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The Cardinal Bishop and his Female Pope
- Thread starter Barbaria1
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Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
settantuno
MUTUS PICTOR
OMG Sett. That is perfection. Love it!!!
Inserted now
Loinclothslave
slave to the whip
That is fantastic.
And proof positive what a spoilsport Cardinal Bishop Praetorio is! He spoke up waaaay too soon, just look at those magnificent red hot coals, Moore than enough to christen a tight little and those tumescent bulbs! Would have brightened Innocent XI’s day no end, I’m sure.
But no, Praetorio puts his own self interest even ahead of the need of his potential lover, and the needs of the many to enjoy the view. Strategic error in my opinion… Always give the crowd what they want, especially if they could be about to vote for you.
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
Sett's work often looks sketchy and rushed. However, he never fails to put in the necessary tiny details to make the picture complete - like those coals!!
And the blood …Sett's work often looks sketchy and rushed. However, he never fails to put in the necessary tiny details to make the picture complete - like those coals!!
settantuno
MUTUS PICTOR
rushed... rushed: I begin to sympathize with Cardinal ViperaSett's work often looks sketchy and rushed. However, he never fails to put in the necessary tiny details to make the picture complete - like those coals!!
Attachments
Mmmmm … inserted this one now too
M
montycrusto
Guest
Into what??Mmmmm … inserted this one now too
Loxuru
Graf von Kreuzigung
This case should be carefully examined by experts! But where is The Holy Inquisition when you need them?
M
montycrusto
Guest
You called?This case should be carefully examined by experts! But where is The Holy Inquisition when you need them?
Harsh Martinet
Consul
Harsh Martinet
Consul
5. Procession and Crucifixion
Praetorio smiled inwardly even as he experienced the discomfort of stretching his cramping legs. The pavements of St. Peter’s Square were unforgivingly hard and he had, by then, been sitting or kneeling in solitary vigil beneath Barbara’s cross for quite a long time. The smile was because despite his discomfort he was able to feel pleased about one thing: he had emerged from Sunday’s trial in the Sistine Chapel with his reputation more or less intact. And he had retained the office of Cardinal Bishop.
But his personal victory was also a bittersweet one, for he had failed to save his Barbara from the horribly prolonged agony and humiliation of dying, ignominiously nailed to a cross before vast numbers of onlookers in the very center of the world’s most famous public square. His plea that his colleagues show mercy on her had fallen on deaf ears.
That he personally had emerged relatively unscathed, however, had its rewards. For one, having retained his post as Cardinal Bishop gave him the power to sideline and punish his chief rival in the College, Cardinal Vipera. And that he had promptly done, signing orders that stripped Vipera of any position of influence he may have possessed within the College and over the Curia, and reassigning him to the most lowly official duties imaginable.
He had also gained a valuable ally in the person of his eminence, Cardinal Étienne Le Camus, former Bishop of Grenoble, a man of considerable intelligence and integrity, who was known as both a skeptic and a reformer. Although Le Camus was a relative newcomer to the College, Praetorio had moved quickly to install the Frenchman in nearly all of Vipera’s vacated posts. And he hoped that together, he and Le Camus, could persuade the next Pope to both honor and enlarge upon many of Barbara’s initiatives.
And finally, although he was powerless to upend the College’s decision to see Barbara publicly shamed and executed, his powers as Cardinal Bishop gave him access to the Castel Sant’Angelo and the opportunity, as she awaited execution, to pay a visit to her one last time. And he had determined that he would see her that night.
Nonetheless, for the sake of propriety, he had had the good sense to ask Le Camus to accompany him. And so, together, long after dark, they had made their way over the Passetto to the Castel, and once inside, descended to the dungeon cellars.
And there, from the very chamber in which, the previous night, Barbara had been strappadoed and repeatedly ravaged at the hands of the Swiss Guards, he once again heard her plaintive cries of distress. Rushing forward, he and Le Camus, reached the entrance to the chamber just in time to see a Swiss Guard lay a whiplash across her bare back and to hear her cry out in pain.
“What is the meaning of this!? Stop this instant!” he had bellowed, charging forward and grasping the man’s wrist to prevent him from striking her again.
On hearing Praetorio’s voice, she had turned her head to look back at him over her shoulder, a look of recognition and gratitude spreading over her tear-streaked face. She was naked and had been bound, arms over head, to an iron ring attached to a stone pillar. The fair skin on her back had been marred already by a series of crisscrossing angry-looking red stripes.
“What is the meaning of this? By who’s authority is she being whipped?” he had demanded.
