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Vignettes from the slave pits

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melissa

Administrator
Staff member
What a twist at the end. never saw that coming.
 

theseus

Governor
Practice makes Perfect.

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After more than forty years of experience in the field, Miss Waterfield’s Academy for Girls of a Certain Kind had perfected the training programmes for its students.

Megan is dressed in the standard school uniform. Despite her outstanding physical attributes, she is a slow learner, and has twice failed the practical deep throat exam. This is her third year in the first form, a very embarrassing situation, as most girls pass within three months of admission.

She is determined to pass this time. The exam is tough, and she knows that for this exam Miss Waterfield has recruited the players from the Jamaican basketball team as examiners. Technique is everything, and practice makes perfect.

She knows her weak points. The initial entry! Entry must be smooth and continuous, until the nose bottoms out on the pubic bone. No hesitation, no gagging, no pauses. Straight in, to the hilt. Every evening, after dinner, she practices for an extra hour, while the other girls have their free time. She is improving, but there is still one major concern. Swallowing!

This is something she can’t train for with a dildo, no matter how good her entry and massage technique is. At the previous exams she failed miserably, cum gushing from her nose and the corners of her mouth. For that, she needed the real thing!

Male access to the Academy was very strictly controlled. She knew that some girls managed to find real practice partners, but she was not popular, and nobody would tell her the secret. She would have to do something very special for Angelica, her present bedmate. Angel had only been at the Academy for two months, yet, at the trail exams, she had excelled! Apart from a few small, acceptable dribbles from the corners of her mouth, she had swallowed perfectly. She had to have access to male!

She knew what Angel liked most of all, and although the thought made her shudder, she knew she had to do it. Spending and hour or so with her tongue drilled deep into Angel’s tight rosebud was a small price to pay to find the practice partner who would allow her the chance to advance to the next form.

Needs must when the devil drives!
 

theseus

Governor
Pass Mark!

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Angelica was ecstatic! Three out of three, and only a tiny dribble on the last one. She was guaranteed promotion to the next form. After only two months!

Being a student at the Academy was so exciting! There was so much to learn, but it was all such fun! Cocksucking was the best! She didn’t think she could ever have enough of it. Mistress Williams said that she was a natural, a born cocksucker. She hoped that would be on her report card. Her mother would be so proud.

There were downsides, of course. In the first few weeks she had broken so many rules. Not on purpose, but…well, there were so many rules. Her bottom had paid the price. Bending over, listening for the whistle of the cane, was an almost daily occurrence at first. Sitting down in class or at meals was an ordeal. Still, it was worth it for all the other things she learned about. Anal was challenging, but the senior students at St George’s College were very kind, sacrificing their afternoons three times a week to help the girls at the Academy with their practical work.

Anal was her last exam. It was her weakest subject, but she was confident she would pass. She was a good asslicker, thanks to the personal instruction received from Mannering, their form prefect. As for receiving anal, well, she knew she would stretch. These Jamaicans were big, but if they could fit in her throat, well, they could fit in her ass.

Poor Megan! She was struggling again. Cum gushing from her nose! She had tried her best to help her, but although Megan was a good sucker, she was a poor swallower. She would probably be expelled. It was sad, but she would either become a street corner hooker, or be sold to a harem in some horrid country, like Morocco or Mali. At least her asslicking skills had improved.

Form Two was going to be so exciting! Angel couldn’t wait!
 

theseus

Governor
This story is posted here at the suggestion of Baracus.

The Novice and the Veteran...

A.D 51, (somewhere in the Mediterranean.)

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The frightened young woman trembled with fear and revulsion.

Naked, and grimy, she found herself seated, chained, to a large wooden Oar, next to a rather large, imposing woman of advanced years...her general appearance, was, at best not attractive, given her circumstances.

Grey-haired, her lined face was evident of the years of hard toil, as was her body, the signs of abuse, weren't hard to miss...red weals crisscrossed her nude leathery skin, bruises were also evident...

Nervously, the young female tried desperately to make sense of her, harsh surroundings, and was aware of the stench of sweat, piss, shit and other unmentioned bodily fluids...she wanted to be sick!! The SMELL!! She gagged, dryly....

Borne out of instinct, she tugged, vainly, at the cold metal chains that affixed her sore wrists to the grubby wood she now clasped. Somehow, she realised, her life depended on it!!

The older woman smiled, grimly, she'd been there herself...she grunted, amused, to the younger girl's disgust.

As she sat there miserably, noticing the cruel whip-marks, on the unfortunate naked, sweat-slicked backs of the exhausted slaves who'd slumped over their Oars ,their breaths punctuated with sobs, or groans....

Again, the fair-haired girl shuddered...

( Is THIS her life? To merely exist as a naked Galley Slave ??)

"Oh...Shit !!" She mumbled, in her native, Germanic tongue, which came out, as "Ach...Sheiße!!"

Suddenly the young female flinched, jumped in shock, as a wrinkled, leathery hand touched her bare thigh...!! ("Wer die ficke ?!")

She heard the old crone speak in an unfamiliar language, obviously to reassure, or warn (?) her.

"Listen dear (!!)" she said, patting the girl's thigh, almost menacingly, she continued...

"We're all in this dreadful situation, hon, it's best to cooperate, and maybe it won't be SO bad, in the long run...But let me tell you this...!!" She whispered as the girl stared back, appalled.

(“How DARE she...?!")

"You can guarantee that the bastards that run this fucking ship WILL have their filthy fun with you, oh yes, indeed !!" She cackled, maliciously...which only scared the younger woman more.

Her blue eyes widened in fear!!

"Those nice firm tits of yours will see no end of attention, unlike my withered old dugs...!!"

She clasped her saggy breasts that had definitely seen better days....

Appalled, the young woman stared back....as the old lady grinned evilly ,exposing her gappy, brown teeth...how revolting !!

She continued taunting her reluctant tearful companion....

"The cunting Whip will hurt, oh yes, you will fucking HATE it, just don't give those dirty arseholes the satisfaction of beating you, physically and mentally; let's be realistic, you're stuck here for the rest of your worthless, miserable existence, you hear me, little bitch??

I've been chained here for fucking YEARS.... Every bloody day, I hope the Gods will take me....

I want to fucking die, and SO will YOU, eventually, trust me !! "

Dumbly, the confused girl nodded...tears threatening to spring. Was this ugly old cow to be trusted?? She wondered...??

"Ja...ja !!" She mumbled, nodding, hoping desperately that the disgusting old woman, who stank of piss and shit and Gött knows what else, would leave her be...even if they WERE chained to the same bench, virtually touching each other.....to her acute displeasure.

As the German female took in her surroundings, she noticed something that made her blood run cold, despite the cloying heat of the lower Galley. A large 'T'- Cross, that dominated the bow of the ship.... its vile purpose was clear.... the ultimate deterrent. At the moment it was unoccupied, but she had no doubt that some poor screaming female would be cruelly tied to it, to suffer, for however long it took.... again, she shivered!!

Suddenly her reverie was shattered as heavy boots thudded along, the gangway....

And a leather whip whistled through the air to land with a huge stinging blow across the helpless German's naked, virgin back.... "AAAAAGGGHHH !!" she screamed as her back BURNED!!

This was only the beginning, she mused quite unhappily, as she grabbed the heavy beam and began to pull back, tearfully contemplating her own grisly future.... a victim of Rome's evil empire, a mere slave, chained, benched, to row for all eternity.... with that awful woman for company......!!



Text by Baracus. Picture by Pirog800
 

theseus

Governor
Punishment at the Academy.

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Discipline at Miss Waterfield’s Academy for Girls of a Certain Kind was strict. Hardly a day went by without the girls bending over, palms on the floor, knees straight, skirts hiked up, waiting for the whistle of the cane, the fiery lick of the whip, the slap of the strap or the painful impact of the paddle.

