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melissa said:
Don't let us stop you!!....it need not be of War and Peace proportions.
Click to expand...

condemned to hanging.jpg It’s nearly dawn. They dragged me from my cell over an hour ago, stripped me naked, taunted and ridiculed me, and marched me out to the gallows. I now stand with the middle of three nooses, each on its own gibbet, tightened around my neck. They are affixing a crudely scrawled sign to the gibbet above me that reads: "Barbara Moore ... thief".

Three young women … villagers accused of thievery, caught stealing from the granary belonging to the Master of Cruxton Abbey … will die here today. The Master insists they die as an example. All pleas for mercy fell on deaf ears. He cares not that the villagers are hungry while he has plenty.

The noose to my right is already occupied; the one to my left sways gently in the morning breeze, still awaiting its unfortunate victim.

I admire the courage of the girl on my right. She stands so straight and tall on her stool … no tears, or sobs … she just looks straight ahead. I also admire her body as she stands their so stiffly … the gentle uplift of her breasts, the lines of her ribs, the slight swell of her tummy and the way it slopes down to the soft flesh of her delicately clefted mound.

They have just brought out the third prisoner. She will soon be mounting the steps and taking her place on my left. She seems both frightened by the thought of her impending doom on the scaffold and embarrassed by her nakedness. She awkwardly covers her breasts with her arm and her sex with an open hand, and has a look of foreboding in her dark eyes.

My last night was a fitful one, knowing I was condemned to die on the scaffold at first light made me too sick with worry and terror to get any rest. They offered me a bite to eat at first light, but I refused. I knew I wouldn’t be able to keep it down, and I also wanted to avoid the embarrassment of losing control of myself when the stool is kicked from under me and I begin my last dance.

The gates are open now and the crowds are pushing their way into the viewing area in front of the scaffolding. The third girl mounts the steps, shoved and pushed along by her handlers. She is hoisted onto her stool, told to stand straight. The noose is slipped over her head and tightened by her left ear. She begins to cry.

I look away from her and focus on the crowd. For them this is a show. They are here to see the three of us dance and writhe nakedly at the ends of our ropes. There is much excitement, pointing, lewd catcalls, whistles and laughing.

I close my eyes rather than watch them anymore. Oh, why don’t they give us a hood or blindfold? Save us from the humiliation of witnessing the delight of the crowd seeing us on naked display like this.

It’s time. The executioner mounts the scaffolding. He reads aloud our death warrants before the raucous crowd. Three men take their positions behind us, ready to kick our stools away on command.

I gulp, close my eyes … any second now…. Oh my God…. the stool flies from beneath my feet …Oh my God…. gahhhhhhhhhhhhhher ….gggggggggg… .it hurts so much …. I can’t breathe ……. umhl….gggggggg…gahahhaha…yechhhhhh……..gasp………gurgle…. ….. ….. …. ….. ……
 
Barbaria1 said:
View attachment 174132 It’s nearly dawn. They dragged me from my cell over an hour ago, stripped me naked, taunted and ridiculed me, and marched me out to the gallows. I now stand with the middle of three nooses, each on its own gibbet, tightened around my neck. They are affixing a crudely scrawled sign to the gibbet above me that reads: "Barbara Moore ... thief".

Three young women … villagers accused of thievery, caught stealing from the granary belonging to the Master of Cruxton Abbey … will die here today. The Master insists they die as an example. All pleas for mercy fell on deaf ears. He cares not that the villagers are hungry while he has plenty.

The noose to my right is already occupied; the one to my left sways gently in the morning breeze, still awaiting its unfortunate victim.

I admire the courage of the girl on my right. She stands so straight and tall on her stool … no tears, or sobs … she just looks straight ahead. I also admire her body as she stands their so stiffly … the gentle uplift of her breasts, the lines of her ribs, the slight swell of her tummy and the way it slopes down to the soft flesh of her delicately clefted mound.

They have just brought out the third prisoner. She will soon be mounting the steps and taking her place on my left. She seems both frightened by the thought of her impending doom on the scaffold and embarrassed by her nakedness. She awkwardly covers her breasts with her arm and her sex with an open hand, and has a look of foreboding in her dark eyes.

My last night was a fitful one, knowing I was condemned to die on the scaffold at first light made me too sick with worry and terror to get any rest. They offered me a bite to eat at first light, but I refused. I knew I wouldn’t be able to keep it down, and I also wanted to avoid the embarrassment of losing control of myself when the stool is kicked from under me and I begin my last dance.

The gates are open now and the crowds are pushing their way into the viewing area in front of the scaffolding. The third girl mounts the steps, shoved and pushed along by her handlers. She is hoisted onto her stool, told to stand straight. The noose is slipped over her head and tightened by her left ear. She begins to cry.

