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Gabriella In Kytherramne

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old slave said:
the filth of the slums come to see her ... The ultimate degradation for a high-born.
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andy01 said:
And now he's going to shear you
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:eek:
The ultimate degradations pile one upon the other...
You think it makes no difference, dying anyway? - but oh it does, it's a mutilation...
andy01 said:
she said she wished to have your hair.
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and even worse, my hair to decorate anothers head...
and me crucified a laughing-stock...
 
hmmm what i post is, how do the say, the tip of the iceberg, of what I sometimes feel... I love how well you do it; cruelly certainly, tragically comical sometimes, as life is, as death is, sometimes so very real, and detailed, without ever being obsessively fixated on torture descriptions, and not shying from the horrors of it
 
old slave said:
The ultimate degradation for a high-born.

Smell is a primaeval sense, and both your story and Jedakk's Altered States are featuring it. Only a written story like this can stimulate our minds into simulating what the smells might be like, something pictures cannot do.
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I agree, when I describe a scene, I try to think of all of the things there that will impinge on the characters' senses, then figure out a way to work them into the description without being obvious about it. I think the best way is through dialogue, have the characters themselves mention that it's hot, it stinks of rotting flesh, shit and garbage, they can hardly hear over the noise of the damned crowd, etc.

Smell, in particular, is somehow closely linked to memory. We've probably all experienced memories that come back to us as we smell something that is associated with that time and place or event. In "Altered States" there's one point where smell triggers a powerful flashback.
 
andy01 said:
By the time Gabriella Sevillia was dragged to the edge of the hollow, the cook and the skivvy had been on their crosses for pretty near an hour.

The cook was hanging head down, her buttocks swelling out either side of the post, breasts and belly juddering as she gasped for air. Drops of sweat fell from them. The thick thatch at armpits and cunt was tangled, soaked.

The skivvy was giving much more of a show. She was rearing up, bowed out from her cross, skinny arm muscles bunched as they held her upright, screeching almost incomprehensibly.

And that was what Gabriella saw as she was dragged to the edge of the killing place. Dragged with a harsh edged, splintery beam roped over her slender shoulders, with a dirty cloth tied around her waist, to the place of crucifixion.

When they had pulled her to her feet in the courtyard outside the council chamber, when they had roped the beam upon her and tied the rag at her waist, she had been too demented tormented to speak. But as they tied the rope around her neck, to lead her like an animal, a last spark had ignited.

"Stop it, oh stop it! Don't you know who I am? I'm the Archon's daughter you bits of filth!"

That spark was now long since snuffed out. After that scream for help to Mira, after its savage response she sobbed heartbrokenly as she was taunted down the slope to where a plump man in a crisp white tunic stood. A group of his clients waited several respectful paces behind him. Two of them were dressed incongruously in the grimy tunics of farm workers; one was a middle-aged man, the other a stocky, uncouth pimple of some fourteen summers.

From the edge of the hollow they watched as the stumbling figure was pulled in front of the leader and forced to her knees. At the man's command, the one who had been leading her bent to untie the rope around her throat. The knot had pulled tight and it took some effort, and Gabriella squealed as the coarse fibres jerked to and fro. At last it came free and he jerked the rope off her. They heard her squeal, saw her body twisting as the loose end ripped at burning speed round the back of her neck. But for the men holding the ends of her hurt-beam she would have collapsed on the ground convulsing.

"Hold her head up."

A man moved behind her, grabbed two fistfuls of hair and pulled her head up, the beam cutting into her neck.

She stared up at the man, face slobbered with tears.

He smiled smugly. "Gabriella Sivilla," he said slowly, musingly. "Do you know why we have brought you here?"

Her tears flooded faster, her mouth working.

"Why have we brought you here, Gabriella Sivilla," he persisted.

"To ... ohhhhuuuu ... To ..." She could not say the word.

"To crucify you, yess."

"But the tribune feels we should not crucify someone with such lovely hair."

His pudgy hand reached down and curled behind her neck, then lifted the nape of her hair.

"He's right of course. It would be a crime to crucify someone with hair like this. So soft, so thick. It seems light and heavy at the same time."

His hand moved in a fashion something between a lover's caress and a farmer assessing a goose.

Gabriella tried to disentangle the flow of words, to wrench a desperately important meaning from them.

"We couldn't possibly crucify someone with hair like that."

The meaning loomed through the haze of terror. Gabriella gasped, eyes lighting with joy, twisting her face to kiss his saving hand.

He drew back his arm, grimacing slightly, not wishing to have her slobber on his powdered skin.

"Why even the tribune's wife said how lovely it was. What was it she said ... that she only wished that she had your hair."

His mouth puckered in puzzlement.

