sebastian
Magistrate
Not a great fan of burnings but believe Nero used to light the arena by burning crucified victims. This story may well have been posted on forums before but might be new to some as it was for me.. The author may well be among us so credit there.
I kneel among the other prisoners on the hot bloody sands of the Coliseum. My shoulders are cramping from having my wrists and arms bound. I try to shut out the screams of the tortured and dying as I wait my turn to join them. With my fellow Christians I pray to God to be spared the wrath that Nero has worked up against us. But unless God hears and answers our prayers very soon I will be tortured to death for the entertainment of the Roman mob.
Our fate is decided randomly. We each have a number hanging around our neck. Each group of torturers randomly draws a number and the takes the victim to their fate; finished they come back and get another. The Coliseum is famous for the variety and creativeness of its victim’s fates.
I see a couple of men wading through the crowd of prisoners checking numbers. One of them looks at me, calls to his companion and points at me, an icy ball forms in my stomach as they head towards me. They grab me and force me to my feet; one grabs my hair and starts to pull me along “Com’on bitch time to meet your God.”
The hot sand burns my feet as I am hustled to my execution, my right breast falls out of the few rags left to cover my body, dangling and swinging to the amusement of the crowd as I am marched past them. I arrive at the place of my death and am knocked to my knees. I try to shut out the screams of the girl whose cross is being raised into place. Its shadow falls across me as it is dropped and wedged into its hole. Another shadow blocks out the sun, “Your turn bitch.”
I look up in time to see the punch coming that spins me around and drops me on my belly. I can taste the sand and blood mixing in my mouth. Strong hands yank me to my feet; more hands rip the few rags from my body for the entertainment of the crowd. For the first time I notice the crowd and their comments. “Not bad boys. Nice tits, she’s hung like a cow! Is she any good?” I’ve been raped countless times since my arrest two weeks ago, “How do we get a piece of that? Look at those tits, maybe that’s what you should hang her by!” A thoughtful look comes over the face of one of the torturers, he motions to the others and I am led over closer to the wall.
“You really want to try her?” He says to one of the men in the front row.
“Yeah how much?”
“2 slivers a go.”
“How about for my son here, it would be his first time?”
“Good for you kid, 1 for him.” 3 coins are tossed to the torturer. “Wait a minute I want to add some jewelry.” He goes and pulls two bells out of a bag and ties them to my nipples. “Just like a cow roaming a field. Enjoy this now bitch; later I’m going to attach them with hooks.” More coins are tossed to my torturers. I struggle and the bells tied to my nipples ring as I am lifted up and past over the wall to the waiting men. I am bent over the wall my breasts and the bells hanging back over the Coliseum floor. I can feel the warm rough wall against my legs and belly. I try to resist but am held down as strong hands grasp my thighs, he enters me and his thrusts cause my breast to swing and the bells to ring. The crowd encourages him as I start to cry. Smaller hands replace his hands and the thrusts are not as strong or experienced: his son. Then another and another all the while the crowd is making a game of it and betting on which rapist can get the bells to chime in time with his thrusts. My executioners are preparing to get me back.
The stipe is slathered in tar with a fasciae tied around it and planted in the ground. OH god no they are going to burn me, please not that. The lead torturer picks up a whip and walks over to me. He reaches up and grabs my hair pulling me down toward him while
I am being raped; he holds the whip in font of my eyes. “See the little pieces of metal on the whip bitch? They’re for tearing your skin to shreds when I scourge you. I’m going to turn your those big tits into bloody bags.”
“Please, please don’t burn me, oh God please don’t, have mercy.” “Would you prefer to be whipped to death or maybe nailed like your god?” “Please, anything, I’ll do anything, please, don’t burn me.” He releases my hair, laughs and walks away.
The men finish with me and I am tumbled over the wall back into the Coliseum. With a grunt the landing knocks all of the wind out of me. Before I can recover a rope is tied around my ankles and I am dragged over to a whipping tripod. I am hoisted upside down till my head is about two feet off the floor. My arms are cut free and there is a stinging sensation as they drop free but then cramps take over. The torturer comes over and yanks the bells off my sore stiff nipples. I swing back and forth like a pendulum my breast flopping around to the amusement of the crowd. My torturer steadies me with his hands; “You’ll do anything to avoid being burned, slut? Do you know how to suck, to give a man pleasure with your mouth?” I moan and try to swallow degradation or burning? The men who abused me the past two weeks taught me well, “Yes, yes master I do, I’ll please you if you won’t burn me.” “You’ll please all of us and then we’ll think about it.” I reach for him, “Yes master, I’ll please you all don’t burn me.” The crowd howls out its comments and encouragement on my performance.
