mp5stab
Hair and Nails
Well, it fades to that, but its colored at first.
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IgnikaMarcus
Governor
Well, it fades to that, but its colored at first.
Perfect!
Now all we need is GTR (Grand Theft Rome)
but 'wasted' in the sense of 'devastated', 'ravaged'I protest!There is no good reason to call this "waste." It is a lovely, poignant, sensual image.
it has been another fine contribution,
you bring a sensitive touch to our favourite theme, Hasturan,
you enrich our Forums.
AlexArts
Soul of Cinder
Many thanks, Eulalia...
I appreciate it...
I have almost completed story...
-I assure you, you will thank me for lubricant, Anna...
-No, please...
-You'd better to relax your muscles... Do not resist...
Attachments
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Cella
Spectator
Or 'wasted' as in a young life wasted, a pretty girl with so much to look forward to is crucified -- whether innocent or not, her life is wasted . . .
So sad!
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jimsac
Tribune
Wow you guys. Such a hot description - an exquisite pictures!
why???
If you are disappointed in the number of comments please remember less than 1% of members comment and August is typical the slowest month for that as it is the last weeks of summer for may of us and real life gets busy.
To gauge how you are doing you must look at your thread's 'views' and 'likes'. The views represent the many more who look at your posts yet do not comment on anyone's threads for whatever reason.
I enjoy your art though as I have said elsewhere many times heavy whipping is not my thing. I do not ask anyone to change their art for me- there are others here that like such things- but I won't even click 'like' if while the rest of the scene (and even the whipping) is well rendered if I feel it overdone. I presume you want honest feedback.
I hope this helps...
Tree
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I think 11 likes for a post is a good result.
And Marcella need your illustrations for her stories.
Make more again!
222 voters above might beg to differ....
don't worry about sense, Hasturan - we love your work!
Cella
Spectator
Hasturan's images are easily worth a thousand words, and even more! When I start writing I keep adding more and more narrative to fully explain what is going on. I hope you enjoy this next episode.
Marcella’s Crucifixion: Episode 6
The slave girl is crucified
Decurion Marcus Getha has no fondness for duty as the officer-in-charge of a crucifixion detail. It is a long, tedious duty for a soldier that brings no honor or distinction. Marcus also has no fondness for the crucifixion of women. Not because they are women – if they deserve to be crucified then they should be -- but because the crucifixion of a woman makes his job all the more difficult. The crowd is generally larger and more boisterous when a woman is put to death and that requires far more attention to crowd control. It is lucky for Marcus that he has two crucifixion details on site – a total of eight men. He’s going to need them. This is a large crowd and they must be kept under reasonable control and away from the crosses.
The two women crucified today are both exceptionally beautiful – and sisters to boot! Ah, yes, two very good reasons to come out and watch the bloody spectacle! The raw sensuality these women exude hanging naked and exposed in front of the crowd brings out hard to control behaviors, especially among younger males. Marcus knows his men must be ready for anything. There are very relaxed standards of behavior tolerated at crucifixions. It is expected that women will be raped before being raised on their crosses and that they will be subject to the most crude and disgusting behavior from the crowd as they hang. This utter degradation of a crucified woman is as accepted as it is sure to get passions elevated. There’ll plenty of stiff cocks being stroked in the crowd. Any respectable woman should stay away. (Although, Marcus is always curious at the number of women who attend the crucifixion of one of their own sex. Is there some erotic element for them, as for the males?) If there is trouble, the soldiers might have to crack a few skulls.
Marcus wonders how the crowd would react if they knew that the younger sister was actually innocent of any crime, that she was crucified out of mere political expediency. They may think she’s an escaped slave, but what if they knew the truth? Would they riot? Or would it not matter to them? The chance to observe a beautiful young woman die on a cross might well trump any concerns they have for the quality of Roman justice. Marcus himself is disgusted that she was ever crucified in the first place. He always suspected she was innocent -- which was ultimately the truth about her. She should not be here! She should be safe somewhere and protected. Despite the risks to his hard-earned rank, he should have told the magistrate to get someone else to escort this woman to her death. He feels dishonored, and a deep shame, to have been in charge of this travesty of justice. For the older sister Marcus has far less sympathy. Even so, she’s only crucified because she came to the aid of her sister. A horrible consequence for her, and avoidable had her sister not been misidentified in the first place. What a waste! What a tragedy for these women and Roman justice! However, when he looks up at the sisters, and especially the younger one, he has to admit to himself that the female body looks incredibly erotic when stretched out naked on a cross. He finds the younger sister especially appealing. His heart beats faster and his cock gets hard whenever he looks at her. Yet, at the same time, he feels ashamed at being sexually excited while watching her. Deep down inside he knows his reaction is very wrong. Stop thinking with your little head, he tells himself. It’s indecent how you look at her! It strips her of all dignity, of all her humanity. But why should he be ashamed? Perhaps it’s because he knows she’s an innocent. What else could it be?
Marcus puts four soldiers on duty at a time to maintain order. The four off duty get to relax in the shade of a tent erected behind the crosses. There is wine and food there. They’ll be here all day and he wants to keep them from resenting having this duty. He reminds himself that Priscus will be arriving soon with the third woman – the slave who assaulted her domina and is responsible for these two uninvolved women getting crucified. Soon there will be three naked women for the crowd to ogle. What a fucking day this is turning out to be!
The sisters are talking to each other again. They speak breathlessly, barely able to get their words out. Marcus can’t make out what they are saying and doesn’t really care. But their accent is familiar. What does it matter what they say to each other? Damn, he thinks, wiping the sweat from his brow, this day’s going is stinking hot, and will only get hotter. He looks up at the girls again. They have many hours of suffering to go. Blood loss in minimal and they are being watered regularly. Despite their awful tortures they are both young, healthy women and can be expected to survive the night. Hopefully he can reduce the number of guards at dusk. The men are anxious to get back to the barracks and their favorite tavern whores.
The day grinds on, relentlessly hot. The sisters hang quietly, almost listless, except for the groans and grunts that accompany changes of position. Even the crowd seems subdued by the heat. Marcella has been on her cross nearly five hours now; Thessela on hers but two. The sisters try to console each other in their common misery, but it is very difficult. So much energy is used just trying to breathe and fight against the searing pain and muscle cramps caused by hanging nailed to a cross. Their bodies demand constant movement and repositioning as muscles are stretched and tensed beyond endurance and become tightly knotted in mercilessly painful, paralyzing contractions. Any movement on the cross brings on surges of horrific agony as raw flesh pushes and pulls on the iron nails hammered through their wrists and feet. For the crucified there is no position on the cross that alleviates suffering for even a moment. At best, one unbearable, soul-destroying pain is merely traded for another.