These two were double offenders. Not only had they spilt the tea they were serving to the Mistresses, but, much more seriously, they had failed the vaginal muscle control test. They had already received the punishment for the tea episode. Such a minor offence was worth a mere two dozen hard smacks with the paddle. Now they are waiting for the next, more serious punishment. Still bent over, unable to do anything to soothe their bruised bottoms, they can only listen to the sobs and fruitless pleas for mercy from the girl who was receiving a mere dozen of the cane for a minor misdemeanour.

Their buttocks clenched involuntarily each time the cane whistled, and impacted soft buttocks with a resounding crack. For Mistress Prentice, the Cane Mistress, that was merely a warm up for the serious work to follow. As de Valois sobbingly counted the fifth of her dozen strokes, Claire, who being on the left would receive the first strokes of their punishment, started to whimper.

Her bottom was already so sore! How would she ever survive forty eight strokes of that brutal cane?
 

Madiosi

Depictor of Dreams
Staff member
Punishment at the Academy.

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Discipline at Miss Waterfield’s Academy for Girls of a Certain Kind was strict. Hardly a day went by without the girls bending over, palms on the floor, knees straight, skirts hiked up, waiting for the whistle of the cane, the fiery lick of the whip, the slap of the strap or the painful impact of the paddle.

These two were double offenders. Not only had they spilt the tea they were serving to the Mistresses, but, much more seriously, they had failed the vaginal muscle control test. They had already received the punishment for the tea episode. Such a minor offence was worth a mere two dozen hard smacks with the paddle. Now they are waiting for the next, more serious punishment. Still bent over, unable to do anything to soothe their bruised bottoms, they can only listen to the sobs and fruitless pleas for mercy from the girl who was receiving a mere dozen of the cane for a minor misdemeanour.

Their buttocks clenched involuntarily each time the cane whistled, and impacted soft buttocks with a resounding crack. For Mistress Prentice, the Cane Mistress, that was merely a warm up for the serious work to follow. As de Valois sobbingly counted the fifth of her dozen strokes, Claire, who being on the left would receive the first strokes of their punishment, started to whimper.

Her bottom was already so sore! How would she ever survive forty eight strokes of that brutal cane?
@Barbaria1 s main course?
 

theseus

Governor
The Discipline Centre.

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Discipline in a Collection of slaves is always strict. Owners usually administer the punishment themselves, or, if they can’t be bothered, delegate the job to their overseer.

This offence, however, was so serious that Judith’s owner did not have the stomach to carry out the punishment himself. He had owned Judith for five years. She was a very satisfying slave. She was inventive, adventurous and was willing to do almost anything to please the man who owned her body and her soul.

Almost anything!

Her master had lent her to one of his friends. This was not an unusual event. He was proud of her, and enjoyed being able to please his friends with the temporary gift of her body. This time it was different! This time Judith did the unthinkable, the unforgivable! She punched a free man! Not only punched him, but punched him so hard that she broke his nose and dislodged three teeth.

She was an experienced slave. Seldom had she been required to perform an act as unspeakable, as unnatural, as disgusting as this man required her to do. She had demurred, politely. She was a slave, after all. She had asked him to ask her master for permission to make her do this thing! If her master ordered it, she would obey, even though it would rob her of the last shreds of her humanity. The man refused, insisting she do it.

Judith was a powerful woman. Her Master enjoyed watching her work. Hard, brutal, physical work, encouraged by the whip. She was strong! A good slave! But this was too much! She lashed out! Cartilage crushed, blood spurted, teeth broke!

She had to be punished! Punished very, very severely. He had developed an affection for his slave, an affection that was reciprocated. He could not bring himself to hurt her as she had to be hurt! There was only one solution. He called the Community Disciplinarian.

Judith knelt in front of her Master. “I am sorry Master,” was all she could say.

He sighed. “What he wanted is unreasonable, unconscionable, obscene and disgusting. However, what you did is unforgivable! To raise your hand to a free man? Unthinkable! You must suffer! He wants your death. A slow, painful, humiliating death. I will not allow that, but you will suffer. You will suffer terribly!”

Judith bowed her head. “I am sorry, Master. I was wrong. Please punish me as I deserve.”

He shook his head. “I l…like you too much to hurt you as you deserve. Your punishment will be public, a visible warning to all other slaves not to follow in your footsteps. You will live, although I have no doubt you will wish to die. I want you back.” He sighed. I have called the Community Disciplinarian.”

Judith nodded. Her heart was racing. She was sure she would live to be returned to her Master, she was equally sure that she would wish to die. “I am yours to do with as you wish, Master.” She bent down, kissing his feet.

Her shoulders ached, her wrists were already raw from chafing against the rough iron staples attaching them to the crossbar above her head. The heavy steel bit-gag was tight, pulling her cheeks back, grinding painfully against the raw gums where the four back molars had been ripped from her jaw to accommodate the bit. She had not eaten for two days; it was impossible with the bit.

“I want her back alive. I do not want her permanently crippled.” The Disciplinarian nodded. “You well get her back. She will be alive, uncrippled, but certainly scarred.” He smiled, a terrifying smile. “You may have her back in twenty days.”

Judith fought her bonds. The first of those twenty days had seen her teeth removed. She was sure that pain would be as nothing compared with what was to come. It was hot in the dungeon, sweat, the sweat of fear, poured from her body. Faintly, muffled by the thick walls, she heard the screams of a woman in torment. She knew that soon she would be screaming like that.

She wished he would start. That he would start hurting her! This waiting, this terrible anticipation, this fear of the painful unknown, was worse that mere pain. “Please! Oh Please! Hurt me and get this over with!”

Sweating, terrified, she waited!
 

theseus

Governor
A Mother’s Advice.

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“I know it is difficult, and I know that you want to gag and feel like you want to vomit, but this is a skill you have to learn”

“But Mom! Its long, and its thick, and it tastes awful.” Helen looked at her mother, pleading.

Laura smiled at her daughter’s protest. “I have known longer, and I have known thicker. Your father is both. This is a basic skill for a girl. And believe me, the real thing tastes much better.” Laura smiled, “well, most of the time, anyway. Now come, try again! Practice makes perfect, as your dad would say. He always expects perfection. One smooth movement, until your chin pushes against the balls. Come on! You can do it!”

A good mother owes it to her daughter to ensure that she is equipped with all the necessary life skills.
 

theseus

Governor
Displayed

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This was so much more difficult than she expected, even in her worst nightmares. She thought she was ready for this, the final step on her road to slavery. After all, she had freely made the decision to sell herself. Nobody had forced her, and in fact the dealer had tried her utmost to ensure that she knew what she was letting herself in for.

All the way through her training, she had been given many opportunities to change her mind. The trainer was so dispassionate. “You are to be slaves. Slaves are objects! You are no longer people, no longer human, you are things! Chattels! Possessions! Lower than animals!”

That was the worst! Being shown just how low her status was. Laura shuddered at the memory. She was in no way restrained. If she ran, or resisted, she would be expelled. She would be given a skimpy dress and put out in the street. To fend for herself.

She thought that was the worst she would have to suffer, the total humiliation of the act. Yet, this was worse! It was so final!

The room was dimly lit, except for the spotlights illuminating the platform she stood on. There were to be four showings that day. Perhaps, by the fourth, it wouldn’t be so bad. She could barely see the prospective buyer. He was merely a shape, sat in one of the comfortable leather armchairs arranged around the platform. She heard the dealer describe her. Her age, her height, her weight. Did she have to be so explicit? So personal? “She is very tight, front and back. Not a virgin, of course, but seldom used before her training. Her anus is very tight, but elastic, and well able to accommodate all but the thickest objects. Her vagina…” Laura let the words fade from her consciousness. What would he be like, this man who was wealthy enough to buy her body? Was he kind? Cruel? A total pervert? Would he require her to do the most disgusting, unnatural things? Lend her to others? Publicly display her? Pros…

She yelped as the dealer’s whip drew a line of fire across her back! She had missed the signal to remove the filmy wrap that tantalisingly hid her body. She removed it, revealing all to the gaze of the man. She knew her body was good. Her breasts were small, but beautifully shaped and firm. Her thighs were smooth and strong. Her pussy silky soft and smooth. She turned slowly, to show herself from all angles. He murmured a question, his voice deep and cultured.

