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Quiet Paul said:
Is she an old woman? Not sure. Might be her sister, with lots of hatred, jealousy, perhaps. Sisters can be nasty...
Click to expand...
that's another sister she means the old hag who pushes herself forward
(coming from another pic where she is busy with a breast of a crucified girl)
 
Jan crossed.jpg Jan Crossed

A narrow passageway near the foot of the Aventine hill is the place in Rome where masters take their most recalcitrant slaves to have them publicly disciplined. Along the high brownish walls that narrowly enclose this notorious passageway, the merchants of punishment display the tools and implements of their trade … scourging posts, X-crosses, braziers filled with glowing coals, red hot irons, iron chains and shackles, and whips of all kinds. Crowds of curious citizens continually push and shuffle their way through this sordid area, hoping to witness first-hand the brutal punishments meted out each day to the poor unfortunates brought here by their masters.

My master brings me here at the break of dawn, intent on purchasing a just punishment for my brazen unwillingness to submit to the drunken desires of his male guests at last night’s dinner party. Not only did I resist the repulsive beast of a man who forced me to kneel and open my mouth for him, I bit him too. I brought shame on my master’s name and he is now determined to make a public show of me as a way of both restoring his besmirched honor and teaching me a lesson in servitude that I would not soon forget.

I am led to the passageway through the teeming streets of an awakening city, hands bound behind my back and wearing only a thin cloth tunic that comes down to about mid-thigh. At each stall along the length of the passage way, he stops to bargain with the owners, inspecting the various instruments of torture on display. I follow obediently and refrain from reacting each time he lifts my tunic to display my body to the merchants of punishment.

At last he makes his choice. Opening his purse, he counts out a number of coins, and leaves me in the hands of a short corpulent bald man who, after deferentially bowing and scraping to my master, turns on me suddenly and rips the tunic from my body with one swift motion. He whistles and beckons to his assistants, who rush forward, untie my hands, turn me around, raise my arms above my head and fasten my wrists to a pair of iron manacles suspended from the top of a blood-stained whipping post.

For the next hour I am flogged mercilessly at the post, taking more than 30 lashes administered with a long leather whip. The flogging inflicts long angry red welts across my thighs, buttocks, belly, back and breasts. I twist and writhe, scream and curse, attracting in the process a sizable knot of onlookers who laugh at my discomfort and shout out unsolicited advice to my tormentors about where the next lash should be aimed.

When it is over, I am left hanging on naked display until my master’s return, a scrawled sign attached to the top of the whipping posts, reads “Barbaria, rebellious slave of Marcus Arvina”. As I hang there, I hear a commotion at the stall immediately across the way. I look up to witness a young, very thin female slave being nailed to an x-cross. I don’t know what she did to deserve such a punishment, but it is far more brutal and severe than my own.

Her master has chosen the most expensive of the merchants of punishment, a former legionary officer … old and grizzled … who employs off-duty soldiers to do his dirty work. Two of them are effortlessly lifting her lithe young body and pinning her spread-eagled to the x-cross while nails are driven through her narrow wrists and the instep of her feet just below the ankle. The sharp clanging sounds of hammer on iron reverberate off the walls, adding ringing punctuation to her lower pitched moans and howls. I watched transfixed as blood spurts and runs down her thin sinewy arms, and oozes from her smashed feet.

A second girl stands nearby, blonde and pretty, with an iron collar and chain affixed to her neck. They are together, because the second one calls out to the first, whose name is Jan. And from the x-cross the thin girl calls back, despondently to her friend, perhaps her lover, Janina … the terrible strain of her spread-eagled position is evident in the way one can see the outlines of her ribs and the flattened mounds of her small breasts, and hear the ragged, croaking sound of her voice.

But they are not finished with poor Jan yet. A burning coal pot is being placed between her legs and elevated so as to bring its searing flames close enough to sear the lips of her labia, which are spread by clamps attached to a small chain wrapped around her narrow hips. A very large crowd is assembling. This is what they hoped to see.

