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Wind And Rain

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montycrusto said:
So Barbaria gets a whipping,
Flails across her flesh are skipping,
Lines across her skin are zipping,
Striping breasts and bum.

Bad enough, the public stripping.
Now her arms the guards are gripping,
To the cross she stumbles, tripping,
Shouting, "Roman scum"!

At her wrists unkindly nipping,
Nails between her bones are dipping,
Agony across her ripping...
Cruel patibulum!

Now the cross is upright tipping,
Down the stipes she is slipping,
From the cup of pain she's sipping,
Still there's worse to come.

Now she feels the cornu's pricking
Into her Tight Little sticking,
But which hole will she be picking,
Ere she must succumb?
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Monty, I have to tell you, I'm really enjoying your poetic interludes to Barb's story!

:goodjob:

Barbaria1 said:
4. I remember passing through the camp gate, half on my own and half-dragged by the big bearded legionary Marcus who propelled me along maintaining a firm grip on my hair.

I had no choice but to do my best to keep up with his long stride. The wind and rain blew in our faces, forcing me to lean into it, breasts swaying as I skipped and staggered along. Whenever I stumbled and started to go down he would jerk me to my feet and Lucius, who followed close behind, would cheerfully add a nice resounding slap across my bare quivering ass for good measure.

Not far outside the camp, the garrison had set up a stretch along the road for public executions. After the battle in which the Romans had laid claim to the region, dozens of the local men who had fought the Romans and survived were rounded up and crucified there. And although I had often seen it before on my daily trips to the camp, my eyes grew wide at the terrifying sight of so many blackened, putrefying corpses hanging from rows of crosses stretching back for a distance on both sides of the road.

We passed among them, buffeted by blinding wind and rain, wandering about until we came to an empty cross, laying on the muddy ground awaiting its next victim. Just at that moment a sudden and especially strong gust of wind came up causing Marcus to momentarily relax his grip on my hair. I seized the opportunity, turned and kneed him in the groin as my father had once taught me to do, broke free and attempted to run.

Marcus stopped dead, doubled over and red-faced, but Lucius gave chase. I darted and dodged between crosses, stumbled and scrambled, twisted and turned, but could not shake Lucius, who kept up the chase and eventually succeeded in grabbing onto my arm and slowing me down while Marcus, now on his feet and mad as hell, came up and upended me by throwing his shoulder into my gut, wrapping his arm under my knee and lifting.

I flew through the air and fell to the turf on my back. Before I could move I was pinned there by Lucius, who held my head down by the hair in addition to kneeling over me with his knee pressing down on my chest. I lay there, immobilized and subdued, listening to the labored breathing of the two soldiers.

"She has spirit," remarked Lucius, "You have to grant her that."

"Won't do her any good," replied Marcus, who now took his revenge by kicking me hard in the crotch with the toe of his muddy boot. I screamed as the bone-crunching impact sent a lightning bolt of pain coursing through my body.

"Come on, let's get her laid out on that cross, so we can get this over with." growled Marcus impatiently.

Lucius let go of my hair, stood up, reached down for my wrists, pulled me to my feet and gave me a shove to get me moving. I limped along quietly, one hand to my painfully bruised and throbbing labia, as we retraced our steps to the waiting cross by the side of the road; but I began to struggle once again as we drew close. In desperation I kicked and clawed for dear life, but was quickly quieted with a hard punch to the stomach that left me on my side and doubled over in the mud next to the cross, gasping for breath.

They picked me up and forced me to sit on the wood. Resigned now to my fate, the fight gone out of me, I pulled my knees up under my chin, wrapped my arms around my shins and rocked slowly back and forth, the wind and blinding rain whipping around my glistening naked body.

"Stretch her out now and bind her wrists and ankles," commanded Marcus.

TO BE CONTINUED
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Cor, blimey! :eek:

Now wonder Boudicca had to give these guys a bit of a thrashing! :oops:

These Romans just aren't gentlemen! :mad:

What are they doing in Britain? :confused:
 
5. I poke gingerly at the hummocky grassy ground, festooned with little piles of round pellet-like sheep dung, with the toe of my blue canvass Keds sneakers. A blustery wind blows my hair and a persistent drizzle wets my face. My eyes trace the line of the ancient track that crests the hillock on which I stand and continues on to the site of an old Roman camp and fort.

I read with interest the informative little sign at my feet, obligingly placed there by the National Trust. It tells of a fierce battle in which the Romans established control over the local Celtic tribe, and how archaeological finds of ancient timbers, rusted iron nails along with broken or splintered wrist and foot bones, suggest that the vanquished defenders who survived the fighting were put to death on this very spot in a mass crucifixion ... and curiously, how one set of bones, unlike the others, were those of a young female.

Eyes closed and buffeted by a quickening wind and heavier rain, I let my mind wander back nearly two millennia to imagine one of my ancestors … a young woman with long dark hair, lying naked on her back, bound with ropes to a heavy wooden cross, while two Roman soldiers fuss about the brutal task of hammering blunt iron nails through her thin wrists and delicate feet.

I imagine the horrendous pain she must have felt and how she must have arched her back, bucked and screamed with each hammer blow; and how, when the nailing was completed and the soldiers raised her cross and plopped it in its prepared hole, her poor naked body must have bounced about, repeatedly swinging out from the wood and crashing back into it; and how she must have suffered for God knows how long, struggling to push herself up to catch a breath of air and then sliding back, scourged back roughed up by the splintered timber, blood running down her arms and sides from her nailed wrists and oozing between the toes of her shattered feet; and how her head must have lolled from side to side, sodden hair splayed across her heaving breasts with hard tumescent nipples poking out through glistening twisted strands; and how her head, once exhaustion set in, must have hung forward until her chin came to rest on her chest.