Suddenly, Marcella is roused from her agonizing stupor by Thessela’s shout voice. “It’s her! Marcella, it’s her! It’s the slave bitch responsible for all this! She’s here! They’re going to crucify her!”
The slave girl arrives, bearing her cross.
Marcella’s eyes blink open to see the image of a petite, slender, naked young woman bent under the weight of the full cross she is carrying. Another crucifixion? Yes! Marcella understands what Thessela is saying. This is the slave who actually assaulted her mistress. The escorting soldiers halt the slave’s pitiful march near Marcella’s cross. There they hand her off the executioners. No longer lurching forward, she drops down under her burden as one arm reaches out feeling for the ground.
Thessela screams at the slave.
Executioners swarm around her and remove the cross from her back. As they place the cross into position the young woman drops to her knees and then rolls over onto her back. Marcella looks down at the slave. She seems very young. She’s breathing heavily and is drenched in sweat from her long walk. Her legs are sprawled out as though unconcerned with her modesty. The slave groans in pain with her scourged back to the ground. Grimacing, she struggles to roll over onto her side. She lays there, barely moving, as the executioners make their preparations.
Thessela keeps shouting from her cross. “That’s the bitch, Marcella! That’s the fucking bitch that got us crucified! We’re innocent! She did this to us! She admitted it to me!”
Marcella’s anger rises in her, white hot. She’s right, Thessela’s right! I’m dying because of this bitch. This slave committed the crime that got me and my sister crucified! That fucking cunt should be here, not us!
Within minutes the executioners are ready for the slave. Marcella watches as they grab her by the arms and drag her groaning, limp, barely resisting body to the cross. When they stretch her slender arms to the crossbeam she suddenly becomes animated, struggling and screaming in their grasp, kicking out with her feet. But she is not strong enough to seriously resist and is firmly held down. The men grab and squeeze her breasts and twist her nipples as she lies there. The executioner approaches with a hammer and nails. She screams as the first nail is pressed into her wrist, then howls in pitiful agony as her wrist is quickly and efficiently nailed to the crossbeam. The process is repeated for her other wrist. Good, Marcella thinks, let the bitch suffer like we did!
The slave is nailed to her cross.
With her wrists nailed, the executions pull the slave’s legs apart, exposing her pussy to the cheering crowd. One of the executioners undoes his loincloth. His cock springs up erect. The slave prepares herself for the assault. She struggles, as would any woman, but her frantic movements only cause her raw flesh to move against the wrist nails. Blinding agony shoots through her arms as the executioner positions himself to enter her.
“Fuck me,” he shouts as her prepares to penetrate her, “this bitch is full of cum! It’s dripping out of her pussy!”
“The soldiers must have had a turn at her,” says another. “Hey, mate, if you don’t want a piece of her just step aside and me in. I ain’t so fussy.”
“Yeah, right,” says the executioner as he grins and shoves his cock inside her. “I got dibs on this cunt.”
The slave throws her head back, screaming with pain and humiliation as the executioner enters her. He thrusts quickly and viscously and soon shoots his load deep inside her. The men take their turns. The pain is unendurable; she tries not to struggle. Finished with their rape the executioners position her legs along the sides of the stipes. They quickly and efficiently drive nails through her heel bones into the wood. The slave screams and faints. Marcella winces as she sees the nails pounded in. The pain for her has to be unbearable. But too bad! The bitch deserves it!
The slave is crucified!
The slave’s cross is raised and dropped into its hole next to Marcella. Her body drops hard, pulling her arms taut and bunching her shoulder muscles. The slave throws her head back and screams in agony as her body weight pulls on the wrist nails. She instinctively responds by arching her back and stressing her legs to push up, but this only grinds her heel bones against the nails piercing her heels causing lightning bolts of raw agony to slash up her legs. The slave’s body contorts in agony as she vainly struggles against her nails. As she writhes she loses control of both her bladder and bowels. The crowd cheers and hoots as her wastes drop to the ground
Thessela turns her head, looking past Marcella to the slave as she groans on her cross. She rages at her again. “Your turn to suffer you fucking cunt! I hope you understand what you did to us! You killed us you fucking cunt, fucking bitch!” Thessela’s face is deep red with anger; spittle flies and drips from her lips. Her whole body is tensed and shaking as she pulls and pushes against her nails. She’s willing to endure the horrible escalation of agony to have her say with the slave.
The crowd standing near shift their attention back to Thessela. The spectators don’t care what she is saying, only that her enraged, twisting movements on the cross animate her magnificent breasts. Thessela doesn’t hear the crowd’s cheering or their obscene comments as she continues to rage at the slave.
“I curse you, you goddam twat! May you suffer forever, never forgiven for what you did to us! Never! Never! We shouldn’t be here! Don’t you fucking understand? We’re innocent, you’re not! You should be crucified, not us! You fucking, fucking bitch.“ Thessela’s voice trails off into deep sobs and moans as she turns her head away from the slave and collapses on her cross. Her arms stretch to their full extent as they bear her entire weight. She throws her head back and howls in heart-rendering rage at the horrible injustice done the her and Marcella. The crowd, as expected, howls back in approval as they ogle her heavy, heaving breasts and exposed pussy.
The slave turns her head and looks at Marcella, her tearful eyes wide with pain, both physical and emotional. Her lips are moving, as if trying to say something. Marcella examines the slave more closely. She seems so small, so petite. She’s clearly no older than Marcella herself, and probably younger. How she was possibly confused for this girl? I’m taller by several inches, at least! Marcella also judges herself more attractive and more -- far more -- womanly in appearance than the tortured creature who hangs next to her. The slave is hardly unattractive; she has a fair enough face, a slim build, shapely legs, and pert breasts. But confuse her with me? Why, the person would have to be blind!
Marcella turns away from the slave, not caring what she might be trying to save. Bad enough I have to be crucified, she thinks, but why must I die next to the bitch who put me and Thessela here!
Marcella’s Crucifixion: Episode 6
The slave girl is crucified
Decurion Marcus Getha has no fondness for duty as the officer-in-charge of a crucifixion detail. It is a long, tedious duty for a soldier that brings no honor or distinction. Marcus also has no fondness for the crucifixion of women. Not because they are women – if they deserve to be crucified then they should be -- but because the crucifixion of a woman makes his job all the more difficult. The crowd is generally larger and more boisterous when a woman is put to death and that requires far more attention to crowd control. It is lucky for Marcus that he has two crucifixion details on site – a total of eight men. He’s going to need them. This is a large crowd and they must be kept under reasonable control and away from the crosses.
