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Broken On The Wheel

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CROSS AND WHEEL

Wrapped in a tattered blanket a convicted young woman rides in a rude farm cart, bumping along the cobblestones of winding streets on her way to execution outside of town. Already petrified that she is doomed to die on the dreaded wheel, her guards have further unnerved her with cruel hints that some new horror has been added. Unknown to her she is about to have the dubious distinction of demonstrating the latest innovation in public torture and execution to a delighted crowd in northern France, in July of the Year of Our Lord 1672.

Leaving the clearly defined outskirts of the town, her heart sinks as the execution site alongside the road comes into view: a raised wooden platform 15 by 20 feet in size and perhaps 5 feet high, surrounded by a growing throng of thousands of eager spectators on foot, and dozens more on horseback. Very few women are condemned to the wheel at this time in history, it being increasingly considered an immodest punishment fit only for men, and in fact she will become the last female ever so executed in this town. People have traveled from many days away to witness this rarity, and she is the reason the town fathers have invested money in a guest executioner, spreading the word far and wide for several weeks to attract profitable crowds. Gruesome executions can be good business.

As the platform grows closer she passes the idle horse-drawn coaches of the high born, who disdain to mingle with the common masses, instead watching the entire proceedings seated in isolated comfort within their luxurious conveyances. Yet even this privacy is insufficient, and all of the women passengers, and many of the men, wear stylish masks to hide their identities, as well as their sadistic emotions.

The cart draws up to the platform's staircase, and the escort guard immediately hustles the woman out of the wagon and onto the platform. Her appearance on the stage draws thunderous applause and welcome cheers from the crowd, signaling that the entertainment is about to begin on time, two hours before noon on a bright summer day.

A few moments are spent in a perfunctory reading of the sentence of execution by the local sheriff, and then the proceedings are placed in the hands of the executioner. On loan from a larger neighboring city, he has the honor of introducing to this community the latest means of inflicting death with the wheel. His assistants make the condemned stand next to two large beams lying on the platform, carefully mortised together to form an "X", popularly known as a St. AndrewÍs Cross, on which that Apostle is alleged to have been crucified.

The crowd hushes at once, nearly as anxious as the woman herself to learn what garment, if any, will clothe her through her ordeal. The crowd knows a man would be stripped completely naked at this point, but a woman has not gone to the wheel in this town within living memory, so the lack of precedent has generated much speculation and gossip on the exciting subject.

One popular rumor says that the local bishop, who involves himself with all important town matters, has raised concerns about public indecency. While he never objects to male nudity in executions beyond the town environs, for such sights could certainly corrupt no one, he allegedly maintained that total feminine exposure would invariably lead to a widespread outbreak of immoral and licentious behavior.

But a counter rumor claims that the guest executioner, when presented with the bishop's demands, had simply refused to perform the execution under those terms. He cited all the hazards of misdirected blows on the victim's body, with the absolute necessity, not to mention ancient custom, of his having an undraped view of the entire anatomy, and above all of the critical pelvic region.
 
With all the pride of his guild he likened himself to a surgeon, performing in

public an operation no less delicate than a medical procedure, and he could no more work through obscuring garments than a surgeon could. Let those who are scandalized stay away, he supposedly declared, while of course the profound shame of the condemned herself need concern no one, and might indeed be viewed as another appropriate part of her fully-merited punishment.

And so the crowd holds its breath, unsure which side has won the rumored argument, until with their own eyes they see the assistant executioners tear away the blanket and then a flimsy undergarment, leaving the woman to stand before them totally nude. Yet she is more than nude, for her crotch is completely bald, along with her head and every other part of her body.

Consorting with Lucifer was one of the many charges against her, and so to deprive her of the strength and protection of her hidden "devil's mark" it was necessary to shave and pluck every hair from her body, to expose and neutralize the alleged satanic spot wherever it might be.

Immediately a great cheer goes up, with whistles and delighted laughter from the spectators, causing the completely naked woman to instantly obey the order to lie down prone upon the cross, minimizing her embarrassing exposure to the crowd. At once her arms and legs are drawn taut along the beams of the cross and tightly tied in place at the wrists and ankles, with another rope around her waist. But far from offering the condemned woman a mitigation of her humiliation, the cross is about to dramatically proclaim it, for next the assistant executioners slowly heft the massive beams into a nearly vertical position, and brace them rigidly from behind with stout timbers.

The crowd at first gasps in surprise, and then roars with gleeful laughter at the obscene spectacle before it, a novelty for most spectators who are witnessing this new mode of execution for the first time, despite warnings of its vulgar nature. For the naked woman's arms and legs are spread at 50-degree angles, a living "X", an image far more erotic than most in the crowd have ever seen.

Bared pink lips gape invitingly between parted legs, while firm young breasts are triumphantly uplifted and separated by raised arms. Lustful yells and cheers from the crowd are heard, but some men are too sexually aroused to do anything but silently fixate on a view no grown woman had ever before provided them. Yet for a few other men and women the sight is too disgustingly intimate, and they embarrassingly avert their eyes from the obscenity.

The victim likewise never imagined anyone could be publically raised up openly naked in this fashion, and she blushes crimson in helpless humiliation, desperately imploring her executioners to grant her some rag for decency, which of course they smilingly ignore, so that her only recourse is to close her own tearful eyes to shut out the thousands of gaping eyes focused on her supreme shame. But her ears cannot block out the verbal insults hurled at her, many lewdly directed at her large breasts and erect nipples, and at her totally revealed sex, its fleshy petals disgracefully uncovering a woman's most private bud.

Her principal crime is treason, and were she a man the traditional forfeiture would be emasculation, publicly paid at the commencement of the execution.

Everyone sees the flaming brazier standing on the platform, the iron tools already red-hot, yet which of the woman's parts might now be surrendered in lieu of a man's remains a mystery. The trial court itself debated the matter at length, rejecting mastectomy as beyond their authority, as was female genital mutilation under their law code. But a clever solution was reached that, through convoluted logic, was thought suitable for her gender and crime.

The onlookers watch the executioner intently to see if he is going to merely brand the woman, or do something far more gruesome. He selects a fearsome pincer from the brazier, holding the glowing device up quickly in his gloved hand for the crowd to admire before its searing heat diminishes, and for the squinting victim to briefly glimpse in horror.

The sound of sizzling flesh is clearly heard a second before bloodcurdling shrieks blot out all other noises. The woman's body snaps into violent convulsions of pain, but the merciless pincer holds fast, the combination of pressure and fiery heat slowly severing her right nipple from her breast, though it's unclear to observers whether it's due to the executioner's twisiting efforts or the struggles of the victim herself that the tit finally rips free.

The red-hot pincer itself has largely cauterized the wound, so there is little blood loss, though the woman has fainted from the shock and hangs limp and quiet on the cross. But exaggerated groans are heard from female spectators, making comic grimaces as they cover their own bosoms in mock fear. Simultaneously their male companions roar with bawdy laughter, and some mischievously ask the women to explain how such a small bit of female flesh could cause so much agony.

The assistant executioners have the job of reviving the victim with stimulants, while their chief discards the blackened teat into a bucket and readies a fresh pincer to complete the job. Once again come the bloodcurdling screams, the furious convulsions on the cross, the flinging of the unsupported head in every direction, until a second merciful faint releases her from the grip of hell.

The onlookers compare the quality of the new screams to the old, debating whether they represent a compounding of the pain, or differences in the sensitivity between the woman's two nipples.