“S … she … deserved it,” stammered the guard. “I mean the uppity little bitch went and bit Nicolo’s cazzo when he all wanted wanted was for her to suck him off!”
One glance at Nicolo, who was gingerly examining his wounded member for permanent damage, completed the picture.
“Fools!” roared Praetorio. “Get her down at once and be off with you both!”
Dropping his whip, the chastised guard had rushed to release her, catching her in his arms as she collapsed and lowering her carefully to the floor … while Nicolo hastily stowed his precious male equipment beneath his tights. Then, in an instant, they were both gone.
Rushing to her side, Praetorio had knelt, removed his cassock and laid it over her. Then he had pulled her to him and cradled her tenderly in his arms. She smiled up at him crookedly, and had been about to speak when he put his finger to her lips, and said reassuringly, “Hush now. Rest.”
And she had fallen almost immediately into the deep slumber of exhaustion, her body relaxing and falling limp in his cradling arms. He had held her, like one would a child, tears in his eyes, for much of the night, while Le Camus stood discretely by, quietly warding off intrusions by a steady stream of Swiss Guards who kept turning up in pairs in search of her.
And when the long night was nearly over, Le Camus had tapped him gently on the shoulder to let him know that they must go. Praetorio carried her off to one side of the chamber, laid her on a bed of straw, and regretfully reclaimed his cassock. Le Camus then took him by the hand, warning him that there was no time left to linger. They departed, leaving her to her fate.
Once again he broke his reverie. This time in recognition of the fact that people had begun to appear on the square. Not the two Swiss Guards, who continued to loiter amongst the columns at the far edge of the square, but ordinary citizens … the faithful … early risers … who had begun to assemble there, curious to see whether the female papal imposter still lived. They were still relatively few in number, and on seeing him and his red cassock, they respectfully refrained from venturing too close. But that was not likely to last for long, as their numbers would surely soon swell.
Glancing up at Barbara, he saw that she still lived. Her chest was rising and falling almost imperceptibly as she struggled to breath the shallow ragged breaths of the crucified. And every now and then the straining muscles in her arms and legs would jerk spasmodically. But her head hung forward, and her closed eyes reminded him of when he had held her in his arms deep in the bowels of the Castel.
Casting those thoughts aside, he closed his own eyes to return, in the little time remaining, to reliving the previous day … the day of her crucifixion.
It had begun with pomp and fanfare. Word had been circulated the night before and by the time Barbara was brought out from the Castel around midday, huge crowds had assembled along the route from the Castel to St. Peter’s Square, and within the Square itself. Banners had been hung during the night along the route and from the colonnade embracing the vastness of the sun-drenched square … banners that decried the shocking depths of her deceitful ascension to the most holy office of Pope and proclaiming her to be an agent of the Devil himself, an anti-Christ dispatched from the depths of Hell to bring down the Church of Rome.
Lined up in good order, the procession had led off with rank after rank of smartly-aligned blue-red-orange-red-uniformed Swiss Guards, each carrying a gleaming halberd, followed by two additional ranks, rhythmically beating large drums. They in turn were followed by the entire College of Cardinals, brilliant in their bright red cassocks and zuchetti, led by himself, the Cardinal Bishop, first among equals. Then, trailing behind a donkey-drawn wheeled cart, shackled by the wrists to the rear of its frame, came Barbara … naked save for a small ragged piece of filthy cloth, loosely tied at one hip in a half-hearted attempt to cover her sex, and a sullied, tattered and broken papal mitre perched mockingly on her head. Two Swiss Guards followed, stationed one to each side and slightly behind, wielding whips that they periodically applied to her back and flanks, much to the delight and cheers of the crowds. Bringing up the rear were three additional ranks of marching Swiss Guards.
As the procession wound its way through the tangle of streets leading from the Castel to St. Peter’s the crowd had pressed in close on either side, straining to get a good view of the female anti-Christ as she passed by. Many attempted to spit on her, and most hurled insults or ridiculed her.
On reaching the Square, the procession was routed around its periphery, following the curved line of the space’s embracing colonnaded arms and passing in front of the Basillica before making its way to the center where lines of Swiss Guards held the crowd back from the open space where a heavy timber cross laid on the pavement.
To shouts of “Crucify her! Crucify her!” rippling in cresting waves through the assembled multitude, she had been released from the cart and dragged to the place where the cross lay in wait. Forced to sit on its heavy wooden stipe, she watched apprehensively as guards hurriedly bound her ankles together. Then she was forced to recline backwards, and extend her arms out along the crossbeam to where they were bound to the wood with lengths of cord threaded between her fingers and wrapped around the palms of her hands.