The last man satisfied steps back. Sweat has given sheen to my naked body hanging upside down. Their juice has spilled out of my mouth and over my face. The crack of the whip announces the next phase of my death; will he whip me to death or nail me to a cross? Before I can even answer that question the crack of the whip and the scream out of my mouth are almost simultaneous as the single blade wraps around my body. I can feel it ripping skin at it is yanked away. The force of the lashes and the grabbing and pulling on my body causes it to spin and swing. I am struck on my legs, back, belly, arms, thighs, ass, breasts and even a lash or two to my face. At each strike metal gouges me, tearing little pieces out of me; blood mingles with the sweat on my body. My anguished screams compete for attention with other victims of the Coliseum. He is whipping me to death, my brain thinks, I will not burn, as I black out.
Mildly surprised at being alive I come too. The hot sun is beating on my face I moan and struggle to get up. I can’t, my wrists are tied to a patibulum. I struggle against my bounds. It is no use, I haven’t the strength. I look at my battered body, the rips, welts and the tears. I am a mass of pain; my moaning and struggling has attracted the attention of my torturers. “Good now we can continue, there are a lot of victims to work on today. Remember I promised you hooks?” ‘Hooks?’ my brain process the word from long ago and far away, ‘Yes hooks.’ He reaches down and pulls my left nipple as far from me as he can, he sticks a hook through it and I can hear the ringing of a bell as he lets go. The performance is repeated with the right nipple. The sting is no more than an after thought to my pain wracked body. “Hoist her up.” Death by nailing like my Lord.
The rope drags me and the patibulum through the sand to the base of the cross. Sand sticks to my sweat/blood-coated body, working its way into my whip wounds adding to my agony. I moan as my shoulders take up the weight of my dangling body. I vaguely notice that the stipes feels sticky, my body is dragged over the fascias tied around the stipes, catching and ripping even more skin. I struggle and scream as the stipes is nailed into place and my feet are tied off behind the stipes. The bells chime as my breasts swing and jiggle. There are no nails for me, oh god no this is the fire cross. I scream, “No you promised, no burning, you promised!”
The crack of the whip, its strike on my sore sex and my inarticulate scream all merges into one sound. I can feel the cornu against my lower back but the man with the whip has my full attention. I am panting as I stare down at him.
“Don’t impugn my honor bitch. I promised no such thing; I only said we would consider it. You’ll burn but not yet. We’ll nail your feet just before we light the cross; you’ll die faster that way. In the meantime give the crowd a good show!”
I can only stare in horror and moan as a rag on stick is used to baste my lower body and legs with a mixture of oil and pitch. The torturers walk away when finished, deaf to my screams and pleas, even to the bells swinging from my breasts. They have more Christians to torture; they’ll finish with me later.
I scream and struggle against my bonds, against the knowledge that if I stay here I’ll burn. The pleasant chiming of the bells swing from my breasts is lost on me in my suffering. Cramping starts to occur in my arms and legs. The only resting point could be the cornu but to try that means shoving its sharpened point up my ass or sex. I dance to the delight of the crowd as I try to relieve first one muscle group then another. I beg for mercy, begging which is occasionally cut off by a scream as I catch part of my body on the cornu. The hot sun and the abuse heaped on my body quickly sap my strength and I sag against the patibulum. I know I could last for days hanging like this were burning not in my future. Every time the thought of fire crosses my brain I scream and struggle until my strength gives out and I must rest again. Then the cycle starts all over.
A girl dying on a cross of dehydration quickly loses its entertainment value after her struggles stop. The Coliseum is famous for quality providing entertainment so other diversions go on as I wait my death by fire. The girl conventionally crucified next to me is encouraged to dance through the use of torches and brands. A man is crucified upside down. A young girl is impaled. Hundreds of Christians will die today in the Coliseum.