The two women crucified today are both exceptionally beautiful – and sisters to boot! Ah, yes, two very good reasons to come out and watch the bloody spectacle! The raw sensuality these women exude hanging naked and exposed in front of the crowd brings out hard to control behaviors, especially among younger males. Marcus knows his men must be ready for anything. There are very relaxed standards of behavior tolerated at crucifixions. It is expected that women will be raped before being raised on their crosses and that they will be subject to the most crude and disgusting behavior from the crowd as they hang. This utter degradation of a crucified woman is as accepted as it is sure to get passions elevated. There’ll plenty of stiff cocks being stroked in the crowd. Any respectable woman should stay away. (Although, Marcus is always curious at the number of women who attend the crucifixion of one of their own sex. Is there some erotic element for them, as for the males?) If there is trouble, the soldiers might have to crack a few skulls.
Marcus wonders how the crowd would react if they knew that the younger sister was actually innocent of any crime, that she was crucified out of mere political expediency. They may think she’s an escaped slave, but what if they knew the truth? Would they riot? Or would it not matter to them? The chance to observe a beautiful young woman die on a cross might well trump any concerns they have for the quality of Roman justice. Marcus himself is disgusted that she was ever crucified in the first place. He always suspected she was innocent -- which was ultimately the truth about her. She should not be here! She should be safe somewhere and protected. Despite the risks to his hard-earned rank, he should have told the magistrate to get someone else to escort this woman to her death. He feels dishonored, and a deep shame, to have been in charge of this travesty of justice. For the older sister Marcus has far less sympathy. Even so, she’s only crucified because she came to the aid of her sister. A horrible consequence for her, and avoidable had her sister not been misidentified in the first place. What a waste! What a tragedy for these women and Roman justice! However, when he looks up at the sisters, and especially the younger one, he has to admit to himself that the female body looks incredibly erotic when stretched out naked on a cross. He finds the younger sister especially appealing. His heart beats faster and his cock gets hard whenever he looks at her. Yet, at the same time, he feels ashamed at being sexually excited while watching her. Deep down inside he knows his reaction is very wrong. Stop thinking with your little head, he tells himself. It’s indecent how you look at her! It strips her of all dignity, of all her humanity. But why should he be ashamed? Perhaps it’s because he knows she’s an innocent. What else could it be?
Marcus puts four soldiers on duty at a time to maintain order. The four off duty get to relax in the shade of a tent erected behind the crosses. There is wine and food there. They’ll be here all day and he wants to keep them from resenting having this duty. He reminds himself that Priscus will be arriving soon with the third woman – the slave who assaulted her domina and is responsible for these two uninvolved women getting crucified. Soon there will be three naked women for the crowd to ogle. What a fucking day this is turning out to be!
The sisters are talking to each other again. They speak breathlessly, barely able to get their words out. Marcus can’t make out what they are saying and doesn’t really care. But their accent is familiar. What does it matter what they say to each other? Damn, he thinks, wiping the sweat from his brow, this day’s going is stinking hot, and will only get hotter. He looks up at the girls again. They have many hours of suffering to go. Blood loss in minimal and they are being watered regularly. Despite their awful tortures they are both young, healthy women and can be expected to survive the night. Hopefully he can reduce the number of guards at dusk. The men are anxious to get back to the barracks and their favorite tavern whores.
The day grinds on, relentlessly hot. The sisters hang quietly, almost listless, except for the groans and grunts that accompany changes of position. Even the crowd seems subdued by the heat. Marcella has been on her cross nearly five hours now; Thessela on hers but two. The sisters try to console each other in their common misery, but it is very difficult. So much energy is used just trying to breathe and fight against the searing pain and muscle cramps caused by hanging nailed to a cross. Their bodies demand constant movement and repositioning as muscles are stretched and tensed beyond endurance and become tightly knotted in mercilessly painful, paralyzing contractions. Any movement on the cross brings on surges of horrific agony as raw flesh pushes and pulls on the iron nails hammered through their wrists and feet. For the crucified there is no position on the cross that alleviates suffering for even a moment. At best, one unbearable, soul-destroying pain is merely traded for another.
Suddenly, Marcella is roused from her agonizing stupor by Thessela’s shout voice. “It’s her! Marcella, it’s her! It’s the slave bitch responsible for all this! She’s here! They’re going to crucify her!”
The slave girl arrives, bearing her cross.Marcella’s eyes blink open to see the image of a petite, slender, naked young woman bent under the weight of the full cross she is carrying. Another crucifixion? Yes! Marcella understands what Thessela is saying. This is the slave who actually assaulted her mistress. The escorting soldiers halt the slave’s pitiful march near Marcella’s cross. There they hand her off the executioners. No longer lurching forward, she drops down under her burden as one arm reaches out feeling for the ground.
Thessela screams at the slave.Executioners swarm around her and remove the cross from her back. As they place the cross into position the young woman drops to her knees and then rolls over onto her back. Marcella looks down at the slave. She seems very young. She’s breathing heavily and is drenched in sweat from her long walk. Her legs are sprawled out as though unconcerned with her modesty. The slave groans in pain with her scourged back to the ground. Grimacing, she struggles to roll over onto her side. She lays there, barely moving, as the executioners make their preparations.
Thessela keeps shouting from her cross. “That’s the bitch, Marcella! That’s the fucking bitch that got us crucified! We’re innocent! She did this to us! She admitted it to me!” Marcella’s anger rises in her, white hot. She’s right, Thessela’s right! I’m dying because of this bitch. This slave committed the crime that got me and my sister crucified! That fucking cunt should be here, not us!
Within minutes the executioners are ready for the slave. Marcella watches as they grab her by the arms and drag her groaning, limp, barely resisting body to the cross. When they stretch her slender arms to the crossbeam she suddenly becomes animated, struggling and screaming in their grasp, kicking out with her feet. But she is not strong enough to seriously resist and is firmly held down. The men grab and squeeze her breasts and twist her nipples as she lies there. The executioner approaches with a hammer and nails. She screams as the first nail is pressed into her wrist, then howls in pitiful agony as her wrist is quickly and efficiently nailed to the crossbeam. The process is repeated for her other wrist. Good, Marcella thinks, let the bitch suffer like we did!
The slave is nailed to her cross.With her wrists nailed, the executions pull the slave’s legs apart, exposing her pussy to the cheering crowd. One of the executioners undoes his loincloth. His cock springs up erect. The slave prepares herself for the assault. She struggles, as would any woman, but her frantic movements only cause her raw flesh to move against the wrist nails. Blinding agony shoots through her arms as the executioner positions himself to enter her.