Public executioners understand the importance of theatricals, and this one is no exception. He now makes a great show of selecting an iron bar from among 6 held upright in a wooden rack, swinging one and then another, not unlike a modern-day batter at a US baseball game. He needs a bar heavy enough to break the large leg bones cleanly, with one blow if possible, but not too weighty lest the bones splinter and possibly severe major arteries, causing premature death. And for this reason each iron bar is completely encased in a wooden sheath, similar to the wooden hand guard that partially grips the barrel of a musket, to help prevent the bar from cutting right through the skin and causing additional bleeding.

Having made his choice the executioner slowly circles his victim with bar in hand, as if debating where to start, but his several fans in the audience, having seen his work in other towns, know he always begins with the right shin. And indeed, he directs his assistants to insert two wooden wedges behind the woman's right leg, one just above and the other just below the knee, forcing the calf and thigh away from the cross.

Suddenly and without warning the executioner makes a great sweeping arc with the bar, which lands in the middle of the right shin, startling both the spectators and the victim. The sound of snapping bone is distinctly heard, followed first by a startled cry, and then by the loud clapping and cheering of the crowd.

As the applause slowly dies down the woman can be heard whimpering and crying, then she lets out a series of yelps and screams as the executioner roughly pushes the injured shin sideways and back with his hands, to make sure both bones are completely parted. Deciding one bone is still intact the executioner takes an even greater swing with the iron bar, and when he tests the shin this time it flexes easily, though at the expense of the traitor's chilling shrieks.

Satisfied, the executioner next pounds the right thigh, and after checking for the break, he smashes the knee supported between the two wedges, shattering the kneecap and the joint beneath it. All this time the condemned woman is screaming pathetic pleas for mercy, howling that the pain is too much, and for them to please STOP!!! STOP!!! STOP!!! One assistant executioner remarks over the din to his companion that the condemned always yell the same foolish things, as if the victims think the executioners are waiting to hear when they've had enough pain so everyone can quit.

The comments from the spectators, meanwhile, are mostly favorable. The advantage of the upright St. Andrew's Cross over the old method is now apparent, for the mutilation and breaking can be clearly seen and relished by everyone.

Previously victims were tied prone between stakes on the ground, or held flat on a raised platform for the breaking, giving only a lucky few near the front of the crowd a good view. But now every blow with the bar, every violent spasm of the body, every contorted facial grimace, and every frantic toss of the head can be seen and savored by everyone, not to mention the bawdy amusement of naked exposure.

A few traditionalists complain that the iron bar is a poor substitute for a heavy wagon wheel, whose rim had been used as a blunt hammer to shatter the limbs of prone victims to splinters. But others wisely note that splintered bones often severe major arteries, allowing the condemned to die before all the tortuous steps of the execution can be properly inflicted. And everyone today can see that the woman is hardly bleeding at all from the cleanly snapping blows of the iron bar, and likely not hemorrhaging internally either, promising that her death will be exceptionally lingering and spectacularly painful, as a traitor deserves.

The executioner moves on to the left leg and repeats the agonizing process, pausing only whenever the victim must be revived from a faint, for breaking the bones of an unconcscious victim is a travesty certain to be booed. Next he selects a lighter iron bar to smash the bones of both arms, both elbows, and finally the shoulders with a heavier rod.

Only then does he move back down to break both her hips with the heaviest bar, the most dangerous part of the procedure because of the risk to internal organs. With all her limbs smashed the traitor is virtually immobile now, incapable of suddenly shifting her position, allowing the executioner to accurately aim the bar at just the right spot on her naked, exposed pelvis, though she remains a conscious witness to each barbaric step.

The first smashing blow to her right hip releases an involuntary flood of urine, most of it caught in the same bucket that holds her own seared nipples, the rest absorbed by the circle of sand spread around the cross. But there's no danger that matter more foul will pollute the proceedings, as the executioner has borrowed a trick from the African slavers, who stuff hemp into the rectums of their more sickly wares, hours before they mount the auction block. And indeed even a final upswing between the woman's legs, to break her pubic bone, produces no unpleasantness today, though some male spectators regret the bloody ruin of her erotically bare genitals, and others note with slight pity that her sustained screeches suggest this last blow was the most excruciating, and certainly the most insulting.

Appallingly, the breaking of every major bone in a victim's body was only the first step in a three-phase process of execution designed for maximum pain over the greatest possible time. The next operation was to actually weave the living victim's broken limbs through the wooden spokes of a wagon wheel, an act almost incomprehensible to modern minds. Yet public torture was at one time a thrilling entertainment and aphrodisiac, and if anyone in the crowd were to look away to the aristocratic coaches they would see lacy fans fluttering, and hands discreetly tucked beneath petticoats and breeches.

The traitor's cross is lowered back down upon the platform and the binding ropes removed. Four assistants calously seize her hands and feet to lift the woman up, stretching her rubbery limbs and separating every broken bone all at once.

The frantically shrieking victim is heartlessly lugged over to where a wagon wheel is supported horizontally across a two-foot tall wooden pedestal, and they lay her face-up across it.

This relatively small wheel has 12 spokes and is about 40 inches across, so that the circular rim frames the woman's body from her shoulders to just below her bare buttocks, while her shapeless arms and legs flop over the rim toward the ground. Her torso arches upward, since this functional wagon wheel still

retains its narrow protruding hub, on which the woman's spine must now painfully rest, and her head hangs over the rim almost upside down, unable to raise itself up because of the broken shoulders. There is no need to secure the body with ropes, since arms and legs have lost all power of movement, and the torso merely twitches and writhes, disguising pain too monstrous to conceive.

The executioner now directs his two most experienced assistants in the joining of limbs to wheel, in a pattern the executioner has devised exclusively for women. As assistant executioners swing her legs flat out and away from her body, each at well over a 90-degree angle, they can feel the smashed hips dislocate and the legs swivel freely, so that as viewed from above her torso and legs assume the shape of an arrowhead, and her widely gaping sex reveals female secrets that even a lover might never learn. But no lover will approach her wooden bed this day, even if her hideous screeches and cries were not so repellent.

Then her shattered legs are drawn tightly down over the rim and under the wheel, conforming to whatever bend is demanded of them, to be drawn back up between spokes on either side of her chest. An assistant obligingly lifts up her dangling head momentarily to allow her to witness her feet being wrenched and twisted soles upward, and both secured with a rope that runs across her bare breasts. But her unfocused eyes bulge in agony and dart aimlessly about, unable to see through the wall of suffering that envelops her.

Next her pliable arms are drawn under the wheel and each wrapped completely around a spoke, her hands yanked up between the spokes so they can be tied to her calves, to comically suggest that she herself is holding her legs in their wantonly splayed position. And all the while she has reached a crescendo of shrill shrieks and frantic gasps that few knew a human could make, finally sickening some in the crowd and slightly thinning its ranks.

The wheel is taken from its pedestal and propped upright near the platform's edge, displaying the naked and horribly mangled woman to great cheering and clapping. Placing the wheel vertically sets off an avalanche of fresh pain as the sagging torso stretches the shattered arms and legs, but her fierce screeches, bulging eyes and frightening facial contortions discourage few in the remaining crowd from rushing forward. On the contrary, her atrocious agony and obscene posture seem to attract them all the more.

Her exhibition is intended to last but 30 minutes, to afford onlookers an admiring look at the executioner's handiwork if they wish. A few well-dressed men and women leave their coaches wearing masks and brave the rabble to satisfy their curiosity, and for the customary remuneration the executioner allows them to mount the platform for a much closer look. He personally points out to them the diverse injuries he has inflicted on the criminal's body, detailing those of which he's most proud, such as the breast mutilation. Eventually the platform becomes so crowded with the well-paying elite that some are forced to wait below, and rather than lose any of his supplemental income the executioner extends the viewing to over an hour. Finally an assistant forces a last dose of stimulant down the traitor's throat, to ready her for the third and final phase in the execution.