I watch as two young girls are forced to fight around the base of my cross, each naked with a short knife and a small shield, their left wrists tied together by a three-foot rope. Failure to provide a good fight means being nailed to a short cross and being used for lion bait. The loser dies relatively quickly from a knife thrust. The winner is branded and faces a life of slavery in a soldier’s brothel.
I watch another fight between a barely clad professional gladiatrix and a naked Christian woman. After hamstringing the woman the gladiatrix uses her sword to mutilate the still living woman’s breasts and then uses it like a phallus on her sex. When the gladiatrix is finished it takes half an hour for the woman to stop moaning and finally die, her blood spilling out over the sand.
I begged the gladiatrix to finish me. She spits on me and says she is looking forward to watching me burn.
All this time I want to move yet not move, which is more painful? I don’t know it all hurts. My hoarse moans and pleas fall on ears immune to feeling any sympathy toward me. I am a Christian, lowest of the low, traitors, and burners of beloved Rome. What ever happens to me isn’t horrible enough in the eyes of the mob. Occasionally something will be thrown from the seats at me in an effort to get me to move.
The sun beats down on me, I fade in and out of conscience. Each time hoping the blackness will be the last one, each time awakening with a scream or moan. My body stiffens; my hair is matted with sweat. They tease me with rags soaked with water, forcing me to move to get each precious drop of liquid.
My torturer leaves his ever smaller pile nails in front of me. Taunting me. I beg him to nail me, break my legs, oh please end the torment. He just smiles.
I look at the dead lying around me and envy them. The stake sticking out of the impaled girl's chest her lifeless eyes staring toward heaven. The girl conventionally crucified her head hanging down; the recent spear wound drawing no reaction. The two women killed in gladiatorial fights or the man crucified upside down, no signs of life. Their suffering is over, mine continues.
Chills sweep through my body. The loss of fluids, malnutrition and the abuse heaped on it are taking their toll. It is painful to breathe. Every movement is caused by pain and creates pain. The bells ring very little now, but they tell that I am still alive. I try to find a way to rest on the cornu. I slip and with a howl it gets rammed into my sex, the pain is too great I struggle to rise again. The ringing of the bells indicates a dance is about to start, short lived but entertaining to a crowd starting to think about supper.
As the sun starts to go down my tormentors are thinking about lighting the arena for tonight's festivities and a number of us are setup as human torches.
I awaken to my tormentors swabbing my body again with the oil and pitch. The main torturer upon realizing I'm awake places the swab against my sex and starts to push it into me. I scream at the pain of the large object being shoved up in me. I rise struggling to get away; the bells start ringing insistently as my struggles intensify, attracting attention to what is going on. The crowd encourages him to fuck me with the swab, as he continues I rise to try to get away from having my sex brutally rammed. I reach the height of maneuver room. The swab keeps hammering in and out, my pelvis goes up and down with the swab, my strength gives out all I can do is ride it and scream.
Suddenly the support is pulled away and a crash back against the stipe. The cornu slams into the small of my back, I hang there panting, sweating, bleeding and moaning. My torturer holds up one long nail “Time.” I stare at it; the end is near, horrible but near.
My constant struggles have moved my ankles out of optimum position for nailing. They cut the ropes away and grab my raw bleeding ankles, crossing my ankles once more behind the stipe I don’t even feel the prick of the nail as it is lined up. One small pain in the great mass of pain occupying my brain.
But I do feel it bite into the bone with the first blow of the hammer. I scream and rise up with each bow of the hammer; all my attention focused on one small spot. The pain is so brutal, how could my Lord have been silent over multiple nails being driven into his body. Oh the pain.
After six blows the hammering stops but my screaming doesn’t.
I smell smoke, the smell of burning wood and pitch. I look down the fasciae and the stipe has caught fire, my torturer steps back with a torch in his hand. Dumbfounded I am silent for a moment, and then I feel the heat as a tongue of flame licks my toes.
What strength is left in my body explodes outward. Muscles violent try to break free of the nails and ropes. Unearthly howls emanate from my throat. The bells chime furiously with the gyrations of my body. Up down left right, uncoordinated movements occur no rhyme or reason.