“Fuck me,” he shouts as her prepares to penetrate her, “this bitch is full of cum! It’s dripping out of her pussy!”
“The soldiers must have had a turn at her,” says another. “Hey, mate, if you don’t want a piece of her just step aside and me in. I ain’t so fussy.”
“Yeah, right,” says the executioner as he grins and shoves his cock inside her. “I got dibs on this cunt.”
The slave throws her head back, screaming with pain and humiliation as the executioner enters her. He thrusts quickly and viscously and soon shoots his load deep inside her. The men take their turns. The pain is unendurable; she tries not to struggle. Finished with their rape the executioners position her legs along the sides of the stipes. They quickly and efficiently drive nails through her heel bones into the wood. The slave screams and faints. Marcella winces as she sees the nails pounded in. The pain for her has to be unbearable. But too bad! The bitch deserves it!
The slave is crucified!The slave’s cross is raised and dropped into its hole next to Marcella. Her body drops hard, pulling her arms taut and bunching her shoulder muscles. The slave throws her head back and screams in agony as her body weight pulls on the wrist nails. She instinctively responds by arching her back and stressing her legs to push up, but this only grinds her heel bones against the nails piercing her heels causing lightning bolts of raw agony to slash up her legs. The slave’s body contorts in agony as she vainly struggles against her nails. As she writhes she loses control of both her bladder and bowels. The crowd cheers and hoots as her wastes drop to the ground
Thessela turns her head, looking past Marcella to the slave as she groans on her cross. She rages at her again. “Your turn to suffer you fucking cunt! I hope you understand what you did to us! You killed us you fucking cunt, fucking bitch!” Thessela’s face is deep red with anger; spittle flies and drips from her lips. Her whole body is tensed and shaking as she pulls and pushes against her nails. She’s willing to endure the horrible escalation of agony to have her say with the slave.
The crowd standing near shift their attention back to Thessela. The spectators don’t care what she is saying, only that her enraged, twisting movements on the cross animate her magnificent breasts. Thessela doesn’t hear the crowd’s cheering or their obscene comments as she continues to rage at the slave.
“I curse you, you goddam twat! May you suffer forever, never forgiven for what you did to us! Never! Never! We shouldn’t be here! Don’t you fucking understand? We’re innocent, you’re not! You should be crucified, not us! You fucking, fucking bitch.“ Thessela’s voice trails off into deep sobs and moans as she turns her head away from the slave and collapses on her cross. Her arms stretch to their full extent as they bear her entire weight. She throws her head back and howls in heart-rendering rage at the horrible injustice done the her and Marcella. The crowd, as expected, howls back in approval as they ogle her heavy, heaving breasts and exposed pussy.
The slave turns her head and looks at Marcella, her tearful eyes wide with pain, both physical and emotional. Her lips are moving, as if trying to say something. Marcella examines the slave more closely. She seems so small, so petite. She’s clearly no older than Marcella herself, and probably younger. How she was possibly confused for this girl? I’m taller by several inches, at least! Marcella also judges herself more attractive and more -- far more -- womanly in appearance than the tortured creature who hangs next to her. The slave is hardly unattractive; she has a fair enough face, a slim build, shapely legs, and pert breasts. But confuse her with me? Why, the person would have to be blind!
Marcella turns away from the slave, not caring what she might be trying to save. Bad enough I have to be crucified, she thinks, but why must I die next to the bitch who put me and Thessela here!
every picture tells a story but your story breathes a new dimension to the pictures...
jimsac
Tribune
Image 3a : the perfect pose; the victim is crucified by her hands. She is left to squirm in the dust, crying out in extreme pain and abrading her scourged back with the rough ground of the arid wilderness. She will soon be raised upon her throne. Naked and humilated for all to see.... 
Cella
Spectator
Here we are already with episode 7. I hope this makes sense!
Marcella’s Crucifixion: Episode 7
The Slave Speaks
The day grinds on in hot, relentless agony for the three women. Within an hour on the cross the slave has exhausted herself. Her movements become more controlled, less frantic, as she struggles. Clouds of insects fly around the heads of the women and settle on their wounds. Flies! Horrible flies! Their buzzing and intrusion into every body opening is a torture worthy of crucifixion. They bite and feed off the women’s sweat and blood. Marcella is sickened knowing they are laying eggs in her pierced flesh. By tomorrow there will be maggots. She prays she is dead by then.
The late afternoon heat feels like a suffocating oven. There is no breeze. The women are suffering unimaginable torments as they are baked under the merciless rays of the sun and bedeviled by insects. Their raw, whipped flesh oozes fluids. The executioners give the women water every hour or so to prevent them from dying too soon from dehydration. They eagerly accept the water squirted in their mouths, though much of it simply dribbles out over their chests. The oppressiveness of the day keeps the crowd quiet as spectators come and go.
Marcella notices the Decurion looking up at her. How many times has he done this? He watches her with that mournful, sad look on his face she has seen before. He knows I’m innocent but he never did anything to save me from being crucified. So fuck him! She doesn’t need his fucking pity! She tries calling out to him from the cross a few times, begging him to kill her and Thessela, begging for the mercy of a quick death. Haven’t we suffered enough! But he does nothing, just walks away, only to return again and again. What is he looking for? Is he trying to soothe his conscience over this? Am I supposed to say something? Forgive him?
The Decurion before Marcella's cross.
Marcella’s tortured, feverish brain obsesses about the Decurion’s interest in her. Why the fuck does he continue to look at me. Maybe it’s my tits. Do you like looking at my tits, Roman? Oh, I bet you do! Or do you prefer my cunt? Yes, my lovely, tight virginal cunt. I bet you wish you had fucked me too, huh? Oh, too bad you can’t get to me now! Go stare at the slave! She has tits and a pussy, and from what I can see she’s young and cute – no beauty like Thess – but why not go stare at her? Maybe she’ll shake her titties at you. Or spread her legs to give you a good view. Whatever! Just get away from me! Stop looking at me you goddam Roman bastard! I don’t need your bullshit pity. Let me alone, let me die, let me die!
Suddenly Marcella feels a great sense of shame. For the first time in hours she’s extremely aware of her nakedness. She desperately wants to cover her breasts and crotch, but of course cannot. Marcella sobs, burning with humiliation to be seen like this. “Go away, get away from me,” she shouts at the Decurion. “Just leave me the fuck alone! I don’t want you looking at me! It isn’t right for you to be staring at me! It isn’t right! It isn’t right!” She collapses and hangs from her arms. She can do nothing but rage and cry at the utter loss of her dignity. What has this man done to her?
