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Barbaria's Roman Crucifixion

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Part 4.

madiosi-2015-140-forbarbv4-jpg.261829.jpeg "Raise her, raise her," they cry, stomping their feet in unison. The crowd's bloodlust is up. The stands are growing restive. They demand to be entertained.

The officer beckons for help. Two additional men are needed and come running at his call. There are now four to raise my cross, two to lift and push the ends of the patibulum, and a third to put his shoulder into the stipe, while a fourth guides the end of the timber into a pre-prepared hole in the arena floor. The officer directs the proceedings from a short distance away.

My cross begins to shudder and shake as it is lifted from the ground and tilted upwards. The men assigned to lift the patibulum grunt and curse. Once free of the ground, the patibulum ascends in a long graceful arc. Gravity pulls and my body slides downward. I gasp as the hard splintery surface of the stipe tears at my lacerated back. Fresh blood oozes from the wounds on my back and from my wrists as I am suspended from the impaling spikes that pin them in place.

I howl in pain and throw my head back against the wood. I focus on the glaring sun; then turn my head to take in the stands and the raucously jostling crowd, many of whom are pointing excitedly at me. I wonder what it is about my suffering that stirs them so? Both men and women are in the stands. Some of them appear to be lewdly embracing.

The bottom end of the stipe falls into its hole with a teeth-jarring thud. My body bounces and arcs outward on impact, swinging to the left, back to the right, and then smashing back again against the hard wood with such force that the breath is knocked out of me.

Beneath me, two of the men pound splints into place to wedge the cross at its base into its upright position. The vibrations form the pounding course through the timber and my body, jiggling my breasts and aggravating the bloody wounds in my wrists and feet. I start to sob and blubber in my misery.

At last they are finished and step back. I am raised, crucified, hanging limply from my wrists, knees bent, face contorted in pain, blood flowing in long snaking rivulets down the length of my arms. Sweat stings the whip lines on my body. I experience a stressful shortness of breath from the strain of hanging from my wrists. The suffering has begun … for how long I do not know.

The crowd stomps its feet, cheers lustily, and delivers a symphony of jeers and catcalls. It also takes up a new chant: "Dance Barbaria, dance!"

TO BE CONTINUED
 
Part 4.

View attachment 264227 "Raise her, raise her," they cry, stomping their feet in unison. The crowd's bloodlust is up. The stands are growing restive. They demand to be entertained.

The officer beckons for help. Two additional men are needed and come running at his call. There are now four to raise my cross, two to lift and push the ends of the patibulum, and a third to put his shoulder into the stipe, while a fourth guides the end of the timber into a pre-prepared hole in the arena floor. The officer directs the proceedings from a short distance away.

My cross begins to shudder and shake as it is lifted from the ground and tilted upwards. The men assigned to lift the patibulum grunt and curse. Once free of the ground, the patibulum ascends in a long graceful arc. Gravity pulls and my body slides downward. I gasp as the hard splintery surface of the stipe tears at my lacerated back. Fresh blood oozes from the wounds on my back and from my wrists as I am suspended from the impaling spikes that pin them in place.

I howl in pain and throw my head back against the wood. I focus on the glaring sun; then turn my head to take in the stands and the raucously jostling crowd, many of whom are pointing excitedly at me. I wonder what it is about my suffering that stirs them so? Both men and women are in the stands. Some of them appear to be lewdly embracing.

The bottom end of the stipe falls into its hole with a teeth-jarring thud. My body bounces and arcs outward on impact, swinging to the left, back to the right, and then smashing back again against the hard wood with such force that the breath is knocked out of me.

Beneath me, two of the men pound splints into place to wedge the cross at its base into its upright position. The vibrations form the pounding course through the timber and my body, jiggling my breasts and aggravating the bloody wounds in my wrists and feet. I start to sob and blubber in my misery.

At last they are finished and step back. I am raised, crucified, hanging limply from my wrists, knees bent, face contorted in pain, blood flowing in long snaking rivulets down the length of my arms. Sweat stings the whip lines on my body. I experience a stressful shortness of breath from the strain of hanging from my wrists. The suffering has begun … for how long I do not know.

The crowd stomps its feet, cheers lustily, and delivers a symphony of jeers and catcalls. It also takes up a new chant: "Dance Barbaria, dance!"

TO BE CONTINUED
I think we know you want it to last a long long time, and so do we.... it would be lovely I think...
 
Brilliant description of total agony, desperation, confusion and horror. And the manip is stunning - a fantastic look of contorted horror in Barb's face, and her body, slithering, struggle, sliding slightly to one side. The ghastly nails do their work and stop her sliding off the cross completely.....
 
Howeve, Barb seems a little reluctant to start her agonising dance of death up there on her cross. Some of us in the crowd will start to get fed up with waiting. Maybe the soldiers should start to 'encourage' her performance. A little taunting, or perhaps shake the cross to vibrate her, possibly?
 
The cries of 'raise her' merge into a roar of excitement as the Romans struggle to lift the heavy cross with its suffering load. We watch as she slides down the cross, and hear her anguish as the whip wounds are torn open once again. She bangs her head back against the cross, as if she could make it suffer her with her.

"Cor! Look at her!" My 'friend' was gawping at her and pointing as if she'd just grown an extra head.

But I only spared him a glance. My attention was also totally focussed on that cross. 'Barbaria', they said her name was. Whoever she was, she was too young to die.

"What's she done?" I asked, guessing the answer.

"Christian," he said.

I'd thought so. They liked crucifying christians. They worshipped some guy from Palestine who'd also been crucified. Madness. You couldn't write it in a book.

"Maybe they'll worship her, now!" I grinned, " I'd sooner worship her than some Jew!"

They were bashing in the wedges to hold the cross upright. I was highly entertained by the effect that this had on her breasts.

Matey obviously thought so too. "I need a fucking woman!" he groaned.

He was in luck. The local whores always clocked when there was a woman to be nailed, and they worked the crowd on these occasions. A 'fucking woman' attached herself to him like glue. Last I saw of him he was getting a BJ from her.

Me, I was happy to join in the latest chant:

"Dance, Barbaria, dance!"
 
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