Hello everyone. This is a short story in five parts written around five manips that Madiosi created and PMed to me.
Barbaria’s Roman Crucifixion
Part 1.
It's already the heat of the day as I step gingerly out into the arena. The great canvass canopies have been unfurled overhead, like giant sails, to shade the boisterous thousands who fill the stands. The hot sand scorches the souls of my bare feet, and I skip a little as I am tugged forward by the rope noosed around my neck.
I carry a heavy wooden patibulum across my shoulders as I am led through a gaggle of victorious back-slapping gladiators leaving the scene of their recent gladiatorial triumph. The sand is stained with blood, severed body parts and broken weapons. The vanquished are being dragged across the arena floor and thrown on a mounting pile of human carrion.
The crowd takes notice of me now ... a lone naked barbarian woman escorted out on to the emptying arena floor ... and erupts in loud applause, whistles, cheers and catcalls. The man leading me into the arena, my escort, is a big brute … bald headed, ruddy-faced, lantern-jawed … a soldier and an officer.
Less than an hour ago he selected me out of a group of women in a holding cell under the arena stands. I had been brought there the night before, a captive from a barbarian village sacked and plundered by the Romans. I recognized him immediately as the Roman who had led the brutal raid on my village.
He had stood outside the cage for the longest time, surveying the lot of us. Then he pointed at me and ordered me forward. I complied, passing through a door that creaked on its leather hinges as it opened and closed, walking up to and standing before him, head bowed.
"Your name?" He growled.
"They call me Barbaria," I replied.
He grunted, looked me over twice and then ripped away my clothing, leaving me completely nude, cowering and desperately attempting to back away. With amazing quickness, he reached out, grabbed me by my hair, and pulled me to him. Holding me in place by the hair with one hand, he looped a coarse length of rope around my neck with the other, looped it back on itself twice and pulled it tight.
"Come. Time for you to suffer and die!" He hissed, and tugging on my rope led me up the nearby ramp leading to the arena floor.
Now we are out there. He tugs on my rope every few steps, and I stumble nakedly along after him. I am filthy after a week of captivity, after days on the road to Rome or huddled in cells.
We begin a slow circuit of the arena to show me off to the crowd. My nose itches. I want to scratch it, but my hands are bound at the wrists to the heavy patibulum across my shoulders. It’s heavy and I want to bend under its weight. I try to hold my head high and bear myself with dignity, but with little success.
The spectators in the stands rise to their feet as we pass by. They shout and gesture, screaming for me to be scourged and crucified for their entertainment. Shame sweeps over me. I am appalled at being paraded naked like this before so many onlookers. My humiliation is complete. Tears streak my cheeks, and my lips tremble.
The circuit is complete. We are on to the next stage in my ordeal. With shouts of encouragement from the crowd, my escort leads me toward a heavy wooden whipping post near the center of the arena.
Hello everyone. This is a short story in five parts written around five manips that Madiosi created and PMed to me.
Barbaria’s Roman Crucifixion
Part 1.
View attachment 262454 It's already the heat of the day as I step gingerly out into the arena. The great canvass canopies have been unfurled overhead, like giant sails, to shade the boisterous thousands who fill the stands. The hot sand scorches the souls of my bare feet, and I skip a little as I am tugged forward by the rope noosed around my neck.
I carry a heavy wooden patibulum across my shoulders as I am led through a gaggle of victorious back-slapping gladiators leaving the scene of their recent gladiatorial triumph. The sand is stained with blood, severed body parts and broken weapons. The vanquished are being dragged across the arena floor and thrown on a mounting pile of human carrion.
The crowd takes notice of me now ... a lone naked barbarian woman escorted out on to the emptying arena floor ... and erupts in loud applause, whistles, cheers and catcalls. The man leading me into the arena, my escort, is a big brute … bald headed, ruddy-faced, lantern-jawed … a soldier and an officer.
Less than an hour ago he selected me out of a group of women in a holding cell under the arena stands. I had been brought there the night before, a captive from a barbarian village sacked and plundered by the Romans. I recognized him immediately as the Roman who had led the brutal raid on my village.
He had stood outside the cage for the longest time, surveying the lot of us. Then he pointed at me and ordered me forward. I complied, passing through a door that creaked on its leather hinges as it opened and closed, walking up to and standing before him, head bowed.