Hanging in the insufferable heat, Marcella drifts in an out of consciousness. Each time consciousness returns it is accompanied with the roaring pain of tortured muscles and nails through her flesh. And each time Marcella’s mind reminds her with a sickening realization that she is crucified.
Marcella is jolted to awareness by a sharp stick jabbing into her crotch. She groans with the familiar agony and the shocking awareness of her situation. This time she had a short dream. She was walking naked through a field of tall grass. Some sort of seductive music was playing. There was no pain, just contentment. She put her hands out to feel the feathery heads of the stems, ripe with seeds, caress her palms as she walks. The soft grass tickled between her thighs and in her crotch. What a delicious sensation as the long stems passed over her pussy lips, caressing and tickling her with their soft, feathery touch! How sensuous, how arousing! She feels a moistness between her thighs as her passion rises. But suddenly the sensuous tickle became painful, as though thorns were being scraped across her tender flesh. Then a sharp stabbing sensation between her legs. She yelped as her eyes flew open. The field, the grass, the music . . . the contentment, are gone. She’s back in the real world where she’s crucified between her sister and a slave. She’s crucified!
With consciousness comes her need to breathe. But Marcella can no longer raise herself up on the cross as earlier. She’s far too weak. Her leg muscles are in spasmodic contractions. Thanks to her torture with the strappado she has long been unable to pull up with her arms. Her damaged shoulder muscles radiate constant, intense pain. The pain from her nailed wrists is worse than ever. No, all she can do is tense her legs and push up against the foot rest and the nail through her feet to take some tension off her arms. Grunting with the pain she pushes up enough to draw quick, shallow breaths. But her tortured leg muscles cannot push up for long. Soon she must relax them and drop back down, hanging from her wrists. She tries not to move, closing her eyes and letting her head drop as the agony envelopes her.
“Miss, miss, can you hear me?” A small, soft voice penetrates Marcella’s tortured awareness. Again, “Miss, please, can you hear me. I must talk with you. Please miss, listen to me!”
Marcella opens her eyes to the horror of her existence. The relentless pain, bright and hot, consumes her. Looking forward she sees faces in the crowd staring up at her, their voices just background noise. Now they’re pointing, laughing and making the usual obscene gestures. Did she hear someone calling to her? Someone not in the crowd? Or was it her imagination? She drops her head to her chest and stares down between her breasts to the ground below. Is that wet spot her piss? It must be.
“Miss, please, it’s me, next to you. Please, may I speak with you?”
That was a voice. A soft, breathy female voice. What did she say? Marcella looks over at her sister. It’s not Thessela. She’s busy pushing her body up to breathe. Her groans are loud and desperate. Poor Thess! She’s suffering so much!
Again the voice, more insistent. “For god’s sake miss, please, I must speak with you!” Only one other possibility. She turns her head to the left and sees the face of the slave girl looking towards her from her cross. Marcella hadn’t looked her in the face since she was first crucified, hours ago, and certainly hadn’t tried to speak with her since then.
Now the slave is trying to speak to her again. “Fuck you, you bitch!” Marcella turns her head, and rages at the slave. “Why would I want to talk to you? You put me here, you put my sister here! We are dying because of you! Fuck you, cunt!” Marcella shocks herself with the obscenities she used. But, then again, she’s an innocent woman, dying on a cross -- crucified! She was entitled.
“Please, listen to me,” pleads the slave. She gasps as she tries to speak; her chest rising and falling, her ribs protruding, her belly concave. “I know you’re angry, but please understand, I never attacked my domina thinking someone else would pay for the crime. I always expected to be caught and punished. I knew that was my fate. I am so, so sorry that you were mistaken for me. But it wasn’t my fault, I never knew you were identified as me. I’ve been in the dungeon since my capture nearly seven days ago. I – I was just trying to be free. Please, understand, I was a slave. My master was a terrible man, as was my mistress. I was just trying to be free! All I wanted was my freedom! Please understand!”
The slave was breathless and shuddering with agony by the time she finished. She clearly needed air. With an agonized grunt she began pushing and pulling herself up and arching her back in order to breath. Marcella too needed to fill her lungs. When the slave dropped back down on her cross, Marcella was waiting to speak with her. Though it was agonizing to do so, she kept her legs tensed, pushing up a bit, to make it easier to speak. Marcella was very weak and exhausted from her earlier outburst. She would have to pace herself better.
“Miss, let me say --“The slave begins, her words labored by the agonies of her crucifixion.
“No, wait, wait,” gasps Marcella. “I know I shouldn’t blame you, but you need to understand I’m dying for nothing. Nothing! I never did anything wrong! I am sorry you are a slave, and I understand your desire for freedom, but I am a fucking innocent woman! I’m only 19 years old and my life was taken from me. I’ve been tortured, raped and crucified because nobody took the time to know the truth about me!
Marcella is close to shouting, but her voice quavers and breaks. The exertion has her trembling and tensed, horrified and enraged anew about what has happened! She starts gasping for breath. Panic seizes her and she urgently tries to push up, twisting on her nails. Waves of agony slash through her limbs. Fresh blood flows from her wounds. Her strength falters and she drops down, hanging from her arms. Her eyes are open wide, her heart pounds in her chest. Her panic escalates as she cannot inflate her lungs – she cannot breathe! Marcella desperately wants to die but her body refuses to obey – it wants to survive! She has no choice. With her head pointed skyward she pushes up with her cramped and burning thighs, her feet twisting on the foot nail. She tries to scream but cannot. Finally, at the point of passing out, she’s able to gulp in air. She rapidly inhales and exhales, keeping her head pointing skyward, as if the precious air would simply flow into her. Shaking and gasping she drops back down to once again hang from her arms. Urine dribbles down between her legs. Her pee hole burns with a red hot fire.
The crowd hoots and jeers to see Marcella’s struggles. “Shake those tits, honey,” she hears.
“Look at her piss,” shouts another.
“Miss, please, miss,” the slave addresses Marcella again.
Marcella breathes in rapid, shallow breaths as she turns her head back toward the slave. The slave is also breathing in quick, shallow gasps. It is difficult for both of them to speak. Marcella’s arms are numb but she feels the trickle of fresh blood in her armpits and down the sides of her chest. The slave too is hanging from her arms, as she relaxes her cramped legs. Her breasts are pulled high on her chest; their tumescent nipples jutting forward. The slave’s throws her head against the back of the cross, sucks in a deep breath and turns her head towards Marcella.
“I know you’ve been wrongfully condemned,” the slave gasps between spasms of pain. “But please do not blame me! We three are dying together. There’s a bond between us. But your sister has cursed me. I won’t be able to enter the afterlife with a curse on me. I deserve to be here but you and your sister do not. Please, I am so sorry that you two are crucified with me, but do not curse me for it! Curse the fucking Romans, their fucking laws, and their enslavement of free people!”
