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Cella
Spectator
Marcella is marched to her crucifixion:
Marcella blinks as the bright orb of the rising sun shines directly into her eyes. She looks down at the ground. There is a cross lying there. She sees it, then realizes . . . then she screams.
The lashing over. Marcella is lowered to the ground. Her body is on fire from the whip. She stares up into the beautiful blue morning sky.
“Get her ready.” A rough voice issues orders.
“On your knees bitch, let’s go.”
Rough hands pull her into a submissive kneeling position, then push her upper body down. Her forehead nearly touches the ground in front of her. Her arms are spread to the sides. Marcella feels a heavy piece of wood positioned across her shoulders. It’s the crossbeam! To which she’ll be nailed! Her heart races as she realizes this is the start of her crucifixion. “No, no, please, no! I’m innocent!” Marcella’s voice is thin. She sobs as the words blurt out. No one pays attention.
“Raise your arms girl, to the ends of the wood, now. Be quick about it!” Another command
Marcella tries, but she cannot. Pain flashes in her shoulders. The strappado has so wrenched her shoulder muscles that she cannot lift her arms away from her body. “I, I can’t. Please, I can’t raise my arms.” Marcella whimpers in pain and fear.
“See, told ya.” One voice says. “The strappado really fucks ‘em up. Can’t pull up when on the cross. She’ll die too soon. Suffocate from hanging from her arms too much. Can’t have that. She’ll be dead in a few hours. You have the foot block, right?”
“Have it.”
Hands grab her wrists and pull Marcella’s arms out to the ends of the crossbeam. The sudden movement as her arms are stretched causes her to yelp as bolts of pain radiation from her torn shoulder muscles.
“Oh god that hurts, please stop, oh, oh, oh!!!!”
“Bitch thinks she’s in pain now, just wait ‘till she feels the nails.” A rough voice laughs. “Yeah, then she’ll sing a new song for us, won’t ya bitch?
Marcella’s arms are draped over the ends of the crossbeam and tied with coarse rope at the wrists.
“Get her up on her feet.” Another command. The ends the crossbeam are pulled up, dragging Marcella, moaning in pain, with it. She stands on trembling legs, slightly bent over under the weight of the crossbeam. Her tortured and lashed body radiates pain.
“All right, let’s go.” A hand pushes against her back, encouraging Marcella to step forward. She very nearly stumbles with the first step as she tries to walk and balance the crossbeam at the same time. After a few halting steps she manages to get one foot in front of the other even as she sways from side to side. Sharp pains slash upward from her crotch as she walks. That hideous pear torture did considerable damage to her vagina!
Marcella stumbles forward on unsure legs, her head down, staring at the ground in front of her. All sorts of new pains make themselves known. The rough wood digs into her flayed skin. Her lashed breasts burn with fresh pain as they bobble on her chest. Her thighs are tight with deep aches and pain from her exertions on the torture table and from the strappado hanging. She is a wholly utterly miserable human being, in deep physical and mental anguish, as she is marched naked out of the courtyard and down the public road to her crucifixion.
A few people line the road watching Marcella’s pathetic march. The jeer at her nakedness and taunt her with horribly abusive words. She is suddenly humiliated again, something that had ceased to be of a concern to her after two days of torture and complete nakedness in the presence of strange men. She cannot cover herself, or shield herself from public view. She will never be able to do that again!
Marcella breathes heavily as she walks, quickly exhausted bearing the weight of her crossbeam. Sweat pours off her head and body. She is desperately thirsty and light-headed. She stumbles, falls forward. She dips her shoulders and one end of the crossbeam digs into the dirt as her opposite knee does the same. She falls forward, her body prostrate in the dirt, pinned under the weight of the crossbeam. Her breasts are pushed painfully into the stones in the roadbed. Marcella gasps for breath as she moans in pain and humiliation.
One of her executioners starts lashing her back, shouting at her. “Get up you fucking bitch!”
Marcella can only endure the pain of the lash, helpless to move. She hears a commanding voice. “Stop! Pull her up, you idiots! You want to kill her here?”
With that she feels herself pulled to a kneeling position, then to her feet. The dirt from the road sticking to her oozing, bleeding flesh. She’s given a moment to balance herself, then again pushed forward to continue her march. The spectators roar with laughter at her pathetic appearance.