Praetorio had observed the proceedings from nearby, with gritted teeth, as a fresh pair of guards, clutching hammers and large wicked looking nails, approached to kneel over her bound hands. A third sat on her, straddling her hips and leaning forward to grip her arms. A fourth, standing over her gave the go ahead nod. Nail points were set, pressing into the flesh of her thin delicate wrists, and then driven through and buried into the wood beneath in a quick series of powerful ringing hammer blows.
She had reacted by bucking and twisting, nearly toppling over the guard straddling her hips, and by screaming her lungs out. The crowd had reacted with jubilation.
Praetorio reaction had been to look sharply away. His eyes locked with those of Le Camus, who silently signaled with a nod and a shake of the head that Praetorio could not afford the political consequences of showing distaste or revulsion. Chastened, Praetorio had reluctantly returned his attention to the gruesome scene.
By then she was howling shrilly. Her face was splattered with blood from her shattered wrists, her chest was heaving, mounded breasts jiggling back and forth. Her head moved back and forth as though she had been trying to deny what was happening.
Meanwhile they had planted the soles of her small feet flat against the wood, positioned so as to raise her knees. The nails had been placed in position. All was ready. Again the nod was given, and the ringing sound of hammers on nail heads and her piercing screams mingled with and merged into the frenzied roar of the crowd.
The final task, short of raising her cross, was the placement of the cornu, which Praetorio had been told was typically needed to provide sufficient support to keep a crucified man or women from expiring too quickly. Forcing her thighs apart, and lifting her hips, they worked to maneuver it so that its thick blunt tip could be pressed into her anus … and then quickly nail it into place.
All was ready then. The cross could be raised. As many as eight guards would be needed to put their shoulders and strength into raising it and dropping its blunt lower end into its pre-prepared resting place.
Once again the nod was given and raising began, the cloth rag torn from her hips at the very last moment to render her totally naked. And as the angle of the rising cross approached the vertical, the base of the stipe was slid into its resting place, dropping into the dark hole in the pavement with a jolt so violent that it tossed her up and away from the wood before bringing her back bone-jarringly hard.
The reaction of the crowd was to erupt in one single lusty roar, so powerful that it reverberated off the Basilica and surrounding colonnades in echoing waves. She was crucified!
From then on it had been all theater, with Barbara putting on a stunningly sensual one-person show. She writhed and squirmed, raised and lowered herself, screamed and howled, grimaced and cursed, sweated under the blazing sun, bled from her shattered wrists and feet, and lewdly displayed her most private bits as she fought the wood and the cornu … and danced the dance of the crucified.
The show went on and on, through the afternoon and well into the evening hours. The crowd seemed to never tire of it. A festive carnival atmosphere prevailed. In the collective of their minds, the forces of evil had been taught a lesson, and the entertainments divine.
Vendors plied their wares, plying the crowd with food, drink and souvenirs. And whenever she tired and fell still, she was given enough water to slake her thirst, and prodded if necessary with the sting of the lash or with a pole to resume the show they’d come to see.
TBC
Praetorio smiled inwardly even as he experienced the discomfort of stretching his cramping legs. The pavements of St. Peter’s Square were unforgivingly hard and he had, by then, been sitting or kneeling in solitary vigil beneath Barbara’s cross for quite a long time. The smile was because despite his discomfort he was able to feel pleased about one thing: he had emerged from Sunday’s trial in the Sistine Chapel with his reputation more or less intact. And he had retained the office of Cardinal Bishop.
But his personal victory was also a bittersweet one, for he had failed to save his Barbara from the horribly prolonged agony and humiliation of dying, ignominiously nailed to a cross before vast numbers of onlookers in the very center of the world’s most famous public square. His plea that his colleagues show mercy on her had fallen on deaf ears.
That he personally had emerged relatively unscathed, however, had its rewards. For one, having retained his post as Cardinal Bishop gave him the power to sideline and punish his chief rival in the College, Cardinal Vipera. And that he had promptly done, signing orders that stripped Vipera of any position of influence he may have possessed within the College and over the Curia, and reassigning him to the most lowly official duties imaginable.
He had also gained a valuable ally in the person of his eminence, Cardinal Étienne Le Camus, former Bishop of Grenoble, a man of considerable intelligence and integrity, who was known as both a skeptic and a reformer. Although Le Camus was a relative newcomer to the College, Praetorio had moved quickly to install the Frenchman in nearly all of Vipera’s vacated posts. And he hoped that together, he and Le Camus, could persuade the next Pope to both honor and enlarge upon many of Barbara’s initiatives.