The wheel, with its human cargo still in hideous embrace and howling all the while, is lowered onto the ground from the platform and carried, almost like a stretcher, some 10 paces away to where a 20-foot pole is firmly planted. There all the assistants clamber up a collection of ladders to awkwardly lift the wheel skyward, finally lowering the horizontal wheel's hub onto the top of the pole, the final assembly looking like a macabre umbrella. The executioner's official work is done, but more tormentors are on hand to complete her torture.

Far from being a place of quiet repose while waiting for death to arrive, the raised wheel offers special agonies of its own. The summer sun scorches the naked skin, and female recesses heretofore unknown to any light are burned by relentless penetration. Even slight breezes set the wheel swaying on its

slender pole, an unending assault on screaming limbs. Swarms of flying insects are quickly attracted to the blood and sweat, and the torments of their ceaseless stinging and biting cannot be overestimated, but the greatest threat from the air comes from the birds.

Birds are an integral and essential part of this method of execution, the very reason for raising the wheel high enough into the air to attract them without disturbance from humans below. And with the commotion of execution now over, and the people on the ground below being purposely held back, the wheel quickly attracts its intended guests. Soon the woman feels her flesh being ripped and torn by beaks and claws ungoverned by human modesty, probing into tender areas whose indecent exposure was mandated not only by the executioner's grim requirements, but also to grant the birds and insects free rein over every inch of her body.

The woman's weakening shrieks mark the piercing of her breasts through the inviting scars left by her missing nipples, and the probing of her once private parts, where strips of flesh are most easily torn off and carried away. Yet most fearful to the popular imagination, and worse to actually suffer, is the birds' unstoppable urge to peck the living eyes from the sockets of the dangling and defenseless head.

And many spectators wait patiently for that thrilling moment, though of necessity too far away to enjoy the grisly details, or possibly to even hear the feeble and helpless cries of protest as the victim's world becomes dark forever. But the consequences of a shroud of black feathers descending onto the wheel, as the crows claim their prize, are so well known that even those onlookers who depart early will still shudder at the thought of what must now take place. For ultimately the wheel is a giant raised dinner plate, on which a naked and broken human being is offered up as an obscene living meal for the creatures of the air.

Sometimes the birds complete their work quickly, but this time the woman will linger all day, some observers claiming even into the night, though no one can be sure, the spark of life fading so gradually. It's the unusually large crowd itself that prolongs the ordeal, frightening off some birds with laughter and chatter, onlookers sometimes approaching the pole too closely until a soldier shoos them away. Even at day's end, with the spectators nearly gone, the noises of dismantling the execution platform and the refreshment booths intimidates all but the most persistent birds. Finally at sunset even they fly off, their meal maybe still living, maybe not.

But the body will remain in place in any case, and it matters little to anyone if the woman manages to cling to life until the birds return the next morning for a second helping. She is now entirely abandoned to the beasts and the elements, doomed to be devoured and rot until only her bones remain, a stern roadside warning of the harsh justice that the town beyond inflicts on traitorous criminals, even women.
 
That was just a joke, I did'nt write both stories, mines are worse -:)
Would that be worse as in not as good with milder torture, or worse as in even worse torture? :devil:
 
A story (1/.3) and some pics. I checked carefully the previous posts, but please forgive me if some are reposts, I'm grewing old...



From: knittina DeDance The Braiding

These sad events took place 425 years ago during severe
upheavals that swept through the German principalities
along the middle Rhine.

Three recently unearthed manuscripts provide an eyewitness
description of the events. It seems they were taken
verbatim as the events took place. Their archaic Rhineland
German has been translated into modern English. The
translator is deeply apologetic for any mistranslation and
begs the readers' understanding. She hopes her errors do
not mislead or detract from the events that took place on
that sunny August day.


Tina's story:
Dungeons scare me more than my pending death. I am still
shaking from the look on the women standing around me as
my sentence was pronounced. Especially I was disturbed by
their grins, fleshy tongues peeking from between thin
lips, aroused inadvertent shivers as they heard the grim
words. I very distinctly recall one of them - a woman in
black, pink ruffles around her neck, red hair pulled
sternly behind her neck, long incredible lashes framing
large blue eyes, which glistened as they stared at me.
Her mouth opened soundlessly as she said, "I hope you live
long. I'll be seeing you from my balcony. Please do not
disappoint me and my friends ".

The trial had taken place in the cathedral lay center.
Nuns filled the pews. On the dais grim men in hoods stared
at me, their eyes flaming from under drooping eyelids. As
I had feared I was found guilty of "foul murder", since my
husband had mysteriously vanished and a rotting corpse was
found at the bottom of our well. I was sentenced to the
mercy of the town of Altenburg, "For the heinous
crime of slaying your husband, you Tina Tanzenrich will be
broken alive on the wheel in the Altenburg market place
tomorrow and your body will be left to the vermin and
carrion birds as a lesson to all".

I knew I had done nothing, but I did not know who had.
After all I was an abandoned lady with a choice house that
would revert to the church authorities, so somehow I knew
there was nothing I could do. My legs buckled when I heard
the sentence. Wouldn't yours have?

I hoped my agony and pain would be credited against the
purgatory our nuns and priests told us was the lot for all
sinners, and what could be worse than the eternal fires of
purgatory. Though I am really unsure about that. Usually I
rely more on what I see and feel than what I have been
told to take on pure faith. That did not help my
relationships with the almighty Mother Church, though
after severe canings I learnt to hide my doubts.

Two nuns quietly pulled me up. Holding my manacled arms
they walked me out of the center down the street to the
Altenburg castle, a dank place, parts of it still in ruins
from the wars recently fought against the heretics. Men
and women crowded on the sides, joked and laughed at me.
One seemingly compassionate elder woman in a bright blue
gown said "I hope her end is fast, but...". I looked to the
left and again saw the redhead in black openly smiling.
And again shesoundlessly told me, her lips moving
distinctly so I could read her "We are having a party for
you. So sorry you cannot join us. " Looking back at her,
my lips trembling, I was prodded through the carved castle
doors and then walked down stairs to a dark area I had
heard about ... the castle dungeons. A soldier in rusty
armour greeted us, looked at me up and down, grinned
toothlessly, took a huge key from the wall and a flaming
torch and grunted "Follow me!".

We went slowly down dark corridors and then he grunted
again "Wait here!". The nuns removed my wrist shackles.
After all where would I run to? He opened a heavy stained
oak door, through which the two nuns shoved me. Being
thrust through the dungeon door, hearing it creak and then
clang shut behind me leaving me in pitch black, terrified
me more than anything that had happened that day. All I
could feel were squeaks of rats, total darkness, fetid
air, rustling on the floor, sounds and chirps of flying
bats. I held my hands in front of me but felt nothing. I
shuffled forward feeling straw on the ground.

Moving furry things touched my toes. I stopped for a
pause, still unable to see anything, shaking as the sounds
cradled me. I screamed as I felt my toes nibbled. And then
another sound, muted, a quiet sigh on my left. I take
short slow steps in that direction, stopping as I feel a
soft body at my feet and ask "The wheel? You too?", and I
hear a muffled feminine sob "Yes".

I crouch down and touch. Immediately my hand is grabbed,
trembling moist fingers pressing into my palm. "I am
Petra, Petra Schwingen". I immediately answer "Tina
Tanzenrich, from Altenburg". Petra's fingers dig deeper
into my palm, and now crying she tells me "I'm from
outside Koln, an hour away. They accused me for killing my
husband. I did not. And I had not seen him for months. He
had left me. But they found a decayed male body in freshly
dug ground near our house. And they said that was him and
I had killed him. I did not. And there was rat poison in
the barn. And they found me guilty, ..and ..you know. The
wheel." I cannot contain myself and gasping tell her "The
same with me. But they found a rotted body at the bottom
of our well, and .. I did not do it."

