly there to break it up and remove my friend, who was hurling verbal abuse at the Moron. “Sore loser,” he laughed, unfazed by being assaulted.

It was with great reluctance that I turned from his ugly face back to the field. Red Stripe was trying to get around The Christian, who was quite purposefully backing her opponent away from both her shield and her spear, to right under the Emperor's dais. His excellency left his seat to stand over the ledge. Celiste was slowed by the damage to her lower bondage, and barely able to stand. Her opponent didn’t was quick, and though most of the strikes cracked in the air, they were demoralizing, and energized the crowd.

Finally, her back was against the wall, and a vicious strike landed on her navel, causing her to scream, followed by a second, making a perfect X right above her red stripe. She looked week, frail ready to give up.

“This is it,” said a different moron as The Christian pulled back for another swing. But Celiste used the wall to push herself forward, and as the whip missed, The Red Stripe had her hands around the The Christians neck.

“This is it!” I shouted, jumping up and down in place like I was a little boy. The Christian brought the butt of the whip into her stomach, winding her, and then used it to land a headshot.

“Iron handle,” bald man said simply. “Nice.”

“This is it!” a whole gang of morons shouted directly at me. Red Stripe was crawling to her spear being casually pursued by an angry Christian, who played to the audience as she landed unhurried blowed to her downed opponent.

“I’m going to go collect my winnings,” said the bald man. “I’m sorry, my friend.”

“It’s not over yet,” I said with turning away, my whole body trembling.

“We should go,” said Cecilia, grabbing my arm.

“It’s not over, if she can just get to her spear, she has a chance,” I pleaded with her.

“Not going to happen,” said the originally moron. “She’ll only let her get close.”

I didn’t respond to the last comment, but it was obvious that The Christian was being conservative with her strikes, landing occasional blows as she strutted around the arena in what she thought was her victory dance. But I had no doubt in my mind that she would be the fool by days end. She would let Red Stripe get a hold of her weapon, bait her into an attack, and the use her spear to take her whip and then strangle her with it. That was the path to victory as it saw it.

When The Red Stripe was a few steps away from the spear, The Christian was circling the arena blowing kisses to her supporters and rubbing her clitoris at those of her opponents. Celiste was about to touch the wooden shaft when, in a few long skips The Christian was back over her, whip doubled in her fist, and began an unrelenting assault. Again and again she brought it down on her backside, blood splashing with each stripe. “We’ll have to call her The Red Stripe’s, plural,” joked one of the other morons, which gave them all a good laugh.

“Let’s go,” said Cecilia urgently.

I ignored her, as I watched my beloved warrior victimized by such cowardly attacks. The Christian finally stopped. The Red Stripe was still on the brink of consciousness, who knows how much blood she had lost. Octavo put her foot on her opponents head, and posed for the crowd, who gave a round of applause.

“You best be out of the way, little lady,” said the moron to Cecilia. “Your loser won’t be wanting this is your hair.” We both turned to see his cock out, erect but unimpressive, massaging it tenderly.

I took a swig of wine, and then smashed the body of it so I was left holding the neck and a sharp edge. “Put it away,” I told him.

“Let’s Go,” Cecilia pushed me, just as fights were erupting all around us. His cock out, the moron waved us goodbye. I allowed her to guide me away, but would not look away from the scene below. The Christian was using her whip to bind The Red Stripes elbows behind her back, and Celiste was letting it happen. No one else thought it was going to happen. Everyone else had given up, but they’d given up on her before, when everyone thought it was decided, and she’d done something amazing to turn the tables. I don’t know why, but I didn’t see it not happening. I didn’t know whether she would kicked The Christians feet out from under her and stomp on her face, or grab her spear with her wrist restrained behind her and skewer her opponent.

“Stop looking,” Cecilia admonished. The Christian picked up the spear, and somehow dragged Celiste to her feet, standing behind her. When the opportunity was ripe for the Red Stripe to do a powerful turn kick that would break the blonde bitches ribs, she was instead violated by the wooden handle. Given that celiste shouted in anguish rather than arousal, I could guess where it had entered.

I was in pain, watching this woman I loved being humiliated so. Back bend and shaking in pain, she was walked by her adversary around the battlefield. She left a trail of blood as she stumbled forward, guided by the smiling bitch, who waved to the crowded. Eventually, they came before the still standing emperor, eyes transfixed as The Red Stripe was driven face down to the ground, ass in the air, screaming in agony.

“It’s over,” said Cecilia, trying to get me away from the stands. Morons were ejaculating all around us, men and women, some engaging in acts over celebratory intercourse.

“Wait,” I told her, “The emperor could said her,” I said. And I looked up at great Caesar, and held my thumb up pleadingly, as did the few of us true believers who remained.