“Of course, sir. You may touch her, penetrate her, do whatever you wish to ensure that she is of the required quality.” Laura shuddered. She wanted to protest, to run. This was worse than that day when she was shown that she was inferior to animals. She was rooted to the spot. She watched him approach, his shoulders broad, his walk powerful, confident. His hand on her breast was warm, strong. She wanted to cry! To protest! His hand slid down her body, found the softness, parted her lips.

She took a deep breath. Would she ever get used to this? Would she ever be able to accept that she was merely an object? Would she ever be able to reconcile herself to the fact that, to these people, she had no feelings, no emotions, no shame?

Why did it have to be so difficult? Becoming a slave?
 

theseus

Governor
The End of the Hunt.

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Laura could run no more. For three hours she had evaded the hounds, aided by the thick forest and the terrain. Finally, they had pushed her out of the forest and into this open meadow.

Now the hounds were snapping at her heels. The riders were cantering behind them, waiting for the hounds to bring her down. She could hear her husband’s grating voice. “I bet you fifty she just stops and goes down on her hands and knees. She can’t run any more, and she won’t fight them. She’ll just take it like the bitch she is.”

The dogs were snapping at her, now, the big fawn hound snapping at her heels, literally! She knew that the hounds were specially trained for cunt-hunts. They were gentle with their jaws, gripping but not, usually, drawing blood or inflicting actual wounds.

This was such an exciting sport! She loved it, as did many of her friends. Much more interesting than running a marathon. Every time she did one of these, she was better at it. Eluding the hounds for longer, finding new ways to outsmart them. Although all her hunts had ended the same way, she was determined that she would, one day, get to the safe zone.

The fawn hound gripped her heel, causing her to stumble. The end was close, but she regained her balance and gained a few more yards. The dog gripped her ankle again, more firmly. It hurt! She tried to shake free, but a second hound was upon her. She went down, scrabbling to regain her feet! Desperately, she crawled, the safe zone was mere yards away. Teeth clamped onto the back of her neck! The dog growled, softly, menacingly. She stopped fighting, surrendering to the inevitable, feeling his weight on her back.

“Next time! Next time I’ll get there!”
 

theseus

Governor
Pony Training

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Perhaps all that time spent training for athletics had not been such a good idea after all. She had done pretty well in the mile and longer distances, although she had never won a championship. Then after graduation, her parents had decided that she should spend the summer at The Farm before going to University.

Sandy was quivering with excitement as she finished the run to The Farm. She gave a little smirk as she passed people walking gingerly, on sore feet, up the track from the parking area. She had always run barefoot, her feet were hard and strong!

The inspection by the overseers was both exciting and humiliating. It was so intimate, so very, very intimate. The questions! “Are you a virgin?” Stupid question, “Of course not. Would a virgin come here?” “What about your arse? Have you been buttfucked?” Yech, disgusting, she thought. “Of course not! That’s disgusting!” The overseer smiled, “Hey, MacLean, here’s another one for you to stretch!”

Everything was carefully noted. The barcode they applied to her would record all these details. “You’re a runner?” The overseer asked. Sandy nodded. “Long distance, mainly. The mile was my favourite.” The overseer nodded. “Pony training for you. I’ll let Maclean have you first, though. He does love a virgin arse.” She was led off to the stables. There she was fitted for a training harness, the thick rubber bit filling her mouth. Soon she was drooling uncontrollably. Her hands were cuffed behind her back. Clamps with little silver bells were attached to her nipples. They hurt, and itched and burned! All she could do was shake them to try and alleviate the discomfort. The bells tinkled merrily.

The girl who was fitting her out brought an assortment of tails, finding the one that most closely matched Sandy’s hair colour. “Nggggh!” Sandy squealed as she was shown the stainless steel plug at the base of the tail, and its use was explained to her. “Ngggghhh!” She shook her head furiously, shaking her head, drool flying. The girl laughed! Here comes MacLean now. Once he’s done with you this will slide in easily. The big, bare-chested, tattooed overseer marched over to them. “Och, such a nice, tight little arse. Like a boy! I canna wait! Bend her over the rail here, Jenny, then you can lube me up with that lovely mouth of yours.” Bent over the rail, looking through her legs, Sandy watched as the dark-haired girl removed the man’s trousers. She gasped at the sight that was revealed, and watched in amazement as the girl swallowed it in one move. She gasped as someone applied something cool to her virgin pucker. Maclean’s cock slid from Jenny’s mouth, glistening. He walked up to Sandy, his huge erection bobbing.

Sandy’s buttocks clenched; her stomach was a tight knot. She was frightened, excited, confused at her own emotions. “For what I am about to receive…” She thought.
 

theseus

Governor
The Challenge

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Michelle had always done her best to excel at everything she did. She had also been taught that she should always make the best use of whatever circumstances she found herself in.

She had not wanted to be a whore. Circumstances after the Big Crash had forced her to turn to prostitution to survive. Naturally, she tried to be the best, most versatile whore in the brothel.

This client was a challenge! He was huge! Several of the girls had tried, and failed, to meet his demands. Others had run a mile, accepting severe punishment rather than be torn apart.

He was not cruel, all he wanted was a good, satisfying fuck. All he wanted was a girl who would take him hilt deep, in all her holes. She had almost chickened out! When she saw him slowly come erect, she couldn’t quite believe her eyes. Was it real? Was this some kind of fevered dream/nightmare? She had been promised a large bonus, and a number of privileges if she succeeded. She had also been told that, if she pleased him, he would take her on a long lease, for his exclusive use. That was a real incentive! Just one client, instead of ten to fifteen per day.

She took a deep breath as she straddled him. He had suggested it, so that she could control the penetration. After the first time, of course, he would control matters. He smiled as she readied herself. “C’mon, honey, you can do it! You can take that big old pecker all the way into your tight cunt. Your ass will be more difficult, but there will be bonus if you do.”

“I’ll do my best, sir.”

She took a deep breath, then settled slowly, impaling herself on his thick, black stake.
 

theseus

Governor
The Missionary’s Wife

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The early morning sun felt good on Prudence Makepiece’s naked body. She could not remember ever having been totally naked before, not even in her bedroom. Yet here she was, naked, exposed to the lecherous eyes of the “Ignorant, devil worshipping heathens” her late husband had so hated and despised! In a strange way she was relieved to be here, in this situation. She was certainly relieved to be clean, to be free of the crawling, itchy, biting vermin her husband had called “God’s creatures, sent to try our faith.”

Her husband, the much admired, fiery missionary her parents had married her to! Her husband, who had made their short marriage a misery! Her husband, who had shown his contempt for the “ignorant heathen” by slaughtering a pig in the mosque! Her husband, who had been torn limb from limb, literally, by the enraged community! Her husband, whose gobbets of flesh had been left for the stray dogs and the crows!

Her parents had been overjoyed when they told her that the sainted Reverend Makepiece, the devout missionary who had devoted his life to converting the godless heathen savages in Africa had chosen their eldest daughter to be his helpmeet and companion on his sacred mission. Prudence said nothing. Her parents had decided, and that was the end of it. The wedding was a sombre affair. She saw her husband for the first time at the altar. She knew that he was almost three times her age, but she was not prepared for the wild-eyed, bearded man, dressed all in black save for his white clerical bands, who was to be her husband. Neither was she prepared for the miasma of body odour that assaulted her nostrils, or the sight of the crawling vermin that infested his beard and his lank, greasy hair.

The marriage ceremony was brief. Hours later they were aboard the ship that would take her to Africa. Her introduction to her conjugal duties was painful and unpleasant. Reverend Makepiece, she had never learned his first name, had laid her down on her belly in the narrow bunk, lifted the back of her dress and her petticoats, and forced himself into her. It was painful and humiliating, but mercifully brief. Her attempt to wash herself had been stopped immediately! “That is a sinful practice, born of vanity. Once a year, on the celebration of His birth, is enough for any Christian.” The lesson had been emphasised with a dozen strokes of his heavy leather belt on the bare bottom he had so recently penetrated. Hardly a day went when he did not find her to be in need of chastisement. “The wife shall be in subjection to the husband” was his chant as he beat her slim body, a beating usually followed by the exercise of his ‘conjugal rights’.

