Authors’ note to our readers:
Following the recent CF meltdown, the lost episodes of “A Day in the Arena” are being reposted here, along with new episodes in the coming days.
Although it may already be apparent to some, we are taking this opportunity to make it clear to everyone that this is a joint writing project.
LittleSiss and Barbaria
All around me are dozens of crosses, enough to fill the entire arena floor. Each bears a naked and suffering figure – some old, some young; both men and women. In the stands – a capacity crowd is here for the entire day’s festivities, here to witness the mass torture and execution by crucifixion of the leaders – along with their innocent families, servants and slaves – of an unsuccessful attempt to overthrow the reigning emperor. Caesar is to have his public revenge.
I am called Barbaria. My father was a German barbarian, who took up service with the Romans, commanding an auxiliary force, and quickly became one of the most powerful field commanders in the army. We moved from the provinces to Rome a few years ago to be closer to the seat of power, and since then the family has gradually become more and more Romanized. My new Roman friends found my Germanic name unseemly and unpronounceable, hence I became Barbaria.
My father is the reason for my present predicament. He became uncontrollably ambitious and joined together with others to support a usurper. The whole thing unraveled. There were mass arrests, everyone connected with the plotters in any conceivable way was rounded up and tortured. Names were named, more arrests followed.
The ringleaders were condemned to death by public crucifixion, but to make an even greater public impression and to quell any further rebellious ambitions, their immediate families, most trusted servants, and even their close friends were condemned to join them in a mass public spectacle the likes of which had never been seen.
My head droops forward, I look down on my helpless nakedness, past my erect nipples poking through the sodden strands and wisps of my long brown hair splayed across the twin mounds of my breasts. My gaze moves down my belly and between my inner thighs to the glistening blood and cum soaked base of the deeply penetrating cornu horn. I feel deep shame, and know that the crowd can sense it. It turns them on.
I raise my head and look around through eyes stinging with sweat. The crowd looks back at me. Some of them I recognize. Many of them hate me – they love this emperor and the largess he spends on the entertainment of the citizenry. Most, though, are simply here for the spectacle. They are here to watch me die horribly on the cross, along with all the others who hang naked before them on the vast forest of crosses arranged in neat rows across the arena floor. The raucous crowd is noisy beyond belief. They are having a splendid time, yelling lewd insults at, and laughing at, the agony of the condemned.
I turn my head to the right; on the cross next to me – so close I could almost touch it if my hands were free – hangs a girl I have long had a crush on, admired from afar. Until yesterday, I really didn’t know her.
She is the daughter of one of the co-conspirators, pretty and blond haired. We had only met and exchanged words a few times prior to the mass arrests. I knew that others called her Siss, and often inserted the diminutive “Little” in front of her name. I’m not sure why, but assume it is an endearment.
Since then we have been thrown together and forced to suffer together through the torturous interrogations, through the indignities and humiliations heaped upon us by the soldiers the night before, through the cruel scourgings and brutal entertainments staged on the arena floor in the early hours of this morning before the festivities’ main event began.
Through all of this we developed a bond of humiliation, pain and awakening love. Now Siss is nailed naked to the cross next to mine, twisting in agony, her body bathed in sweat and blood, chest heaving from exertion. Our eyes meet and lock in some kind of sensual embrace. Her body – even strained as it is in its hopeless struggle with the cross – strikes me as beautiful; I want to touch her, embrace her, but I can’t.
As I force myself to look around, there are others I recognize, although most of the crucified are strangers to me. Nearby on another cross is one of my father’s co-conspirators, a guy who always stared at my ripe young breasts when he came to our villa and went out of his way to brush up against me as he and my father retreated to a back room to hatch their traitorous plans. I hated him, kept him away, but now he is here, staring intently at my nakedness, his eyes roving leeringly back and forth over my glistening bare breasts, taut belly, cornu-buggered cunt, bony hips, soft ass cheek and spread thighs. Seems to me he has better things to do, bigger problems to deal with, but I can’t avoid seeing his arousal. So too can the crowd, which begins to direct its raucously randy attentions toward him and me.
I look away. Somewhere in the next row is my father. I saw him glance back at me earlier, pity and anger in his eyes as they took in the sight of his favorite girl twisting naked on her cross in front of thousands upon thousands of onlookers, but now I can’t remember which cross is his. Behind me somewhere is my mother, or rather my father’s latest bride, and the maid servant she and I share. I lost track of them earlier, but now I see her again, but not the servant girl.