The slave groans as she forces out the last emotional words. Marcella watches as her head drops to her chest as her body trembles in agony. She tenses her legs to push up against the nails through her heels. Her body shudders from the blinding agony as her heel bones turn against the spikes. The slave has no way to use her feet to push against the wood of her cross, so she has to use her arms more to drag herself up. The muscles in her skinny arms tense as she pulls against the wrist nails. She grunts and howls in agony as her legs straighten and her body bows out from the cross. Though crucified herself, Marcella’s stomach turns over at the thought of slave’s heel bones grinding against the spikes. It seems even worse than her own situation.
”Why are you listening to that fucking cunt?” Marcella’s head snaps to the right to see Thessela eyes, burning with anger and pain. ‘I can see you, cunt,” she hisses, straining to see the slave beyond the profile of Marcella’s body. “Stop trying to make excuses to my sister. Your action put us here -- to die for your crime!”
Thessela shouts her curses at the Romans.
The slave shouts back defiantly. “Your sister is innocent, yes, but you killed a soldier! You are here for that. That’s not my fault!”
Thessela fires back, her voice cracked and hoarse. “It is your fault you fucking bitch! If you hadn’t escaped none of this would have happened! Can’t you understand that!” She’s gasping for air, straining to fill her lungs. Her curvaceous body twists sinuously on the cross as she tries to rise up. She grunts and howls in agony, uttering curses and condemnations as she pushes and pulls against her nails. The crowd shifts its attention to Thessela.
“Yeah bitch, shake those tits! More! Look at ‘em bounce!”
“Grind that ass! Yeah, let’s see that pussy. Spread those legs girl!”
After gulping precious air Thessela drops back down and continues her rant against the slave.
“You fucking whore cunt! I hit the soldier because my innocent baby sister was being arrested. I didn’t mean to kill him. I acted on impulse! But it was you who brought all this about! Now, I’ll never see home again, never see my parents and my children. No one will know what became of me and my sister. Our deaths are on your head, you fucking whore! Damn you for all eternity! Damn you! Fucking damn you to hell!”
Thick spittle flies from Thessela’s lips as she struggles to expel the words, her voice raspy almost to the point of silence. Gasping for air, she pushes up to breathe.
Marcella knows in her own mind that the slave isn’t responsible for her and Thessela’s crucifixions. The girl was only seeking freedom from terrible bondage. What is wrong with that? She realizes that she and Thessela have only been looking for someone to blame. But it is wrong to blame the slave when there are so many others they can blame. Marcella turns back to her. She’s hanging with her head down, arms stretched taut as a bow string from the crossbeam. She’s breathing in and out with a hard, raspy sound.
Marcella and the slave have a conversation.
“Hey,” says Marcella, “can you hear me? I want to speak to you.”
The slave looks at her, her face streaked with tears, and blood.
Marcella gasps, trying to find her voice. “What’s your name?” Marcella’s elevated chest heaves, breasts rising and falling, as she struggles to find her voice.
“What do you care?” comes the answer. “Just call me ‘slave.’ That’s what people call me.”
“But you do have a name, no? Please tell me. I – I would feel awkward addressing you as ‘slave.’
“I’m Anna.”
Thessela rages again. “Yes, Anna! That’s your fucking name. Now I recall it! Don’t talk to my sister you bitch. Leave us alone. You cannot justify what you did. You cannot!”
Marcella looks back at Thessela. “Please, Thess, I must speak with her.” She watches as Thessela drops on her cross, her body spasmodically twitching. She’s muttering something, but Marcella cannot make it out.
Turning her head the other way she says “Thank you, Anna. I’m Marcella, and my sister is Thessela.”
The slave – Anna – looked back at her. As though confused about what to do with that information. “Yes, miss.” She replied in a raspy voice.
“No, please. Anna, please call me Marcella, that who I am. I’m not ‘miss.’”
“OK. Yes, Marcella.” Just as she said her name Anna uttered a deep moan, clenched her jaw, and began her ritual of pushing up to breathe. Marcella looked away, as if she were violating Anna’s privacy to continue looking at her in her agony as she tried to breathe. Soon, though, her soft voice returns.
“Your sister clearly hates me. You must too.”
Yes, she blames you for us being crucified. And I did too, but I understand better now. You were a slave. Your master was cruel. Why shouldn’t you try to escape.
“I don’t expect your pity, just understanding. I just don’t want to be cursed. It’ll haunt me in the netherworld. I want your sister to understand that I did not consciously will this to happen! Your misfortune is not my fault. Blame the fucking Romans, but not me. Please, get her to understand.”
“I understand, Anna, and I will try to get her to accept it. I don’t know how much time she or I have left. I will try before I die, really.
“Yes, let her know I am so sorry. My life was hell where I was. It’s better that I die here than live that slave existence.”
Marcella looks at Thessela. She calls to her but she does not respond. She’s exhausted and not willing or able to talk right now. Marcella’s is exhausted too. She’ll try to speak with Thessela again later. Right now, though, she desperately needs to breath. With agonized grunts she tries to push her body up on the cross.
Marcella’s Crucifixion: Episode 7
The Slave Speaks
The day grinds on in hot, relentless agony for the three women. Within an hour on the cross the slave has exhausted herself. Her movements become more controlled, less frantic, as she struggles. Clouds of insects fly around the heads of the women and settle on their wounds. Flies! Horrible flies! Their buzzing and intrusion into every body opening is a torture worthy of crucifixion. They bite and feed off the women’s sweat and blood. Marcella is sickened knowing they are laying eggs in her pierced flesh. By tomorrow there will be maggots. She prays she is dead by then.
The late afternoon heat feels like a suffocating oven. There is no breeze. The women are suffering unimaginable torments as they are baked under the merciless rays of the sun and bedeviled by insects. Their raw, whipped flesh oozes fluids. The executioners give the women water every hour or so to prevent them from dying too soon from dehydration. They eagerly accept the water squirted in their mouths, though much of it simply dribbles out over their chests. The oppressiveness of the day keeps the crowd quiet as spectators come and go.
Marcella notices the Decurion looking up at her. How many times has he done this? He watches her with that mournful, sad look on his face she has seen before. He knows I’m innocent but he never did anything to save me from being crucified. So fuck him! She doesn’t need his fucking pity! She tries calling out to him from the cross a few times, begging him to kill her and Thessela, begging for the mercy of a quick death. Haven’t we suffered enough! But he does nothing, just walks away, only to return again and again. What is he looking for? Is he trying to soothe his conscience over this? Am I supposed to say something? Forgive him?