With her foot again resting on the head of my heroine, hand still on the shaft, The Christian looked expectantly up at the most powerful man in the world. He held his thumb out horizontally, and kept it there for a long few seconds. No one made a voluntary sound, though there were some involuntary ones. There was a quiet hostility in the eyes of The Christian and radiating from her supporters, who didn’t like that he was delaying his decision.

I thought for sure that my lady was going to be saved. She was a brave fighter, and had provided many great contest. Granted, The Christians strange strategy had caught her by surprise, but that didn’t mean that what happened today was representative who she was. He was going to spare her, and allow The Christian to humiliate her a little more before allowing her to go and recover, and fight another day.

I heard morons dangerously moan as the thumb of life and death began, slowly to tip upward and upward. Great Caesar was the epitome of justice.

And then he brought both his thumbs down and blew an immature raspberry. And as the crowd applauded, I thought how I wished Caligula to a swift and premature end, the stupid fucker!

The Christian smiled, and withdrew the butt of the spear, coated in red, and dragged The Red Stripe up. She bend down and licked her cheek, her goodbye kiss. This is the moment, I was sure, that Celiste would come to life, and bring her teeth down into the veins of Octavo’s neck.

“Come on,” screamed Cecilia, grabbing my arm and pulling with all her might.

But I just watched as The Christian threw her opponents head down again, took the head of the spear, stuck the tip into the anus and shoved. My lady screamed, like I had never heard anyone scream before, and the spear was pushed further and further into her. Cecilia stopped trying to pull me away. She was petrified by what was happening.

It looked like it was halfway in, and The Red Stripe was bleeding from her mouth. The victorious woman, as I now acknowledged her, took a break from the execution to put her cunt in front of the loser’s, as it pained me to call her, bloody mouth.

“Bite it,” Cecilia said, and I loved her for it. But whatever was happening, whether The Christian was faking it or not, she had a screaming orgasm in two minutes and stirred the remainder of the crowd into more cheers and jeers.


Rising to her feet, The Christian slowly began to lift up her opponent until the butt of the spear was on the ground and with another push, the body of my lady had her feet off the ground for a second, but then slowly slid until the spear popped through the top of her skull. After that, The Christian bowed, and I no longer resisted Cecilia’s attempts to pull be away from the mass orgy that was taking place around us.

B6B5D37A-CDDF-473A-AE75-639CE4C06D87.jpeg
 
There was a stall just outside outside the amphitheater, where my lady friend was plying me with wine while trying to distract me with talk of fashion and parades. I tried to follow her, but I kept coming back to the women I had poured so much emotion into, humiliated and impaled on her own spear, and laughed at by almost the entire crowd. It was painful.

“Come on,” Cecilia said. “It’s only a game. Did you think she was going to live forever?”


Did I? Sure I did. I thought she could have fought her way to freedom somehow, and become a noble woman and a person of note in society. But did I also think there was a chance she could one day fall? It crossed my mind. But not like this.


“If she was going to die, I would have wanted her death to be heroic. I would rather that she had died at the hands of the Crow. But not this, against The Christian, with all these people mocking her crushing defeat.”


“Doesn’t make a difference to her, does it?” Asked Cecilia.


“No, but it’s about how I feel,” I told her. “And I feel miserable, and nothing you say is going to change that.”


The cum stained morons passed us by, waving spitefully as they passed us. I saw the bald man holding a leather pouch. When he saw me, he shrugged, and passed on.


I was ready to leave. I didn’t know whether I wanted to be alone or with Cecilia or with a jug of wine and a whore, but I just wanted out of this place.


Just ahead of us was The Christian, being pulled away from her keepers, enjoying the cheers of her supporters. There was no getting passed them for quite awhile, so we waited. I would have put my hands to my ears if the act would not have drawn unwanted attention onto us.


“How is she still alive?” I heard a familiar voice cry in my ear, and I turned in the direction he indicted before recognizing it as one of the morons.


Celiste had been placed on a pedestal at the entrance of “Loser’s Alley.” Her body had been washed of the blood that would come off, but she was still covered head to foot in whip marks, her spear still entering her rectal passage and protruding from the top of her skull kept her upright. Her legs and her knees were tide together to keep her from sliding down, and a staff was used to bind her wrist and arms so she stood in a crucified posed. And above her lifeless eyes was a plaque with the words, “The Red Stripe was skewered by The Christian on March 23th, year 19 of the reign of Hadrian. It was barely a fight.”


Even in defeat, she was beautiful. The horror of what had been done to her was not something I was likely to recover from any time soon. And to add insult, I was surrounded by imbeciles who make comments like “Shame she couldn’t get it to go out her mouth.”


“Who knows? Maybe we can get a ladder and see how the dead blow.”



Cecilia, ever my protector, guided me away as the path before us cleared, leaving behind Celiste’s defiled body. The fights might just be a frivolous game, but this was not something I was likely to recover from any time soon.

Fin-
 
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