The fluid swabbed onto my body is starting to catch fire. There is not enough wood to generate a killing smoke, just enough to slowly roast me. The fluid only covers the lower half of my body, again to make for a slow painful death not to quickly consumer me.
Fire sears nerves and destroys muscle, only my arms can respond to my brains commands to get away. My body no longer goes in and out only up and down. The stench of my own roasting body fills my nostrils. Flesh melts away, my dangling breast redden from the fire burning my flesh below my navel.
I scream to my former gods for help being my current god hasn’t listened.
A lick of flame ignites my hair and just as quickly goes out due to the amount of sweat my formerly gorgeous mane has soaked up.
I struggle and scream, scream and struggle; the crowd is mesmerized by my performance.
My strength and voice give out before my life force. All I can do is hang with my mouth wide open, not even moan.
The lower half of my body is in flames, I can feel internal organs burning and bursting, I want to scream and can’t. My movements and reactions aren’t controlled anymore as my brain goes into shut down.
Without a lot of fuel the flames begin to subside. I know I am dying. My lower body is just curled and charred flesh, exposed muscle and bone. The flames that tortured my lower body blacken my upper body and face. My breasts are blistered red masses from the heat. The ropes attached to the bells burnt away and the bells have fallen to the floor of the Coliseum.
There is no strength left. I dangle from my wrists like and over done piece of meat at an orgy. I am dying. The pain has gone beyond my senses I feel nothing.
My damaged eyes focus on the shadow standing below me, is it an angel to lead me into heaven? A recognizable voice comes to my ears “Not dead yet bitch.” It occurs to me that this is the only sound I can hear, slowly I focus on the shadow. The Coliseum is both dark and quiet, it is deep into the night and the mob has gone home. “Not dead yet?” is repeated. I hurt all over the pain is brutal, I muster a last shred of my voice “Please kill me, mercy.” That is it my last plea, my last bit of strength. My breathing becomes labored, what few brain cells still active scream for oxygen, I can feel each organ stop working, my seared lungs, my heart. Blackness grows around the edges, there is no light, where is heaven?
The shadow turns to an assistant. “Finish burning the body with the rest.” He stoops to pick up the bells from the floor of the Coliseum; “I need these, more Christian bitches die tomorrow.”
I kneel among the other prisoners on the hot bloody sands of the Coliseum. My shoulders are cramping from having my wrists and arms bound. I try to shut out the screams of the tortured and dying as I wait my turn to join them. With my fellow Christians I pray to God to be spared the wrath that Nero has worked up against us. But unless God hears and answers our prayers very soon I will be tortured to death for the entertainment of the Roman mob.
Our fate is decided randomly. We each have a number hanging around our neck. Each group of torturers randomly draws a number and the takes the victim to their fate; finished they come back and get another. The Coliseum is famous for the variety and creativeness of its victim’s fates.
I see a couple of men wading through the crowd of prisoners checking numbers. One of them looks at me, calls to his companion and points at me, an icy ball forms in my stomach as they head towards me. They grab me and force me to my feet; one grabs my hair and starts to pull me along “Com’on bitch time to meet your God.”
The hot sand burns my feet as I am hustled to my execution, my right breast falls out of the few rags left to cover my body, dangling and swinging to the amusement of the crowd as I am marched past them. I arrive at the place of my death and am knocked to my knees. I try to shut out the screams of the girl whose cross is being raised into place. Its shadow falls across me as it is dropped and wedged into its hole. Another shadow blocks out the sun, “Your turn bitch.”
I look up in time to see the punch coming that spins me around and drops me on my belly. I can taste the sand and blood mixing in my mouth. Strong hands yank me to my feet; more hands rip the few rags from my body for the entertainment of the crowd. For the first time I notice the crowd and their comments. “Not bad boys. Nice tits, she’s hung like a cow! Is she any good?” I’ve been raped countless times since my arrest two weeks ago, “How do we get a piece of that? Look at those tits, maybe that’s what you should hang her by!” A thoughtful look comes over the face of one of the torturers, he motions to the others and I am led over closer to the wall.
“You really want to try her?” He says to one of the men in the front row.
“Yeah how much?”
“2 slivers a go.”
“How about for my son here, it would be his first time?”
