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A Day In The Arena

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"welter" is an English word, same meaning (roll about)​
Not very common I suppose,​
typically used of boats in a stormy sea -​
I think 'welterweight' in boxing involves the same word,​
not sure how though.​
 
"welter" is an English word, same meaning (roll about)​
Not very common I suppose,​
typically used of boats in a stormy sea -​
I think 'welterweight' in boxing involves the same word,​
not sure how though.​
:D I'm a pigheaded dutch (and a senior:D)
 
"welter" is an English word, same meaning (roll about)​
Not very common I suppose,​
typically used of boats in a stormy sea -​
I think 'welterweight' in boxing involves the same word,​
not sure how though.​

Now I am curious... so....... found this on the web.....

"welter - early 14c., from M.Du. or M.L.G. welteren "to roll," from P.Gmc. *waltijanan, from base *wal-, *wel- "roll." The noun meaning "confused mass" is first recorded 1851.
welterweight - 1832, "heavyweight horseman," later "boxer or wrestler of a certain weight" (1896), from earlier welter "heavyweight horseman or boxer" (1804), possibly from welt (v.) "beat severely."
 
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A Day in the Arena​
Part X. Crucified​

Soon we will be hanging, pinned to our crosses in a continuous free fall of unending pain. I feel the blunt bottom tip of my cross slip down into the hole in the arena floor that has been prepared for it.

I slide down the rough wood as the cross is up righted. It slams hard into its resting place and sways side to side, pulling and tearing the wounds in my wrists wider. I scream! How can anyone do this to another human being?

No words can describe the feeling of sheer terror that runs through my soul. Never will I rest again. Only when every ounce of life has been exhausted shall I sleep the peaceful sleep of death.

With the last two crosses in place, the crowd, in its tens of thousands, explodes into loud and riotous roars of approval. This is what they have long been waiting for, the raising of the two innocent young women with the flowers in their hair - the favorite daughters of the two men who dared to defy Caesar.

The eyes of everyone in the stands focus down on us, hanging so helpless and naked; our trembling, struggling sweat-sheened bodies shimmering in the relentless harsh glare of the bright midday sun. They wait in rapturous attention for our last dance to begin, a dance they hope will entertain them for hours.

I try to focus on my immediate surroundings. Our fathers have both turned their heads away. Our crucifixion is their worst nightmare. They will not watch us suffer and die.

All around us I hear the anguished voices of the others as they struggle to meet their horrible deaths. Some moan, some cry, others call to the gods, some whisper to themselves.

Somewhere behind me, on another cross, I hear the rasping angry voice of my old red-headed childhood archenemy, “Up at last Barbaria, you and your little blonde pallio kissing bitch. Don’t give up too quickly Barbaria. I want you to hang there and suffer until the crows come to rip and tear at your loins.”

Elsewhere I am aware of constant movement as naked crucified bodies struggle and twist in the baking sun. Some move in spasmodic jerks, others shake and shudder, others hang limply. Siss and I are the centerpiece of a vast and cruel orgy of agony, and the crowd loves every bit of the vast spectacle laid out before them.

Drenched in sweat, my long brown hair clings to my face and falls to my breasts, where sodden strands and wisps curl around my erect nipples. Blood trickles down the back of my arms, around my shoulders blades and down my sides. My crown of thorns digs into my scalp.

I struggle to position myself to relieve the strain. I don’t so much pull myself up to take the pressure off my wrists, as I push on my nailed feet and steady myself with my arms. Nothing seems to help, I cry out in pain and frustration.

They want a dance and they’re getting it. Because of the way my feet are nailed, I can only push with my left leg. When I push too hard, my right foot – which is nailed lower on the stipe – pulls against the nail and stops me from rising any further. The cramps in my right thigh and left calf are unbearable.

I look over at Siss to call out to her. She lifts her head slightly and turns toward me, mouthing my name, her jaw trembling with pain.

I force a smile. I rest my head on my shoulder and with my trembling parched lips I mouth a kiss.

