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My Crux Work

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3DFranco said:
A rural crucifixion. Could have been at any Roman agricultural estate during the Spartacus uprising, when slaves were punished already if they only expressed their appreciation or support for the uprising.
Click to expand...

There is a lot going on here. The girl we assume to be the next victim is dressed in slave attire, leg and thigh attractively exposed but the naughty bits covered. She is looking at one of the crucified, whose loin cloth is in the process of slipping off. The girl opposite already has her hairy pussy exposed and the domina approves with a smile. The new girl can see her future.
Good to see some men in the background too. The dress code is egalitarian, men and women have their loins covered and torsos exposed. It would be interesting to see one of the men suffering wardrobe malfunction like the two ladies in front. Any chance of further variations on this scene?
 
phlebas said:
There is a lot going on here. The girl we assume to be the next victim is dressed in slave attire, leg and thigh attractively exposed but the naughty bits covered. She is looking at one of the crucified, whose loin cloth is in the process of slipping off. The girl opposite already has her hairy pussy exposed and the domina approves with a smile. The new girl can see her future.
Click to expand...
I'm not so sure. She's wearing a slave-collar and arm-band, but no titulus label like the crucified girls have on their collars, and her wrists aren't chained. There's contempt in her expression, I think she's Mistress's pet, perhaps she was hated by the other girls, maybe she actually betrayed them, snitched on them to ingratiate herself and get her revenge. And while they gasp for breath in their agony to spit out curses, she knows they're defeated, she's won!
 
3DFranco said:
A rural crucifixion. Could have been at any Roman agricultural estate during the Spartacus uprising, when slaves were punished already if they only expressed their appreciation or support for the uprising.
Click to expand...
Rural Crucifixion.jpg

Like I often do, I identify with one of the suffering slavegirls in the background - in this case, the second from the left.

The last rays of the setting sun glance on my gleaming breast, my flashing teeth,
I toss my dark hair, lank and dirty, trying to whisk away the biting insects
buzzing excited by my sweat and blood in the dank evening air ...

When the soldiers burst in, wrecked our sleeping stable,
under my pile of rags they found
a wax writing tablet, with the impression of a key
pressed into it.

I didn't know it was there,
I know who planted it -
that sly skunk Yona, Mistress's little pet.

But of course, that was it for me.
Off to the torture cellar under the fort,
the eculus,
bound tight, wrists, ankles,
tugged - dropped - tugged - dropped
again and again,
while my aching flanks they tore
with whips and heated hooks.

Of course they broke me,
made me confess,
I'd nicked that key,
the one to the little north gate,
made that impression,
so I could smuggle it
out to the Spartacists,
to make a copy,
get into the grounds,
and torch the villa,
Mistress and all her household -
oh, wretched Fates -
if only they had ...

Then the routine -
raped, Goddesses of us girls,
you only know how many men
used me, in every way,
and all my friends, girls-slaves and boys.

After that, scourged -
Mistress was watching, urging them on,
she had a special loathing for me,
always thought I was looking shifty -
told them to keep on thrashing me
till my back was ripped
ragged with bleeding strips of skin.

Then strapped to the cross-beam -
marched up the long hill,
so our foul dying stench
won't reach her ladyship's
comfortable colonnaded halls of rest -

Mine's different from the others,
don't know why, shorter,
maybe they'd no more wood,
or is it special torture,
to be nailed like this
with my wrists above my head,
my arms stretched up?

I'm hanging, shoulders strained
by the torture on the rack
torn by the weight of my whole torso.
My strong legs strive -
brisk, energetic slavegirl's thighs,
that danced and skipped so readily,
even after a hard day's slavery -
I flex and force up,
trying to ease the agony ...

but the vicious spike
banged through my feet,
crushes more tiny bones
each time I press,
and sends a shaft of hideous pain,
up through my hips ...

while my flayed back burns,
chafed as it scrapes
against the rough stipes ...

so I drop, swing out,
twisting and heaving helplessly,
swung between pain and pain ...

Glance down,
the wretched rag around my loins -
clings to my sweating skin,
stinking of all the juices
oozing from my girl-parts ...

yet, even in my torment by the Furies,
the cruel desire that burns us women
smoulders, flicked into flame
when I see the suffering boys,
coping on their crosses,
glance at my nakedness,
their loin-cloths bulge ...