"Your name?" He growled.
"They call me Barbaria," I replied.
He grunted, looked me over twice and then ripped away my clothing, leaving me completely nude, cowering and desperately attempting to back away. With amazing quickness, he reached out, grabbed me by my hair, and pulled me to him. Holding me in place by the hair with one hand, he looped a coarse length of rope around my neck with the other, looped it back on itself twice and pulled it tight.
"Come. Time for you to suffer and die!" He hissed, and tugging on my rope led me up the nearby ramp leading to the arena floor.
Now we are out there. He tugs on my rope every few steps, and I stumble nakedly along after him. I am filthy after a week of captivity, after days on the road to Rome or huddled in cells.
We begin a slow circuit of the arena to show me off to the crowd. My nose itches. I want to scratch it, but my hands are bound at the wrists to the heavy patibulum across my shoulders. It’s heavy and I want to bend under its weight. I try to hold my head high and bear myself with dignity, but with little success.
The spectators in the stands rise to their feet as we pass by. They shout and gesture, screaming for me to be scourged and crucified for their entertainment. Shame sweeps over me. I am appalled at being paraded naked like this before so many onlookers. My humiliation is complete. Tears streak my cheeks, and my lips tremble.
The circuit is complete. We are on to the next stage in my ordeal. With shouts of encouragement from the crowd, my escort leads me toward a heavy wooden whipping post near the center of the arena.
The crowd seems unsympathetic, Jack, but we can't tell. We can't see the few in the crowd who have genuine compassion. Who dearly wish that her ordeal was over. We can't see the ones who would like to be down there with her, soothing her brow, giving her comfort in her last hours.
We can't see the ones who would secretly desire to be going through this ordeal with her, flogged beside her, nailed and raised, breathing their last alongside her beautiful tortured body.
We can't see them, but they are there. I'm sure they are there
The whipping post stands about one and a half times my height. It has an iron ring and a pair of wrist irons attached near the top. Dark blood stains cover its grainy splintery surface.
He leads me up to and halts me just in front of the post, loosens and removes the rope noose from my chafed neck. Then he places the flat of his enormous hand on top of my head and forces me down to a kneeling position. I feel sandy grit pressing into my knees. Head bowed, breathing heavily, breasts dangling, I wait. The crowd hushes expectantly.
He saunters lackadaisically around behind me. I turn my head to follow, but he cuffs me sharply across the ear with the back of his hand. I bend forward, ear ringing from the blow, as he unties my wrists from the patibulum, lifts the heavy timber from my stiff and aching shoulders and effortlessly tosses it aside.
Grabbing both my wrists he jerks me to my feet and manhandles me over to the post, where he stretches both of my wrists high over my head and locks them in the waiting irons. Stooping, he shackles my ankles; then steps back to admire his handiwork and wave theatrically to the crowd.
On seeing this the crowd rises to its to its feet and begins shouting once more for my scourging. Leaning in close to me he whispers, "You will get the scutica today, rather than the flagrum, my little barbarian slut … enough to weaken and bloody, but still leave you strong for your little dance on the wood."
I begin to panic and tug desperately but ineffectually at the chain binding my cuffed wrists to the post. He leaves my side and I glance back over my shoulder apprehensively. He has taken position behind me and slightly to one side. His long twisted-leather whip with its knotted end lies stretched out on the ground.
I turn my head back to face the post, press my forehead against it and grit my teeth. I brace myself for the first lash. A moment later it comes. I hear the crack of the whip and feel the sharp sting of the lash laid diagonally across my bare back. I gasp as my body slams against the post. I clench the post between my knees in readiness for the next.
My scourging continues at a rapid pace. Expertly he lays lash after lash in a cross-cross pattern, moving systematically up and down my back, as well as over my ass and the backs of my thighs.
I squeal and scream, writhe and jump, putting on a show that delights the crowd, which has taken in unison to stamping its feet in time with the whip strokes. The arena rocks with the sound of thousands of stamping feet. My back feels like it is on fire. Glancing over my shoulder I can see little beads and smears of blood appearing along some of the welts.
He finishes with a flourish, sending the last couple lashes ripping through the gap between my shaking buttocks and inner thighs to bite at the fleshy lips of my sex. I arch my back and yelp with each of these cruel strokes and the crowd breaks into rapturous applause.