And finally, although he was powerless to upend the College’s decision to see Barbara publicly shamed and executed, his powers as Cardinal Bishop gave him access to the Castel Sant’Angelo and the opportunity, as she awaited execution, to pay a visit to her one last time. And he had determined that he would see her that night.
Nonetheless, for the sake of propriety, he had had the good sense to ask Le Camus to accompany him. And so, together, long after dark, they had made their way over the Passetto to the Castel, and once inside, descended to the dungeon cellars.
And there, from the very chamber in which, the previous night, Barbara had been strappadoed and repeatedly ravaged at the hands of the Swiss Guards, he once again heard her plaintive cries of distress. Rushing forward, he and Le Camus, reached the entrance to the chamber just in time to see a Swiss Guard lay a whiplash across her bare back and to hear her cry out in pain.
“What is the meaning of this!? Stop this instant!” he had bellowed, charging forward and grasping the man’s wrist to prevent him from striking her again.
On hearing Praetorio’s voice, she had turned her head to look back at him over her shoulder, a look of recognition and gratitude spreading over her tear-streaked face. She was naked and had been bound, arms over head, to an iron ring attached to a stone pillar. The fair skin on her back had been marred already by a series of crisscrossing angry-looking red stripes.
“What is the meaning of this? By who’s authority is she being whipped?” he had demanded.
“S … she … deserved it,” stammered the guard. “I mean the uppity little bitch went and bit Nicolo’s cazzo when he all wanted wanted was for her to suck him off!”
One glance at Nicolo, who was gingerly examining his wounded member for permanent damage, completed the picture.
“Fools!” roared Praetorio. “Get her down at once and be off with you both!”
Dropping his whip, the chastised guard had rushed to release her, catching her in his arms as she collapsed and lowering her carefully to the floor … while Nicolo hastily stowed his precious male equipment beneath his tights. Then, in an instant, they were both gone.
Rushing to her side, Praetorio had knelt, removed his cassock and laid it over her. Then he had pulled her to him and cradled her tenderly in his arms. She smiled up at him crookedly, and had been about to speak when he put his finger to her lips, and said reassuringly, “Hush now. Rest.”
And she had fallen almost immediately into the deep slumber of exhaustion, her body relaxing and falling limp in his cradling arms. He had held her, like one would a child, tears in his eyes, for much of the night, while Le Camus stood discretely by, quietly warding off intrusions by a steady stream of Swiss Guards who kept turning up in pairs in search of her.
And when the long night was nearly over, Le Camus had tapped him gently on the shoulder to let him know that they must go. Praetorio carried her off to one side of the chamber, laid her on a bed of straw, and regretfully reclaimed his cassock. Le Camus then took him by the hand, warning him that there was no time left to linger. They departed, leaving her to her fate.
Once again he broke his reverie. This time in recognition of the fact that people had begun to appear on the square. Not the two Swiss Guards, who continued to loiter amongst the columns at the far edge of the square, but ordinary citizens … the faithful … early risers … who had begun to assemble there, curious to see whether the female papal imposter still lived. They were still relatively few in number, and on seeing him and his red cassock, they respectfully refrained from venturing too close. But that was not likely to last for long, as their numbers would surely soon swell.
Glancing up at Barbara, he saw that she still lived. Her chest was rising and falling almost imperceptibly as she struggled to breath the shallow ragged breaths of the crucified. And every now and then the straining muscles in her arms and legs would jerk spasmodically. But her head hung forward, and her closed eyes reminded him of when he had held her in his arms deep in the bowels of the Castel.
Casting those thoughts aside, he closed his own eyes to return, in the little time remaining, to reliving the previous day … the day of her crucifixion.
It had begun with pomp and fanfare. Word had been circulated the night before and by the time Barbara was brought out from the Castel around midday, huge crowds had assembled along the route from the Castel to St. Peter’s Square, and within the Square itself. Banners had been hung during the night along the route and from the colonnade embracing the vastness of the sun-drenched square … banners that decried the shocking depths of her deceitful ascension to the most holy office of Pope and proclaiming her to be an agent of the Devil himself, an anti-Christ dispatched from the depths of Hell to bring down the Church of Rome.
Lined up in good order, the procession had led off with rank after rank of smartly-aligned blue-red-orange-red-uniformed Swiss Guards, each carrying a gleaming halberd, followed by two additional ranks, rhythmically beating large drums. They in turn were followed by the entire College of Cardinals, brilliant in their bright red cassocks and zuchetti, led by himself, the Cardinal Bishop, first among equals. Then, trailing behind a donkey-drawn wheeled cart, shackled by the wrists to the rear of its frame, came Barbara … naked save for a small ragged piece of filthy cloth, loosely tied at one hip in a half-hearted attempt to cover her sex, and a sullied, tattered and broken papal mitre perched mockingly on her head. Two Swiss Guards followed, stationed one to each side and slightly behind, wielding whips that they periodically applied to her back and flanks, much to the delight and cheers of the crowds. Bringing up the rear were three additional ranks of marching Swiss Guards.