"No, that's not quite right is it? She said ... oh yes, she said she wished to have your hair."

He smiled, then lifted his hands apologetically. "And when the Lady Marcella expresses a wish, what can we lesser mortals do?"

He nodded towards the man in the farmworker's tunic.

"That's Luke, my shepherd. Do you know him? No? An excellent man. For the last three days he's been shearing the sheep on my farm. A fine crop this year."
He nodded complacently.
"And now he's going to shear you, Gabriella Sivilla. And then ... we shall crucify you."

TBC
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Once again, really good description and well-written. The chafing of the rope around her neck is a good touch, I hadn't used that before and I'll have to remember it.

Having her hair sheared, in addition to the humiliation, reveals her face to view by everyone. They can all see who she is along with the expressions of her suffering on her face, so it's clear that she's being adequately punished for her crimes. This hair thing is something I realized in the process of creating Poser images - if you have a victim with long hair and she's hanging there with her head pitched forward, her hair is likely to obscure her face and the expression you've worked so hard to create.

The descriptions of the cook and the skivvy contrast nicely. The fat cook will likely expire long before the other two and the skivvy might outlast them all. I suppose we'll find out!
 
jedakk said:
Once again, really good description and well-written. The chafing of the rope around her neck is a good touch, I hadn't used that before and I'll have to remember it.

Having her hair sheared, in addition to the humiliation, reveals her face to view by everyone. They can all see who she is along with the expressions of her suffering on her face, so it's clear that she's being adequately punished for her crimes. This hair thing is something I realized in the process of creating Poser images - if you have a victim with long hair and she's hanging there with her head pitched forward, her hair is likely to obscure her face and the expression you've worked so hard to create.

The descriptions of the cook and the skivvy contrast nicely. The fat cook will likely expire long before the other two and the skivvy might outlast them all. I suppose we'll find out!
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I can't take credit for the shearing. That idea came from the wonderful Gabriella Sivilla.
 
"You know what you have to do Luke."

"Arr m'lord. Aarl ready for un."

He showed the shears in hand, a flattened metal semi-circle with two arms that ended in broad triangular blades some six inches long.

"Git a holt on un, boi. Halt un strang moind."

A grin spread over the lout's face. "Oi will Da, oh oi'll halt un good."

He stepped up to Gabriella and grabbed her ears with huge, calloused hands.

"Cam ee ere garl," he grunted as he dragged her face forward against his thighs so violently it seemed he wanted to rip her ears from her head.

Face jammed against the greasy fabric of his tunic Gabriella choked for breath.

From the rim of the hollow they saw her bottom jerk to and fro and her feet kick up and down. Those were the only parts of her body she could move.

"Now that's the Gabby I remember," said Herennius. "What a girl eh Mira? Can't resist sucking dick even at a time like this."

Helpless in hurting hands, her squealing lost in the thick wool of the lout's tunic, Gabriella felt a hand gather her hair together at the nape of her neck, lift it high.

She felt the crunch of the shears.

Felt her hair sheared away.

Again at one side of her head then the other.

She heard it, felt it. Blinded and choking.

At the crown of her head. Above one ear then the other.

Crunching above one temple then the other.

The lout pushed her head away. She was gasping for air, hardly able to see through tears as the shepherd turned towards the plump man and offered him her hair. An attendant stepped up, holding an open bag and the man dropped her hair into it. Long swathes hung down from the opening, and together they gathered them and tucked them in.

The attendant pulled the drawstrings of the bag closed and stepped away. Stepped away with a bagful of Gabriella's hair.

The lout was still grasping her ears.

"Kn oi do un Da, kn oi?" His voice was hoarse yet eager as a child pleading for honey cakes.

The shepherd looked across at his master.

"Oh very well," came a languid voice. "I suppose you've earned it."

Releasing one ear the lout dragged his tunic up and the stink of sweat and sheep fat redoubled. His penis was jutting rigid, the tip jutting through the hood and already oozing as he pulled Gabriella's mouth onto it and jerked it in.

The mouth rape was short and animal, Gabriella retching as he rammed to the back of her throat.

The shepherd looked to the plump man who sighed.

"Oh very well."

She didn't feel the cloth pulled away. But she felt the hairy arms grip her from behind, felt him ram brutally in to her bruised opening.

Choking, retching, her body battered from behind and her face from above, Gabriella was raped by peasants who fucked like animals while the crowd whooped and cheered them on.

For they saw the high and mighty had fallen and been brought down from their seats, while the weapons of the poor had most clearly not perished.
 
Well, that ought to give any non-native English speakers a challenge to understand. And now we know where that accent, which I'm guessing is maybe Midlands English, originated! It came from Kytherramne! :devil: Closest I've ever heard to that was maybe from one of the characters in "The Last of the Summer Wine" quite a few years ago.