The Decurion before Marcella's cross.Marcella’s tortured, feverish brain obsesses about the Decurion’s interest in her. Why the fuck does he continue to look at me. Maybe it’s my tits. Do you like looking at my tits, Roman? Oh, I bet you do! Or do you prefer my cunt? Yes, my lovely, tight virginal cunt. I bet you wish you had fucked me too, huh? Oh, too bad you can’t get to me now! Go stare at the slave! She has tits and a pussy, and from what I can see she’s young and cute – no beauty like Thess – but why not go stare at her? Maybe she’ll shake her titties at you. Or spread her legs to give you a good view. Whatever! Just get away from me! Stop looking at me you goddam Roman bastard! I don’t need your bullshit pity. Let me alone, let me die, let me die!
Suddenly Marcella feels a great sense of shame. For the first time in hours she’s extremely aware of her nakedness. She desperately wants to cover her breasts and crotch, but of course cannot. Marcella sobs, burning with humiliation to be seen like this. “Go away, get away from me,” she shouts at the Decurion. “Just leave me the fuck alone! I don’t want you looking at me! It isn’t right for you to be staring at me! It isn’t right! It isn’t right!” She collapses and hangs from her arms. She can do nothing but rage and cry at the utter loss of her dignity. What has this man done to her?
Hanging in the insufferable heat, Marcella drifts in an out of consciousness. Each time consciousness returns it is accompanied with the roaring pain of tortured muscles and nails through her flesh. And each time Marcella’s mind reminds her with a sickening realization that she is crucified.
Marcella is jolted to awareness by a sharp stick jabbing into her crotch. She groans with the familiar agony and the shocking awareness of her situation. This time she had a short dream. She was walking naked through a field of tall grass. Some sort of seductive music was playing. There was no pain, just contentment. She put her hands out to feel the feathery heads of the stems, ripe with seeds, caress her palms as she walks. The soft grass tickled between her thighs and in her crotch. What a delicious sensation as the long stems passed over her pussy lips, caressing and tickling her with their soft, feathery touch! How sensuous, how arousing! She feels a moistness between her thighs as her passion rises. But suddenly the sensuous tickle became painful, as though thorns were being scraped across her tender flesh. Then a sharp stabbing sensation between her legs. She yelped as her eyes flew open. The field, the grass, the music . . . the contentment, are gone. She’s back in the real world where she’s crucified between her sister and a slave. She’s crucified!
With consciousness comes her need to breathe. But Marcella can no longer raise herself up on the cross as earlier. She’s far too weak. Her leg muscles are in spasmodic contractions. Thanks to her torture with the strappado she has long been unable to pull up with her arms. Her damaged shoulder muscles radiate constant, intense pain. The pain from her nailed wrists is worse than ever. No, all she can do is tense her legs and push up against the foot rest and the nail through her feet to take some tension off her arms. Grunting with the pain she pushes up enough to draw quick, shallow breaths. But her tortured leg muscles cannot push up for long. Soon she must relax them and drop back down, hanging from her wrists. She tries not to move, closing her eyes and letting her head drop as the agony envelopes her.
“Miss, miss, can you hear me?” A small, soft voice penetrates Marcella’s tortured awareness. Again, “Miss, please, can you hear me. I must talk with you. Please miss, listen to me!”
Marcella opens her eyes to the horror of her existence. The relentless pain, bright and hot, consumes her. Looking forward she sees faces in the crowd staring up at her, their voices just background noise. Now they’re pointing, laughing and making the usual obscene gestures. Did she hear someone calling to her? Someone not in the crowd? Or was it her imagination? She drops her head to her chest and stares down between her breasts to the ground below. Is that wet spot her piss? It must be.
“Miss, please, it’s me, next to you. Please, may I speak with you?”
That was a voice. A soft, breathy female voice. What did she say? Marcella looks over at her sister. It’s not Thessela. She’s busy pushing her body up to breathe. Her groans are loud and desperate. Poor Thess! She’s suffering so much!
Again the voice, more insistent. “For god’s sake miss, please, I must speak with you!” Only one other possibility. She turns her head to the left and sees the face of the slave girl looking towards her from her cross. Marcella hadn’t looked her in the face since she was first crucified, hours ago, and certainly hadn’t tried to speak with her since then.
Now the slave is trying to speak to her again. “Fuck you, you bitch!” Marcella turns her head, and rages at the slave. “Why would I want to talk to you? You put me here, you put my sister here! We are dying because of you! Fuck you, cunt!” Marcella shocks herself with the obscenities she used. But, then again, she’s an innocent woman, dying on a cross -- crucified! She was entitled.
“Please, listen to me,” pleads the slave. She gasps as she tries to speak; her chest rising and falling, her ribs protruding, her belly concave. “I know you’re angry, but please understand, I never attacked my domina thinking someone else would pay for the crime. I always expected to be caught and punished. I knew that was my fate. I am so, so sorry that you were mistaken for me. But it wasn’t my fault, I never knew you were identified as me. I’ve been in the dungeon since my capture nearly seven days ago. I – I was just trying to be free. Please, understand, I was a slave. My master was a terrible man, as was my mistress. I was just trying to be free! All I wanted was my freedom! Please understand!”
The slave was breathless and shuddering with agony by the time she finished. She clearly needed air. With an agonized grunt she began pushing and pulling herself up and arching her back in order to breath. Marcella too needed to fill her lungs. When the slave dropped back down on her cross, Marcella was waiting to speak with her. Though it was agonizing to do so, she kept her legs tensed, pushing up a bit, to make it easier to speak. Marcella was very weak and exhausted from her earlier outburst. She would have to pace herself better.
“Miss, let me say --“The slave begins, her words labored by the agonies of her crucifixion.
“No, wait, wait,” gasps Marcella. “I know I shouldn’t blame you, but you need to understand I’m dying for nothing. Nothing! I never did anything wrong! I am sorry you are a slave, and I understand your desire for freedom, but I am a fucking innocent woman! I’m only 19 years old and my life was taken from me. I’ve been tortured, raped and crucified because nobody took the time to know the truth about me!
Marcella is close to shouting, but her voice quavers and breaks. The exertion has her trembling and tensed, horrified and enraged anew about what has happened! She starts gasping for breath. Panic seizes her and she urgently tries to push up, twisting on her nails. Waves of agony slash through her limbs. Fresh blood flows from her wounds. Her strength falters and she drops down, hanging from her arms. Her eyes are open wide, her heart pounds in her chest. Her panic escalates as she cannot inflate her lungs – she cannot breathe! Marcella desperately wants to die but her body refuses to obey – it wants to survive! She has no choice. With her head pointed skyward she pushes up with her cramped and burning thighs, her feet twisting on the foot nail. She tries to scream but cannot. Finally, at the point of passing out, she’s able to gulp in air. She rapidly inhales and exhales, keeping her head pointing skyward, as if the precious air would simply flow into her. Shaking and gasping she drops back down to once again hang from her arms. Urine dribbles down between her legs. Her pee hole burns with a red hot fire.