I grow weary of looking around; it’s too painful to crane my neck, all the muscles in my back and neck have stiffened and too much movement irritates the scourged flesh of my back and causes the blood to begin flowing again from my punctured wrists and my crushed feet. My earlier struggles have widened the wounds made by the over-sized spikes they used so brutally to nail me to my patibulum and stipe, and any movement now makes it worse.
The heat is even more unbearable than it was just a few minutes ago. I feel the need to rest, to take my eyes and thoughts off what is happening around me at the moment and focus on telling you, my listener, the whole story of my ordeal from two nights ago when I was arrested and hauled off to be interrogated and tortured, to the present, hanging here on my cross – along with hundreds of others on the floor of the arena – painfully impaled upon on this damnable cornu and listening to the roar and insatiable blood-lust of the crowd. I’m telling you this because I need to get my story out before the inevitable end. I know death will come all too soon. So bear with me and I will soon be back to tell you more in as great a detail – leaving nothing out – as I can.
I look around. My father is curiously absent, so I step forward and demand the meaning of the intrusion. The answer is startling. “An attempt has been made on Caesar’s life. Everyone in this household is under arrest. You will come with me immediately.” In seconds, the three of us are bundled out the door and into the street.
An hour later I am being shoved down the stairs into the cellar of a prison block. The air is stiflingly and damp; the place smells of urine and excrement. I am thrust through a door into a dimly lit space, the only light coming from the burning pitch of a torch mounted high on one wall.
The floor of the cell is covered with moldy old straw. The walls are equipped with rusting Iron shackles and chains, fastened high on the stone surfaces. I notice in the shadowy dim light that other prisoners already shackled to the walls. Before I can identify any of them, I am propelled by a shove in the small of my back toward the rear of the cell.
There my cloak is taken from me. I am left shivering in my thin night shift, as my guard stuffs my cloak into his belt while eyeing me curiously. The shift is made of thin fabric and I feel dangerously exposed. After a moment, he holds out his hand for my shift. I am scared – not sure whether I should refuse and make a scene or just comply.
While I try to make up my mind, he says, “I’m not going to do anything to you. My orders are to chain you to the wall so that you can think long and hard about your plight before the interrogations begin at first light. That’s when the rough stuff will begin. So, be a nice girl and just strip off the rest of your clothes and get your cute little ass over against that wall!”
I shrug, thinking thank God for disciplined soldiers, turn away from him, reach down and pull my night shift off over my head. His eyes follow the flexing and rippling of muscles in my back, and catch the side-swells of my bared breasts as they jiggle and sway.
I cover my breasts as best I can with my arms and turn to face him, dressed only in a loin cloth tied at my hips. He abruptly takes me by one wrist and clamps it in one of the shackles chained to the wall above my head, and quickly does the same with my other wrist. Then, with a grunt he turns away and marches out of the cell, slamming the door behind him.
I’m left standing, nearly naked, arms over head, with my bare back against the cold clammy surface of the stone wall.
As my eyes adjust to the dim light, I begin to take stock of my surroundings. There are eight or nine other people in the cell, all chained as I am to the walls. They have been stripped of most of their clothing. I can hear them breathing. Some of them are whispering to one another, otherwise the cell is eerily quiet. I look for my mother and our servant. We were separated earlier. I think we might now be reunited here in the cell, but there is no sign of them.
The one person I do recognize is standing right alongside me. It’s the girl I mentioned earlier – the one called Siss. She is shackled arms over head, back against the wall, in the same fashion as I am. She has also been stripped of all of her clothes except for a small white loin cloth. Her full rounded white breasts reflect the flickering light and cast shadows on the nearby wall. She is shivering uncontrollably.
I stare at her for a while. I’ve never seen her without her clothes, and despite the circumstances, I’m struck by her beauty. I nod toward her in recognition; she returns the nod. We both seem to feel some comfort in finding someone in this awful place that we know, and instinctively edge as close to each other as our bonds allow.
Unable to think of anything else to say, I whisper to her, “It’s so cold in here. I’m freezing.” “Yes”, she responds, “Any idea why they took our clothes?”
I ponder that question for a moment, “I think it’s to intimidate us, to make us feel vulnerable; the same reason they always come to arrest people in the middle of the night. They want us to stand here all night, naked and helpless, with are backs to this freezing wall. They want us to be ready to confess everything when they interrogate us in the morning. They’re hoping we’ll want to get our clothes back and bring this nightmare to an end.”