So Gabriella's nightmare continues and just gets worse.
 
jedakk said:
Well, that ought to give any non-native English speakers a challenge to understand. And now we know where that accent, which I'm guessing is maybe Midlands English, originated!
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Could be. I was hearing it as west country, aaarrrrrrrr. Who knows what the more bucolic denizens of Kytherramne may have sounded like!

malins said:
hmmm what i post is, how do the say, the tip of the iceberg, of what I sometimes feel...
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As with so many of us. I do love the glimpses we get into your mind and your feelings, Malin.

Great story Andy
 
malins said:
Hmmm, the men of Empire need to make sure that isn't taken as a general lesson ... or there'll be lots of trouble... ;)
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Yes. Wouldn't want to set unfortunate precedents. Next thing you know, people would actually be listening to those two idiots, Leninus and Marksus. "Throw down your chains," as if they could.
 
All her senses were assaulted and overwhlemed.

The pain, oh the pain! Her back burned like hell, bruised with the whip strokes the guards enjoyed giving her as she was laid to the killing ground. Her shoulders, splinters of rough wood in her tender silky skin; her neck, ripped by the rope used to lead her like an animal to the abbattoir. And her crotch, deep bruised marking her there, the thougth of what thay have done to her making her retch again.

The smell. Waves after waves of stink as she was brought here from people seeing water once a year. Stink from the litter all around. Stink of urine and shit from the loincloth around her shapely hips. And here, the stink of grease, and urine, and sheep fat as her delicate nose was pressed against the lout crotch while they shaved her, filling her nostrils, used to the delicate scent of jasmim.

The sense of taste. She had never tasted anything more disgusting that the lout's penis as it was shoved in her mouth, his hand pullng her jaw down to have an easy way with her. It was like eating rancid fat, litter, castor oil, all together.

The sight. All around, the rare moments she could raise her head and look, just angry faces, people hating her, or enjoying what they were doing to her. She was just a show. A girl butchered for their entertainment. And the two girls already on the stake, suffering the pains of the cross, recalling her what will be her fate in a few moments. Aaaahhhh!

And shouts, insults, cat-calls, all directed to her.They shouted their hatred, they commented on what would do to her, they gave lewd suggestions to the guards, urging them to allow them ten minutes with the prisoner.

And finally the sense of touch. After they had shaved her, kneeling in front of the mob, they bent her forward, pushing on the hurt beam still on her shoulders, pushing her cute face in the mud in front of her. She just felt the soldier ripping the dirty loincloth which somebody had tied around her waist. She just felt somebody kicking her legs spread wide. She just felt the first man from the mob penetrating her, all of the sudden, his hard long member like a thick wooden rod inserted forcefully in her tender pussy, balls-deep, as she gasped from pain and shame and the cat-calls around her increased in intensity and indignity. She just felt the men, one after the other, abusing her, her face in the mud, until one decided to violate her tight rear entry, and the sudden pain as he penetrated her hard elicited high-pitched screams from the top of her lungs, as she felt him progressing inside her. Her screams were just muffled from the mud, but were submerged by the whoops and cheers from the crowd, happy from hearing her suffering in their hands.

She did not know how long it went along. She passed away then she awoke, gasping, her whole body hurting..."Move! I said move, BITCH! We do not have all day for you!"

(Just my feeling Andy, I hope you do not mind!)

Sweet sweet kisses!

Yours Gabriella
 
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GabriellaSivilla said:
All her senses were assaulted and overwhlemed.

The pain, oh the pain! Her back burned like hell, bruised with the whip strokes the guards enjoyed giving her as she was laid to the killing ground. Her shoulders, splinters of rough wood in her tender silky skin; her neck, ripped by the rope used to lead her like an animal to the abbattoir. And her crotch, deep bruised marking her here, the thougth of what thay have done to her making her retch again.

The smell. Waves after waves of stink as she was brought here from people seeing water once a year. Stink from the litter all around. Stink of urine and shift from the loincloth around her shapely hips. And here, the stink of fat and sheep fat as her delicate nose was pressed against the lout crotch as they shaved her, filling her nostrils, used to the delicate scent of jasmim.

The sense of taste. She had never tasted anything more disgusting that the lout's penis as it was shoved in her mouth, his hand pullng her jaw down to have an easy way with her. It was like eating rancid fat, litter, castor oil, all together.

The sight. All around, the rare moments she could raise her head and look, just angry faces, people hating her, or enjoying what they were doing to her. She was just a show. A girl butchered for their entertainment. And the two girls already on the stake, suffering the pains of the cross, recalling what will be her fate in a few moments. Aaaahhhh!

