-
Sign up or login, and you'll have full access to opportunities of forum.
A Day In The Arena
- Thread starter Barbaria1
- Start date
![Styka1A[1].jpg](https://www.cruxforums.com/xf/data/attachments/71/71094-863281b7af468f5e4323e1aeb9bd7321.jpg "Styka1A[1].jpg")
is that one in the public you with your thumb going down Barbaria?
great start
Romanus
Guard
It's a fantastic story ! I'm looking forward to the next episodes .
A mass crucifixion of women and men in a Roman arena has always been a big dream for me ! Especially exciting for me is the imagination of different types of crucifixion, for example upside down crucifixion, in front of the crowd.
A mass crucifixion of women and men in a Roman arena has always been a big dream for me ! Especially exciting for me is the imagination of different types of crucifixion, for example upside down crucifixion, in front of the crowd.
LittleSiss
Sorceress
Really glad you are enjoying it. Romanus.
Thanks for the encouraging appreciative comment Romanus
is that one in the public you with your thumb going down Barbaria?
great start
that's me being nailed to the cross. Siss is the one with hands bound behind her back.
Yes, nice touch Romanus!
somewhere I thought this was the picture
and we know it was Governor Connie Erin's natural mother
RacingRodent
Consul
somewhere I thought this was the picture
and we know it was Governor Connie Erin's natural mother
See my take on it was this
Excitement is building for the final episodes of our story.... we can feel it in the thousands who pack the arena to witness what will happen to Siss and Barbaria as they step out naked onto the arena floor with hundreds of other unfortunates. The crowd -- in the arena as well as you our readers -- is going wild with anticipation breathlessly awaiting the next story installments.
Coming soon to a screen near you......
Barbaria and Siss' long and agonizing day in the arena!
Coming soon to a screen near you......
Barbaria and Siss' long and agonizing day in the arena!
Yupar
Regina Iudaeorum
When finish..please dont 4get to pdf my dear...for slow cnt countries like mine..
Thank u!!!
LittleSiss
Sorceress
.
A DAY IN THE ARENA
Part VIII. Into the Arena
It’s morning. They are coming for us. The hinges on the iron gates to the holding cells along the corridor creak as the gates are opened … much commotion, shouting, cries of protest and fear. Siss and I lock ourselves in one last loving embrace. Our cell – part of a vast underground complex beneath the arena – is suddenly filled with goons, roughly pulling us to our feet, backing us naked and shaking with dread against the wall along with the other occupants of our cell.
“Come on, get up, get your bare asses over there against the wall!” shouts the leader, “Now separate! I want slaves over there … patricians and noble plebeians over here. Siss and I sidestep away from the slaves and take our places with the higher class prisoners.
“You are about to be marched up into the arena to meet your deaths. The crowd is waiting. Slaves die naked up there. Patricians and noble plebeians are given the decency of going to the cross with something to cover their loins.” Put these on!” he commands, tossing some dirty rags at our feet.
Siss and I bend down, and like the others, sort through the soiled garments for something to wear. We stand and wrap the tattered cloths around us and tie them at the hips as best we can. They are nothing but tattered shreds, barely enough to cover anything.
“And you two”, says the leader, pointing at Siss and me. “As daughters of two of the principal leaders of the cabal, the emperor wants the arena crowd to identify you easily among the hundreds who will die on the cross today. He sends a little something special for you to wear.”
He produces two woven crowns of twisted thorns and white flowers and orders them placed on our heads. Not knowing what else we can do, we stand docilely while two guards press the prickly headpieces down on the crowns of our heads, twisting them left and right to graze our skin. I flinch as a thorn scratches my forehead; a small trickle of blood begins to form above my right eye.
He orders his men to bind our wrists. Obediently we turn and present our wrists behind our backs, where they are swiftly and tightly bound with pieces of cord. We wince and stamp our feet as the knots are pulled tight. Then we are driven out into the corridor and then on to a ramp that leads up to a pair of massive wooden doors that open on to the arena floor.
We are packed into the ramp area with what appear to be hundreds of other women, girls and men, all naked or nearly naked. The space is cramped. We press tightly together. It reeks of human sweat, and the smell of fear!
I turn and look at Siss. She is shaking; her face is beet red with tears streaming down her cheeks.
I want to throw my arms around her but I can do nothing as they are bound behind my back.
“We’re going to die, Barbaria! They are really going to crucify us!” Siss sobs as the reality of the moment completely overwhelms her.