A second x-cross is being prepared next to Jan’s. Soldiers are dragging Janina, kicking and screaming to it, hoisting her into position and nailing her in place. They finish. Spread-eagled alongside her friend, she stares vacantly at me through teary blue eyes, stoically refusing to scream or react to her predicament. Next to her Jan screams her lungs out, and then falls silent. She has passed out.

The burning coal pot is transferred to between Janina’s spread thighs. I can smell the pungent odor of burning flesh. The crowd jeers and taunts. She can stand it no more. Her face contorts. She squirms, loses control, and screams even louder than her friend before she passes out.

The show is over; the crowd disperses. I am weary and hang my head. Hours pass. My master returns, inspects my wounds, and grunts his approval. More coins are exchanged. I am released from the manacles at the top of my post and slide to the ground. I am given something to drink, dragged to my feet and led away naked.

As I go, I steal one last look at the two lovers … Jan and Janina … across the way, still hanging side-by-side from their x-crosses, heads bowed, bloodied and still. Then I am gone.
 
Last edited:
Barbaria1 said:
View attachment 178136 Jan Crossed

A narrow passageway near the foot of the Aventine hill is the place in Rome where masters take their most recalcitrant slaves to have them publicly disciplined. Along the high brownish walls that narrowly enclose this notorious passageway, the merchants of punishment display the tools and implements of their trade … scourging posts, X-crosses, braziers filled with glowing coals, red hot irons, iron chains and shackles, and whips of all kinds. Crowds of curious citizens continually push and shuffle their way through this sordid area, hoping to witness first-hand the brutal punishments meted out each day to the poor unfortunates brought here by their masters.

My master brings me here at the break of dawn, intent on purchasing a just punishment for my brazen unwillingness to submit to the drunken desires of his male guests at last night’s dinner party. Not only did I resist the repulsive beast of a man who forced me to kneel and open my mouth for him, I bit him too. I brought shame on my master’s name and he is now determined to make a public show of me as a way of both restoring his besmirched honor and teaching me a lesson in servitude that I would not soon forget.

I am led to the passageway through the teeming streets of an awakening city, hands bound behind my back and wearing only a thin cloth tunic that comes down to about mid-thigh. At each stall along the length of the passage way, he stops to bargain with the owners, inspecting the various instruments of torture on display. I follow obediently and refrain from reacting each time he lifts my tunic to display my body to the merchants of punishment.

At last he makes his choice. Opening his purse, he counts out a number of coins, and leaves me in the hands of a short corpulent bald man who, after deferentially bowing and scraping to my master, turns on me suddenly and rips the tunic from my body with one swift motion. He whistles and beckons to his assistants, who rush forward, untie my hands, turn me around, raise my arms above my head and fasten my wrists to a pair of iron manacles suspended from the top of a blood-stained whipping post.

For the next hour I am flogged mercilessly at the post, taking more than 30 lashes administered with a long leather whip. The flogging inflicts long angry red welts across my thighs, buttocks, belly, back and breasts. I twist and writhe, scream and curse, attracting in the process a sizable knot of onlookers who laugh at my discomfort and shout out unsolicited advice to my tormentors about where the next lash should be aimed.

When it is over, I am left hanging on naked display until my master’s return, a scrawled sign attached to the top of the whipping posts, reads “Barbaria, rebellious slave of Marcus Arvina”. As I hang there, I hear a commotion at the stall immediately across the way. I look up to witness a young, very thin female slave being nailed to an x-cross. I don’t know what she did to deserve such a punishment, but it is far more brutal and severe than my own.

Her master has chosen the most expensive of the merchants of punishment, a former legionary officer … old and grizzled … who employs off-duty soldiers to do his dirty work. Two of them are effortlessly lifting her lithe young body and pinning her spread-eagled to the x-cross while nails are driven through her narrow wrists and the instep of her feet just below the ankle. The sharp clanging sounds of hammer on iron reverberate off the walls, adding ringing punctuation to her lower pitched moans and howls. I watched transfixed as blood spurts and runs down her thin sinewy arms, and oozes from her smashed feet.