The mission on the coast of East Africa was a filthy hovel on the outskirts of the prosperous town of Bagamoyo. Her husband soon succeeded in converting three young women to the true faith. They shared the cramped house with Prudence and her husband. Contrary to his insistence that any bodily display was sinful, the converts were allowed to wear their traditional clothing; cotton sheets wrapped around the waist, leaving breasts and thighs bare. Prudence was jealous of the converts when they went to bathe in the river, returning clean and gleaming. Her request to join them earned her a special chastisement! The Reverend spent many hours on their religious instruction, behind the closed door of his study, accompanied by grunts and squeals.

For more than a year Prudence survived his obvious insanity. He started berating her for her failure to conceive. “Be fruitful and multiply” he chanted as the belt raised fiery welts on her body. “Be fruitful and multiply” he grunted as she lay on her belly, submitting to his conjugal rights.

Then had come the day that he slaughtered the pig in the mosque. The Qadi had come to the mission accompanied by two strapping askaris. They had taken away the few bits of furniture that had any value, and the four women. The Imam wanted compensation for the sacrilege committed in his mosque! The Qadi’s wife had taken charge of the four women, soon to be sold as slaves. Prudence moaned softly as the iron collar was locked around her throat, as her filthy clothes were cut from her body and consigned to the fire. The old woman was appalled by Prudence’s state of filth. Language was a problem, but the managed to communicate. “Did you never wash?” Prudence blushed. “My husband did not believe in washing. He said it was sinful vanity.”

The old woman shook her head in disbelief. She called two slave girls, rattled off commands. Prudence wash washed, thoroughly, as she had never been washed before. Her wild, thick, lousy pubic bush was removed completely, her hair trimmed, her body oiled. She was dumbstruck by the way she was treated. The heavy iron collar she wore indicated her new status, that of a slave. Her husband had committed a disgusting sacrilege, yet she was treated well, pampered, even.

She knelt in front of the old woman, the wife of the Qadi. “My Lady, you treat me kindly, despite my husband’s crime, and” she touched her collar, “my new status.” The old woman smiled. “My child. You did not commit the blasphemy; it is no fault of yours. You will suffer for it, nevertheless. It is not easy, being a slave. The Prophet (PBUH) spoke on the subject of slaves. “Fear God in the matter of your slaves. Feed them with what you eat and clothe them with what you wear, and do not give them work beyond their capacity. Those whom you like, retain, and those whom you dislike, sell. Do not cause pain to God’s creation. He caused you to own them and had He so wished He could have caused them to own you.” She paused, “It is God’s will that you are a slave, and I am free. Some day, it might be different.”

Prudence sobbed; it was so long since anyone had been kind to her. The woman lifted her to her feet. “Come, I must examine you. It is required.” Prudence squirmed with embarrassment as the hands touched her, sometimes intimately. “Spread your legs.” A finger probed between her lower lips, deeper, the old woman’s eyes widened! “You are a virgin? Intact? Yet you are married.” She smiled, “were married.”

Prudence was confused. “My husband, he didn’t enter me that way. He took his conjugal rights there.” She touched her anus. “Is that not the usual way?” The woman burst out laughing! “The way of the infidel is indeed strange! Do you not know about your body? Did your mother not teach you?” Prudence shook her head. “She said my husband would teach me my conjugal duty.” “And you did not wonder why you remained barren?”

She stayed in the house for several days, dressed as the other slaves in a soft cotton wrap, her breasts bare. The marks of her husband’s belt on her body faded, she was, strangely, happy. One day the Qadi beckoned her. “My child, tomorrow you are to be sold. The others are already gone. They are strong, fecund girls. They will be good workers and breed well. You,” he paused, “you are different. A wazungu, young, amazingly a virgin. You will be sold in the square by the ocean. You will be naked, completely naked.” He looked vaguely embarrassed. “I am sorry, it is the custom.”

The breeze off the sea was cool, making her nipples hard. Strangely, it felt good to be naked, to be shown to these men. The qadi and his wife had been kind. Surely the man who bought her would be equally so. She remembered the words of the Prophet. Perhaps it would be better to be a slave to these people than to be married to a missionary.


Artwork by Julie and Melissa
 

theseus

Governor
Mother, how long does it take to die?

crossed mom and daughte rr.jpg

“Mother, how long does it take to die?”

Julia’s agonised plea hurt Severa more than the pain of iron grating on broken bones, more than the pain of shoulders wrenched almost out of joint by the weight of her body, more than the agony of her raw, flayed back scraping against the rough, splintery surface of the stipes as she struggled to raise herself. To breathe!

The sun was still low in the East. They had been hanging there for only a few hours. How could she tell her daughter that it might take days, days of agony, before their bodies gave up the fight for life. “Soon, perhaps, soon,” she grunted against the pain.

“Damn Varus!” She thought. “Damn the lecherous, scalp collecting swine! Why did I reject his advances, all those years ago? After all, he merely wanted another notch on his bedpost.

It would only have been once. It’s not as if I was a virgin, either.” Her heart had sunk when she saw that Varus was to be their judge. She knew he would want his revenge for her rebuff all those years ago. “Damn Julius, her husband, for getting involved in that stupid plot. She hoped the bastard suffered for many years at the oar he was chained to, where he would spend the rest of his life!”

She and her daughter were innocent, they had not known about the plot until the soldiers broke down the door. They were guilty by association. Even then, their inevitable death should have been relatively quick and dignified. They were of the senatorial class. As such it should have been a quick journey to the dungeon, a few minutes of agony as the strangler’s cord erased their lives. Not this! Not this long, painful, humiliating death! A death reserved for slaves!

She could see that Varus was going to have his revenge, but she did not expect what was coming. “The prisoners are guilty of complicity in a plot to assassinate the Emperor. I sentence the entire family to be stripped of their senatorial rank, their citizenship, and their freedom.” He smiled broadly. For a moment Severa’s hopes had soared. Life as a slave was not good, but it was life! “The slave Julius is to be taken to the forum, where he will receive two hundred lashes. He will then be taken to the galleys, to be chained to an oar until death.” Her husband sagged at the knees. He had been sentenced to a living death! The slaves Severa and Julia will be taken from here to the dungeons. After preparation overnight, they will be flogged in the forum before being crucified.”

Julia was screaming again! Her thigh had cramped and she hung at an angle, most of her weight suspended from a single, mangled wrist. The Optio in charge of the guard detail shoved a sponge into a bucket of none to clean water, stuck it on a stick and offered it to Julia. She sucked thirstily at the wet sponge. The Optio turned to his men. “How often do I have to tell you!” He shouted. “These two are special! That fuckhead Varus, Senator Varus to you, wants these two to suffer! So! “No broken legs! Keep the fucking crows off them. It’s okay if the pick at the flesh around the nails, but don’t let them pick their eyes out! Fuckhead wants them to see each other’s suffering. Water every hour, and no pissing in the bucket! The rats will come tonight. That’s fine, they’ll just eat the flesh off the feet, won’t hasten them dying. There’s a bonus for us if they live more than four days.”

Julia heard the conversation through the haze of pain. “Mother! He said we could live for four days! Like this! I want to die! Now!” Severa could only grunt reassurance to her daughter.

“Optio, what’s so special about these two?” A young legionary, on his first execution duty, asked. “They are senatorial class. They should have been sent to Lupus to be strangled. Instead, here they hang. The daughter was so sweet last night. She was crying when it was my turn. She apologised for not being very good, said she was sore after so many of us.” The Optio shook his head. “It seems the mother turned down fuckhead Varus years ago. Told him to stick his cock up his own ass. He’s never forgiven her. They should have been sent to Lupus. He would have done that neat little trick of his, snapped their necks and it would have been over in seconds. Instead, they got this.” He looked up at the two women doing their pain filled dance on the cross. They had been there less than two hours. If they could live for ninety two more hours he and his men would get their bonus. “You poor bitches,” he muttered to himself.