Siss cocks her head, and declares, “Well if that’s what they are trying to do, they are succeeding.” I’m reminded of her wit. I’ve heard her make those kinds of sardonic remarks before.
We pass the night mostly in silence, alone with are thoughts. My arms ache and the cold from the wall penetrates my bare back. My nipples have hardened, the skin of my areolas have wrinkled tightly around my nipples as they so often do when I am feeling cold. We shift our feet and turn our bodies from time to time in a desperate effort to keep the circulation going.
After a while, I say, “Let’s stick together and try to help each other get through this, whatever comes, ok?” Siss agrees. Later, with almost perfect logic, Siss reasons, “Look, they just want to scare us. They want information. But we don’t really know anything, and they will soon see that, and then let us go, right?” Let’s hope so, I think. We both feel marginally better.
After what seems an eternity, the first rays of dawn filter in through the narrow grate near the top of the wall at the rear of the cell. The long night is over, and we must face the unknown. I need to pee, and with no other alternative, I add a fresh puddle to the stinking mass of soggy straw on the floor as my urine runs down my leg. Siss does the same, and for a moment we giggle like school girls.
Then the door swings open and in come what looks like a bunch of goons. These are not the professional soldiers who arrested us last night. These are a bunch of thugs, and we instinctively cower together against the wall.
They begin to release the prisoners around the room from their shackles, smack them around a bit with their ham-sized fists, and propel them one after another out the door. The cell is quickly emptied except for Siss and me.
They six of them turn on us with a menacing look on each of their faces. “Well what do we have here?” chortles one of them, “A nice little pair of blue-blood cunts who’ve got themselves in a peck of deep trouble”.
He steps in front of Siss, reaches out suddenly and roughly pulls her wet loin cloth down off her hips. It falls to the floor. She is totally nude. Reacting quickly, she tries to kick him between the legs. But he is too quick and strong for her.
He grabs her ankle and hands it to one of his accomplices. Another of the goons grabs her other ankle. She can no longer kick, so she spits in his face. Enraged he slaps her face. She spits at him again. He places his powerful arm across her throat, pinning her to the wall. With his big hairy hand he reaches down and begins to rubs her exposed pussy, thrusting his dirty probing fingers between her lips. Siss gasps and swears at him, but is unable to resist being probed.
I want to help her, but one of the other goons has pinned my shoulders to the wall. I’m held there while two of the others put their hands all over me. One squeezes and kneads my breasts, and pinches my nipples. Another removes my loin cloth, playfully cups my ass cheeks, and then begins to force his fingers up my cunt.
This goes on for a couple of minutes, and I fear for what will happen next – Oh my God, I think, we are both about to be raped by these animals. Two of them already have their leggings down around their ankles and are approaching us with stiffened, unbelievably huge members in hand.
Four of the goons take it upon themselves to prying our legs open to assault. They clutch our thighs and calves in their powerful hands. Our legs are lifted parallel to the floor and spread as wide as possible. We hang helplessly from our wrists, are buttocks pressed tightly against the wall. The pressure on our legs is enormous. I feel like I am being split in half.
Our two rapists advance on us, their eyes focused on the exposed, partly open, pouty pink lips of our vulvae. I shut my eyes and clamp down, determined to deny this brute entry. He grabs my breasts with his hands, crushing them piteously, while he thrusts forward with his powerful hips. But he is clumsy. His engorged penis misses its mark and slides harmlessly down through the crack between my flattened ass cheeks. Our pubic bones come together in a jarring crunch. He curses, backs off and comes back again. He hits his target, but quickly slides off, this time across my belly. He backs off again, and a more concentrated expression crosses his face.
I steel myself for the next advance. He comes forward penis in hand, and begins stroking my opening with the tip of his penis and making small in-and-out thrusts. He is gaining some entry. I’m becoming moist. I am not going to be able to keep him out. I listen to Siss’ curses and grunts. But our struggle is hopeless. We are about to be cruelly impaled against this cold stone wall on these two monsters’ enormously swollen pricks. We should just give in and get the whole sordid thing over with.
Our assailants renew their attacks, working their way into our pussies. My goon is partly in. I hear Siss gasp and curse. She is also losing the battle. I feel myself giving way … just one more powerful thrust and he will be deep inside me.