A second girl stands nearby, blonde and pretty, with an iron collar and chain affixed to her neck. They are together, because the second one calls out to the first, whose name is Jan. And from the x-cross the thin girl calls back, despondently to her friend, perhaps her lover, Janina … the terrible strain of her spread-eagled position is evident in the way one can see the outlines of her ribs and the flattened mounds of her small breasts, and hear the ragged, croaking sound of her voice.

But they are not finished with poor Jan yet. A burning coal pot is being placed between her legs and elevated so as to bring its searing flames close enough to sear the lips of her labia, which are spread by clamps attached to a small chain wrapped around her narrow hips. A very large crowd is assembling. This is what they hoped to see.

A second x-cross is being prepared next to Jan’s. Soldiers are dragging Janina, kicking and screaming to it, hoisting her into position and nailing her in place. They finish. Spread-eagled alongside her friend, she stares vacantly at me through teary blue eyes, stoically refusing to scream or react to her predicament. Next to her Jan screams her lungs out, and then falls silent. She has passed out.

The burning coal pot is transferred to between Janina’s spread thighs. I can smell the pungent odor of burning flesh. The crowd jeers and taunts. She can stand it no more. Her face contorts. She squirms, loses control, and screams even louder than her friend before she passes out.

The show is over; the crowd disperses. I am weary and hang my head. Hours pass. My master returns, inspects my wounds, and grunts his approval. More coins are exchanged. I am released from the manacles at the top of my post and slide to the ground. I am given something to drink, dragged to my feet and led away naked.

As I go, I steal one last look at the two lovers … Jan and Janina … across the way, still hanging side-by-side from their x-crosses, heads bowed, bloodied and still. Then I am gone.
Click to expand...

The inside of Barb's brain :eek:

It contains a treasure trove of imagination, ain't we lucky to be able to peek inside now and again? :)

Marvellous stuff, Barb!

:goodjob:
 
Barbaria1 said:
View attachment 178136 Jan Crossed

A narrow passageway near the foot of the Aventine hill is the place in Rome where masters take their most recalcitrant slaves to have them publicly disciplined. Along the high brownish walls that narrowly enclose this notorious passageway, the merchants of punishment display the tools and implements of their trade … scourging posts, X-crosses, braziers filled with glowing coals, red hot irons, iron chains and shackles, and whips of all kinds. Crowds of curious citizens continually push and shuffle their way through this sordid area, hoping to witness first-hand the brutal punishments meted out each day to the poor unfortunates brought here by their masters.

My master brings me here at the break of dawn, intent on purchasing a just punishment for my brazen unwillingness to submit to the drunken desires of his male guests at last night’s dinner party. Not only did I resist the repulsive beast of a man who forced me to kneel and open my mouth for him, I bit him too. I brought shame on my master’s name and he is now determined to make a public show of me as a way of both restoring his besmirched honor and teaching me a lesson in servitude that I would not soon forget.

I am led to the passageway through the teeming streets of an awakening city, hands bound behind my back and wearing only a thin cloth tunic that comes down to about mid-thigh. At each stall along the length of the passage way, he stops to bargain with the owners, inspecting the various instruments of torture on display. I follow obediently and refrain from reacting each time he lifts my tunic to display my body to the merchants of punishment.

At last he makes his choice. Opening his purse, he counts out a number of coins, and leaves me in the hands of a short corpulent bald man who, after deferentially bowing and scraping to my master, turns on me suddenly and rips the tunic from my body with one swift motion. He whistles and beckons to his assistants, who rush forward, untie my hands, turn me around, raise my arms above my head and fasten my wrists to a pair of iron manacles suspended from the top of a blood-stained whipping post.