Julia looked across at her mother, seeing the pain as she danced the deadly dance of the crucified. Her own world was filled with pain, incredible pain. She was thirsty again. Would that kind Optio give her more water? He was a good man. He had been gentle when he raped her, unlike the senator, who seemed to take pleasure in her pain. Four days? Four days of agony.

Severa danced her dance from hell. “That bastard Varus! All because I wouldn’t let him bugger me all those years ago. Oh gods! It hurts! It hurts so much!”


Inspired by Cruxkilla

Artwork by Jastrow (I think.)
 

melissa

Administrator
Staff member
Displayed

View attachment 967161


This was so much more difficult than she expected, even in her worst nightmares. She thought she was ready for this, the final step on her road to slavery. After all, she had freely made the decision to sell herself. Nobody had forced her, and in fact the dealer had tried her utmost to ensure that she knew what she was letting herself in for.

All the way through her training, she had been given many opportunities to change her mind. The trainer was so dispassionate. “You are to be slaves. Slaves are objects! You are no longer people, no longer human, you are things! Chattels! Possessions! Lower than animals!”

That was the worst! Being shown just how low her status was. Laura shuddered at the memory. She was in no way restrained. If she ran, or resisted, she would be expelled. She would be given a skimpy dress and put out in the street. To fend for herself.

She thought that was the worst she would have to suffer, the total humiliation of the act. Yet, this was worse! It was so final!

The room was dimly lit, except for the spotlights illuminating the platform she stood on. There were to be four showings that day. Perhaps, by the fourth, it wouldn’t be so bad. She could barely see the prospective buyer. He was merely a shape, sat in one of the comfortable leather armchairs arranged around the platform. She heard the dealer describe her. Her age, her height, her weight. Did she have to be so explicit? So personal? “She is very tight, front and back. Not a virgin, of course, but seldom used before her training. Her anus is very tight, but elastic, and well able to accommodate all but the thickest objects. Her vagina…” Laura let the words fade from her consciousness. What would he be like, this man who was wealthy enough to buy her body? Was he kind? Cruel? A total pervert? Would he require her to do the most disgusting, unnatural things? Lend her to others? Publicly display her? Pros…

She yelped as the dealer’s whip drew a line of fire across her back! She had missed the signal to remove the filmy wrap that tantalisingly hid her body. She removed it, revealing all to the gaze of the man. She knew her body was good. Her breasts were small, but beautifully shaped and firm. Her thighs were smooth and strong. Her pussy silky soft and smooth. She turned slowly, to show herself from all angles. He murmured a question, his voice deep and cultured.

“Of course, sir. You may touch her, penetrate her, do whatever you wish to ensure that she is of the required quality.” Laura shuddered. She wanted to protest, to run. This was worse than that day when she was shown that she was inferior to animals. She was rooted to the spot. She watched him approach, his shoulders broad, his walk powerful, confident. His hand on her breast was warm, strong. She wanted to cry! To protest! His hand slid down her body, found the softness, parted her lips.

She took a deep breath. Would she ever get used to this? Would she ever be able to accept that she was merely an object? Would she ever be able to reconcile herself to the fact that, to these people, she had no feelings, no emotions, no shame?

Why did it have to be so difficult? Becoming a slave?
Alice is looking very worried. She's seen me looking at her and reckons her next stop may be back in Khabadami or even St. Melanias!
 

melissa

Administrator
Staff member
The Missionary’s Wife

View attachment 968873

The early morning sun felt good on Prudence Makepiece’s naked body. She could not remember ever having been totally naked before, not even in her bedroom. Yet here she was, naked, exposed to the lecherous eyes of the “Ignorant, devil worshipping heathens” her late husband had so hated and despised! In a strange way she was relieved to be here, in this situation. She was certainly relieved to be clean, to be free of the crawling, itchy, biting vermin her husband had called “God’s creatures, sent to try our faith.”

Her husband, the much admired, fiery missionary her parents had married her to! Her husband, who had made their short marriage a misery! Her husband, who had shown his contempt for the “ignorant heathen” by slaughtering a pig in the mosque! Her husband, who had been torn limb from limb, literally, by the enraged community! Her husband, whose gobbets of flesh had been left for the stray dogs and the crows!

Her parents had been overjoyed when they told her that the sainted Reverend Makepiece, the devout missionary who had devoted his life to converting the godless heathen savages in Africa had chosen their eldest daughter to be his helpmeet and companion on his sacred mission. Prudence said nothing. Her parents had decided, and that was the end of it. The wedding was a sombre affair. She saw her husband for the first time at the altar. She knew that he was almost three times her age, but she was not prepared for the wild-eyed, bearded man, dressed all in black save for his white clerical bands, who was to be her husband. Neither was she prepared for the miasma of body odour that assaulted her nostrils, or the sight of the crawling vermin that infested his beard and his lank, greasy hair.

The marriage ceremony was brief. Hours later they were aboard the ship that would take her to Africa. Her introduction to her conjugal duties was painful and unpleasant. Reverend Makepiece, she had never learned his first name, had laid her down on her belly in the narrow bunk, lifted the back of her dress and her petticoats, and forced himself into her. It was painful and humiliating, but mercifully brief. Her attempt to wash herself had been stopped immediately! “That is a sinful practice, born of vanity. Once a year, on the celebration of His birth, is enough for any Christian.” The lesson had been emphasised with a dozen strokes of his heavy leather belt on the bare bottom he had so recently penetrated. Hardly a day went when he did not find her to be in need of chastisement. “The wife shall be in subjection to the husband” was his chant as he beat her slim body, a beating usually followed by the exercise of his ‘conjugal rights’.

The mission on the coast of East Africa was a filthy hovel on the outskirts of the prosperous town of Bagamoyo. Her husband soon succeeded in converting three young women to the true faith. They shared the cramped house with Prudence and her husband. Contrary to his insistence that any bodily display was sinful, the converts were allowed to wear their traditional clothing; cotton sheets wrapped around the waist, leaving breasts and thighs bare. Prudence was jealous of the converts when they went to bathe in the river, returning clean and gleaming. Her request to join them earned her a special chastisement! The Reverend spent many hours on their religious instruction, behind the closed door of his study, accompanied by grunts and squeals.

For more than a year Prudence survived his obvious insanity. He started berating her for her failure to conceive. “Be fruitful and multiply” he chanted as the belt raised fiery welts on her body. “Be fruitful and multiply” he grunted as she lay on her belly, submitting to his conjugal rights.

Then had come the day that he slaughtered the pig in the mosque. The Qadi had come to the mission accompanied by two strapping askaris. They had taken away the few bits of furniture that had any value, and the four women. The Imam wanted compensation for the sacrilege committed in his mosque! The Qadi’s wife had taken charge of the four women, soon to be sold as slaves. Prudence moaned softly as the iron collar was locked around her throat, as her filthy clothes were cut from her body and consigned to the fire. The old woman was appalled by Prudence’s state of filth. Language was a problem, but the managed to communicate. “Did you never wash?” Prudence blushed. “My husband did not believe in washing. He said it was sinful vanity.”

The old woman shook her head in disbelief. She called two slave girls, rattled off commands. Prudence wash washed, thoroughly, as she had never been washed before. Her wild, thick, lousy pubic bush was removed completely, her hair trimmed, her body oiled. She was dumbstruck by the way she was treated. The heavy iron collar she wore indicated her new status, that of a slave. Her husband had committed a disgusting sacrilege, yet she was treated well, pampered, even.

She knelt in front of the old woman, the wife of the Qadi. “My Lady, you treat me kindly, despite my husband’s crime, and” she touched her collar, “my new status.” The old woman smiled. “My child. You did not commit the blasphemy; it is no fault of yours. You will suffer for it, nevertheless. It is not easy, being a slave. The Prophet (PBUH) spoke on the subject of slaves. “Fear God in the matter of your slaves. Feed them with what you eat and clothe them with what you wear, and do not give them work beyond their capacity. Those whom you like, retain, and those whom you dislike, sell. Do not cause pain to God’s creation. He caused you to own them and had He so wished He could have caused them to own you.” She paused, “It is God’s will that you are a slave, and I am free. Some day, it might be different.”