They've given me the sponge,
thrust into my parched gob,
it tasted foul,
but I sucked at it frantically,
knowing the bitter herbs
and human piss
will keep my body
gasping, alive ...
though I groan for death -
I have to drink ...

And now they're enjoying it,
their fresh, pure water from the spring,
pouring it down their mocking throats,
just to torment us ..

Mistress grins, pleased -
as she's always been -
at my lithe, lissom dancing ...

then she moves to mock poor Aurea,
see, she's lost her loincloth,
her golden fleece exposed!

And evil Yona -
Furies, turn your whips of wrath
on that vile serpent -
gloats in her triumph
over us girls she thought her rivals.

And so they leave us,
squirming and struggling,
each in our little world
of conquering pain,

I make another, agonising try
to ease my quivering body,
find a posture,
readying my bare flesh
for the cruel cold horrors of the night ...
Goddesses of us girls,
how can I last?

And yet, I know I'm fated,
strong, supple,
fit to be crucified -
I shall see dawn,
endure another day,
probably more,

it's only the beginning ...
 
Eulalia said:
View attachment 1171108

Like I often do, I identify with one of the suffering slavegirls in the background - in this case, the second from the left.

The last rays of the setting sun glance on my gleaming breast, my flashing teeth,
I toss my dark hair, lank and dirty, trying to whisk away the biting insects
buzzing excited by my sweat and blood in the dank evening air ...

When the soldiers burst in, wrecked our sleeping stable,
under my pile of rags they found
a wax writing tablet, with the impression of a key
pressed into it.

I didn't know it was there,
I know who planted it -
that sly skunk Yona, Mistress's little pet.

But of course, that was it for me.
Off to the torture cellar under the fort,
the eculus,
bound tight, wrists, ankles,
tugged - dropped - tugged - dropped
again and again,
while my aching flanks they tore
with whips and heated hooks.

Of course they broke me,
made me confess,
I'd nicked that key,
the one to the little north gate,
made that impression,
so I could smuggle it
out to the Spartacists,
to make a copy,
get into the grounds,
and torch the villa,
Mistress and all her household -
oh, wretched Fates -
if only they had ...

Then the routine -
raped, Goddesses of us girls,
you only know how many men
used me, in every way,
and all my friends, girls-slaves and boys.

After that, scourged -
Mistress was watching, urging them on,
she had a special loathing for me,
always thought I was looking shifty -
told them to keep on thrashing me
till my back was ripped
ragged with bleeding strips of skin.

Then strapped to the cross-beam -
marched up the long hill,
so our foul dying stench
won't reach her ladyship's
comfortable colonnaded halls of rest -

Mine's different from the others,
don't know why, shorter,
maybe they'd no more wood,
or is it special torture,
to be nailed like this
with my wrists above my head,
my arms stretched up?

I'm hanging, shoulders strained
by the torture on the rack
torn by the weight of my whole torso.
My strong legs strive -
brisk, energetic slavegirl's thighs,
that danced and skipped so readily,
even after a hard day's slavery -
I flex and force up,
trying to ease the agony ...

but the vicious spike
banged through my feet,
crushes more tiny bones
each time I press,
and sends a shaft of hideous pain,
up through my hips ...

while my flayed back burns,
chafed as it scrapes
against the rough stipes ...

so I drop, swing out,
twisting and heaving helplessly,
swung between pain and pain ...

Glance down,
the wretched rag around my loins -
clings to my sweating skin,
stinking of all the juices
oozing from my girl-parts ...

yet, even in my torment by the Furies,
the cruel desire that burns us women
smoulders, flicked into flame
when I see the suffering boys,
coping on their crosses,
glance at my nakedness,
their loin-cloths bulge ...

They've given me the sponge,
thrust into my parched gob,
it tasted foul,
but I sucked at it frantically,
knowing the bitter herbs
and human piss
will keep my body
gasping, alive ...
though I groan for death -
I have to drink ...

And now they're enjoying it,
their fresh, pure water from the spring,
pouring it down their mocking throats,
just to torment us ..

Mistress grins, pleased -
as she's always been -
at my lithe, lissom dancing ...

then she moves to mock poor Aurea,
see, she's lost her loincloth,
her golden fleece exposed!

And evil Yona -
Furies, turn your whips of wrath
on that vile serpent -
gloats in her triumph
over us girls she thought her rivals.

