J
Juan1234
Guest
If you perverts want to see what a naked woman looks like after forty years of hard labor and childbirth, there are three of us on display outside the merchants gate. We are good and honest women, and we've been good and honest wives and mothers. Between us, we've given birth almost thirty times and raised more than a dozen children. Enjoy.
I'm not ashamed of my body. I'm strong and lean, and I can't imagine many women of my age and my class look much better than I do. Do you expect my breasts to float like clouds at 39 years old? I like to think most of my skin is still taut despite the sunbaked wrinkles on my face. But I supposed all of those judgements are up to you now. Go ahead - stick your fingers up my cunt. Tight enough for you? Apparently this is what I exist for now.
We were spies in this civil war, sent to learn the plans of the tribune Claudius. We spent a week as servants in his war camp, listening, learning the rhythms of the days, looking for our chance. My heart pounded almost constantly, not for any particular fear, but for the ever-present, all-consuming knowledge that we could at any moment be discovered. We had ingratiated ourselves immediately with the guard who usually stood watch outside the tribune's tent, which was a victory in itself, but it also drew some attention. By yesterday, we knew the tribune had his eye on us, and if we were going to make a move, we had to do it soon.
We bribed the guard to let us into the tribune's tent during his morning review of the troops, when most of the soldiers were formed up and the camp itself was mostly empty. We rummaged through the tribune's things as fast as we could, looking for orders, dispatches, letters - anything we could. Each moment felt surreal. We were inside the tribune's tent, where we were not supposed to be, rummaging through his papers. If anyone walked in, we knew we would have no escape or defense.
And someone did. We still don't know why, and I suppose we never will (not that it matters much), but a centurion flipped up the tent flap briskly, obviously on a mission, and was obviously shocked to see three servant women making a mess of the tribune's personal things. He froze for a moment, as did we, papers in our hands. An awful sickness pounded into my belly with each thundering heartbeat. It was over. My panicked mind went blank with racing, more because I couldn't stand to fail than for any other reason. I had known for a long time I was unlikely to survive this war. Finally the centurion spoke.
"Well, then," he said. Then another painful pause. "Put those things down," he said calmly. We obeyed - there was nothing to be gained by refusing. "Come out of there." That was it. We filed out, ready to be crucified.
The centurion motioned to a group of four legionaries to join him, and they surrounded us. "Undress," the centurion ordered. I spat, then began untying my tunic. My friends followed. No one said "death," or "execution." It wasn't necessary - we all knew. When we were naked, the legionaries tied our hands behind our backs - more a symbolic gesture than anything, as the three of us, strong though we were, were no match for the five of them. I was used to bathing in the river and throwing stones at men who stopped to stare. But I had never felt so vulnerable as I did as they cinched the knots painfully around my wrists, their hot breath on the back of my neck, the extra length of rope hanging and grazing my bare bottom as they worked.
They paraded us in front of the ranks for an extremely brief interview with the tribune.
"Tribune, I found these women searching your private quarters."
"Very well," the tribune nodded, and returned to his review of the troops. There was no need to say more - it was obvious - no need to discuss it. So they took us back to the city, flogged us and crucified us. Now here we hang.
I won't lie - I cried like a child when they whipped me in the plaza. And I felt more embarrassed than I had expected. Like I said before, I'm not ashamed of my body. My ass is rock hard from a life of hard work. Take a look for yourself - I'm up here for your viewing pleasure. Maybe not as broad and feminine as Octavia's, next to me, but strong - no flab. But when they whipped my bottom, and I could feel the eyes of the whole crowd staring... I had never felt so violated.
Now I'm hanging here with my arms nailed open wide, my feet nailed on either side of the stipes, parting my legs and exposing my sex. When we got here and they told me to lie down to be nailed, I spat, then squatted and took a piss before obeying. They took a while to tie me in place, and my heart was beating fast. I tried to be more angry than scared. But when the nail went through my wrist, I screamed and blabbered like I was possessed. I was - with pain. It hurts worse than it looks like.
I know it's silly to say it, but the nails are the worst. I don't like to look up at where the nail-heads emerge from my wrists. My hands are dark purple, and I can't move them. My mind doesn't know what to do with so much pain.
So come on and watch us die. Watch us struggle, come stick your fingers into our bodies, watch us piss ourselves - whatever makes you happy. You can see the secrets of our intimate hygiene - apparently Octavia still keeps her bush trim enough for her husband to easily see her lips, like our mothers taught us. I stopped doing that years ago, when I stopped wanting my husband to fuck me. Judge us, touch us, ogle us - do what you want. We'll be dead in a day or two and it won't matter anymore.