And shouts, insults, cat-calls, all directed to her.They shouted their hatred, they commented on what would do to her, they gave lewd suggestions to the guards, urging them to allow them ten minutes with the prisoner.

And finally the sense of touch. After they had shaved her, kneeling in front of the mob, they bent her forward, pushing on the hurt beam on her shoulders, pushing her cute face in the mud in front of her. She just felt the soldier ripping the dirty loincloth which somebody had tied around her waist. She just felt somebody kicking her legs spread wide. She just felt the first man from the mob penetrating her, all of the sudden, his hard long member like a thick wooden rod inserted forcefully in her tender pussy, balls-deep, as she gasped from pain and shame and the cat-calls around her increased in intensity and indignity. She just felt the men, one after the other, abusing her, her face in the mud, until one decided to violate her tight rear entry, and the sudden pain as he penetrated her hard elicited high-pitched screams from the top of her lungs, as she felt him progressing inside her. Her screams were just muffled from the mud, but were submerged by the whoops and cheers from the crowd, happy from hearing her suffering in their hands.

She did not know how long it went along. She passed away ten she awoke, gasping, her whole body hurting..."Move! I said move, BITCH! We do not have all day for you!"

(Just my feeling Andy, I hope you do not mind!)

Sweet sweet kisses!

Yours Gabriella
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That's fantastic, Gabriella! It's a great perspective.
 
GabriellaSivilla said:
All her senses were assaulted and overwhlemed.

The pain, oh the pain! Her back burned like hell, bruised with the whip strokes the guards enjoyed giving her as she was laid to the killing ground. Her shoulders, splinters of rough wood in her tender silky skin; her neck, ripped by the rope used to lead her like an animal to the abbattoir. And her crotch, deep bruised marking her there, the thougth of what thay have done to her making her retch again.

The smell. Waves after waves of stink as she was brought here from people seeing water once a year. Stink from the litter all around. Stink of urine and shit from the loincloth around her shapely hips. And here, the stink of grease, and urine, and sheep fat as her delicate nose was pressed against the lout crotch while they shaved her, filling her nostrils, used to the delicate scent of jasmim.

The sense of taste. She had never tasted anything more disgusting that the lout's penis as it was shoved in her mouth, his hand pullng her jaw down to have an easy way with her. It was like eating rancid fat, litter, castor oil, all together.

The sight. All around, the rare moments she could raise her head and look, just angry faces, people hating her, or enjoying what they were doing to her. She was just a show. A girl butchered for their entertainment. And the two girls already on the stake, suffering the pains of the cross, recalling her what will be her fate in a few moments. Aaaahhhh!

And shouts, insults, cat-calls, all directed to her.They shouted their hatred, they commented on what would do to her, they gave lewd suggestions to the guards, urging them to allow them ten minutes with the prisoner.

And finally the sense of touch. After they had shaved her, kneeling in front of the mob, they bent her forward, pushing on the hurt beam still on her shoulders, pushing her cute face in the mud in front of her. She just felt the soldier ripping the dirty loincloth which somebody had tied around her waist. She just felt somebody kicking her legs spread wide. She just felt the first man from the mob penetrating her, all of the sudden, his hard long member like a thick wooden rod inserted forcefully in her tender pussy, balls-deep, as she gasped from pain and shame and the cat-calls around her increased in intensity and indignity. She just felt the men, one after the other, abusing her, her face in the mud, until one decided to violate her tight rear entry, and the sudden pain as he penetrated her hard elicited high-pitched screams from the top of her lungs, as she felt him progressing inside her. Her screams were just muffled from the mud, but were submerged by the whoops and cheers from the crowd, happy from hearing her suffering in their hands.

She did not know how long it went along. She passed away then she awoke, gasping, her whole body hurting..."Move! I said move, BITCH! We do not have all day for you!"

(Just my feeling Andy, I hope you do not mind!)

Sweet sweet kisses!

Yours Gabriella
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Andy and you are producing a real masterpiece here, Gabriella. :clapping::clapping:
 
Wragg134 said:
Andy and you are producing a real masterpiece here, Gabriella. :clapping::clapping:
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Oooohhhh thaaanks Wragg, you are too good! :) Andy is an exceptional writer. For me it is difficult, since I am not English mother tongue, I have just learnt it at school. But when Andy started to post the first episodes, it was like something exploded in my mind. I was suddenly transported over space and time to be there, in Kytherramne, at first partying, rich and happy, and then in the hands of the soldiers, of the angry mob. And I felt their hands on me, their taunts and cat-calls... I am so emotionally involved! And I want to be there, offering myself for my sacrifice, for the pleasure of you and the mob.

Sweet sweet kisses
Gabriella
 
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