I look away from her and focus on the crowd. For them this is a show. They are here to see the three of us dance and writhe nakedly at the ends of our ropes. There is much excitement, pointing, lewd catcalls, whistles and laughing.

I close my eyes rather than watch them anymore. Oh, why don’t they give us a hood or blindfold? Save us from the humiliation of witnessing the delight of the crowd seeing us on naked display like this.

It’s time. The executioner mounts the scaffolding. He reads aloud our death warrants before the raucous crowd. Three men take their positions behind us, ready to kick our stools away on command.

I gulp, close my eyes … any second now…. Oh my God…. the stool flies from beneath my feet …Oh my God…. gahhhhhhhhhhhhhher ….gggggggggg… .it hurts so much …. I can’t breathe ……. umhl….gggggggg…gahahhaha…yechhhhhh……..gasp………gurgle…. ….. ….. …. ….. ……
Click to expand...


The Wragg's of Cruxton have much to answer for. You have no idea what a burden it is to have one's family history littered with such thoroughgoing bastards.....

Sniff...sniff....grizzle.

What's that, Barb? "Gark!" Is that all you have to say? All my woes and you're letting a little bit of rope round your neck stop you from expressing due sympathy?

Honestly. Women.

:doh:

thehangingtree said:
well done, Barbaria...

Tree
Click to expand...

And the man with the hat was right on the money

:goodjob:
 
Barbaria1 said:
View attachment 174132 It’s nearly dawn. They dragged me from my cell over an hour ago, stripped me naked, taunted and ridiculed me, and marched me out to the gallows. I now stand with the middle of three nooses, each on its own gibbet, tightened around my neck. They are affixing a crudely scrawled sign to the gibbet above me that reads: "Barbara Moore ... thief".

Three young women … villagers accused of thievery, caught stealing from the granary belonging to the Master of Cruxton Abbey … will die here today. The Master insists they die as an example. All pleas for mercy fell on deaf ears. He cares not that the villagers are hungry while he has plenty.

The noose to my right is already occupied; the one to my left sways gently in the morning breeze, still awaiting its unfortunate victim.

I admire the courage of the girl on my right. She stands so straight and tall on her stool … no tears, or sobs … she just looks straight ahead. I also admire her body as she stands their so stiffly … the gentle uplift of her breasts, the lines of her ribs, the slight swell of her tummy and the way it slopes down to the soft flesh of her delicately clefted mound.

They have just brought out the third prisoner. She will soon be mounting the steps and taking her place on my left. She seems both frightened by the thought of her impending doom on the scaffold and embarrassed by her nakedness. She awkwardly covers her breasts with her arm and her sex with an open hand, and has a look of foreboding in her dark eyes.

My last night was a fitful one, knowing I was condemned to die on the scaffold at first light made me too sick with worry and terror to get any rest. They offered me a bite to eat at first light, but I refused. I knew I wouldn’t be able to keep it down, and I also wanted to avoid the embarrassment of losing control of myself when the stool is kicked from under me and I begin my last dance.

The gates are open now and the crowds are pushing their way into the viewing area in front of the scaffolding. The third girl mounts the steps, shoved and pushed along by her handlers. She is hoisted onto her stool, told to stand straight. The noose is slipped over her head and tightened by her left ear. She begins to cry.

I look away from her and focus on the crowd. For them this is a show. They are here to see the three of us dance and writhe nakedly at the ends of our ropes. There is much excitement, pointing, lewd catcalls, whistles and laughing.

I close my eyes rather than watch them anymore. Oh, why don’t they give us a hood or blindfold? Save us from the humiliation of witnessing the delight of the crowd seeing us on naked display like this.

It’s time. The executioner mounts the scaffolding. He reads aloud our death warrants before the raucous crowd. Three men take their positions behind us, ready to kick our stools away on command.

I gulp, close my eyes … any second now…. Oh my God…. the stool flies from beneath my feet …Oh my God…. gahhhhhhhhhhhhhher ….gggggggggg… .it hurts so much …. I can’t breathe ……. umhl….gggggggg…gahahhaha…yechhhhhh……..gasp………gurgle…. ….. ….. …. ….. ……
Click to expand...
great job Barb
 
Barbaria1 said:
View attachment 174132 It’s nearly dawn. They dragged me from my cell over an hour ago, stripped me naked, taunted and ridiculed me, and marched me out to the gallows. I now stand with the middle of three nooses, each on its own gibbet, tightened around my neck. They are affixing a crudely scrawled sign to the gibbet above me that reads: "Barbara Moore ... thief".

Three young women … villagers accused of thievery, caught stealing from the granary belonging to the Master of Cruxton Abbey … will die here today. The Master insists they die as an example. All pleas for mercy fell on deaf ears. He cares not that the villagers are hungry while he has plenty.