But it doesn’t happen! Suddenly the officer from the night before appears behind our attackers. He plants his boot in the backside of the nearest would-be-rapist, sending him sprawling. Startled, the others turn to face the officer, releasing Siss and me.
Our bodies sag. We hang nakedly from our wrists, breathing deeply, tears in our eyes, and fear in our faces. I begin to wretch. Siss is crying.
“Out, out” the officer orders, fury in his eyes, and our army of goons flee through the door. The officer looks down on our panting nude bodies, at the driblets of vaginal juices and cum smeared on our inner thighs and around our cunt lips. With a sniff, he orders one of his own men, who have now entered the cell, to unshackle are wrists, clean us up, return our loin clothes, and get us upstairs to the interrogation area where we belong.
We rub our chafed wrists, retrieve and re-tie are loin clothes around our hips, and trudge off under guard – thinking hopefully that we maybe have survived the worst, and that things might turn out ok after all.
Moments later our heightened spirits are dashed. As we reach the interrogation area, our ears are assaulted by hideous, blood-curdling screams. We enter a large room, and glance around, taking in our surroundings.
We look at each other, our eyes wide with shock. This is a torture chamber, and people are being tortured here. The chamber is divided into a number of smaller rooms, each equipped with the tools and engines of torture and mutilation.
Our interrogators obviously have no intention of just talking to us about what we might know!
We recoil; huddle together for comfort. Our hands are tied behind are backs with a light cord. We are pushed back against the wall – next to other apprehensively fidgeting prisoners – and ordered to wait quietly for our turn. The place is hot and noisy, full of activity. We hear more screams coming from some of the interrogation bays. A woman begs for mercy.
Our ordeal is going to get a lot worse.
Following the recent CF meltdown, the lost episodes of “A Day in the Arena” are being reposted here, along with new episodes in the coming days.
Although it may already be apparent to some, we are taking this opportunity to make it clear to everyone that this is a joint writing project.
LittleSiss and Barbaria
A DAY IN THE ARENA
Part I. Mass Crucifixion in the Roman Arena
It’s unbearably hot. The sun is at its zenith. I am hanging from a cross of rough timbers, naked, sweating, and exhausted. After hours of writhing and struggling, I have stopped trying to resist and have settled myself down on to the tip of the large wooden cornu affixed to the stipe between my legs. The blunt point of the cornu begins to penetrate the tender folds of my exposed lips. I try to pull myself up but my arms and legs have become too weak to raise my body. I give up on this, and with a groan I allow the gruesome thing to slide inside of me, filling me to the hilt.All around me are dozens of crosses, enough to fill the entire arena floor. Each bears a naked and suffering figure – some old, some young; both men and women. In the stands – a capacity crowd is here for the entire day’s festivities, here to witness the mass torture and execution by crucifixion of the leaders – along with their innocent families, servants and slaves – of an unsuccessful attempt to overthrow the reigning emperor. Caesar is to have his public revenge.
I am called Barbaria. My father was a German barbarian, who took up service with the Romans, commanding an auxiliary force, and quickly became one of the most powerful field commanders in the army. We moved from the provinces to Rome a few years ago to be closer to the seat of power, and since then the family has gradually become more and more Romanized. My new Roman friends found my Germanic name unseemly and unpronounceable, hence I became Barbaria.
My father is the reason for my present predicament. He became uncontrollably ambitious and joined together with others to support a usurper. The whole thing unraveled. There were mass arrests, everyone connected with the plotters in any conceivable way was rounded up and tortured. Names were named, more arrests followed.
The ringleaders were condemned to death by public crucifixion, but to make an even greater public impression and to quell any further rebellious ambitions, their immediate families, most trusted servants, and even their close friends were condemned to join them in a mass public spectacle the likes of which had never been seen.
My head droops forward, I look down on my helpless nakedness, past my erect nipples poking through the sodden strands and wisps of my long brown hair splayed across the twin mounds of my breasts. My gaze moves down my belly and between my inner thighs to the glistening blood and cum soaked base of the deeply penetrating cornu horn. I feel deep shame, and know that the crowd can sense it. It turns them on.
I raise my head and look around through eyes stinging with sweat. The crowd looks back at me. Some of them I recognize. Many of them hate me – they love this emperor and the largess he spends on the entertainment of the citizenry. Most, though, are simply here for the spectacle. They are here to watch me die horribly on the cross, along with all the others who hang naked before them on the vast forest of crosses arranged in neat rows across the arena floor. The raucous crowd is noisy beyond belief. They are having a splendid time, yelling lewd insults at, and laughing at, the agony of the condemned.