“Good for you kid, 1 for him.” 3 coins are tossed to the torturer. “Wait a minute I want to add some jewelry.” He goes and pulls two bells out of a bag and ties them to my nipples. “Just like a cow roaming a field. Enjoy this now bitch; later I’m going to attach them with hooks.” More coins are tossed to my torturers. I struggle and the bells tied to my nipples ring as I am lifted up and past over the wall to the waiting men. I am bent over the wall my breasts and the bells hanging back over the Coliseum floor. I can feel the warm rough wall against my legs and belly. I try to resist but am held down as strong hands grasp my thighs, he enters me and his thrusts cause my breast to swing and the bells to ring. The crowd encourages him as I start to cry. Smaller hands replace his hands and the thrusts are not as strong or experienced: his son. Then another and another all the while the crowd is making a game of it and betting on which rapist can get the bells to chime in time with his thrusts. My executioners are preparing to get me back.
The stipe is slathered in tar with a fasciae tied around it and planted in the ground. OH god no they are going to burn me, please not that. The lead torturer picks up a whip and walks over to me. He reaches up and grabs my hair pulling me down toward him while
I am being raped; he holds the whip in font of my eyes. “See the little pieces of metal on the whip bitch? They’re for tearing your skin to shreds when I scourge you. I’m going to turn your those big tits into bloody bags.”
“Please, please don’t burn me, oh God please don’t, have mercy.” “Would you prefer to be whipped to death or maybe nailed like your god?” “Please, anything, I’ll do anything, please, don’t burn me.” He releases my hair, laughs and walks away.
The men finish with me and I am tumbled over the wall back into the Coliseum. With a grunt the landing knocks all of the wind out of me. Before I can recover a rope is tied around my ankles and I am dragged over to a whipping tripod. I am hoisted upside down till my head is about two feet off the floor. My arms are cut free and there is a stinging sensation as they drop free but then cramps take over. The torturer comes over and yanks the bells off my sore stiff nipples. I swing back and forth like a pendulum my breast flopping around to the amusement of the crowd. My torturer steadies me with his hands; “You’ll do anything to avoid being burned, slut? Do you know how to suck, to give a man pleasure with your mouth?” I moan and try to swallow degradation or burning? The men who abused me the past two weeks taught me well, “Yes, yes master I do, I’ll please you if you won’t burn me.” “You’ll please all of us and then we’ll think about it.” I reach for him, “Yes master, I’ll please you all don’t burn me.” The crowd howls out its comments and encouragement on my performance.
The last man satisfied steps back. Sweat has given sheen to my naked body hanging upside down. Their juice has spilled out of my mouth and over my face. The crack of the whip announces the next phase of my death; will he whip me to death or nail me to a cross? Before I can even answer that question the crack of the whip and the scream out of my mouth are almost simultaneous as the single blade wraps around my body. I can feel it ripping skin at it is yanked away. The force of the lashes and the grabbing and pulling on my body causes it to spin and swing. I am struck on my legs, back, belly, arms, thighs, ass, breasts and even a lash or two to my face. At each strike metal gouges me, tearing little pieces out of me; blood mingles with the sweat on my body. My anguished screams compete for attention with other victims of the Coliseum. He is whipping me to death, my brain thinks, I will not burn, as I black out.
Mildly surprised at being alive I come too. The hot sun is beating on my face I moan and struggle to get up. I can’t, my wrists are tied to a patibulum. I struggle against my bounds. It is no use, I haven’t the strength. I look at my battered body, the rips, welts and the tears. I am a mass of pain; my moaning and struggling has attracted the attention of my torturers. “Good now we can continue, there are a lot of victims to work on today. Remember I promised you hooks?” ‘Hooks?’ my brain process the word from long ago and far away, ‘Yes hooks.’ He reaches down and pulls my left nipple as far from me as he can, he sticks a hook through it and I can hear the ringing of a bell as he lets go. The performance is repeated with the right nipple. The sting is no more than an after thought to my pain wracked body. “Hoist her up.” Death by nailing like my Lord.