The coincidence of us being unjustly accused for a similar
crime and being executed together is too much for me. I
break down, wildly sobbing and bury my tear stricken face
in her breasts which envelope me. Her hands running
through my hair calm me after a while. In the dark I see
nothing, but just feel her solacing presence, and for the
first time in days I feel at peace. Slowly my hands caress
her and she responds.

Our movements become more and more sensuous and ardent.
Yes, we try it all. What else should we do? We'll never
have another chance.

Initially we are both virginal, with women that is, but
gradually we warm up, and ...well, I do not need to go into
prurient detail. We both forget where we are and
wordlessly enjoy each other. I cannot count how often I
come but it is lots, it sates me. We end up sleeping
together, my fingers quivering in her, her fingers
wriggling in me, our tongues and lips together, bodies
intertwined as if we were one.

After a dreamless sleep I wake to the sound of a creaking
door. Pale light breaks the darkness. A husky voice says
"This is appalling. UP!!!". I then look at Petra, and for
the first time I see her. Uncombed blonde hair, rags
around her on the floor, round face, huge brown eyes open
with fear, and I feel nothing but the deepest love and
pity for her. "DRESS!!!". We both slip on the grey rags. I
do not recall taking mine off after I was put in the
dungeon, but apparently I did, and giggle at Petra, who
with an extraordinarily beautiful smile giggles back.

Four heavy set women in black quickly shackle our wrists,
pulling our hands in front of us. My skin is pinched as
they pull them tight. I yelp. All four laugh, a deep
satisfied laugh. "Just wait, this is nothing". We are
walked upstairs, up the dank corridors, the sounds of
boots clanking on the stone floors, reverberating off the
dark walls. Outside in the bright sunlight, my eyes blink
ands squint until they get used to the strong light. A few
drunks, ruffians and lots of children gawk at us as we are
pulled up on a cart. Standing Petra and I face each other
and are chained to the side of the cart.

Petra does not resist. I do and pay for that. One of the
women slashes me across my back with a crop and the other
punches me hard in my stomach. They grin. The manacles are
pulled tight and cut into my skin. The chain is very
tightly wrapped under my breasts holding me to the side of
the cart. We gaze at each other silently. Together we
reach for the other's hands and hold them tight. I want to
wipe off a faint trace of drool at her mouth's right edge,
but I cannot.

I lick my lips. She reads me and licks hers removing the
spot of spittle. A drunk makes an obscene pelvic gesture
as he yells "Try me!!!". The women get off the cart, and
order the wagon man to take us to our fate. I try to
ignore the jeering of those around us. The cartman taps
the huge mule with his whip and we slowly move off, the
four women walking by the cart on both sides.

On the cart rattling across the cobblestones, I try not to
think of the pain ahead. I think back to a woman I talked
with after she survived the rack. She told me that during
her ordeal she had forced herself to think about peaceful
open fields, sunshine, warmth, the aroma of fresh cut
flowers and the excitement of long ago festivals, and that
through that she stayed in command of herself rather than
letting the pain drive her into madness. I hope and pray I
will muster the strength to do that when the time comes,
but again I think of the bars cracking my bones and
joints, birds cawing, their beaks tearing into my eyes and
lips, plucking my eyeballs out and flesh tissues off.

Will I stay conscious as that happens? What will I feel as
the wheel is hoisted up, my broken limbs flopping with the
movements of the wheel? Will I still be aware, writhing,
making horrible wretched sounds? Watching Petra's ashen
face and feeling her fingers twitching in my palms I
wonder whether in my agony I will still think of her,
still hear her or will her sounds be drowned out by the
frenzied cheering of the spectators and my own agonies. I
sob again, tears dripping out of my eyes onto my heaving
breasts, and again reflect on the terror and horror of
being wheeled. Lord it is really horrible. Legs and arms
would be bent a bit to get full benefits from the blows.
At first my knees will not touch the wheel, until they are
hammered to fit them into the spokes.

And to make it really last the executioner will break me
from my extremities towards my torso and neck, winding up
his work with well-aimed blows at my crotch and
collarbones. UGH!!!!! Will the trauma be so great that at
some point I mercifully subside into hallucinations and
numbness? Or will my throbbing senses stay aware of all.
And what is worse is that I do not feel remorse for
something I never did. I pray I will not be punished in
the hereafter for my arrogance in denying God's will on
earth, as expressed through his ordained representatives.

And then we enter the square. I briefly recall fond
memories of past fairs and festivities, weekend markets,
ogling lads, myself with friends watching hangings,
burnings and wheelings of deserving criminals and
heretics, screaming ourselves into ecstatic frenzies, and
how little did I know. And I see the scaffold, six steps
up, three persons wide, in its middle two huge slanted
spoked wagon wheels standing at the end of long thick
posts that hang over the side of the scaffold. The wheels
are slightly angled to each other to make sure we watch
each other's contorting and tortured body, both of us
convulsing and writhing. Both wheels are bathed in a
golden light from the late morning sun. The wheel spokes
are spotted with dents and red-brown stains. The scaffold
flooring appears to be spotlessly clean. A trim, medium
masked tall man, the executioner, is standing there with
three nuns, dressed in black habits. He is dressed in
blood red. The nuns' faces are a pallid white, silhouetted
by thin red lips and dark eyes. I see a stand behind the
wheels. In it are seven metal rods, all as long as a small
child, ranging from quill thin to spear shaft thick.

The crowd gives way to the wagon, but barely. I see lots
of familiar faces, all gleeful, all merry, and I wonder
what I ever did to deserve this. I wonder if Petra
recognizes anyone, but she, guessing my thoughts, murmurs,
"You seem to know them all. I know no-one" and her eyes
water again. I smile at her and whisper, "I know you, my
love". And am rewarded by a momentary look of bliss. We
hold each other's hands tighter. I look wistfully into
Petra's face and am
rewarded by her open stare at me, inviting me into her.
But alas this is not to be. At the scaffold the cart's
back railing is slung down and the back is pushed against
the platform. All I see are the wheels and the stand with
bars behind them. And I cannot help gazing at them, my
worst fancies and nightmares blot out every other thought,
and again I feel my body shudder, and again I break out in
body shaking sobs.

Petra is the first to be taken onto the scaffold. They
remove the chain holding her to the side of the cart. Her
hands scramble to keep close to me but she is wrenched
away by the nuns, all three grim yet with aroused glimmers
of expression lighting up their passive appearances. Petra
keeps her hands flung out towards me, yelling incoherently
as her sweaty body twists and writhes frantically, trying
to break free from the nuns who keep her on her feet and
struggling, back her up to the left wheel. Two hold her
against the wheel. The third nun forces her right arm into
position twisting it so her palm rests on a spoke and rim
connection, her elbow jutting out. She ties the wrist down
with a thick leather strap. She ties the other wrist down
the same way on the other side of the wheel. The two nuns
hold her left leg while the third pulls the right leg up,
awkwardly bends her knee, and straps her ankles against
the wheel in about an eight o'clock position, foot flat on
a spoke's end. She does the same with her left leg making
sure her foot is tied at around four o'clock. Petra is
now struggling violently in mid-air, her torso moving back
and forth from the wheel, her hips undulating obscenely.
She does not stop screaming, spittle dribbling from her
mouth, eyes crazed in her knowledge of what lies ahead.
One of the nuns stands in front of her and loudly
declaims, "This is God's will. Who are you to argue
against it?"