“You can’t fall apart on me, Siss! Not now. I need you to be with me. I can’t go through this alone!” I say, as tears began to fill my eyes.
We are engulfed by others in the closely packed ramp area leading to the arena floor above.
Some of them I know, but they are less than friendly. A man spits in my face; he blames me and my family – my father – for the fact that he is here … guilt by association.
A red-headed girl -- a neighbor whom I played with as a child and who often ridiculed me for my barbarian origins – hisses in my ear as her bare shoulder bumps rudely and purposely against mine, “I hate you Barbaria, I will be cheering as you are tortured out there; and if they would let me, I would personally nail your vulgar little ass to your cross. I hate what is about to happen to me -- all simply because I know you!”
Through those wooden doors we hear the roar of the crowd, and through the cracks in the door we see the bright light of the sun baking the floor of the arena, as well as shadows of movement flashing across. We wait in dread and horror as the wooden doors are slowly drawn open.
With bellowed shouts our handlers herd us through the doors and out into the open, using wooden truncheons and stout leather straps to move any reluctant ones forward.
“We have to stay strong, Siss; they can take our lives but they can’t take souls, our hearts, our love.” I yell as I kiss her cheek.
Siss and I stumble into the bright daylight. Our eyes take a minute to adjust. What we see is beyond our wildest and most fearful expectations.
The massive four-tiered arena is filled to capacity with tens of thousands who have come to witness the spectacle of a mass crucifixion on the arena floor. The roar and applause of the crowd, along with the trumpeted fanfare heralding our arrival on the arena floor, is both deafening and stunning.
Before us the arena is laid out in a massive set design. Across the main floor, arranged in neat straight rows are hundreds of timber crosses, each lying next to its own mounting hole cut into the sand-covered arena floor. Tools of torture and wheeled torture machines of all descriptions are scattered about, including blazing fire pits full of hot irons and pincers. Around the perimeter of the arena, are dozens of scourging posts, with sinister-looking shackles dangling from the top.
Siss and I exchange apprehensive glances. I see both fear and determination in Siss’ eyes. “Remember now, stay close to me” I tell her. She edges closer to me as we step warily out into the arena.
Our handlers guide us off to the right as we emerge from the shadows of the passageway. Their intent is to parade all the condemned prisoners around the perimeter of the arena, as close as possible to the crowds. In our hundreds we shuffle along in a long column, three or four abreast --- hundreds and hundreds of naked, or nearly naked victims – crazed with anxiety, on humiliating display, before a standing, raucously roaring crowd.
We keep our heads down as we trudge along, wrists tied behind our backs, helpless to shield our bodies from their lustful view. Siss tries to remain in good spirits, adding a little spring to her step and telling me, “Ignore them Barbaria, pretend they aren’t there, just focus on me and our love and blot them out.”
But that’s impossible. They are jeering us; some of them are calling us by name; Siss and I have been singled out; they know who we are -- the daughters of the leaders of the rebellion – and they are intent on enjoying every bit of our coming humiliation, pain and suffering.
“There they are!!!! The little flowers of the foolish traitors” Your fathers have done well for you! Have they not? You will die like common slaves! Enjoy your afternoon in the sun, Siss and Barbaria! It will feel like a century. A man in senatorial robes stands up and shouts, “We will watch you dance naked for as long as you are able and sing songs in your honor!”
Another onlooker screams of how we would be raped by every soldier here in front of our dying fathers before we too are nailed to our crosses. Most of the others simply yelled obscenities and throw rotting fruit at us.
Trumpets blare, cymbals clash, drums beat. From four sides of the arena, heralds with strong voices read out our collective death sentences. “Citizens of Rome! These vile wretched creatures parading before you have been found guilty of the most villainous of crimes: high treason against Caesar and the Empire. Look at them! Loathe then! Have no mercy in your hearts for them! They dared to challenge, and they have lost! They are weak, undeserving of anything but a slow and painfully horrible death on the cross! Sit back and enjoy their pain and suffering, no one will leave this arena today disappointed with the spectacle you are about to witness. Hail Caesar!
As we trudge along, we are assaulted by more than jeers and catcalls. A hail of projectiles flies out of the stands – mostly harmless stuff, but also here and there a brick or a stone. A slave girl, a few ranks in front of me, suddenly jerks and spins around, a surprised expression on her blood-covered face before she goes down. I gingerly step around her naked body lying face down and motionless on the sand-covered arena floor and keep going.