Prudence sobbed; it was so long since anyone had been kind to her. The woman lifted her to her feet. “Come, I must examine you. It is required.” Prudence squirmed with embarrassment as the hands touched her, sometimes intimately. “Spread your legs.” A finger probed between her lower lips, deeper, the old woman’s eyes widened! “You are a virgin? Intact? Yet you are married.” She smiled, “were married.”

Prudence was confused. “My husband, he didn’t enter me that way. He took his conjugal rights there.” She touched her anus. “Is that not the usual way?” The woman burst out laughing! “The way of the infidel is indeed strange! Do you not know about your body? Did your mother not teach you?” Prudence shook her head. “She said my husband would teach me my conjugal duty.” “And you did not wonder why you remained barren?”

She stayed in the house for several days, dressed as the other slaves in a soft cotton wrap, her breasts bare. The marks of her husband’s belt on her body faded, she was, strangely, happy. One day the Qadi beckoned her. “My child, tomorrow you are to be sold. The others are already gone. They are strong, fecund girls. They will be good workers and breed well. You,” he paused, “you are different. A wazungu, young, amazingly a virgin. You will be sold in the square by the ocean. You will be naked, completely naked.” He looked vaguely embarrassed. “I am sorry, it is the custom.”

The breeze off the sea was cool, making her nipples hard. Strangely, it felt good to be naked, to be shown to these men. The qadi and his wife had been kind. Surely the man who bought her would be equally so. She remembered the words of the Prophet. Perhaps it would be better to be a slave to these people than to be married to a missionary.


Artwork by Julie and Melissa
Just in case there's the odd bod out there who is ignorant of basic Swahili..."wazungu" is plural of mzungu which I think translates as "someone who speaks English". In that case isn't Prudence a mzungu?
Also if she is fecund then she is quite capable of producing an abundance of offspring. How many offspring equals an abundance? I have no idea. Great story and pic :thumbup:
 

theseus

Governor
Public Entertainment

Damians Crux Roman Crucifixions.png

The crowd loved it!

There is nothing quite like the crucifixion of a pretty girl to get the crowd on their feet. The carnifex and his men knew how to get the crowd going, knew exactly how to raise the blood lust of the masses, both nobles and commoners. The girl was young, pretty, spirited and defiant. Perfect!

Her actual offence was irrelevant. In fact, all she had done wrong was not to show sufficient enthusiasm for one of her master’s more extreme perversions. A simple whipping would have sharpened her attitude. Instead, he had brought her, struggling and spitting curses, to the aedile responsible for arranging the games. “I want her nailed. Early in the day. No broken legs, nothing to ease her suffering.” The girl spat at him, a great gobbet of slime that hit him unerringly in the eye. “Fuck you, you fucking pervert! I hope your miserable cock rots off!” The aedile managed to hide his smile. He shared her opinion of his fellow senator, and, after all, she had nothing to lose.

Tara and her family had been among the thousands of slaves taken when the Icenii were conquered. She had sold for little, so great was the supply of Celtic flesh on the slave market. Her owner had a large number of slaves, most of them young and female, although he did not eschew an attractive male, especially if he was effeminate. His parties and orgies were legendary! He was always looking for new ways to titillate his depraved friends.

The carnifex looked appreciatively at her tight body when he signed for her. He and his team would enjoy their duty! The law was clear, no virgin could be executed! He smiled at his team, revealing yellowed stumps and missing teeth. “About as much chance of this one being a virgin as I have of modelling for a statue of Apollo!” He laughed raucously at his own joke. He dodged the dollop of spit with the ease of long practice. There wasn’t much else the girl could do, with her hands tied tightly behind her. He patted her bottom. “Nice ass, kid. I bet you’ve been fucked there often enough. I’m taking first dibs on her ass, boys!”

Tara walked tall and proud into the arena where she would die. She was stiff and sore from a night of gangrape, yet showed no sign, other than the trickles of semen still leaking from her body. She was determined not to give them what they wanted. She would not scream; she would not beg! The carnifex smiled his jagged smile as he watched the girl walk to the whipping past. This one had guts! Guts and pride! He called the two men assigned to whip her aside. As always, one was right handed, the other left handed. “Now listen, boys, I don’t want this one broken by the whip. I don’t want her weakened. I want her back flayed, so that it is raw flesh, but I don’t want deep damage. You know how to do that!” The men nodded. Strip the skin off. Create a vast area of exposed nerve ends so that it would add to the agony as she danced. Don’t damage the muscles or sap her strength.

Tara tried to remain impassive as the two men slowly, methodically stripped the skin off her back. They took their time, stopping often to examine their work, allowing the pain to spread, the shock to wear off. Her lips were bloody as she bit them to hold back the screams, letting out no more than soft moans, almost inaudible. She couldn’t stop her muscles jumping, her feet trampling the bloody ground to mud. When they untied her, she stood straight, ignoring the raw agony from her flayed back. One of the whip men smiled at her, giving a slight nod of approval. He wasn’t quick enough to dodge the gobbet of bloody spit that hit his face. He smiled as he wiped his face. “I’ll say this for you, girl. You’ve got balls!”

She left a trail of scarlet droplets as she walked, erect, to the patibulum lying in front of the already erected stipes. She could not stifle a scream as one of the men tripped her, her raw back slamming into the rough earth in front of the cross. Her cross, the place of her death. Two men took her arms, spreading them out on the patibulum. The carnifex knelt beside her right hand, the heavy hammer in his hand, two thick, square cut spikes in his mouth. He adjusted the position of the hand. He wanted her to be able to dance for a long time. Not because he hated her, on the contrary, he admired her, but this was showbusiness, and the crowd wanted a good show. The arms had to be at exactly the right angle, allowing her to pull herself up to breathe. Not too wide, but wide enough to show off her pert little tits to best advantage.

His blunt, calloused finger prodded her wrist. Again, placement was important. Not only did he have to ensure that the spikes did not tear out, but he wanted the spike to trap the nerves between iron and bone, guaranteeing maximum pain as she hung from her wrists. The girl’s eyes, those beautiful blue eyes, watched his every move as he found the perfect spot. He saw her jaw work. “If you spit at me, girl, I will very slowly break every bone in your hands, after I’ve finished nailing your arms.” His voice was soft, almost gentle. Her eyes widened. He looked at her once more. “I like you, girl. I think you are very brave. But I have a job to do. My job is to make you hurt. To make you hurt and ensure that you keep hurting for a very long time.” The hammer swung, hard. The spike smashed through bone, pulverising nerves, missing almost all the blood vessels. Her scream echoed off the stands of the arena, cutting though the bloodthirsty roar of the crowd. The pain was beyond anything she could have imagined. Her body arched! The man holding her left arm was jerked form his position, the arm flailing free. Her right arm was going nowhere! The spike had penetrated all the way and was embedded in the wood of the patibulum. He stepped back, let her roll over, long, shapely legs kicking wildly, her left hand cradling the mangled wrist now joined forever to the unyielding wood of the cross. She cried and cursed, bloodcurdling curses. He left her for several minutes, admiring the play of muscles in her tight bum. He had enjoyed her several times, each time between those firm cheeks. Finally, he nodded to his men.

She fought them, her strength almost superhuman, then, suddenly, the fight went out of her. She lay on her bloody back, panting, letting out little moans as he drove the spike in her right wrist home with two sharp taps, the head of the spike resting almost gently against the soft skin on the inside of her wrist. Her blue eyes followed him as he went to kneel beside her left wrist. The defiance was gone, now. It had been replaced by pain. Pain, and the realisation that her young life would end here, end in a sea of pain, for the amusement of the crowd.