If you ask me if I'm afraid to die, I'll just spit. I don't want to answer.
I'm not ashamed of my body. I'm strong and lean, and I can't imagine many women of my age and my class look much better than I do. Do you expect my breasts to float like clouds at 39 years old? I like to think most of my skin is still taut despite the sunbaked wrinkles on my face. But I supposed all of those judgements are up to you now. Go ahead - stick your fingers up my cunt. Tight enough for you? Apparently this is what I exist for now.
We were spies in this civil war, sent to learn the plans of the tribune Claudius. We spent a week as servants in his war camp, listening, learning the rhythms of the days, looking for our chance. My heart pounded almost constantly, not for any particular fear, but for the ever-present, all-consuming knowledge that we could at any moment be discovered. We had ingratiated ourselves immediately with the guard who usually stood watch outside the tribune's tent, which was a victory in itself, but it also drew some attention. By yesterday, we knew the tribune had his eye on us, and if we were going to make a move, we had to do it soon.
We bribed the guard to let us into the tribune's tent during his morning review of the troops, when most of the soldiers were formed up and the camp itself was mostly empty. We rummaged through the tribune's things as fast as we could, looking for orders, dispatches, letters - anything we could. Each moment felt surreal. We were inside the tribune's tent, where we were not supposed to be, rummaging through his papers. If anyone walked in, we knew we would have no escape or defense.
And someone did. We still don't know why, and I suppose we never will (not that it matters much), but a centurion flipped up the tent flap briskly, obviously on a mission, and was obviously shocked to see three servant women making a mess of the tribune's personal things. He froze for a moment, as did we, papers in our hands. An awful sickness pounded into my belly with each thundering heartbeat. It was over. My panicked mind went blank with racing, more because I couldn't stand to fail than for any other reason. I had known for a long time I was unlikely to survive this war. Finally the centurion spoke.
"Well, then," he said. Then another painful pause. "Put those things down," he said calmly. We obeyed - there was nothing to be gained by refusing. "Come out of there." That was it. We filed out, ready to be crucified.
The centurion motioned to a group of four legionaries to join him, and they surrounded us. "Undress," the centurion ordered. I spat, then began untying my tunic. My friends followed. No one said "death," or "execution." It wasn't necessary - we all knew. When we were naked, the legionaries tied our hands behind our backs - more a symbolic gesture than anything, as the three of us, strong though we were, were no match for the five of them. I was used to bathing in the river and throwing stones at men who stopped to stare. But I had never felt so vulnerable as I did as they cinched the knots painfully around my wrists, their hot breath on the back of my neck, the extra length of rope hanging and grazing my bare bottom as they worked.
They paraded us in front of the ranks for an extremely brief interview with the tribune.
"Tribune, I found these women searching your private quarters."
"Very well," the tribune nodded, and returned to his review of the troops. There was no need to say more - it was obvious - no need to discuss it. So they took us back to the city, flogged us and crucified us. Now here we hang.
I won't lie - I cried like a child when they whipped me in the plaza. And I felt more embarrassed than I had expected. Like I said before, I'm not ashamed of my body. My ass is rock hard from a life of hard work. Take a look for yourself - I'm up here for your viewing pleasure. Maybe not as broad and feminine as Octavia's, next to me, but strong - no flab. But when they whipped my bottom, and I could feel the eyes of the whole crowd staring... I had never felt so violated.
Now I'm hanging here with my arms nailed open wide, my feet nailed on either side of the stipes, parting my legs and exposing my sex. When we got here and they told me to lie down to be nailed, I spat, then squatted and took a piss before obeying. They took a while to tie me in place, and my heart was beating fast. I tried to be more angry than scared. But when the nail went through my wrist, I screamed and blabbered like I was possessed. I was - with pain. It hurts worse than it looks like.
I know it's silly to say it, but the nails are the worst. I don't like to look up at where the nail-heads emerge from my wrists. My hands are dark purple, and I can't move them. My mind doesn't know what to do with so much pain.
So come on and watch us die. Watch us struggle, come stick your fingers into our bodies, watch us piss ourselves - whatever makes you happy. You can see the secrets of our intimate hygiene - apparently Octavia still keeps her bush trim enough for her husband to easily see her lips, like our mothers taught us. I stopped doing that years ago, when I stopped wanting my husband to fuck me. Judge us, touch us, ogle us - do what you want. We'll be dead in a day or two and it won't matter anymore.
If you ask me if I'm afraid to die, I'll just spit. I don't want to answer.
There are probably a dozen things I'd like to tweak, remove, and add if I had the time and energy to "do it right." Sorry. Thanks for reading anyway...