Emerging from my reverie, I am consciously aware of what a powerfully erotic effect my little fantasy has had on me. I feel that familiar tingle of arousal and note with chagrin the dark wet stain spreading from the crotch of my skinny jeans.

And what of those two Roman soldiers who crucified her, I wonder? What did they think and feel? Were they aroused or had they seen it all before? Did they molest and brutalize her or feel sorry for her?

And what of me? Why does thinking of her and her suffering so excite me? Why do I fantasize about being unfairly condemned, stripped and exposed, tormented, humiliated, subjected to ridicule, whipped and tortured, nailed and raised? Am I weird, or is there a little of this in all of us?

I wonder.

FINIS
 
Barbaria1 said:
5. I poke gingerly at the hummocky grassy ground, festooned with little piles of round pellet-like sheep dung, with the toe of my blue canvass Keds sneakers. A blustery wind blows my hair and a persistent drizzle wets my face. My eyes trace the line of the ancient track that crests the hillock on which I stand and continues on to the site of an old Roman camp and fort.

I read with interest the informative little sign at my feet, obligingly placed there by the National Trust. It tells of a fierce battle in which the Romans established control over the local Celtic tribe, and how archaeological finds of ancient timbers, rusted iron nails along with broken or splintered wrist and foot bones, suggest that the vanquished defenders who survived the fighting were put to death on this very spot in a mass crucifixion ... and curiously, how one set of bones, unlike the others, were those of a young female.

Eyes closed and buffeted by a quickening wind and heavier rain, I let my mind wander back nearly two millennia to imagine one of my ancestors … a young woman with long dark hair, lying naked on her back, bound with ropes to a heavy wooden cross, while two Roman soldiers fuss about the brutal task of hammering blunt iron nails through her thin wrists and delicate feet.

I imagine the horrendous pain she must have felt and how she must have arched her back, bucked and screamed with each hammer blow; and how, when the nailing was completed and the soldiers raised her cross and plopped it in its prepared hole, her poor naked body must have bounced about, repeatedly swinging out from the wood and crashing back into it; and how she must have suffered for God knows how long, struggling to push herself up to catch a breath of air and then sliding back, scourged back roughed up by the splintered timber, blood running down her arms and sides from her nailed wrists and oozing between the toes of her shattered feet; and how her head must have lolled from side to side, sodden hair splayed across her heaving breasts with hard tumescent nipples poking out through glistening twisted strands; and how her head, once exhaustion set in, must have hung forward until her chin came to rest on her chest.

Emerging from my reverie, I am consciously aware of what a powerfully erotic effect my little fantasy has had on me. I feel that familiar tingle of arousal and note with chagrin the dark wet stain spreading from the crotch of my skinny jeans.

And what of those two Roman soldiers who crucified her, I wonder? What did they think and feel? Were they aroused or had they seen it all before? Did they molest and brutalize her or feel sorry for her?

And what of me? Why does thinking of her and her suffering so excite me? Why do I fantasize about being unfairly condemned, stripped and exposed, tormented, humiliated, subjected to ridicule, whipped and tortured, nailed and raised? Am I weird, or is there a little of this in all of us?

I wonder.

FINIS
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cop-out!!!

...Just kidding... Great story, Barb!!!

T
 
Ooooh arrrr!

Tis on'y the Yanks what visit that site in the rain!

But them of us as live nearboi....

We do offen ear the sound of an 'ammer an screamin driftin 'cross the moor!

So, don't you Cruxforum folk go thinkin that this ear tale iz fiction! Tis God's honest trewth!
 
Wragg134 said:
Ooooh arrrr!

Tis on'y the Yanks what visit that site in the rain!

But them of us as live nearboi....

We do offen ear the sound of an 'ammer an screamin driftin 'cross the moor!

So, don't you Cruxforum folk go thinkin that this ear tale iz fiction! Tis God's honest trewth!
Click to expand...

Many regional accents were brutally murdered to bring us this gibberish :devil::p
 
Wragg134 said:
Ooooh arrrr!

Tis on'y the Yanks what visit that site in the rain!

But them of us as live nearboi....

We do offen ear the sound of an 'ammer an screamin driftin 'cross the moor!

So, don't you Cruxforum folk go thinkin that this ear tale iz fiction! Tis God's honest trewth!
Click to expand...

So very clever ... love this!:)
 
Barbaria1 said:
Am I weird, or is there a little of this in all of us?

I wonder.
Click to expand...

No, Barb .... you're not alone ...a_night_of_pain_by_ipooper-d95rqc8.jpg you know well that some others of your sisters are also feeling these needing, these sensations ...
Why ? Never mind ... We are ... I am ...even elsewhere, perhaps, but she's always your sister ....;)

Snapshot_042.png​

Good written story ... Thanks .....:)
 
messaline said:
No, Barb .... you're not alone ...View attachment 301123 you know well that some others of your sisters are also feeling these needing, these sensations ...
Why ? Never mind ... We are ... I am ...even elsewhere, perhaps, but she's always your sister ....;)


Good written story ... Thanks .....:)
Click to expand...

A sisterhood ... never alone ... I like that ... thanks Messa! :)
 
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