How long has she been walking down this road under the weight of this crossbeam? It seems endless torture, but she knows what awaits her at the end will be far worse. But for now all she can do is endure
Again Marcella raises her head to stare down the road ahead. More spectators now. Their abusive voice just meaningless sounds in her head. She wonders if Thessela knows she’s about to be crucified. Will I see her along the road, she wonders? Oh, I hope not she thinks. Far too dangerous for Thessela. Her sister must stay away, she must. Or she’ll end up crucified too!
Marcella steps into a pile of horse dung, the soft mess squishing between her toes. She’s disgusted. She turns her head to the side, noticing a horse next to her. She looks up at the man astride the animal. The early morning sun is on his face. She recognizes him. Yes, he’s the Decurion from the courtyard yesterday, the one who spoke to her torturer. The one who gave her a sympathetic gaze before her torture began. She knew then that he suspected she was innocent. He’s looking at her again, the same sympathy on his face.
“Please, sir.” Marcella utters, looking him in the face. “Please, sir, you know I’m innocent, don’t you? I’m no escaped slave as they claim. You know I’m innocent! Oh please, can’t you stop this? I don’t want to be crucified! Oh please, sir, you can save me, stop this from happening! Oh please, I beg of you, show me mercy, oh please!!!”
The Decurion hears Marcella’s pitiful pleading but knows he cannot stop this. Yes, he thinks to himself, this girl is no escaped slave. She is clearly innocent of this false charge against her. But he also knows he cannot stop her crucifixion. No, he doesn’t have the authority. He must carry out his orders and have this poor girl nailed to a cross, to die a horrible and lengthy death. It gives him no pleasure, only grief at realizing that sometimes the most innocent must suffer. The girl is so young, so beautiful. Why she’s not much older than his own daughter!
He can’t look at her any longer. The thought of his own daughter being led away like this is fucking incomprehensible! Yet, this poor girl could be his own flesh and blood. The thought of it fills him with such revulsion. He is deeply saddened . . . and angry at being forced by his duty to carry out such an action. But orders are orders. Fuck! This girl is some man’s daughter! Does he know what’s about to happen to her?
He knees his horse, urging it to a trot. He must get out in front. He can’t look at her. Up ahead, after the turn, they’ll stop. There's a special area off the side of the road. He’s sure a crowd is already forming. They always do for a woman.
There she’ll be crucified.
Marcella blinks as the bright orb of the rising sun shines directly into her eyes. She looks down at the ground. There is a cross lying there. She sees it, then realizes . . . then she screams.
The lashing over. Marcella is lowered to the ground. Her body is on fire from the whip. She stares up into the beautiful blue morning sky.
“Get her ready.” A rough voice issues orders.
“On your knees bitch, let’s go.”Rough hands pull her into a submissive kneeling position, then push her upper body down. Her forehead nearly touches the ground in front of her. Her arms are spread to the sides. Marcella feels a heavy piece of wood positioned across her shoulders. It’s the crossbeam! To which she’ll be nailed! Her heart races as she realizes this is the start of her crucifixion. “No, no, please, no! I’m innocent!” Marcella’s voice is thin. She sobs as the words blurt out. No one pays attention.
“Raise your arms girl, to the ends of the wood, now. Be quick about it!” Another command
Marcella tries, but she cannot. Pain flashes in her shoulders. The strappado has so wrenched her shoulder muscles that she cannot lift her arms away from her body. “I, I can’t. Please, I can’t raise my arms.” Marcella whimpers in pain and fear.
“See, told ya.” One voice says. “The strappado really fucks ‘em up. Can’t pull up when on the cross. She’ll die too soon. Suffocate from hanging from her arms too much. Can’t have that. She’ll be dead in a few hours. You have the foot block, right?”
“Have it.”
Hands grab her wrists and pull Marcella’s arms out to the ends of the crossbeam. The sudden movement as her arms are stretched causes her to yelp as bolts of pain radiation from her torn shoulder muscles.
“Oh god that hurts, please stop, oh, oh, oh!!!!”