The rope drags me and the patibulum through the sand to the base of the cross. Sand sticks to my sweat/blood-coated body, working its way into my whip wounds adding to my agony. I moan as my shoulders take up the weight of my dangling body. I vaguely notice that the stipes feels sticky, my body is dragged over the fascias tied around the stipes, catching and ripping even more skin. I struggle and scream as the stipes is nailed into place and my feet are tied off behind the stipes. The bells chime as my breasts swing and jiggle. There are no nails for me, oh god no this is the fire cross. I scream, “No you promised, no burning, you promised!”
The crack of the whip, its strike on my sore sex and my inarticulate scream all merges into one sound. I can feel the cornu against my lower back but the man with the whip has my full attention. I am panting as I stare down at him.
“Don’t impugn my honor bitch. I promised no such thing; I only said we would consider it. You’ll burn but not yet. We’ll nail your feet just before we light the cross; you’ll die faster that way. In the meantime give the crowd a good show!”
I can only stare in horror and moan as a rag on stick is used to baste my lower body and legs with a mixture of oil and pitch. The torturers walk away when finished, deaf to my screams and pleas, even to the bells swinging from my breasts. They have more Christians to torture; they’ll finish with me later.
I scream and struggle against my bonds, against the knowledge that if I stay here I’ll burn. The pleasant chiming of the bells swing from my breasts is lost on me in my suffering. Cramping starts to occur in my arms and legs. The only resting point could be the cornu but to try that means shoving its sharpened point up my ass or sex. I dance to the delight of the crowd as I try to relieve first one muscle group then another. I beg for mercy, begging which is occasionally cut off by a scream as I catch part of my body on the cornu. The hot sun and the abuse heaped on my body quickly sap my strength and I sag against the patibulum. I know I could last for days hanging like this were burning not in my future. Every time the thought of fire crosses my brain I scream and struggle until my strength gives out and I must rest again. Then the cycle starts all over.
A girl dying on a cross of dehydration quickly loses its entertainment value after her struggles stop. The Coliseum is famous for quality providing entertainment so other diversions go on as I wait my death by fire. The girl conventionally crucified next to me is encouraged to dance through the use of torches and brands. A man is crucified upside down. A young girl is impaled. Hundreds of Christians will die today in the Coliseum.
I watch as two young girls are forced to fight around the base of my cross, each naked with a short knife and a small shield, their left wrists tied together by a three-foot rope. Failure to provide a good fight means being nailed to a short cross and being used for lion bait. The loser dies relatively quickly from a knife thrust. The winner is branded and faces a life of slavery in a soldier’s brothel.
I watch another fight between a barely clad professional gladiatrix and a naked Christian woman. After hamstringing the woman the gladiatrix uses her sword to mutilate the still living woman’s breasts and then uses it like a phallus on her sex. When the gladiatrix is finished it takes half an hour for the woman to stop moaning and finally die, her blood spilling out over the sand.
I begged the gladiatrix to finish me. She spits on me and says she is looking forward to watching me burn.
All this time I want to move yet not move, which is more painful? I don’t know it all hurts. My hoarse moans and pleas fall on ears immune to feeling any sympathy toward me. I am a Christian, lowest of the low, traitors, and burners of beloved Rome. What ever happens to me isn’t horrible enough in the eyes of the mob. Occasionally something will be thrown from the seats at me in an effort to get me to move.
The sun beats down on me, I fade in and out of conscience. Each time hoping the blackness will be the last one, each time awakening with a scream or moan. My body stiffens; my hair is matted with sweat. They tease me with rags soaked with water, forcing me to move to get each precious drop of liquid.
My torturer leaves his ever smaller pile nails in front of me. Taunting me. I beg him to nail me, break my legs, oh please end the torment. He just smiles.
I look at the dead lying around me and envy them. The stake sticking out of the impaled girl's chest her lifeless eyes staring toward heaven. The girl conventionally crucified her head hanging down; the recent spear wound drawing no reaction. The two women killed in gladiatorial fights or the man crucified upside down, no signs of life. Their suffering is over, mine continues.
Chills sweep through my body. The loss of fluids, malnutrition and the abuse heaped on it are taking their toll. It is painful to breathe. Every movement is caused by pain and creates pain. The bells ring very little now, but they tell that I am still alive. I try to find a way to rest on the cornu. I slip and with a howl it gets rammed into my sex, the pain is too great I struggle to rise again. The ringing of the bells indicates a dance is about to start, short lived but entertaining to a crowd starting to think about supper.