Far worse, roving gangs of ruffians – armed with wooden truncheons and stout leather straps, and encouraged by the bloodthirsty crowd – burst randomly into the column to attack and beat us. All around us, more and more go down in this way. Siss and I are constantly stepping around, or over, prostate stricken forms as we trudge on. The wanton brutality and cruelty of our tormenters is sickening, as is the murderous frenzy of the crowd, and I feel bile rising in my throat.
Two ruffians single out Siss, pushing me brusquely aside. They stop her, raising their arms to strike. I watch helplessly as Siss doubles over under a rain of truncheon blows and vicious whip strokes. Her knees buckle, and as she goes down.
I rush to Siss, kneeling beside her. She lies on her side with her legs drawn up, a cut on her cheek oozing blood, red marks and welts cover her shoulders and back from the beating she just took.
“Come on Siss, get up! I can’t leave you here,” I shout desperately in her ear, “we need to stay together, remember?” It sounded like a “pep talk” but I really was afraid of being alone through all this.
As I lean forward to kiss her face, my back explodes in pain from a vicious whip stroke across my shoulder blades, followed by a blow to my head. I black out and topple across Siss’ body.
I come to a few minutes later. Siss and I are being hoisted to our feet, and dragged groggily over to a wheeled wooden structure bearing a horizontal heavy timber “horse” with a row of blunt phallic protrusions nailed along its upper edge.
“No! No! Oh please! Not that!” Siss screams. “It will tear us apart inside.”
Standing unsteadily side-by-side, we are turned and pushed together back to back. A heavy wooden yoke is secured around our necks, its rough wooden surface digging into our bare shoulders. The few tattered rags around our hips are stripped away, leaving us totally naked.
Startled, Siss cries out, “We are not slaves; we are supposed to be covered.” Laughing, the ruffian replies, “Daughters of traitors have no rights, you will get up on that horse and ride it nude.”
Then, with the crowd cheering wildly, and chanting our names, Siss and I -- kicking and bucking – are lifted up and placed astride the timber “horse” beam so that we are straddling it. Our feet are pulled down on each side of it; our ankles secured with rope to the frame. We are grabbed by the hips and pushed down hard over the protruding phallic knobs until one of them slides between our lips and penetrates. The timber beam is ratcheted slowly upwards until our legs are stretched taut, knees locked, thighs bulging against the rough sides of the timber, which presses cruelly and painfully against our naked crotches.
The wagon begins to move, displaying our rudely impaled naked bodies to the crowd as it is slowly pulled around the arena.
Back-to-back, totally helpless, we move along, presenting to the sting of the lash our proud breasts, swaying back and forth to the rumbling movement of the cart. My breasts and nipples are punished as stroke after stroke of my tormenter’s leather strap smacks across them, crushing them against my chest, pulling and tearing at my excited erect nipples. Each new stroke brings cheers and applause from the nearby sections of the crowd. To add to my discomfort and pain, a second tormenter repeatedly touches the glowing end of a hot iron to my ribs, belly, hips and thighs.
I twist and turn and shriek with pain. I reach out behind me with my bound hands in search for Siss’ hands. I find them and squeeze them hard, as I hear the slap of leather against her skin and her scream pierces my ear.
“Oh Barbaria, the pain, I can’t bear it!” she gasps between the punishing strokes and the searing pain of the iron. “Hang on Siss!” I reply just before taking another vicious lash across my poor suffering breasts, “I am with you; feel my grip on your fingers, take strength from me.”
All around us, other prisoners -- both men and women -- are being put to every conceivable pre-crucifixion torture for the entertainment of the crowd. I see my redheaded childhood rival -- tinkling bells attached with cruel hooks to her hanging breasts – is being hoisted up into the stands, along with others, to be raped by willing members of the crowd already lined up to receive them.
Seeing Siss and I astride our timber horse as she is placed over the rail of the stands to be fucked from behind, she screams curses at us for upending her pampered noble life. “I hope they cut your tits off and feed them to the dogs” She shouts as she as she hangs over the lower wall of the stands. Her screams grow louder as the cart is pulled along.