She knows!!!

For that brief moment, we are together in the peaceful bliss of the night before. We have each other. It is all we have left. They cannot take it.

As time goes on, our frantic struggle slows. Exhaustion and the ever intensifying muscle cramps take their toll. We hang limply, no longer able to lift ourselves without extreme effort. Breathing has become difficult.

The crowd grows restless. It is not enough to see us hang and suffer. They want more action. Choruses of catcalls and jeers call for more torment and pain to be directed at us. “Come on! Give the Fellatrices what they want! Torture them, abuse them, make them squirm and cry for mercy!”

From the gallery come two objects, thrown to the Arena floor by the Emperor himself. Two different forms of cornua appear on the sand before us: a wide, blunt wooden piece and a curved and tapered, but blunt ended, animal horn.

Our executioners, who seem to have been standing about and regarding us indifferently after having raised us up, suddenly spring into action.

They start with Siss. Grasping her by the hips and pushing them forward, they mount her horn so as to be just high enough that she cannot lift herself off of it, but low enough that she has to hold herself above it and out away from the upright in order not to have it fill her womanhood.

I hang from my cross of rough timbers, naked, sweating, and exhausted. My executioners advance with cornu in hand. I am cursed with having my instrument of intrusion placed so it pokes me just below the small of my back. They nail my large wooden cornu to the stipe, the vibrations from the hammering sending new waves of excruciating pain through my nailed wrists and feet. Then they leave me to find my own moment of humiliation.

The cornu poking and scraping at my scourged back makes it impossible to remain still. After an hour or so of writhing, twisting and struggling, I stop trying to resist, and with great effort raise myself up and on to the blunt tip of the wooden cornu waiting between my legs. The point of the cornu begins to penetrate the tender folds of my exposed and swollen lips. Seeing this, the crowd boisterously cheers me on.

I change my mind and try to pull myself up and away, but my arms and legs have become too weak to raise my body again. I give up on this, and with a groan I allow the gruesome thing to slide inside of me, scraping and tearing my most tender skin, and filling me to the hilt.

I had feared and hoped that death would have taken us by now. Our day has not ended and both I and my beloved Siss still cling to life. I will continue to tell of our plight for as long as I possibly can.

For this is not the end; the sun has only reached its zenith. Many long hours of suffering and torment still await the hundreds of lost souls crucified on the arena floor. Only the lucky ones – the weak ones – had the good fortune of dying early on the cross or in the brutal tortures and beatings that preceded the main event.

The rest of us – and especially Siss and me – face a long and excruciating afternoon on the cross before death will mercifully take us.

I can no longer speak to her, we are both lost in our own worlds of pain and despair.

My head droops, my chin rests on my chest. I cast a sideways glance in Siss’ direction. She too is now resting on her cornu, her hips tilted, following the curve of the horn, its full girth now completely within her. She is resting her head on one of her outstretched arms. Her dainty ankles are smashed and encrusted with blood. Trickles of blood run down her arms and trace intricate patterns over her ribs. Her chest rises and falls in shallow breaths. I hear what sounds like a rhyme of some kind, repeated over and over, coming from her mouth.

We are not to be left in peace, however. The blood lust of the crowd is up. They want more. Our executioners advance on us again, this time with whips and hot irons in their hands. Oh God, no. I can’t take any more!

A lash cuts across my belly, across my thighs, and then across my ribs and breasts. The air is pierced by a shrill cry from Siss as a hot iron is pushed against her ribs and then drawn down across her belly toward her mound.

In moments, we are both in motion once again as the sting of the lash and the searing pain of the hot iron pressed against our flesh causes us to jump, twist and squirm on our cornua and pull painfully at our nailed wrists. Our shrieks and cries fill the arena air. The crowd is on its feet voicing its loud approval – this is what they came to see!

Oh, how I wish that death would take us to where we both so desperately want to go. It is not to be. We are not weak enough. We still endure. And many more hours of misery and pain appear to await us before our ordeal will finally be over.





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Thanks you !

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