The carnifex positioned the arm, found the spot, and placed the spike. Her eyes followed his every move. “How many people have I nailed to crosses?” He mused. “Hundreds.” Men, women, and Jupiter preserve him, not a few children. Many had fought, strong men had tried to rip their arms free of the spikes, but at some stage all of them looked like she did now. Resigned. Frightened. Desperate. In Pain.

Three quick strikes of the hammer. The spike driven home. Her screams were continuous now, her body arching, her heels drumming on the ground made muddy by the blood from her back. He watched her as his men attached the ropes to the centre of the patibulum, running them through the grooves at the top of the stipes. Her eyes followed them as she sobbed softly, then widened as she realised what would happen next. “No…No…Please gods…No. You can’t! Please?” her eyes were desperate, begging. “Please no! I’ll die!” Amazingly, her lips twitched in a smile, a smile full of pain, yet a smile that made her beautiful. “No, I won’t die, will I, carnifex. You are too skilled at your work. I won’t die! I will hurt, hurt more than I ever thought possible, for a long time! Hurt while I pray for death.”

She shrieked as the ropes tightened, as the patibulum started to move, as the strain came onto her wrists, as her flayed back was dragged across the rough ground of the arena. Her legs tried to find purchase, to lessen the strain on her wrists. The patibulum hit the stipes, jarring her, sending more spikes of pain through her body, then started to lift. “No!” She screamed! “No!” She scrabbled her legs underneath her, taking some of the strain off her wrists. Her knees straightened, she stood on tiptoe! “Nooooooo! Oh gods! Nooooo!” Her feet left the ground, all her weight now suspended from the spikes piercing her wrists. “No!!!! Mother! Help me! No!!! Let me down! Let me down!”

She kicked her legs wildly, then tried to get a grip on the wood of the stipes, to take some of the weight off her wrists. The roar of the crowd was like a solid thing! The executioners watched, a few of them remembering the pleasure they had enjoyed between those thrashing legs. The carnifex stood with folded arms, a little smile twitching his face. He had plenty of time. She stopped kicking, hung from her wrists, sobbing bitterly. He waited, winked at one of his men. Watched as she struggled to breathe. “Please!” She gasped. “Please! Nail my feet! Please! I must…” She struggled for breath. “I must breathe.”

He stroked his chin, thoughtfully. “Remember when you spat in our faces? Did you think that would go unpunished?” Her face crumpled. “Please! I’m sorry! Please!” He nodded. “Okay, boys! Feet on the sides, soles flat against the stipes.” He smiled. “We might as well let her spread those lovely thighs wide open for us one more time. And the crowd will enjoy watching her pussy gape.” There was no fight in her now, as they spread her thighs wide, placing her feet ready for the spikes. She screamed as the first one penetrated, screamed even louder as the carnifex missed the spike with his second blow, smashing all the bones in her toes and foot. The second foot was nailed without mishap. He stood back and watched as she started her agonised dance. Blood from her flayed back stained the stipes, she fought to stand, taking deep breaths.

The carnifex watched her for a few minutes. A good, professional job, as always. Slaves were coming on to prepare the ring for the gladiatorial bouts. His men gathered their tools. “A denarius she lasts more than two days.” One of them offered. There were no takers. “She is strong, that one, and brave,” someone muttered.

“What a waste! What a fucking senseless waste of a good cunt! The carnifex growled, his voice trembling with rage and pain. “Fucking bastard! He should be up there, not her! What a fucking waste!” He looked around at his men. “Wine! I need wine! Lots of it! Fuck them all! What a fucking waste!”


Artwork by Damian.



 

theseus

Governor
Just in case there's the odd bod out there who is ignorant of basic Swahili..."wazungu" is plural of mzungu which I think translates as "someone who speaks English". In that case isn't Prudence a mzungu?
Also if she is fecund then she is quite capable of producing an abundance of offspring. How many offspring equals an abundance? I have no idea. Great story and pic :thumbup:
Am I not allowed a small grammatical slip? She is indeed mzungu. I have, over the years, been given many derivations of the word. Not all of them are very polite! I am fortunate to be accepted, and am generally called' babu', which means grandfather, in Bagamoyo.
 

Baracus

Rectidolor
Public Entertainment

View attachment 970023

The crowd loved it!

There is nothing quite like the crucifixion of a pretty girl to get the crowd on their feet. The carnifex and his men knew how to get the crowd going, knew exactly how to raise the blood lust of the masses, both nobles and commoners. The girl was young, pretty, spirited and defiant. Perfect!

Her actual offence was irrelevant. In fact, all she had done wrong was not to show sufficient enthusiasm for one of her master’s more extreme perversions. A simple whipping would have sharpened her attitude. Instead, he had brought her, struggling and spitting curses, to the aedile responsible for arranging the games. “I want her nailed. Early in the day. No broken legs, nothing to ease her suffering.” The girl spat at him, a great gobbet of slime that hit him unerringly in the eye. “Fuck you, you fucking pervert! I hope your miserable cock rots off!” The aedile managed to hide his smile. He shared her opinion of his fellow senator, and, after all, she had nothing to lose.

Tara and her family had been among the thousands of slaves taken when the Icenii were conquered. She had sold for little, so great was the supply of Celtic flesh on the slave market. Her owner had a large number of slaves, most of them young and female, although he did not eschew an attractive male, especially if he was effeminate. His parties and orgies were legendary! He was always looking for new ways to titillate his depraved friends.

The carnifex looked appreciatively at her tight body when he signed for her. He and his team would enjoy their duty! The law was clear, no virgin could be executed! He smiled at his team, revealing yellowed stumps and missing teeth. “About as much chance of this one being a virgin as I have of modelling for a statue of Apollo!” He laughed raucously at his own joke. He dodged the dollop of spit with the ease of long practice. There wasn’t much else the girl could do, with her hands tied tightly behind her. He patted her bottom. “Nice ass, kid. I bet you’ve been fucked there often enough. I’m taking first dibs on her ass, boys!”

Tara walked tall and proud into the arena where she would die. She was stiff and sore from a night of gangrape, yet showed no sign, other than the trickles of semen still leaking from her body. She was determined not to give them what they wanted. She would not scream; she would not beg! The carnifex smiled his jagged smile as he watched the girl walk to the whipping past. This one had guts! Guts and pride! He called the two men assigned to whip her aside. As always, one was right handed, the other left handed. “Now listen, boys, I don’t want this one broken by the whip. I don’t want her weakened. I want her back flayed, so that it is raw flesh, but I don’t want deep damage. You know how to do that!” The men nodded. Strip the skin off. Create a vast area of exposed nerve ends so that it would add to the agony as she danced. Don’t damage the muscles or sap her strength.

Tara tried to remain impassive as the two men slowly, methodically stripped the skin off her back. They took their time, stopping often to examine their work, allowing the pain to spread, the shock to wear off. Her lips were bloody as she bit them to hold back the screams, letting out no more than soft moans, almost inaudible. She couldn’t stop her muscles jumping, her feet trampling the bloody ground to mud. When they untied her, she stood straight, ignoring the raw agony from her flayed back. One of the whip men smiled at her, giving a slight nod of approval. He wasn’t quick enough to dodge the gobbet of bloody spit that hit his face. He smiled as he wiped his face. “I’ll say this for you, girl. You’ve got balls!”

She left a trail of scarlet droplets as she walked, erect, to the patibulum lying in front of the already erected stipes. She could not stifle a scream as one of the men tripped her, her raw back slamming into the rough earth in front of the cross. Her cross, the place of her death. Two men took her arms, spreading them out on the patibulum. The carnifex knelt beside her right hand, the heavy hammer in his hand, two thick, square cut spikes in his mouth. He adjusted the position of the hand. He wanted her to be able to dance for a long time. Not because he hated her, on the contrary, he admired her, but this was showbusiness, and the crowd wanted a good show. The arms had to be at exactly the right angle, allowing her to pull herself up to breathe. Not too wide, but wide enough to show off her pert little tits to best advantage.