As the sun starts to go down my tormentors are thinking about lighting the arena for tonight's festivities and a number of us are setup as human torches.
I awaken to my tormentors swabbing my body again with the oil and pitch. The main torturer upon realizing I'm awake places the swab against my sex and starts to push it into me. I scream at the pain of the large object being shoved up in me. I rise struggling to get away; the bells start ringing insistently as my struggles intensify, attracting attention to what is going on. The crowd encourages him to fuck me with the swab, as he continues I rise to try to get away from having my sex brutally rammed. I reach the height of maneuver room. The swab keeps hammering in and out, my pelvis goes up and down with the swab, my strength gives out all I can do is ride it and scream.
Suddenly the support is pulled away and a crash back against the stipe. The cornu slams into the small of my back, I hang there panting, sweating, bleeding and moaning. My torturer holds up one long nail “Time.” I stare at it; the end is near, horrible but near.
My constant struggles have moved my ankles out of optimum position for nailing. They cut the ropes away and grab my raw bleeding ankles, crossing my ankles once more behind the stipe I don’t even feel the prick of the nail as it is lined up. One small pain in the great mass of pain occupying my brain.
But I do feel it bite into the bone with the first blow of the hammer. I scream and rise up with each bow of the hammer; all my attention focused on one small spot. The pain is so brutal, how could my Lord have been silent over multiple nails being driven into his body. Oh the pain.
After six blows the hammering stops but my screaming doesn’t.
I smell smoke, the smell of burning wood and pitch. I look down the fasciae and the stipe has caught fire, my torturer steps back with a torch in his hand. Dumbfounded I am silent for a moment, and then I feel the heat as a tongue of flame licks my toes.
What strength is left in my body explodes outward. Muscles violent try to break free of the nails and ropes. Unearthly howls emanate from my throat. The bells chime furiously with the gyrations of my body. Up down left right, uncoordinated movements occur no rhyme or reason.
The fluid swabbed onto my body is starting to catch fire. There is not enough wood to generate a killing smoke, just enough to slowly roast me. The fluid only covers the lower half of my body, again to make for a slow painful death not to quickly consumer me.
Fire sears nerves and destroys muscle, only my arms can respond to my brains commands to get away. My body no longer goes in and out only up and down. The stench of my own roasting body fills my nostrils. Flesh melts away, my dangling breast redden from the fire burning my flesh below my navel.
I scream to my former gods for help being my current god hasn’t listened.
A lick of flame ignites my hair and just as quickly goes out due to the amount of sweat my formerly gorgeous mane has soaked up.
I struggle and scream, scream and struggle; the crowd is mesmerized by my performance.
My strength and voice give out before my life force. All I can do is hang with my mouth wide open, not even moan.
The lower half of my body is in flames, I can feel internal organs burning and bursting, I want to scream and can’t. My movements and reactions aren’t controlled anymore as my brain goes into shut down.
Without a lot of fuel the flames begin to subside. I know I am dying. My lower body is just curled and charred flesh, exposed muscle and bone. The flames that tortured my lower body blacken my upper body and face. My breasts are blistered red masses from the heat. The ropes attached to the bells burnt away and the bells have fallen to the floor of the Coliseum.
There is no strength left. I dangle from my wrists like and over done piece of meat at an orgy. I am dying. The pain has gone beyond my senses I feel nothing.
My damaged eyes focus on the shadow standing below me, is it an angel to lead me into heaven? A recognizable voice comes to my ears “Not dead yet bitch.” It occurs to me that this is the only sound I can hear, slowly I focus on the shadow. The Coliseum is both dark and quiet, it is deep into the night and the mob has gone home. “Not dead yet?” is repeated. I hurt all over the pain is brutal, I muster a last shred of my voice “Please kill me, mercy.” That is it my last plea, my last bit of strength. My breathing becomes labored, what few brain cells still active scream for oxygen, I can feel each organ stop working, my seared lungs, my heart. Blackness grows around the edges, there is no light, where is heaven?
The shadow turns to an assistant. “Finish burning the body with the rest.” He stoops to pick up the bells from the floor of the Coliseum; “I need these, more Christian bitches die tomorrow.”