And so they leave us,
squirming and struggling,
each in our little world
of conquering pain,

I make another, agonising try
to ease my quivering body,
find a posture,
readying my bare flesh
for the cruel cold horrors of the night ...
Goddesses of us girls,
how can I last?

And yet, I know I'm fated,
strong, supple,
fit to be crucified -
I shall see dawn,
endure another day,
probably more,

it's only the beginning ...
Click to expand...
Fantastic, eloquent, and vivid, @Eulalia - I do love your writing.
 
Eulalia said:
View attachment 1171108

Like I often do, I identify with one of the suffering slavegirls in the background - in this case, the second from the left.

The last rays of the setting sun glance on my gleaming breast, my flashing teeth,
I toss my dark hair, lank and dirty, trying to whisk away the biting insects
buzzing excited by my sweat and blood in the dank evening air ...

When the soldiers burst in, wrecked our sleeping stable,
under my pile of rags they found
a wax writing tablet, with the impression of a key
pressed into it.

I didn't know it was there,
I know who planted it -
that sly skunk Yona, Mistress's little pet.

But of course, that was it for me.
Off to the torture cellar under the fort,
the eculus,
bound tight, wrists, ankles,
tugged - dropped - tugged - dropped
again and again,
while my aching flanks they tore
with whips and heated hooks.

Of course they broke me,
made me confess,
I'd nicked that key,
the one to the little north gate,
made that impression,
so I could smuggle it
out to the Spartacists,
to make a copy,
get into the grounds,
and torch the villa,
Mistress and all her household -
oh, wretched Fates -
if only they had ...

Then the routine -
raped, Goddesses of us girls,
you only know how many men
used me, in every way,
and all my friends, girls-slaves and boys.

After that, scourged -
Mistress was watching, urging them on,
she had a special loathing for me,
always thought I was looking shifty -
told them to keep on thrashing me
till my back was ripped
ragged with bleeding strips of skin.

Then strapped to the cross-beam -
marched up the long hill,
so our foul dying stench
won't reach her ladyship's
comfortable colonnaded halls of rest -

Mine's different from the others,
don't know why, shorter,
maybe they'd no more wood,
or is it special torture,
to be nailed like this
with my wrists above my head,
my arms stretched up?

I'm hanging, shoulders strained
by the torture on the rack
torn by the weight of my whole torso.
My strong legs strive -
brisk, energetic slavegirl's thighs,
that danced and skipped so readily,
even after a hard day's slavery -
I flex and force up,
trying to ease the agony ...

but the vicious spike
banged through my feet,
crushes more tiny bones
each time I press,
and sends a shaft of hideous pain,
up through my hips ...

while my flayed back burns,
chafed as it scrapes
against the rough stipes ...

so I drop, swing out,
twisting and heaving helplessly,
swung between pain and pain ...

Glance down,
the wretched rag around my loins -
clings to my sweating skin,
stinking of all the juices
oozing from my girl-parts ...

yet, even in my torment by the Furies,
the cruel desire that burns us women
smoulders, flicked into flame
when I see the suffering boys,
coping on their crosses,
glance at my nakedness,
their loin-cloths bulge ...

They've given me the sponge,
thrust into my parched gob,
it tasted foul,
but I sucked at it frantically,
knowing the bitter herbs
and human piss
will keep my body
gasping, alive ...
though I groan for death -
I have to drink ...

And now they're enjoying it,
their fresh, pure water from the spring,
pouring it down their mocking throats,
just to torment us ..

Mistress grins, pleased -
as she's always been -
at my lithe, lissom dancing ...

then she moves to mock poor Aurea,
see, she's lost her loincloth,
her golden fleece exposed!

And evil Yona -
Furies, turn your whips of wrath
on that vile serpent -
gloats in her triumph
over us girls she thought her rivals.

And so they leave us,
squirming and struggling,
each in our little world
of conquering pain,

I make another, agonising try
to ease my quivering body,
find a posture,
readying my bare flesh
for the cruel cold horrors of the night ...
Goddesses of us girls,
how can I last?

And yet, I know I'm fated,
strong, supple,
fit to be crucified -
I shall see dawn,
endure another day,
probably more,

it's only the beginning ...
Click to expand...
And that, boys and girls, is why Eulalia is cruxforums’ Poet Laureate! :clapclap:
 
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