Annemie on display..jpgcarried_into_the_darkness_8_by_daniel_remo_art_d7u5xab-fullview.jpgcarried_into_the_darkness_9_by_daniel_remo_art-d7xm37p.jpgimg-1524504661.giftorture_chamber_by_delaverano.jpg
 
And then it is my turn. But instead of the nuns eight
women from the crowd happily climb up onto the scaffold
and come over to the cart and me. They were my friends!!!.
Helga and Beatrice were my best childhood friends too. But
their faces as they look at me and reach for me are like
nothing I have ever seen before. Eagerness, ecstasy, and
that peculiar German emotion, schadenfreude. They all have
a musky aroma, really aroused. Do they really envy me so
much or do they just love feeling what will be soon my
lot.

I am exhausted by fear, my face tear-stained and my hair
unkempt. My wrists and torso are bruised from struggling
against my fetters. Their rough hands release me from the
cart's shackles. I start to bawl and yell again. Giggling
and joking, they seize my arms and push and pull me to the
wheel to the nuns waiting behind it with straps of
leather. Petra is watching me, her eyes bulging in terror,
as I am brought to the wheel beside her. My heart is
pounding furiously as I see the wheel up close, its top
towering over me. My escorts turn me around and hold me
against the wheel's rim. I yelp as I feel the rough wood
against my back. I look around me and see around the
scaffold a sea of eager ecstatic gazes of neighbours and
acquaintances, people I played with as a young girl. Their
children are merrily running around. My "friends" hold my
hands up high, twist
them so my palms rest on the rim, still laughing, saying
nothing, looking into my eyes with amusement. The nuns
strap my wrists to the rim. They then lift my legs to the
sides. I groan as my weight pulls on the cords around my
wrists. The nuns quickly strap my ankles to the rim and
pull tight. I feel the hub of the wheel press against my
lower back, which I can ease by arching my back,
uncomfortable but not as bad as having my back pierced by
the hub.

I barely hear the sentences read to the crowd, or the
final blandishments of the village priest, who
sanctimoniously describes our crimes. Pointing at the
executioner's bars he expresses his fervent hope that
because of our remorse we will be spared purgatory for the
agony we will soon suffer.

Except for the nuns who move to the side and the
executioner, everyone else now steps off the scaffold. He
comes near, eyes through his red mask quietly examining
me. I am blubbering. I recall those eyes, cold and
unfeeling. I also notice his codpiece, and to my own
surprise I wonder if what is under fills it. I shake my
head. No way. It could not be that huge. Just male
arrogance. But it is the last time a man will show such
intimate attention to me, and to my chagrin I smile at
him. I beg him to leave my tunic on but he laughs as he
deftly removes it, exposing my flushed parted privates to
the whole world. Male guffaws ripple around me. He then
moves over to Petra and tugs at her coarse woven robe,
pulling it off, baring her too. He caresses Petra's
breasts and face with what one oddly feels is
compassionate lust and some tenderness, causing some in
the crowd to yell "No mercy!! She must pay.!!!". Petra
cries and whimpers through chapped lips. The executioner
faces the crowd, struts towards the edge of the scaffold
and limbers up. He stretches his arms back and forth,
elbows straight and then elbows bent, back and forth,
while holding his wrists stiff. He does this for a few
minutes and then selects a slim steel rod and slowly turns
to her. She pleads with him, begging, imploring for mercy.

He doesn't heed her. Instead he gently taps her right
knuckles. She begs for forgiveness, for salvation, for any
relief as she clenches her fingers. She strains at her
wrists, unable to budge them. Her back arches away from
the wheel. He raises the rod, and then she cries
piteously as the crowd starts to count, "ten, nine, eight,
seven, six, five, four, three, two, one" and....whoosh and
wham -- with no sound from the crowd he swings the bar. I
turn my head away in terror but hear the thud and the
howl, ebbing into sobbing and screaming, and then moaning.
I turn my head back and see Petra, her mouth open in pain,
lips shaking, her right knuckles limp and red and
obscenely swollen on the wheel's rim. Her body is quaking
and rocking back and forth against the wheel. Her eyes are
wild, staring yet unseeing, deep in herself. I am
screaming myself hoarse, half from fear, half from wanting
the executioner to stop hitting her.

I know the policy is to pause five minutes between blows.
The crowd yells "AGAIN!!!" He takes his time in selecting
the next bar, the next thickest. He rests it on the wheel,
making sure it touches Petra's raised right foot. The
executioner lets her howl for a few minutes and then
gently wipes away Petra's sweat from her wet forehead and
cheeks and froth from her mouth. He lifts the bar and taps
her right bruised knuckles. Her screams get shriller. The
crowd starts to chant numbers again as he taps her right
knuckles again, and then to my horror he swings the bar
back and quickly bashes it onto them, leaving a pulpy red
smear.

Petra's screeching is so high pitched that some of
the spectators near me cover their ears in mock pain.
And then it is my turn. I watch the executioner's eyes
getting bigger and bigger as he comes near me, and then he
backs away and the crowd starts its chant. I am so scared.
I feel the tap on my right knuckles and the slow counting
approaching its close. And then the sound, and THE
PAIN!!!!! Sudden, like fire engulfing my hand, and I hear
someone screaming, high pitched howling, and I realize it
is me. I can no longer think or feel anything beyond the
excruciating pain and I know that is all to look forward
to until I mercifully lose consciousness.

To be continued
 
Beautiful story!!! Very exciting. Looking forward to the sequel! I wish they would illustrate it. Thank you!!!
 
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From: knittina DeDance The Braiding

These sad events took place 425 years ago during severe
upheavals that swept through the German principalities
along the middle Rhine.

Three recently unearthed manuscripts provide an eyewitness
description of the events. It seems they were taken
verbatim as the events took place. Their archaic Rhineland
German has been translated into modern English. The
translator is deeply apologetic for any mistranslation and
begs the readers' understanding. She hopes her errors do
not mislead or detract from the events that took place on
that sunny August day.

THE REDHEAD'S STORY:

The trial fascinated me. I had never seen two women
condemned to the wheel at the same time for such similar
crimes. The coincidence is strange. As their properties
revert to the Church, I have an inkling suspicion there is
more to this than seems clear. But I knew this would be an
occasion for a great party. I like parties and love
watching executions.

That is why I have my three-story house, thanks to the
generosity of Graf Wachenberg. And it could not be better
situated, on the south of the Altenburg market square. I
look across at the exquisite cathedral, where unbroken
lines of black ravens and crows perch on the gables and on
the gargoyles. I wonder how they know.

My guests trickle in and greet me, leaving libations
scattered on tables and stands and capturing choice places
by windows or on my third floor balcony. Funny how they
come in so dignified but drop their mask as soon as they
look outside and shivers ripple across their bodies and
arms. Two masked men come in, dressed in the latest
black/red diamond patterned Venetian style, or that is
what they tell me. I had not met either before. They give
me an introduction from the Archbishop of Koln, a close
friend of my dear Graf. I would never
refuse that request. Besides I have lots of room and they
did bring full pitchers of heady ale. Unfortunately my
Graf is away, exterminating some heretics or whatever he
does to them. I do not feel sorry for him. I guess he has
lots of fun exterminating those treacherous vermin.
The square fills up quickly. Some closed coaches had
parked last night in the best south locations near the
scaffold. From the peals of laughter coming from those
coaches and their rocking movements someone must have been
having a good time throughout the night.

Others camped out in the square last night around small
fires. It was hard to sleep as through the night there was
singing, laughter and squeals of pleasure. But I did not
mind. Who am I to begrudge the pleasure of others?
I wave to some friends in an open coach under the eaves of
the cathedral. Other open wagons or fancy carriages with
wealthy families from around and knights and their
"ladies" surround them. Fortunately I do not have to be
like those "ladies". They try to act refined, fanning
their faces nonchalantly with ornate paper screens, but
their flushed faces cannot hide their excitement. I
suspect mine does not hide mine either.