The crowd hoots and jeers to see Marcella’s struggles. “Shake those tits, honey,” she hears.
“Look at her piss,” shouts another.
“Miss, please, miss,” the slave addresses Marcella again.
Marcella breathes in rapid, shallow breaths as she turns her head back toward the slave. The slave is also breathing in quick, shallow gasps. It is difficult for both of them to speak. Marcella’s arms are numb but she feels the trickle of fresh blood in her armpits and down the sides of her chest. The slave too is hanging from her arms, as she relaxes her cramped legs. Her breasts are pulled high on her chest; their tumescent nipples jutting forward. The slave’s throws her head against the back of the cross, sucks in a deep breath and turns her head towards Marcella.
“I know you’ve been wrongfully condemned,” the slave gasps between spasms of pain. “But please do not blame me! We three are dying together. There’s a bond between us. But your sister has cursed me. I won’t be able to enter the afterlife with a curse on me. I deserve to be here but you and your sister do not. Please, I am so sorry that you two are crucified with me, but do not curse me for it! Curse the fucking Romans, their fucking laws, and their enslavement of free people!”
The slave groans as she forces out the last emotional words. Marcella watches as her head drops to her chest as her body trembles in agony. She tenses her legs to push up against the nails through her heels. Her body shudders from the blinding agony as her heel bones turn against the spikes. The slave has no way to use her feet to push against the wood of her cross, so she has to use her arms more to drag herself up. The muscles in her skinny arms tense as she pulls against the wrist nails. She grunts and howls in agony as her legs straighten and her body bows out from the cross. Though crucified herself, Marcella’s stomach turns over at the thought of slave’s heel bones grinding against the spikes. It seems even worse than her own situation.
”Why are you listening to that fucking cunt?” Marcella’s head snaps to the right to see Thessela eyes, burning with anger and pain. ‘I can see you, cunt,” she hisses, straining to see the slave beyond the profile of Marcella’s body. “Stop trying to make excuses to my sister. Your action put us here -- to die for your crime!”
Thessela shouts her curses at the Romans.The slave shouts back defiantly. “Your sister is innocent, yes, but you killed a soldier! You are here for that. That’s not my fault!”
Thessela fires back, her voice cracked and hoarse. “It is your fault you fucking bitch! If you hadn’t escaped none of this would have happened! Can’t you understand that!” She’s gasping for air, straining to fill her lungs. Her curvaceous body twists sinuously on the cross as she tries to rise up. She grunts and howls in agony, uttering curses and condemnations as she pushes and pulls against her nails. The crowd shifts its attention to Thessela.
“Yeah bitch, shake those tits! More! Look at ‘em bounce!”
“Grind that ass! Yeah, let’s see that pussy. Spread those legs girl!”
After gulping precious air Thessela drops back down and continues her rant against the slave.
“You fucking whore cunt! I hit the soldier because my innocent baby sister was being arrested. I didn’t mean to kill him. I acted on impulse! But it was you who brought all this about! Now, I’ll never see home again, never see my parents and my children. No one will know what became of me and my sister. Our deaths are on your head, you fucking whore! Damn you for all eternity! Damn you! Fucking damn you to hell!”
Thick spittle flies from Thessela’s lips as she struggles to expel the words, her voice raspy almost to the point of silence. Gasping for air, she pushes up to breathe.
Marcella knows in her own mind that the slave isn’t responsible for her and Thessela’s crucifixions. The girl was only seeking freedom from terrible bondage. What is wrong with that? She realizes that she and Thessela have only been looking for someone to blame. But it is wrong to blame the slave when there are so many others they can blame. Marcella turns back to her. She’s hanging with her head down, arms stretched taut as a bow string from the crossbeam. She’s breathing in and out with a hard, raspy sound.
Marcella and the slave have a conversation.“Hey,” says Marcella, “can you hear me? I want to speak to you.”
The slave looks at her, her face streaked with tears, and blood.
Marcella gasps, trying to find her voice. “What’s your name?” Marcella’s elevated chest heaves, breasts rising and falling, as she struggles to find her voice.
“What do you care?” comes the answer. “Just call me ‘slave.’ That’s what people call me.”
“But you do have a name, no? Please tell me. I – I would feel awkward addressing you as ‘slave.’
“I’m Anna.”
Thessela rages again. “Yes, Anna! That’s your fucking name. Now I recall it! Don’t talk to my sister you bitch. Leave us alone. You cannot justify what you did. You cannot!”
Marcella looks back at Thessela. “Please, Thess, I must speak with her.” She watches as Thessela drops on her cross, her body spasmodically twitching. She’s muttering something, but Marcella cannot make it out.
Turning her head the other way she says “Thank you, Anna. I’m Marcella, and my sister is Thessela.”
The slave – Anna – looked back at her. As though confused about what to do with that information. “Yes, miss.” She replied in a raspy voice.
“No, please. Anna, please call me Marcella, that who I am. I’m not ‘miss.’”
“OK. Yes, Marcella.” Just as she said her name Anna uttered a deep moan, clenched her jaw, and began her ritual of pushing up to breathe. Marcella looked away, as if she were violating Anna’s privacy to continue looking at her in her agony as she tried to breathe. Soon, though, her soft voice returns.
“Your sister clearly hates me. You must too.”
Yes, she blames you for us being crucified. And I did too, but I understand better now. You were a slave. Your master was cruel. Why shouldn’t you try to escape.
“I don’t expect your pity, just understanding. I just don’t want to be cursed. It’ll haunt me in the netherworld. I want your sister to understand that I did not consciously will this to happen! Your misfortune is not my fault. Blame the fucking Romans, but not me. Please, get her to understand.”
“I understand, Anna, and I will try to get her to accept it. I don’t know how much time she or I have left. I will try before I die, really.
“Yes, let her know I am so sorry. My life was hell where I was. It’s better that I die here than live that slave existence.”
Marcella looks at Thessela. She calls to her but she does not respond. She’s exhausted and not willing or able to talk right now. Marcella’s is exhausted too. She’ll try to speak with Thessela again later. Right now, though, she desperately needs to breath. With agonized grunts she tries to push her body up on the cross.
AlexArts
Soul of Cinder
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