The noose to my right is already occupied; the one to my left sways gently in the morning breeze, still awaiting its unfortunate victim.

I admire the courage of the girl on my right. She stands so straight and tall on her stool … no tears, or sobs … she just looks straight ahead. I also admire her body as she stands their so stiffly … the gentle uplift of her breasts, the lines of her ribs, the slight swell of her tummy and the way it slopes down to the soft flesh of her delicately clefted mound.

They have just brought out the third prisoner. She will soon be mounting the steps and taking her place on my left. She seems both frightened by the thought of her impending doom on the scaffold and embarrassed by her nakedness. She awkwardly covers her breasts with her arm and her sex with an open hand, and has a look of foreboding in her dark eyes.

My last night was a fitful one, knowing I was condemned to die on the scaffold at first light made me too sick with worry and terror to get any rest. They offered me a bite to eat at first light, but I refused. I knew I wouldn’t be able to keep it down, and I also wanted to avoid the embarrassment of losing control of myself when the stool is kicked from under me and I begin my last dance.

The gates are open now and the crowds are pushing their way into the viewing area in front of the scaffolding. The third girl mounts the steps, shoved and pushed along by her handlers. She is hoisted onto her stool, told to stand straight. The noose is slipped over her head and tightened by her left ear. She begins to cry.

I look away from her and focus on the crowd. For them this is a show. They are here to see the three of us dance and writhe nakedly at the ends of our ropes. There is much excitement, pointing, lewd catcalls, whistles and laughing.

I close my eyes rather than watch them anymore. Oh, why don’t they give us a hood or blindfold? Save us from the humiliation of witnessing the delight of the crowd seeing us on naked display like this.

It’s time. The executioner mounts the scaffolding. He reads aloud our death warrants before the raucous crowd. Three men take their positions behind us, ready to kick our stools away on command.

I gulp, close my eyes … any second now…. Oh my God…. the stool flies from beneath my feet …Oh my God…. gahhhhhhhhhhhhhher ….gggggggggg… .it hurts so much …. I can’t breathe ……. umhl….gggggggg…gahahhaha…yechhhhhh……..gasp………gurgle…. ….. ….. …. ….. ……
Click to expand...
Very nice, Barb! As far as I understand it.
 
E
Barbaria1 said:
View attachment 174132 It’s nearly dawn. They dragged me from my cell over an hour ago, stripped me naked, taunted and ridiculed me, and marched me out to the gallows. I now stand with the middle of three nooses, each on its own gibbet, tightened around my neck. They are affixing a crudely scrawled sign to the gibbet above me that reads: "Barbara Moore ... thief".

Three young women … villagers accused of thievery, caught stealing from the granary belonging to the Master of Cruxton Abbey … will die here today. The Master insists they die as an example. All pleas for mercy fell on deaf ears. He cares not that the villagers are hungry while he has plenty.

The noose to my right is already occupied; the one to my left sways gently in the morning breeze, still awaiting its unfortunate victim.

I admire the courage of the girl on my right. She stands so straight and tall on her stool … no tears, or sobs … she just looks straight ahead. I also admire her body as she stands their so stiffly … the gentle uplift of her breasts, the lines of her ribs, the slight swell of her tummy and the way it slopes down to the soft flesh of her delicately clefted mound.

They have just brought out the third prisoner. She will soon be mounting the steps and taking her place on my left. She seems both frightened by the thought of her impending doom on the scaffold and embarrassed by her nakedness. She awkwardly covers her breasts with her arm and her sex with an open hand, and has a look of foreboding in her dark eyes.

My last night was a fitful one, knowing I was condemned to die on the scaffold at first light made me too sick with worry and terror to get any rest. They offered me a bite to eat at first light, but I refused. I knew I wouldn’t be able to keep it down, and I also wanted to avoid the embarrassment of losing control of myself when the stool is kicked from under me and I begin my last dance.

The gates are open now and the crowds are pushing their way into the viewing area in front of the scaffolding. The third girl mounts the steps, shoved and pushed along by her handlers. She is hoisted onto her stool, told to stand straight. The noose is slipped over her head and tightened by her left ear. She begins to cry.

I look away from her and focus on the crowd. For them this is a show. They are here to see the three of us dance and writhe nakedly at the ends of our ropes. There is much excitement, pointing, lewd catcalls, whistles and laughing.

I close my eyes rather than watch them anymore. Oh, why don’t they give us a hood or blindfold? Save us from the humiliation of witnessing the delight of the crowd seeing us on naked display like this.

It’s time. The executioner mounts the scaffolding. He reads aloud our death warrants before the raucous crowd. Three men take their positions behind us, ready to kick our stools away on command.