The scaffold is ready. Two big wheels face my guests and
me. A stand holding the metal bars of punishment stands
behind them. A red robed and masked executioner brought in
from Koln struts self-importantly back and forth on the
scaffold. I understand he is being paid sixteen
reichsthaler and a hundred albus for what he is to do. I
wonder what he'd pay an assistant. That might be something
for me to
do once the Graf tires of me. Three women in nuns' habits
are standing by the right wheel, probably to help. One of
them, the shortest one, is caressing it. Is she aroused by
its scratchy and woody feel, knowing all that has happened
on it? I am surprised they are dressed as nuns, and do not
know if indeed they are. But recalling the stories of what
really goes on in nunneries, I am not surprised if they
are.

The sounds of a cart rumbling into the square brings us
all to the windows and balcony. All the windows and
balconies overlooking the square are now packed with
leering and jeering faces. The two women are chained
holding their hands. Upon reaching the scaffold they are
dragged off the cart. I am a bit surprised that the second
is dragged to the wheel by what seems to be a partying
group. Yes, she is the one I spoke to at the trial, Tina
something or another. I knew her by sight. I'd see her at
square parties and executions, but had never talked with
her. We just did not move in the same circles. She was one
of the uppity ones, disdainful of what I had to do to
survive. Tough. Look at her now. Not surprisingly I feel
delicious goose bumps all over me, and am looking forward
to what will soon take place. My guests are just as
engrossed. I find it fascinating how the sun reflects off
both their faces, leaving them bathed in an
iridescent gold. The usual blather on a just verdict and
the crime is quickly over. I do not pay attention to that.
I know what Tina was found guilty of.

Frankly I do not care. Someone, in fact one of the
Archbishop's friends, tells me the two were found guilty
of similar crimes, and the second woman is called Petra. I
nod absent-mindedly. The fun starts. I think the
executioner is sort of unnecessarily rough as he removes
their pitiful dresses, though he does appear to be
attentive to that Petra person. He looks ridiculous as he
does some arm
stretching exercises before he gets to work on them. Men,
what
braggarts!!! And that huge cod piece. Though if he is a
large as that hints at, he may be fun. Maybe I should
change my occupation. I am immediately wet as the first
blow lands on Petra's right knuckles. That scream!!!!!.
The executioner seems to take his time before dealing with
Tina. The first blows are for Petra. By the second bar
blow, her right hand looks like a red blob, just mush. The
executioner then walks over to Tina, brushes his face up
close to hers, and waves for the counting chant. Tina
howls like some tortured jackal when the blow lands. So
lovely to watch them both strain and writhe. I cannot help
it. It arouses me so much.

Petra is thrashing so violently with pain that her left
foot kicks free of the leather strap holding her ankle.
Desperately, she pulls the freed foot away from the wheel
in a vain attempt to stop the torture, and tucks her leg
up tight under her buttocks. A nun pulls it away from
under her rear but the leg breaks loose again. Petra
frantically kicks the reaching nun's hands. Laughter peals
through the cheering audience as they watch the uneven
struggle on the scaffold. Her leg thrashes and kicks in
mid-air for long seconds, desperately trying to evade
capture. Another nun joins and together they seize the
jerking leg and drag her foot back down into position
where they hold it clamped against the spoke, knee
protruding. Their faces grimace from the unaccustomed
exertion. The executioner picks a medium sized bar, stands
to the side of the wheel, taps the knee with the bar, and
then with a backhand motion takes it back and with a
strong blow strikes the knee, hammering it into the gap
between two spokes. The crowd roars its appreciation
drowning out Petra's shrill shriek. The nuns immediately
tie down her shin with a fresh leather strap, calmly
oblivious to her grunting and spasms. She throws her head
forward, her eyes bulging with agony, her shrieking
continuing without pause.

Then the nuns give Tina some attention. I see her face
erupt in fear and then she does something very stupid,
showing she is not contrite at all. She spits in the face
of the nun nearest her. The nun looks at her with obvious
disgust and then to the nod of the executioner picks a
thin bar, and without any preamble wacks it hard across
Tina's left knuckles. Her scream, shriller than anything I
had heard until now, drives the crowd and my guests into
excited paroxysms.

Though to my surprise I hear a solitary heckler. Someone
must think nuns should not be doing that. The executioner
gently takes the bar from the nun, puts it back in the
stand, and takes the next thickest bar. He moves into his
operating pattern. Tap, wait for crowd to finish
chanting, swing, switch from one to the other, give each a
five minute break between blows, tap each one on what was
earlier broken, the crowd jeering as they cry out even
louder, and then onto his next target, working his way up
each arm, knuckles, knuckles again, wrist, twice up the
arm, the elbow, and then the arm above the elbow. I am so
very aroused
sensing the scaffold, the howling and wailing, the sounds
of the thuds and a new scream, the spreading red smear on
the limbs of the two, and the roaring of the crowds,
louder and louder, except for the lull as the blow lands.
 
Except for Petra's left knee, the executioner works only
on the arms. Splintered bones show through the skin. Their
writhing is incessant. To my guests and my pleasure, no
one faints. Though there is a slight disturbance in the
crowd under the cathedral gargoyles as a thick set lady
collapses with what seems to be a heart attack. Poor
thing. She really ought to eat less. She must have been
overwrought. The nuns occasionally wipe the girls' faces,
trying to live up to their merciful reputation. What a
job. Appearing like saints but being up so close, they
must relish every jolt of agony, every squeal of anguish.
I wonder if they'll do it afterwards in the cloister, but
what am I thinking. They are nuns. Hah!!! And archbishops
are celibate too. Hah, hah!!!

By noon both women's arms are pulp. The executioner
pauses. The nuns soak sponges in water and place them on
Petra's and Tina's lips. Both suck the water greedily.
Several flies land around their mouths and on the crushed
parts of their limbs, and sip the trickles of blood from
the splintered bones.

The break is short, enough for spectators to refill their
mugs with mead or ale. Peddler's calls hawking their wares
mixed with shrill peals of laughter echo around the
square. Fancy women laugh at the latest gossip, snatching
glances at the scaffold and the two squirming women their
legs spread-eagled and unabashedly dripping.
Petra's head stays away from the wheel but upright,
glancing at Tina, whispering something I cannot hear.
Tina's head stays bowed in what seems like resignation.
And he is back. He picks up a medium sized bar, waves it
and taps it on Petra's right shin. He then gets it to his
side, waits for the crowd to chant "ten, nine, eight" and
so on and at "one", crashes the bar onto her shin. With a
crack heard very well, her shin is crushed. Blood is
running from the mess left by the blow. Petra is
convulsing and writhing. Her familiar screeching echoes
around the square. The executioner now stands in front of
Tina, and similarly strikes
her left shin. She howls in agony. He does not wait for
the chants and immediately slams her right shin. She
screams again in what has to be excruciating agony, her
face all purple red, her foaming mouth wide open, and a
disgusting brown and yellow puddle spreading under her.
Good we are not too close to smell that. Tina's body is
now heaving back and forth, streaked with sweat. Her head
is thumping up and down noisily on the wheel.
The breaking continues. Legs are shattered, bone slivers
dot the expanding pulp, as we near the finale. The howling
does not cease, though between blows, it does ebb a bit.
Their faces are all red.
Blood soaks the floor under the wheels. Their eyes remain
wild and open, heads bobbing back and forth. At three we
take an afternoon tea. My guests, some of whom seemed
bored in the past hour, revive their spirits, sip their
tea laced with some strong mead, and then go back to
watch.
Tina's collarbones are the first to be shattered. The
executioner takes his thickest bar, lifting it high with
both hands. When the familiar number chanting from the
frenzied crowd reaches "one" he drops it hard on her right
and quickly after onto her left collarbone. Her head jerks
up. Her eyes bulge from the extreme agony, and then she
howls something like "Mercy". He then stands in front of
her, facing her left, holding the bar with two hands. He
draws the bar back, slowly brings it forward to tap Tina's
pelvis from her front, and then quickly steps back and
with a lunge swings. The thud is loud. I did not know
someone could howl for as long and hard. It appears her
body just breaks at that point, crushed bones and flesh
mixing together into a red porridge.