I turn my head to the right; on the cross next to me – so close I could almost touch it if my hands were free – hangs a girl I have long had a crush on, admired from afar. Until yesterday, I really didn’t know her.
She is the daughter of one of the co-conspirators, pretty and blond haired. We had only met and exchanged words a few times prior to the mass arrests. I knew that others called her Siss, and often inserted the diminutive “Little” in front of her name. I’m not sure why, but assume it is an endearment.
Since then we have been thrown together and forced to suffer together through the torturous interrogations, through the indignities and humiliations heaped upon us by the soldiers the night before, through the cruel scourgings and brutal entertainments staged on the arena floor in the early hours of this morning before the festivities’ main event began.
Through all of this we developed a bond of humiliation, pain and awakening love. Now Siss is nailed naked to the cross next to mine, twisting in agony, her body bathed in sweat and blood, chest heaving from exertion. Our eyes meet and lock in some kind of sensual embrace. Her body – even strained as it is in its hopeless struggle with the cross – strikes me as beautiful; I want to touch her, embrace her, but I can’t.
As I force myself to look around, there are others I recognize, although most of the crucified are strangers to me. Nearby on another cross is one of my father’s co-conspirators, a guy who always stared at my ripe young breasts when he came to our villa and went out of his way to brush up against me as he and my father retreated to a back room to hatch their traitorous plans. I hated him, kept him away, but now he is here, staring intently at my nakedness, his eyes roving leeringly back and forth over my glistening bare breasts, taut belly, cornu-buggered cunt, bony hips, soft ass cheek and spread thighs. Seems to me he has better things to do, bigger problems to deal with, but I can’t avoid seeing his arousal. So too can the crowd, which begins to direct its raucously randy attentions toward him and me.
I look away. Somewhere in the next row is my father. I saw him glance back at me earlier, pity and anger in his eyes as they took in the sight of his favorite girl twisting naked on her cross in front of thousands upon thousands of onlookers, but now I can’t remember which cross is his. Behind me somewhere is my mother, or rather my father’s latest bride, and the maid servant she and I share. I lost track of them earlier, but now I see her again, but not the servant girl.
I grow weary of looking around; it’s too painful to crane my neck, all the muscles in my back and neck have stiffened and too much movement irritates the scourged flesh of my back and causes the blood to begin flowing again from my punctured wrists and my crushed feet. My earlier struggles have widened the wounds made by the over-sized spikes they used so brutally to nail me to my patibulum and stipe, and any movement now makes it worse.
The heat is even more unbearable than it was just a few minutes ago. I feel the need to rest, to take my eyes and thoughts off what is happening around me at the moment and focus on telling you, my listener, the whole story of my ordeal from two nights ago when I was arrested and hauled off to be interrogated and tortured, to the present, hanging here on my cross – along with hundreds of others on the floor of the arena – painfully impaled upon on this damnable cornu and listening to the roar and insatiable blood-lust of the crowd. I’m telling you this because I need to get my story out before the inevitable end. I know death will come all too soon. So bear with me and I will soon be back to tell you more in as great a detail – leaving nothing out – as I can.
A DAY IN THE ARENA
Part II. Arrested in the Dark of Night
I am awakened in the middle of the night by loud voices outside our villa. I hear our servant girl get up and head for the entrance. Pulling on a cloak, I run – along with my mother – to the atrium area to see what is happening. In strides an officer of the emperor’s Praetorian Guard, followed by four soldiers. Our servant girl follows in their wake, protesting loudly.I look around. My father is curiously absent, so I step forward and demand the meaning of the intrusion. The answer is startling. “An attempt has been made on Caesar’s life. Everyone in this household is under arrest. You will come with me immediately.” In seconds, the three of us are bundled out the door and into the street.
An hour later I am being shoved down the stairs into the cellar of a prison block. The air is stiflingly and damp; the place smells of urine and excrement. I am thrust through a door into a dimly lit space, the only light coming from the burning pitch of a torch mounted high on one wall.
The floor of the cell is covered with moldy old straw. The walls are equipped with rusting Iron shackles and chains, fastened high on the stone surfaces. I notice in the shadowy dim light that other prisoners already shackled to the walls. Before I can identify any of them, I am propelled by a shove in the small of my back toward the rear of the cell.