It's over I think, as I lean panting against the post. He walks up to me, reaches out to grab me by the hair and jerks my head back. I look up into his face, red with exertion, a sneering grin breaking out across his countenance. "Turn around!" He bawls at me, spewing flecks of spittle across my startled face.
Slowly I respond to this command, twisting my shackled wrists overhead and repositioning myself with my ravaged backside to the post. The worst is yet to come.
My scourging continues, with the same rapid-fire laying down of crisis-crossing lashes on my bare sweat-sheeted skin, starting with my breasts, which bounce and sway wildly with each battering slash. I feel faint. My head lolls forward and back and side to side between my up stretched arms and tears roll down my cheeks as the bite of the whip moves inexorably down over my taut tummy, scores my hips and strikes at my mound and quivering thighs.
Then it is finally over. The whipping stops. The crowd quiets once again. He approaches, grips my chin and raises my head. He stares malevolently into my tearful eyes, grunts in satisfaction, and turning on his heels orders two of his men, who have suddenly appeared from nowhere, to "take her down!"
Hello everyone. This is a short story in five parts written around five manips that Madiosi created and PMed to me.
Barbaria’s Roman Crucifixion
Part 1.
View attachment 262454 It's already the heat of the day as I step gingerly out into the arena. The great canvass canopies have been unfurled overhead, like giant sails, to shade the boisterous thousands who fill the stands. The hot sand scorches the souls of my bare feet, and I skip a little as I am tugged forward by the rope noosed around my neck.
I carry a heavy wooden patibulum across my shoulders as I am led through a gaggle of victorious back-slapping gladiators leaving the scene of their recent gladiatorial triumph. The sand is stained with blood, severed body parts and broken weapons. The vanquished are being dragged across the arena floor and thrown on a mounting pile of human carrion.
The crowd takes notice of me now ... a lone naked barbarian woman escorted out on to the emptying arena floor ... and erupts in loud applause, whistles, cheers and catcalls. The man leading me into the arena, my escort, is a big brute … bald headed, ruddy-faced, lantern-jawed … a soldier and an officer.
Less than an hour ago he selected me out of a group of women in a holding cell under the arena stands. I had been brought there the night before, a captive from a barbarian village sacked and plundered by the Romans. I recognized him immediately as the Roman who had led the brutal raid on my village.
He had stood outside the cage for the longest time, surveying the lot of us. Then he pointed at me and ordered me forward. I complied, passing through a door that creaked on its leather hinges as it opened and closed, walking up to and standing before him, head bowed.
"Your name?" He growled.
"They call me Barbaria," I replied.
He grunted, looked me over twice and then ripped away my clothing, leaving me completely nude, cowering and desperately attempting to back away. With amazing quickness, he reached out, grabbed me by my hair, and pulled me to him. Holding me in place by the hair with one hand, he looped a coarse length of rope around my neck with the other, looped it back on itself twice and pulled it tight.
"Come. Time for you to suffer and die!" He hissed, and tugging on my rope led me up the nearby ramp leading to the arena floor.
Now we are out there. He tugs on my rope every few steps, and I stumble nakedly along after him. I am filthy after a week of captivity, after days on the road to Rome or huddled in cells.
We begin a slow circuit of the arena to show me off to the crowd. My nose itches. I want to scratch it, but my hands are bound at the wrists to the heavy patibulum across my shoulders. It’s heavy and I want to bend under its weight. I try to hold my head high and bear myself with dignity, but with little success.
The spectators in the stands rise to their feet as we pass by. They shout and gesture, screaming for me to be scourged and crucified for their entertainment. Shame sweeps over me. I am appalled at being paraded naked like this before so many onlookers. My humiliation is complete. Tears streak my cheeks, and my lips tremble.
The circuit is complete. We are on to the next stage in my ordeal. With shouts of encouragement from the crowd, my escort leads me toward a heavy wooden whipping post near the center of the arena.
Phew! Just caught up with the flogging. A masterly description Barb and a great spectacle for the crowd. Not a lot of sympathy there for you and the crucifixion yet to come.
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It's already the heat of the day as I step gingerly out into the arena. The great canvass canopies have been unfurled overhead, like giant sails, to shade the boisterous thousands who fill the stands. The hot sand scorches the souls of my bare feet, and I skip a little as I am tugged forward by the rope noosed around my neck.