“Bitch thinks she’s in pain now, just wait ‘till she feels the nails.” A rough voice laughs. “Yeah, then she’ll sing a new song for us, won’t ya bitch?
Marcella’s arms are draped over the ends of the crossbeam and tied with coarse rope at the wrists.
“Get her up on her feet.” Another command. The ends the crossbeam are pulled up, dragging Marcella, moaning in pain, with it. She stands on trembling legs, slightly bent over under the weight of the crossbeam. Her tortured and lashed body radiates pain.
“All right, let’s go.” A hand pushes against her back, encouraging Marcella to step forward. She very nearly stumbles with the first step as she tries to walk and balance the crossbeam at the same time. After a few halting steps she manages to get one foot in front of the other even as she sways from side to side. Sharp pains slash upward from her crotch as she walks. That hideous pear torture did considerable damage to her vagina!
Marcella stumbles forward on unsure legs, her head down, staring at the ground in front of her. All sorts of new pains make themselves known. The rough wood digs into her flayed skin. Her lashed breasts burn with fresh pain as they bobble on her chest. Her thighs are tight with deep aches and pain from her exertions on the torture table and from the strappado hanging. She is a wholly utterly miserable human being, in deep physical and mental anguish, as she is marched naked out of the courtyard and down the public road to her crucifixion.
A few people line the road watching Marcella’s pathetic march. The jeer at her nakedness and taunt her with horribly abusive words. She is suddenly humiliated again, something that had ceased to be of a concern to her after two days of torture and complete nakedness in the presence of strange men. She cannot cover herself, or shield herself from public view. She will never be able to do that again!
Marcella breathes heavily as she walks, quickly exhausted bearing the weight of her crossbeam. Sweat pours off her head and body. She is desperately thirsty and light-headed. She stumbles, falls forward. She dips her shoulders and one end of the crossbeam digs into the dirt as her opposite knee does the same. She falls forward, her body prostrate in the dirt, pinned under the weight of the crossbeam. Her breasts are pushed painfully into the stones in the roadbed. Marcella gasps for breath as she moans in pain and humiliation.
One of her executioners starts lashing her back, shouting at her. “Get up you fucking bitch!”
Marcella can only endure the pain of the lash, helpless to move. She hears a commanding voice. “Stop! Pull her up, you idiots! You want to kill her here?”
With that she feels herself pulled to a kneeling position, then to her feet. The dirt from the road sticking to her oozing, bleeding flesh. She’s given a moment to balance herself, then again pushed forward to continue her march. The spectators roar with laughter at her pathetic appearance.
How long has she been walking down this road under the weight of this crossbeam? It seems endless torture, but she knows what awaits her at the end will be far worse. But for now all she can do is endure
Again Marcella raises her head to stare down the road ahead. More spectators now. Their abusive voice just meaningless sounds in her head. She wonders if Thessela knows she’s about to be crucified. Will I see her along the road, she wonders? Oh, I hope not she thinks. Far too dangerous for Thessela. Her sister must stay away, she must. Or she’ll end up crucified too!
Marcella steps into a pile of horse dung, the soft mess squishing between her toes. She’s disgusted. She turns her head to the side, noticing a horse next to her. She looks up at the man astride the animal. The early morning sun is on his face. She recognizes him. Yes, he’s the Decurion from the courtyard yesterday, the one who spoke to her torturer. The one who gave her a sympathetic gaze before her torture began. She knew then that he suspected she was innocent. He’s looking at her again, the same sympathy on his face.
“Please, sir.” Marcella utters, looking him in the face. “Please, sir, you know I’m innocent, don’t you? I’m no escaped slave as they claim. You know I’m innocent! Oh please, can’t you stop this? I don’t want to be crucified! Oh please, sir, you can save me, stop this from happening! Oh please, I beg of you, show me mercy, oh please!!!”
The Decurion hears Marcella’s pitiful pleading but knows he cannot stop this. Yes, he thinks to himself, this girl is no escaped slave. She is clearly innocent of this false charge against her. But he also knows he cannot stop her crucifixion. No, he doesn’t have the authority. He must carry out his orders and have this poor girl nailed to a cross, to die a horrible and lengthy death. It gives him no pleasure, only grief at realizing that sometimes the most innocent must suffer. The girl is so young, so beautiful. Why she’s not much older than his own daughter!