As we circle the arena, we see the full array of pre-crucifixion tortures inflicted on hundreds of victims for the entertainment of the crowd. On one side of the arena, dozens of beautiful young slaves are staked out, spread-eagled in the sand; goons taking turns raping and whipping their defenseless bodies, searing their nipples with white hot irons. Their screams are like a storm of terror raging wildly with no end in sight. Men are enduring the pain of having their balls crushed; pregnant women are tied together while goons lance or cut away their heavy breasts to be thrown to the dogs; proud patrician women are tied down, buttocks raised, to be raped by crazed rutting animals; young girls are tied upside down on carts to have their budding womanhood whipped bloody while their carts circle the arena, or strapped in rows over wooden timbers to be sodomized by teams of goons; others are harnessed to chariots and forced to pull their tormenters around the arena while being mercilessly whipped and beaten each time they stumble or fall: and still others are forced at the point of a lance pressed against their buttocks or back to walk naked across beds of broken glass and hot coals.
Having completed its circuit of the arena our cart comes to a halt. The torment of leather straps and hot irons ceases. Our cart has been drawn up alongside one of the many stout scourging posts planted around the periphery of the arena, all of which – by this point in the proceedings – are being put to good use.
I look up. Hanging from the nearby post by their arms – their naked bodies torn and bleeding – are the two leaders of the rebellion, our fathers. Both raise their heads to look over their shoulders – with sunken, reddened eyes – at the sight of their two beloved daughters sitting astride a wooden “horse” beam, their naked sweaty bodies covered with the angry red marks left by so many leather lashes and burning irons.
The two men are released from the post’s shackles. Falling heavily to the ground they raise their heads and stare vacantly at us, as Siss and I are taken down from our perilous perch on top of the wooden horse, and dragged to the scourging post just occupied by our fathers.
The bonds holding our wrists behind our backs are cut, and our arms are raised over our heads so that our wrists can be shackled to the chains bolted to the top of the post. We are secured facing each other, our toes barely touching the ground, the post between us.
Two lictors wielding the dreaded Roman scourging whip – the scorpion or flagrum, with its nine leather thongs tipped with small pieces of iron to give it a flesh-tearing bite – take their positions, one behind each of us,
Our scourging begins. We are both hit simultaneously with the first lash, causing us to arch our backs and throw ourselves against the rough wood of the post. Nine separate strand of leather slam across our bare backs followed by the sharp heavy pieces of metal at their ends. One catches and digs deeply into the tender side of my breast, its sharp tip slicing the skin. I can feel the blood begin to run down my ribs.
The scorpion grabs you! It holds you there, and for that brief moment the pain is cold and everything stops, and then you feel the leather and metal pull across your scarred flesh and the fire begins to burn. With a rhythmic precision our scourging continues, Siss and I screaming and twisting as what seemed like thousands of lashes stripe and cut the fair skin of our shoulders, backs, buttocks and thighs, raising thin red welts specked with crimson blood.
As the scorpion tears at my flesh again and again, and I my poor flayed body is slammed again and again against the post, I look down at our fathers. Both have turned their eyes away, unable to watch as their beloved daughters’ bodies ravaged so cruelly by the scorpion’s bite.
My eyes turn to the crowd. I see the pleasure in the faces of the nearest onlookers, including my red-haired nemesis – who despite being so rudely draped on her belly over the wall and fucked from behind while the bells hooked to the bleeding nipples of her large swaying breasts tingle wildly – manages to look down on my torment with venomous but satisfied eyes. Men and women are staring at Siss and me. I know they are aroused by the sight of our ravished naked, bleeding bodies; I can see it in their faces and the placement and movement of their hands.
Finally, as the pain from the scorpion’s wicked bite overwhelms my senses, I lock my gaze on Siss’ face. The look in her eyes says it all. She stares back at me, wide eyed and distantly, but never taking her eyes off mine.
Eyes locked, Siss and I endure together – crying out with each pitiless lash – until suddenly the scourging stops. Our bodies slump against the blood-stained scourging post. As we slide together toward one side of the post, our bodies touch, come to rest against one another. We hang there, panting, sweating, bleeding -- the burning pain from dozens of small cut and bruises and tears begin to identify themselves one by one.
How much more can we take? We know this is only the beginning. Already we can hear nearby, over the roar and howl of the crowd, the terrible shrieks and anguished screams of men and women being brutally nailed to their crosses.
Raspy-voiced and breathless, I tell Siss, “This is probably the last time we will be able to touch each other. I will hold you in my heart and kiss you forever. We will be together through it all. I’ll be here and won’t go until you are ready.”
.