For the next hour I am flogged mercilessly at the post, taking more than 30 lashes administered with a long leather whip. The flogging inflicts long angry red welts across my thighs, buttocks, belly, back and breasts. I twist and writhe, scream and curse, attracting in the process a sizable knot of onlookers who laugh at my discomfort and shout out unsolicited advice to my tormentors about where the next lash should be aimed.

When it is over, I am left hanging on naked display until my master’s return, a scrawled sign attached to the top of the whipping posts, reads “Barbaria, rebellious slave of Marcus Arvina”. As I hang there, I hear a commotion at the stall immediately across the way. I look up to witness a young, very thin female slave being nailed to an x-cross. I don’t know what she did to deserve such a punishment, but it is far more brutal and severe than my own.

Her master has chosen the most expensive of the merchants of punishment, a former legionary officer … old and grizzled … who employs off-duty soldiers to do his dirty work. Two of them are effortlessly lifting her lithe young body and pinning her spread-eagled to the x-cross while nails are driven through her narrow wrists and the instep of her feet just below the ankle. The sharp clanging sounds of hammer on iron reverberate off the walls, adding ringing punctuation to her lower pitched moans and howls. I watched transfixed as blood spurts and runs down her thin sinewy arms, and oozes from her smashed feet.

A second girl stands nearby, blonde and pretty, with an iron collar and chain affixed to her neck. They are together, because the second one calls out to the first, whose name is Jan. And from the x-cross the thin girl calls back, despondently to her friend, perhaps her lover, Janina … the terrible strain of her spread-eagled position is evident in the way one can see the outlines of her ribs and the flattened mounds of her small breasts, and hear the ragged, croaking sound of her voice.

But they are not finished with poor Jan yet. A burning coal pot is being placed between her legs and elevated so as to bring its searing flames close enough to sear the lips of her labia, which are spread by clamps attached to a small chain wrapped around her narrow hips. A very large crowd is assembling. This is what they hoped to see.

A second x-cross is being prepared next to Jan’s. Soldiers are dragging Janina, kicking and screaming to it, hoisting her into position and nailing her in place. They finish. Spread-eagled alongside her friend, she stares vacantly at me through teary blue eyes, stoically refusing to scream or react to her predicament. Next to her Jan screams her lungs out, and then falls silent. She has passed out.

The burning coal pot is transferred to between Janina’s spread thighs. I can smell the pungent odor of burning flesh. The crowd jeers and taunts. She can stand it no more. Her face contorts. She squirms, loses control, and screams even louder than her friend before she passes out.

The show is over; the crowd disperses. I am weary and hang my head. Hours pass. My master returns, inspects my wounds, and grunts his approval. More coins are exchanged. I am released from the manacles at the top of my post and slide to the ground. I am given something to drink, dragged to my feet and led away naked.

As I go, I steal one last look at the two lovers … Jan and Janina … across the way, still hanging side-by-side from their x-crosses, heads bowed, bloodied and still. Then I am gone.
Click to expand...
Next Story in the Book. Expressive!
 
Wragg134 said:
The inside of Barb's brain :eek:

It contains a treasure trove of imagination, ain't we lucky to be able to peek inside now and again? :)

Marvellous stuff, Barb!

:goodjob:
Click to expand...

Ahhh...he likes my brain, not just my body :p

nude-and-chained-dungeon-prisored.jpg Ow, ow, not another night in the dungeon...what did I say?

flower3Seriously, thanks so much for the kind words Wragg!
 
Barb you are a lot smarter then you think. your stories, poems etc are great. i enjoy reading what you write. you are both beautiful an brilliant. do not sell yourself short. there are many ladies on this site that have the same talent an all of you are special in your own way. be proud of who you are!!!
 
rb1956 said:
Barb you are a lot smarter then you think. your stories, poems etc are great. i enjoy reading what you write. you are both beautiful an brilliant. do not sell yourself short. there are many ladies on this site that have the same talent an all of you are special in your own way. be proud of who you are!!!
Click to expand...

Thank you so much rb for the kind words, on behalf of myself, and all the others, men and women, who contribute so much to this site!!
 
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