Tina's howling slowly mutes to ragged breathing. He does
the same to Petra. She hollers even before he taps her
collarbone, and the crowd just roars, whooping it up. The
breaking complete, the executioner backs away from the
wheels and his grisly deeds. The three nuns now attend to
their final work. They remove the leather restraints.
Slowly and gently they weave the broken limbs barely held
together by muscle sinew and skin in and out of the
spokes, draping a braided circle of limb parts around the
wheel perimeter. Petra and Tina scream incessantly as this
is carried out. Each is tied so her legs twist on opposite
sides of her body and are secured to spokes near her
shoulders. Their arms are then tucked in and out of the
spokes of the wheel. Their crushed pelvises and privates
are exposed wide open. During a few moments of quiet, one
of the nuns, who obviously relishes and gloats over every
nuance of agony, gives them water soaked sponges again,
and loudly whispers to them, fervently "Isn't God's mercy
wonderful, you, you fallen women. I so envy you. You will
appreciate all this in the world to come". Some of the
women in the crowd sanctimoniously say "Amen".

Sickening isn't it!!! The way some women parade their
devoutness. With the nuns' craftwork over, Petra and Tina
now are to be exposed until they die. A small crew
volunteers. With the executioner's help, they tip the
wheels and their posts into ready-made holes at the back
of the scaffold. Their screeching gets loud again as their
mangled bodies are jostled by the move. Each horizontal
wheel two feet above the scaffold is now holding "a
screaming puppet writhing
in rivulets of blood, each puppet with four tentacles,
like a sea monster, of raw, slimy and shapeless flesh
mixed up with splinters of smashed bones". From my third
floor balcony I can look down at their mangled bodies,
able to see each grimace on their strained conscious
faces.

A prostitute suddenly jumps onto the scaffold, weaves
herself between the puddles, and covers both with her
scarf and her blouse. The crowd applauds as she removes
her clothes exposing her own ripe breasts. None of the
nuns stop her. She cheerfully steps off the scaffold,
sidesteps clumsy groping of some drunks, laughs at ribald
comments, and waves to teen girls and boys who are
curiously ogling her, yes, the girls too. Tina and Petra
continue to squeal, eyes bulging from their excruciating
agony. Their hips keep undulating, every movement adding
to their pain which they express by squealing louder The
nuns fill three pails from the public pump by the cathedral,
and flush away the mess left by the two on the scaffold
floor.

Through the rest of the afternoon the broken women squirm
on their wheels. Their sweaty faces twitch; their heads
lash wildly from side to side. Convulsions go on and on.
The unending pain keeps them conscious. They shriek again
and again, sometimes together, sometimes separately, their
breathing heavy and strained.

Tina's friends and neighbours, town people and strangers
mingle on the scaffold and under the wheels, laughing and
joking about the pair's torment. The taunts and shouting
soon die out. An unbroken procession of elegantly dressed
women step up in small groups or one by one onto the
scaffold to gaze at the two women on their wheel, gloating
with undisguised pleasure. Some of my guests wander over
to the scaffold. And the two friends of the Archbishop are
thoughtful enough to replenish the ale from one of the
peddlers. They go out with a mask on their face, like
Venetians at a fancy dress ball. I wonder who they really
are. Could they be...? Their accents are local, so they
cannot be visiting Venetians. But no, not even the
Archbishop could be that duplicitous. And they did find
two bodies. Though something about them bothers me. As I
walked earlier around to
make sure my guests were all comfortable, I noticed them
standing apart by one of the windows and I swear one was
whispering to the other. "Don't you feel a little sorry
for her? I do for Tina, though she was bitchy". The
other nudges him, probably seeing me coming near them out
of the corner of his eyes and with a broad smirk asks me
"Aren't you sorry for them even though they did such a
heinous act?". I nod absent mindedly, noticing the other's
face was more
flushed than I'd expect. They stay around after that. If
they indeed are what I thought they are, they would have
left fast. My imagination must be overwrought because of
my excitement. Most of the crowd stays for the entire
afternoon, but the braided women on their wobbly wheels
eventually became little more than a
mild distraction. People slowly wander off to party. The
raucous partying in the homes around the square goes on
and on. I rejoin my guests who are enjoying themselves -
with drink, song and the odd quarter of an hour wandering
away of pairs and even one threesome into closed rooms.
Some stand on the balcony or by windows gazing for a few
minutes on the battered bodies, rubbing themselves or
their partner.

The ragamuffins are the last to leave the square. They
continue to climb the scaffold to look up close at the two
women writhing, gasping and occasionally still howling.
Flocks of carrion birds fly back and forth from the
cathedral and roofs of the half-timbered homes, landing on
and nipping at their faces unless shooed away by the kids.
A sweet young girl in a tattered white frilly dress takes
a wet rag, leans on their bodies as she reaches for and
wipes drool and
sweat off their feverish faces. She stays there for a few
minutes waving away the birds and flies, a smiling grimace
on her face, and then skips away.

Time drags on. That afternoon seems like days. Really how
long can one listen to screaming subsiding into moans with
slight outbursts here and there. But they should not have
done what they had done, and our religious teachers tell
us this is their penance on earth. As the crowds fade
away, larger flocks of birds close in and stay above them.
Though most still hover above the convulsing bodies, some
dart down and peck, and happily caw while flying up with a
sliver of flesh in their beaks. At sunset the two wheels
wave in the still air in rhythm with the irregular spasms
of the quivering bodies, both still moaning. Soon after,
Tina erupts in spasms, and then goes quiet. Except for
faint quivering, her eyes remain open but quickly dull.
Petra's breasts continue to heave wildly. Tina's parted
legs invite swarms of flies to buzz around and over her
sweat that trickles from her privates and between and out
of her smashed thighs. Her dark eyes seem ready to close
but not before a bold raven pecks away at her eyelids,
gashes them, and quickly devours the soft gelatinous eyes
leaving dark bleeding sockets behind.

Four hours after sundown, the two are alone on their
wheels in the town square, still writhing and sometimes
breaking out in shrill screams in the candle speckled
darkness. From where I am standing I notice several
neighbours, obviously aroused by the screaming and the
thoughts of the two broken women still in torment, use the
time for some mutual entertainment. Where is the Graf when
I need him!!!

Around midnight one of my guests calls us to watch Tina
break into another fitful series of spasms that slowly
subside. Her mouth opens, its gaping gullet fills quickly
with flies illuminated by the lit torches around the
wheels. Some flies are gobbled by the greedy crows and
ravens, still ravenously pecking away at her cheeks, lips
and any free flesh they find. An hour later, unable to
sleep, I look out again. Tina is still, her body now
blanketed by birds, flies,
mosquitoes and bits and pieces of glistening cleaned bone.
Petra is still moaning but not moving.

