Part 3.
They take me down from the whipping post. Battered and bleeding I fall to the ground, roll over on my side and draw my knees up into a fetal position, hoping that somehow this is all a bad dream.
My two handlers reach down and take hold of my wrists. After righting me and spinning me around, they drag my limp body across the arena floor, the heels of my feet leaving little furrows in the loose sand to mark my path. Sand and grit work their way painfully into my wounds on my butt and back. I struggle and kick but too no avail. After being bounced over a gladiator's discarded shield I am finally brought to rest next to a heavy T-cross laying ready and waiting for me on the arena floor.
Helping hands raise my whip-scourged body to a sitting position astride the stipe. Dazed and disoriented, I lean back, one hand on its rough surface and try to focus on what is happening. The officer, now bare-headed and bald, yells at his men, his face turning crimson with rage, "Dolts! Who has the hammer and nails?"
They look blankly at each other and then one scurries sheepishly off, returning several minutes later with two hammers and four large iron spikes in hand. "Idiots," mutters the officer under his breath.
Too weak to resist, I allow myself to be laid out with my back to the stipe. The officer kneels over my hips and leans forward to hold my shoulders down while his two men extend my arms out along the patibulum. They each place one knee on a forearm to hold it in place, and press the blunt point of a spike into my wrist with one hand while preparing to drive it through with the hammer held in the other.
Aroused once again after a period of relative quiet, the crowd is on its feet and loudly chanting "nail her, nail her!" I come to life too, shaking my head and frantically pleading "no, no. I beg of you please, noooo!"
He slaps me hard a across the face, growling "shaddup bitch!" I recoil from the blow, as well as a blast of foul breath, and kick my legs feebly. Wide-eyed and terror-stricken, I look left and right as two wicked-looking hammers are poised to strike.
The clanging ringing sound of hammer on iron mixed with my hysterical screaming floats up into the stands as the two spikes are driven through my thin wrists and buried deep in the wood. Thunderbolts of pain course through my arms. It hurts so much I nearly pass out.
The crowd cheers lustily as my tormentors get to their feet to survey their work. Weakly I raise my head and look left and right at my poor nailed wrists. I flex my fingers experimentally. Blood oozes from around the spikes. Fresh waves of pain shoot through my arms.
Head raised, chin on my chest, I look now down the length of my body ... past my mounded breasts, tumescent nipples standing high and erect, pale white flesh crisscrossed with blood-flecked whip lines, to my flattened tummy and legs spread on either side of the stipe, heels dug into the sand. I look up. One of the soldiers stares at my exposed pussy in that distinctively hungry male way. I shudder at the thought of it, and instinctively press my thighs firmly together.
The officer barks at his charges. On their knees now, they grab hold of my legs and before I can struggle, bind my ankles together with a length of rope. Then they forcibly bend and raise my knees so they can hold the flats of my feet down firmly against the stipe. The officer gets down on his knees, two spikes and a hammer held in his ham-sized fists.
Swiftly he places the point of a spike over my left foot and with three powerful blows drives it through, breaking bone and shattering cartilage. I scream and arch my back, lift my ass high in the air, only to fall back painfully and helplessly on the wood. Warm blood trickles across my smashed foot and runs between my toes.
Without so much as a moment's pause he nails my other foot to the stipe and unties the rope binding my ankles together. The three of them get to their feet. It is finished. I lie there, helplessly pinned like a butterfly to this diabolically cruel instrument of suffering and death, chest rising and falling with my ragged breaths. I close my eyes, the worst part of my ordeal is about to begin.
My tormentors take a bow. The crowd cheers and begins to stamp its feet and chant, "raise her, raise her!"
TO BE CONTINUED
They take me down from the whipping post. Battered and bleeding I fall to the ground, roll over on my side and draw my knees up into a fetal position, hoping that somehow this is all a bad dream.
My two handlers reach down and take hold of my wrists. After righting me and spinning me around, they drag my limp body across the arena floor, the heels of my feet leaving little furrows in the loose sand to mark my path. Sand and grit work their way painfully into my wounds on my butt and back. I struggle and kick but too no avail. After being bounced over a gladiator's discarded shield I am finally brought to rest next to a heavy T-cross laying ready and waiting for me on the arena floor.
Helping hands raise my whip-scourged body to a sitting position astride the stipe. Dazed and disoriented, I lean back, one hand on its rough surface and try to focus on what is happening. The officer, now bare-headed and bald, yells at his men, his face turning crimson with rage, "Dolts! Who has the hammer and nails?"They look blankly at each other and then one scurries sheepishly off, returning several minutes later with two hammers and four large iron spikes in hand. "Idiots," mutters the officer under his breath.
Too weak to resist, I allow myself to be laid out with my back to the stipe. The officer kneels over my hips and leans forward to hold my shoulders down while his two men extend my arms out along the patibulum. They each place one knee on a forearm to hold it in place, and press the blunt point of a spike into my wrist with one hand while preparing to drive it through with the hammer held in the other.
Aroused once again after a period of relative quiet, the crowd is on its feet and loudly chanting "nail her, nail her!" I come to life too, shaking my head and frantically pleading "no, no. I beg of you please, noooo!"
He slaps me hard a across the face, growling "shaddup bitch!" I recoil from the blow, as well as a blast of foul breath, and kick my legs feebly. Wide-eyed and terror-stricken, I look left and right as two wicked-looking hammers are poised to strike.
The clanging ringing sound of hammer on iron mixed with my hysterical screaming floats up into the stands as the two spikes are driven through my thin wrists and buried deep in the wood. Thunderbolts of pain course through my arms. It hurts so much I nearly pass out.
The crowd cheers lustily as my tormentors get to their feet to survey their work. Weakly I raise my head and look left and right at my poor nailed wrists. I flex my fingers experimentally. Blood oozes from around the spikes. Fresh waves of pain shoot through my arms.
Head raised, chin on my chest, I look now down the length of my body ... past my mounded breasts, tumescent nipples standing high and erect, pale white flesh crisscrossed with blood-flecked whip lines, to my flattened tummy and legs spread on either side of the stipe, heels dug into the sand. I look up. One of the soldiers stares at my exposed pussy in that distinctively hungry male way. I shudder at the thought of it, and instinctively press my thighs firmly together.
The officer barks at his charges. On their knees now, they grab hold of my legs and before I can struggle, bind my ankles together with a length of rope. Then they forcibly bend and raise my knees so they can hold the flats of my feet down firmly against the stipe. The officer gets down on his knees, two spikes and a hammer held in his ham-sized fists.
Swiftly he places the point of a spike over my left foot and with three powerful blows drives it through, breaking bone and shattering cartilage. I scream and arch my back, lift my ass high in the air, only to fall back painfully and helplessly on the wood. Warm blood trickles across my smashed foot and runs between my toes.
Without so much as a moment's pause he nails my other foot to the stipe and unties the rope binding my ankles together. The three of them get to their feet. It is finished. I lie there, helplessly pinned like a butterfly to this diabolically cruel instrument of suffering and death, chest rising and falling with my ragged breaths. I close my eyes, the worst part of my ordeal is about to begin.
My tormentors take a bow. The crowd cheers and begins to stamp its feet and chant, "raise her, raise her!"
TO BE CONTINUED