There my cloak is taken from me. I am left shivering in my thin night shift, as my guard stuffs my cloak into his belt while eyeing me curiously. The shift is made of thin fabric and I feel dangerously exposed. After a moment, he holds out his hand for my shift. I am scared – not sure whether I should refuse and make a scene or just comply.
While I try to make up my mind, he says, “I’m not going to do anything to you. My orders are to chain you to the wall so that you can think long and hard about your plight before the interrogations begin at first light. That’s when the rough stuff will begin. So, be a nice girl and just strip off the rest of your clothes and get your cute little ass over against that wall!”
I shrug, thinking thank God for disciplined soldiers, turn away from him, reach down and pull my night shift off over my head. His eyes follow the flexing and rippling of muscles in my back, and catch the side-swells of my bared breasts as they jiggle and sway.
I cover my breasts as best I can with my arms and turn to face him, dressed only in a loin cloth tied at my hips. He abruptly takes me by one wrist and clamps it in one of the shackles chained to the wall above my head, and quickly does the same with my other wrist. Then, with a grunt he turns away and marches out of the cell, slamming the door behind him.
I’m left standing, nearly naked, arms over head, with my bare back against the cold clammy surface of the stone wall.
As my eyes adjust to the dim light, I begin to take stock of my surroundings. There are eight or nine other people in the cell, all chained as I am to the walls. They have been stripped of most of their clothing. I can hear them breathing. Some of them are whispering to one another, otherwise the cell is eerily quiet. I look for my mother and our servant. We were separated earlier. I think we might now be reunited here in the cell, but there is no sign of them.
The one person I do recognize is standing right alongside me. It’s the girl I mentioned earlier – the one called Siss. She is shackled arms over head, back against the wall, in the same fashion as I am. She has also been stripped of all of her clothes except for a small white loin cloth. Her full rounded white breasts reflect the flickering light and cast shadows on the nearby wall. She is shivering uncontrollably.
I stare at her for a while. I’ve never seen her without her clothes, and despite the circumstances, I’m struck by her beauty. I nod toward her in recognition; she returns the nod. We both seem to feel some comfort in finding someone in this awful place that we know, and instinctively edge as close to each other as our bonds allow.
Unable to think of anything else to say, I whisper to her, “It’s so cold in here. I’m freezing.” “Yes”, she responds, “Any idea why they took our clothes?”
I ponder that question for a moment, “I think it’s to intimidate us, to make us feel vulnerable; the same reason they always come to arrest people in the middle of the night. They want us to stand here all night, naked and helpless, with are backs to this freezing wall. They want us to be ready to confess everything when they interrogate us in the morning. They’re hoping we’ll want to get our clothes back and bring this nightmare to an end.”
Siss cocks her head, and declares, “Well if that’s what they are trying to do, they are succeeding.” I’m reminded of her wit. I’ve heard her make those kinds of sardonic remarks before.
We pass the night mostly in silence, alone with are thoughts. My arms ache and the cold from the wall penetrates my bare back. My nipples have hardened, the skin of my areolas have wrinkled tightly around my nipples as they so often do when I am feeling cold. We shift our feet and turn our bodies from time to time in a desperate effort to keep the circulation going.
After a while, I say, “Let’s stick together and try to help each other get through this, whatever comes, ok?” Siss agrees. Later, with almost perfect logic, Siss reasons, “Look, they just want to scare us. They want information. But we don’t really know anything, and they will soon see that, and then let us go, right?” Let’s hope so, I think. We both feel marginally better.
After what seems an eternity, the first rays of dawn filter in through the narrow grate near the top of the wall at the rear of the cell. The long night is over, and we must face the unknown. I need to pee, and with no other alternative, I add a fresh puddle to the stinking mass of soggy straw on the floor as my urine runs down my leg. Siss does the same, and for a moment we giggle like school girls.
Then the door swings open and in come what looks like a bunch of goons. These are not the professional soldiers who arrested us last night. These are a bunch of thugs, and we instinctively cower together against the wall.
They begin to release the prisoners around the room from their shackles, smack them around a bit with their ham-sized fists, and propel them one after another out the door. The cell is quickly emptied except for Siss and me.
They six of them turn on us with a menacing look on each of their faces. “Well what do we have here?” chortles one of them, “A nice little pair of blue-blood cunts who’ve got themselves in a peck of deep trouble”.