He can’t look at her any longer. The thought of his own daughter being led away like this is fucking incomprehensible! Yet, this poor girl could be his own flesh and blood. The thought of it fills him with such revulsion. He is deeply saddened . . . and angry at being forced by his duty to carry out such an action. But orders are orders. Fuck! This girl is some man’s daughter! Does he know what’s about to happen to her?
He knees his horse, urging it to a trot. He must get out in front. He can’t look at her. Up ahead, after the turn, they’ll stop. There's a special area off the side of the road. He’s sure a crowd is already forming. They always do for a woman.
There she’ll be crucified.
Last edited:
Cella
Spectator
Thanks Jolly. I keep editing it! Time to leave it alone!Hard hitting stuff, Marcella. Great writing. The Decurion's internal conflict is a nice touch. It's sad, erotic, appalling- in other words, excellent.
Yes, the death of an innocent is a great miscarriage of justice.
Unfortunately at this forum the severity of the charges is far more important than the actual guilt!
Great episode, Marcella!!!
Tree
Cella
Spectator
Thank you Tree! Hasturan has made many more great images for me. I'll be working them into upcoming episodes.
Poor boy! He's working so hard!
AlexArts
Soul of Cinder
Attachments
We do appreciate your efforts, Hasturan. Very much so.
Tree could really use a few images of un-whipped or lightly whipped women carrying their crosses for the Olympic crux...
I doubt that is the point, Thessela...
Only it can be done...
shastar
Tribune
Great, Marcella. Your 'tandem' with Hasturan is working wonders. And yes, the Decurion is feeling bad. He's not a slave, but he has no choice...
shastar
Tribune
No, I think the word "unfortunately" is well chosen. While we are sure of the outcome of any proceeding, if we simply rolled on with the attitude that the person to be crucified or whipped was not somehow unfortunate, a good part of the fantasy aspect would be gone. This is why most of our crux stories 's focus on the innocence of the person. They are unfortunately condemned. That aspect is crucial (there, I've made a crux punYou summed it up so well, Tree. But... Unfortunately ??? Come on !
).
shastar
Tribune
No, I think the word "unfortunately" is well chosen. While we are sure of the outcome of any proceeding, if we simply rolled on with the attitude that the person to be crucified or whipped was not somehow unfortunate, a good part of the fantasy aspect would be gone. This is why most of our crux stories 's focus on the innocence of the person. They are unfortunately condemned. That aspect is crucial (there, I've made a crux pun
I understand what you mean, Jolly (at least, I think, correct me if 'I am wrong!). I 've no personal interest in the victim being guilty or not. Doesn't matter to me, because, as I said before, justice is a social (relative) concept and , as Tree wonderfully summarized it, ' What you are accused for is more important here than guilt.' Something like that.
Call me a monster, maybe, but surely not an idiot...
Cella
Spectator
Hard hitting stuff, Marcella. Great writing. The Decurion's internal conflict is a nice touch. It's sad, erotic, appalling
Great, Marcella. Your 'tandem' with Hasturan is working wonders. And yes, the Decurion is feeling bad. He's not a slave, but he has no choice...
View attachment 386742
No, I think the word "unfortunately" is well chosen. While we are sure of the outcome of any proceeding, if we simply rolled on with the attitude that the person to be crucified or whipped was not somehow unfortunate, a good part of the fantasy aspect would be gone. This is why most of our crux stories 's focus on the innocence of the person. They are unfortunately condemned. That aspect is crucial (there, I've made a crux pun
Yes, it seems that innocents suffer the most on CF. And that kind of suffering makes for the best stories and images. Even when a guilty person is crucified, the "guilt" revolves around something they had to do to survive in a repressive society (as a slave, say). Rebels are guilty of resistance to the established order, but are sympathetic characters when condemned to death. Actual guilty persons who objectively could be said to deserve to be crucified for their crimes are never, it seems to me, the major focus of the story, but are supporting characters. The main character is usually very sympathetic, And a young female!
shastar
Tribune
Marcella, your narrative to Hasturan's pictures is pure outstanding brilliance!
Wow ! What a elegant way to tell a woman you're enjoying her sufferings...
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