I wake at dawn, and look again at the two silent and
shapeless wheeled bodies on their posts covered by
flapping feathers, and try to imagine what it must have
been like for them. Were they consoled by the hope they'd
be spared further grief in the world to come? The
descriptions of what awaits us in purgatory are so vivid,
the endless slow fires, the eternity of our anguish as we
pay penance for our sins, that for a short second I envy
them. I shudder at their broken
corpses, red staining the wheels, posts and ground
underneath, carrion birds still darting in and out, and I
pray for them. Yet, I am also very aware of how the
executions aroused me, satisfied me like my Graf could
never do, and again I get wet.


TO BE CONTINUED
 
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From: knittina DeDance The Braiding

These sad events took place 425 years ago during severe
upheavals that swept through the German principalities
along the middle Rhine.

Three recently unearthed manuscripts provide an eyewitness
description of the events. It seems they were taken
verbatim as the events took place. Their archaic Rhineland
German has been translated into modern English. The
translator is deeply apologetic for any mistranslation and
begs the readers' understanding. She hopes her errors do
not mislead or detract from the events that took place on
that sunny August day.


Petra's Tale:
I am insane. I am in another world. Where was the sitting
in the garden and the baths and the pleasant chats with
Frau Merbrand and her sisters?
But it was all another world, or a dream. I am in rags,
being pushed up onto a scaffold. All around me is desire.
Even in my sweet Tina . . . the spirit who came to me out
of the cold and the darkness last night. Oh God did you
send her to me to make my final moments so pleasant? She
is the only thing left to me now. My lovely warm
stranger. She is to be punished too. We are to be
together one last terrible time.

Now, though, the desire is mainly for my life. All these
people. Did I know them once? Were they my neighbors?
My friends? Who are these people? Why do they want to
kill me? I reach out for my Tina, wanting her embrace,
but cannot have it. Not anymore.
They are strapping me to the wheel. Hard leather straps
binding me to the spokes. They are speaking to me. They
look like nuns, like normal and gracious people, but I
cannot understand them at all. Their faces are alien to
me. The only thing familiar is the pain. They are
fastening me down securely . . . cruelly . . . and someone
is screaming. Someone is screaming loudly, and I feel it
is me. They are now taking my Tina. Bringing her to her
own wheel. She sees me and we stare at each other, not
really comprehending. She is just as mystified as I am.
Just as scared. Why can't they leave us alone?
Everything's in a haze. There's a man speaking to the
crowd. Telling them of what we've done . . . but we've
done nothing. Why do they believe all these lies? There is
also a priest. He is speaking to both Tina and myself, but
there is no assurance here. No hope. All words have become
incomprehensible. All there is are the bindings holding me
here, the growing hot sunlight and Tina nearby, suffering
as I am. Now the other man. The one dressed and masked in
red. Oh God, he is the executioner. The one. He is
moving closer to Tina, touching her so gently and lovingly,
but I know it's all a lie. He's
laughing now, undressing my Tina . . . showing her body to
everyone. Leave her alone. Please. Oh! He's coming to me
now. Wait . . . Oh God, now he's pulling at my robe . . .
undressing me too. I don't want this. This man seeing
me. Everyone seeing me. And now he's touching me. So
softly. Oh God, it actually feels nice, but I know it
isn't. This isn't the place or time for such things.
Please. Don't. He moved away, but now has something. One
of those steel rods. Oh please, don't. I think, I know
I'm screaming at him. But I can't hear myself. I'm
trying to run or crawl away, but I can't move. I can only
watch him get closer. I'm telling him everything he wants
to hear . . . everything I mean truly . . . but he's
softly tapping my hand with the rod.

He's raising it now, and there's a thunder in my ears.
No, it's the crowd roaring out something. Counting. It
ends and the rod comes down . . . Oh my God . . . I scream
but not at the pain. Not yet. I scream at the feeling of
the bones of my hand crunching beneath the blow. The pain
is soon to come, I know it will. It's already speeding up
from my shattered hand. I have to get away but I can't.
My mouth's already opening to announce the arrival of the
agony . . . my entire world is shaking, but I know it's
just me trying to get away, struggling against the wheel.
And he returns, and the thunder resumes. It ends, and now
the I feel even a greater pain in my crushed hand than
before. Another layer of pain to join the one already
dancing inside me. I'm screaming, but it's no worse. The
pain cannot get greater. It's only the sensation now of
my body slowly being rendered into a bruised bag of pulp.
I can no longer move my hand . . . and soon my other hand
and feet are also gone. I am slowly no longer being me,
but am rather becoming a screaming, moaning container of
blood and broken pieces. Petra already died a long time
ago. I am a new thing, with a short screaming span of
life here on this wheel. I need no food or drink. I am
only here to empty my lungs to the air and be brutally
fondled. No name . . no children . . no lover but this
strange creature with the steel rods who seems to resemble
something I have some small memory of being once. There is
no longer the pain because this is my natural state. There
is just my jerking movements, my voice howling into the
air and the continued crunching sensation as more of me is
pulped.

The thunder soon dies away, and now others come. I cannot
feel them except slightly. They are moving me about,
carefully twining my form throughout the wheel. I hear
murmurings about arms and legs and where they should be
placed, but it's meaningless to me. Arms and legs are to
walk and hold with, and I have neither. I lie there,
speaking to whatever listens, letting myself be threaded
in and out, in and out . . . I'm being lifted now. To
Heaven? Has God come finally to claim this broken thing?
No. Only a short distance away. Moved to some sort of
post. There is another wheel nearby, and it has something
on it that must look entirely like me. Oh . . . it's
Tina. She's become like me! I'm no longer alone in the
world. How sweet . . . I love her so. We cannot move to
each other but are each bound to our own wheels. She
seems to be screaming just as I am. Can the others
understand us?

I move as the pain directs me . . . my only source of
being now. My head going this way and that, seeing first
this house, then a cloud, then sweet Tina, then a distant
face. I glance down at myself and see the broken pieces
that have pierced the flesh. The jutting bones so white
in the sunlight, sometimes touched here and there with
red. I move and the bones move with me, and new hot pain
stabs into my head. Little rivers of blood slowly move
across my flesh, the red mingling with the colorful night
darkness of the bruises. And even
that hurts, but pain . . . pain is all I have! If it is
my life now then I should be growing accustomed to it.
It's so hard . . . but I have to try.
Birds. Birds. Why hadn't I noticed them before? There'd
been the flies, but I'd never seen the birds. So close.
Closer. They settle on the wheel. Oh, and on me. A
tugging . . . and I thought it was because I was still
trying to move away. I am, but it's really a bird pulling
at me. Pulling, and now moving away with part of me in
its beak. I thought birds ate seeds. Am I a seed now?
More tugging. The birds closer. One so close . . . oh!
A new sharpness in the pain, and I cannot see so clearly
anymore. Too much blood! The bird seems to have
something different and shiny in its beak. Another bird up
close.
Oh! More pain (why so different this?) and I can't see! I
can't see! Night time already? I hadn't been paying
attention. It's so dark. The cool air and the warm
blood, and the feel of the birds as they walk and tug back
and forth. Am I slowly disappearing from view into their
beaks? Why has it become so dark so quickly? I know I'm
still screaming . . . still tugging at my bindings . . .
but it all seems so far away now. It's so distant. Even
the pain hasn't mattered for a while. It's still there,
but it's been there for so long. There is something else
coming. Something dark that's growing all around me. Is
it sleep? Can I sleep now? Will I still be here when I
wake up again?

I turn my head towards it, but I cannot see anything.
Still night time. But it's growing still. No longer
feeling the birds, the flies, the air or even the pain.
Breathing is becoming difficult, but I can't worry about
it now. There's this darkness coming. What is it?
Perhaps . . . maybe if I sleep just a little . . . it'll
make sense.
 
A very nice wheel image, and one I had not seen before. Thanks for posting.
 
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