He steps in front of Siss, reaches out suddenly and roughly pulls her wet loin cloth down off her hips. It falls to the floor. She is totally nude. Reacting quickly, she tries to kick him between the legs. But he is too quick and strong for her.
He grabs her ankle and hands it to one of his accomplices. Another of the goons grabs her other ankle. She can no longer kick, so she spits in his face. Enraged he slaps her face. She spits at him again. He places his powerful arm across her throat, pinning her to the wall. With his big hairy hand he reaches down and begins to rubs her exposed pussy, thrusting his dirty probing fingers between her lips. Siss gasps and swears at him, but is unable to resist being probed.
I want to help her, but one of the other goons has pinned my shoulders to the wall. I’m held there while two of the others put their hands all over me. One squeezes and kneads my breasts, and pinches my nipples. Another removes my loin cloth, playfully cups my ass cheeks, and then begins to force his fingers up my cunt.
This goes on for a couple of minutes, and I fear for what will happen next – Oh my God, I think, we are both about to be raped by these animals. Two of them already have their leggings down around their ankles and are approaching us with stiffened, unbelievably huge members in hand.
Four of the goons take it upon themselves to prying our legs open to assault. They clutch our thighs and calves in their powerful hands. Our legs are lifted parallel to the floor and spread as wide as possible. We hang helplessly from our wrists, are buttocks pressed tightly against the wall. The pressure on our legs is enormous. I feel like I am being split in half.
Our two rapists advance on us, their eyes focused on the exposed, partly open, pouty pink lips of our vulvae. I shut my eyes and clamp down, determined to deny this brute entry. He grabs my breasts with his hands, crushing them piteously, while he thrusts forward with his powerful hips. But he is clumsy. His engorged penis misses its mark and slides harmlessly down through the crack between my flattened ass cheeks. Our pubic bones come together in a jarring crunch. He curses, backs off and comes back again. He hits his target, but quickly slides off, this time across my belly. He backs off again, and a more concentrated expression crosses his face.
I steel myself for the next advance. He comes forward penis in hand, and begins stroking my opening with the tip of his penis and making small in-and-out thrusts. He is gaining some entry. I’m becoming moist. I am not going to be able to keep him out. I listen to Siss’ curses and grunts. But our struggle is hopeless. We are about to be cruelly impaled against this cold stone wall on these two monsters’ enormously swollen pricks. We should just give in and get the whole sordid thing over with.
Our assailants renew their attacks, working their way into our pussies. My goon is partly in. I hear Siss gasp and curse. She is also losing the battle. I feel myself giving way … just one more powerful thrust and he will be deep inside me.
But it doesn’t happen! Suddenly the officer from the night before appears behind our attackers. He plants his boot in the backside of the nearest would-be-rapist, sending him sprawling. Startled, the others turn to face the officer, releasing Siss and me.
Our bodies sag. We hang nakedly from our wrists, breathing deeply, tears in our eyes, and fear in our faces. I begin to wretch. Siss is crying.
“Out, out” the officer orders, fury in his eyes, and our army of goons flee through the door. The officer looks down on our panting nude bodies, at the driblets of vaginal juices and cum smeared on our inner thighs and around our cunt lips. With a sniff, he orders one of his own men, who have now entered the cell, to unshackle are wrists, clean us up, return our loin clothes, and get us upstairs to the interrogation area where we belong.
We rub our chafed wrists, retrieve and re-tie are loin clothes around our hips, and trudge off under guard – thinking hopefully that we maybe have survived the worst, and that things might turn out ok after all.
Moments later our heightened spirits are dashed. As we reach the interrogation area, our ears are assaulted by hideous, blood-curdling screams. We enter a large room, and glance around, taking in our surroundings.
We look at each other, our eyes wide with shock. This is a torture chamber, and people are being tortured here. The chamber is divided into a number of smaller rooms, each equipped with the tools and engines of torture and mutilation.
Our interrogators obviously have no intention of just talking to us about what we might know!
We recoil; huddle together for comfort. Our hands are tied behind are backs with a light cord. We are pushed back against the wall – next to other apprehensively fidgeting prisoners – and ordered to wait quietly for our turn. The place is hot and noisy, full of activity. We hear more screams coming from some of the interrogation bays. A woman begs for mercy.
Our ordeal is going to get a lot worse.
![Styka1A[1].jpg](https://www.cruxforums.com/xf/data/attachments/69/69462-863281b7af468f5e4323e1aeb9bd7321.jpg "Styka1A[1].jpg")