His blunt, calloused finger prodded her wrist. Again, placement was important. Not only did he have to ensure that the spikes did not tear out, but he wanted the spike to trap the nerves between iron and bone, guaranteeing maximum pain as she hung from her wrists. The girl’s eyes, those beautiful blue eyes, watched his every move as he found the perfect spot. He saw her jaw work. “If you spit at me, girl, I will very slowly break every bone in your hands, after I’ve finished nailing your arms.” His voice was soft, almost gentle. Her eyes widened. He looked at her once more. “I like you, girl. I think you are very brave. But I have a job to do. My job is to make you hurt. To make you hurt and ensure that you keep hurting for a very long time.” The hammer swung, hard. The spike smashed through bone, pulverising nerves, missing almost all the blood vessels. Her scream echoed off the stands of the arena, cutting though the bloodthirsty roar of the crowd. The pain was beyond anything she could have imagined. Her body arched! The man holding her left arm was jerked form his position, the arm flailing free. Her right arm was going nowhere! The spike had penetrated all the way and was embedded in the wood of the patibulum. He stepped back, let her roll over, long, shapely legs kicking wildly, her left hand cradling the mangled wrist now joined forever to the unyielding wood of the cross. She cried and cursed, bloodcurdling curses. He left her for several minutes, admiring the play of muscles in her tight bum. He had enjoyed her several times, each time between those firm cheeks. Finally, he nodded to his men.

She fought them, her strength almost superhuman, then, suddenly, the fight went out of her. She lay on her bloody back, panting, letting out little moans as he drove the spike in her right wrist home with two sharp taps, the head of the spike resting almost gently against the soft skin on the inside of her wrist. Her blue eyes followed him as he went to kneel beside her left wrist. The defiance was gone, now. It had been replaced by pain. Pain, and the realisation that her young life would end here, end in a sea of pain, for the amusement of the crowd.

The carnifex positioned the arm, found the spot, and placed the spike. Her eyes followed his every move. “How many people have I nailed to crosses?” He mused. “Hundreds.” Men, women, and Jupiter preserve him, not a few children. Many had fought, strong men had tried to rip their arms free of the spikes, but at some stage all of them looked like she did now. Resigned. Frightened. Desperate. In Pain.

Three quick strikes of the hammer. The spike driven home. Her screams were continuous now, her body arching, her heels drumming on the ground made muddy by the blood from her back. He watched her as his men attached the ropes to the centre of the patibulum, running them through the grooves at the top of the stipes. Her eyes followed them as she sobbed softly, then widened as she realised what would happen next. “No…No…Please gods…No. You can’t! Please?” her eyes were desperate, begging. “Please no! I’ll die!” Amazingly, her lips twitched in a smile, a smile full of pain, yet a smile that made her beautiful. “No, I won’t die, will I, carnifex. You are too skilled at your work. I won’t die! I will hurt, hurt more than I ever thought possible, for a long time! Hurt while I pray for death.”

She shrieked as the ropes tightened, as the patibulum started to move, as the strain came onto her wrists, as her flayed back was dragged across the rough ground of the arena. Her legs tried to find purchase, to lessen the strain on her wrists. The patibulum hit the stipes, jarring her, sending more spikes of pain through her body, then started to lift. “No!” She screamed! “No!” She scrabbled her legs underneath her, taking some of the strain off her wrists. Her knees straightened, she stood on tiptoe! “Nooooooo! Oh gods! Nooooo!” Her feet left the ground, all her weight now suspended from the spikes piercing her wrists. “No!!!! Mother! Help me! No!!! Let me down! Let me down!”

She kicked her legs wildly, then tried to get a grip on the wood of the stipes, to take some of the weight off her wrists. The roar of the crowd was like a solid thing! The executioners watched, a few of them remembering the pleasure they had enjoyed between those thrashing legs. The carnifex stood with folded arms, a little smile twitching his face. He had plenty of time. She stopped kicking, hung from her wrists, sobbing bitterly. He waited, winked at one of his men. Watched as she struggled to breathe. “Please!” She gasped. “Please! Nail my feet! Please! I must…” She struggled for breath. “I must breathe.”

He stroked his chin, thoughtfully. “Remember when you spat in our faces? Did you think that would go unpunished?” Her face crumpled. “Please! I’m sorry! Please!” He nodded. “Okay, boys! Feet on the sides, soles flat against the stipes.” He smiled. “We might as well let her spread those lovely thighs wide open for us one more time. And the crowd will enjoy watching her pussy gape.” There was no fight in her now, as they spread her thighs wide, placing her feet ready for the spikes. She screamed as the first one penetrated, screamed even louder as the carnifex missed the spike with his second blow, smashing all the bones in her toes and foot. The second foot was nailed without mishap. He stood back and watched as she started her agonised dance. Blood from her flayed back stained the stipes, she fought to stand, taking deep breaths.

The carnifex watched her for a few minutes. A good, professional job, as always. Slaves were coming on to prepare the ring for the gladiatorial bouts. His men gathered their tools. “A denarius she lasts more than two days.” One of them offered. There were no takers. “She is strong, that one, and brave,” someone muttered.

“What a waste! What a fucking senseless waste of a good cunt! The carnifex growled, his voice trembling with rage and pain. “Fucking bastard! He should be up there, not her! What a fucking waste!” He looked around at his men. “Wine! I need wine! Lots of it! Fuck them all! What a fucking waste!”


Artwork by Damian.
Brilliant story !! :)
 

theseus

Governor
How much is she worth to you?

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“You want her? Make me an offer. If I don’t get a good offer here, she goes to the market in Ouagadougou. Lots of those rich Africans will pay a small fortune for an almost virgin, pale redhead. Don’t let her looks fool you. She’s as randy as a stoat, with fuck anybody or anything, any way you like. Isn’t that so, my dear?”

Vanessa shook her head, trying desperately not to sob. She knew the consequences of being seen to be unwilling. Four hours on the wooden pony had seemed like an eternity, the wooden wedge mangling her tender clit and lower lips, the same lips his fingers now spread wide, playing with her swollen clit.

I liked the look of the girl. Fairly tall, slim, long legs. Her breasts were small, somewhere between an A and a B cup, her nipples small and delicately pink. She was fit and toned, her stomach showing just a trace of a sixpack. She would make a fine fuckslave, although I doubted that Gino’s claims as to her prowess and range of perversion were totally true. Whatever the case, I could soon educate her in my own tastes.

“How did you acquire her?” I asked.

“Her father owes me money. Couldn’t pay or wouldn’t pay. He is at the bottom of the sea, wearing concrete boots. Her mother and her older sister are working in one of my specialist whorehouses, you know the one, turning ten, fifteen tricks a day and putting on live shows. You should come and visit. We have some good acts.” His grin was enough to curdle milk. “This one? I let her watch her mother at work. You enjoyed that, didn’t you, little one?” The girl shuddered, spoke softly, almost crying. “It was disgusting, inhuman, obscene. No normal human being would do such things to a woman.”

I was doing mental calculations. I knew what she was worth in the West African market. I also knew that she was unlikely to last more than a year or so. Her value there was more than I could afford, but if one factored in the transport costs, bribes, and the very real danger that someone would ‘confiscate’ the goods without paying for it, I thought I could get her for something affordable. I knew that Gino would have made the same calculations. I named a price, less than I was prepared to pay. “C’mon! Stop dicking around. Look at her. Look at this cute cunt. A bit swollen just now, but that will mend, and her arse! Tight like a silk sheath, so smooth.” The girl squirmed in his grip, her blush extending to her breasts. I ran my hands over her. I could feel her cringe at my touch. I upped my offer. He was interested now. “Tell you what, put twenty five on top of that and she’s yours. And I’ll throw in that mastiff as well. The one you admired last week.” The girl shuddered. I pretended reluctance. I stroked her breasts. Firm, a perfect size by my standards.

“Okay, you win. The usual form of payment?” He nodded. “I trust you, and I know where you live.” He locked a collar around her neck, attached a leash. “Here, take her with you now. Payment by tomorrow.”

I took the leash. Removing my coat, I hung it around her shoulders. “Its snowing outside. My car is about fifty yards away.” She looked at me, her eyes brimming with tears.

“Thank you, Master.”
 
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