As the procession wound its way through the tangle of streets leading from the Castel to St. Peter’s the crowd had pressed in close on either side, straining to get a good view of the female anti-Christ as she passed by. Many attempted to spit on her, and most hurled insults or ridiculed her.
On reaching the Square, the procession was routed around its periphery, following the curved line of the space’s embracing colonnaded arms and passing in front of the Basillica before making its way to the center where lines of Swiss Guards held the crowd back from the open space where a heavy timber cross laid on the pavement.
To shouts of “Crucify her! Crucify her!” rippling in cresting waves through the assembled multitude, she had been released from the cart and dragged to the place where the cross lay in wait. Forced to sit on its heavy wooden stipe, she watched apprehensively as guards hurriedly bound her ankles together. Then she was forced to recline backwards, and extend her arms out along the crossbeam to where they were bound to the wood with lengths of cord threaded between her fingers and wrapped around the palms of her hands.
Praetorio had observed the proceedings from nearby, with gritted teeth, as a fresh pair of guards, clutching hammers and large wicked looking nails, approached to kneel over her bound hands. A third sat on her, straddling her hips and leaning forward to grip her arms. A fourth, standing over her gave the go ahead nod. Nail points were set, pressing into the flesh of her thin delicate wrists, and then driven through and buried into the wood beneath in a quick series of powerful ringing hammer blows.
She had reacted by bucking and twisting, nearly toppling over the guard straddling her hips, and by screaming her lungs out. The crowd had reacted with jubilation.
Praetorio reaction had been to look sharply away. His eyes locked with those of Le Camus, who silently signaled with a nod and a shake of the head that Praetorio could not afford the political consequences of showing distaste or revulsion. Chastened, Praetorio had reluctantly returned his attention to the gruesome scene.
By then she was howling shrilly. Her face was splattered with blood from her shattered wrists, her chest was heaving, mounded breasts jiggling back and forth. Her head moved back and forth as though she had been trying to deny what was happening.
Meanwhile they had planted the soles of her small feet flat against the wood, positioned so as to raise her knees. The nails had been placed in position. All was ready. Again the nod was given, and the ringing sound of hammers on nail heads and her piercing screams mingled with and merged into the frenzied roar of the crowd.
The final task, short of raising her cross, was the placement of the cornu, which Praetorio had been told was typically needed to provide sufficient support to keep a crucified man or women from expiring too quickly. Forcing her thighs apart, and lifting her hips, they worked to maneuver it so that its thick blunt tip could be pressed into her anus … and then quickly nail it into place.
All was ready then. The cross could be raised. As many as eight guards would be needed to put their shoulders and strength into raising it and dropping its blunt lower end into its pre-prepared resting place.
Once again the nod was given and raising began, the cloth rag torn from her hips at the very last moment to render her totally naked. And as the angle of the rising cross approached the vertical, the base of the stipe was slid into its resting place, dropping into the dark hole in the pavement with a jolt so violent that it tossed her up and away from the wood before bringing her back bone-jarringly hard.
The reaction of the crowd was to erupt in one single lusty roar, so powerful that it reverberated off the Basilica and surrounding colonnades in echoing waves. She was crucified!
From then on it had been all theater, with Barbara putting on a stunningly sensual one-person show. She writhed and squirmed, raised and lowered herself, screamed and howled, grimaced and cursed, sweated under the blazing sun, bled from her shattered wrists and feet, and lewdly displayed her most private bits as she fought the wood and the cornu … and danced the dance of the crucified.
The show went on and on, through the afternoon and well into the evening hours. The crowd seemed to never tire of it. A festive carnival atmosphere prevailed. In the collective of their minds, the forces of evil had been taught a lesson, and the entertainments divine.
Vendors plied their wares, plying the crowd with food, drink and souvenirs. And whenever she tired and fell still, she was given enough water to slake her thirst, and prodded if necessary with the sting of the lash or with a pole to resume the show they’d come to see.
TBC
Last edited:
Fossy
SEXPIOGENTUS
So we see it's not just the erstwhile Pope Innocent that is suffering in the square this day ...
Uppity little bitch indeed! What on earth was she thinking ...
There is most definitely a film in this ...
Wonderful chapter Barb
NewUser
Magistrate
Yes, there’s an epilogue yet to come.