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Barbaria's Roman Crucifixion

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rb1956 said:
Barb you suffer so much for us. you hang there naked an broken, trying your best to live a little longer only to betrayed by your battered body. your loss of blood an the whipping you endured put a strain on your body. yet you endured for our enjoyment as we watched you fade away.
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Sounds like my epitaph ;) ...thanks for posting. :)
 
Barbaria1 said:
Part 2

View attachment 262935 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!"

TO BE CONTINUED
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Good story Barb....once again you deliver.!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
 
pontiopilato said:
Barb, my god, you make such a wonderful crucifee(and writer, of course). Marvellous, simply marvellous! I just hope that all that suffering brings you some enjoyment, however twisted that might be.
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Thanks Pontio. Glad you enjoyed the story, and Madiosi’s art too!
 
phlebas said:
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 :)
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Let's not forget those who desire to be part of the executioners team.....
 
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