I gulp, close my eyes … any second now…. Oh my God…. the stool flies from beneath my feet …Oh my God…. gahhhhhhhhhhhhhher ….gggggggggg… .it hurts so much …. I can’t breathe ……. umhl….gggggggg…gahahhaha…yechhhhhh……..gasp………gurgle…. ….. ….. …. ….. ……
Click to expand...
Excellent!..I hope the next story is up to this standard.
 
melissa said:
Don't let us stop you!!....it need not be of War and Peace proportions.
Click to expand...

Helping hands.jpg It’s late in the day. The people of this provincial Roman border capital have been enjoying a full day of celebratory entertainments following the crushing defeat of a quarrelsome neighboring barbarian host that dared to defy the power of the Empire.

The arena’s canvass overhead awnings have been raised to shelter the crowds from the late afternoon sun. Shadowy light filters down to illuminate the sweat covered bodies of the many suffering forms hanging from the rows of crosses aligned across the earthen arena floor.

For nearly 8 hours now the captive women of the vanquished barbarian foe have been crucified by the dozens to the delight of the shouting masses who fill the stands. One by one the victims are led naked into the arena, scourged mercilessly at whipping posts set around the perimeter, nailed or bound to waiting crosses and then raised to dance and writhe, tormented by irons and fire, until exhaustion and death overtake them. Those who expire are quickly taken down and replaced by others. The cruel entertainment is non-stop, the supply of naked maidens waiting in the wings seemingly inexhaustible.

My name is Barbaria. I have been hanging on my cross now for nearly four hours. My arms ache from the unnatural strain of having been pulled back, wrapped around and bound at the wrists behind my patibulum. The soldiers have also bound my ankles tightly together and tied them loosely to the stipe, thus making it impossible for me to push myself up to relieve my discomfort. Too weak now to struggle any longer, I simply hang in place.

My head lolls forward, the ends of my dark braided hair splaying across my sweat-sheened shoulders and chest. I look down through teary eyes on my poor battered body, my soft smooth skin marred with blood-flecked crisscrossed marks left by the whipping they administered to my breasts, tummy and thighs. I wince at the stinging pain coming from my damaged right nipple, so viciously sliced by a well-placed whip stroke, and feel shame as I lose all self-control and a hot stream of urine runs down my bare legs. The crowd roars in laughter at the sight.

To my right a full-breasted young woman, nailed to her cross but an hour ago, grunts and moans as she vainly struggles to raise herself … pulling with her arms, pushing with her legs, arching her back and swinging her torso from side to side in an endless dance that can only end in exhaustion and death. It’s hopeless, yet she keeps trying, muttering to herself incoherently, and casting defiant looks in the direction of the crowd as they cheer her on with loud hoots, taunts and applause.

The poor thing on my left died a short time ago. They have already pulled her down, recovered the nails that pinned her to her cross, and are dragging her corpse across the arena floor to be thrown on a growing heap of dead victims.

Her cross is on the ground already, and a new girl … thin and small-chested, with golden blonde hair and bearing the marks of a brutal scourging … is being laid back onto the hard rough surface of the stipe with the helping hands of two soldiers. She looks down with resignation, eyes closed, her sweaty skin covered with grit from being dragged along the arena floor to her waiting cross.

Another soldier stands ready, holding in his fist the three blunt-pointed spikes soon to be driven through the tender flesh and shattered bones of her hands and feet and deep into the blood stained cellulose fibers of the waiting cross.

I shift my body as best I can, grimacing with pain as the torn and bloody flesh of my back scrapes against the rough surface of the stipe. Below me the young blonde screams shrilly, plants her heels in the ground, arches her back and throws here weight to one side as a pair of nails simultaneously penetrate her delicate narrow wrists. The ringing sound of hammers on iron blends with and is punctuated by her hysterical cries and pitiful sobs. A bloodthirsty crowd roars its approval, chanting “raise her, raise her”.

I don’t know how much longer I can last. The pain is unbearable. I drift in and out of consciousness, my breathing has become ragged and shallow, my head aches and my vision blurs. A soldier with a heated iron attempts to keep me awake by thrusting its glowing tip between my thighs, and I squeal in pain and buck my hips as the searing heat is applied to my loins.

This goes on and on until I just become too weak to care. I pass out, recover and half open one eye. A soldier looks up, points at me, turns toward the nearest scourging post and signals for another girl.

Moments later, I am gone.
 
Last edited:
Barbaria1 said:
View attachment 174902 It’s late in the day. The people of this provincial Roman border capital have been enjoying a full day of celebratory entertainments following the crushing defeat of a quarrelsome neighboring barbarian host that dared to defy the power of the Empire.

The arena’s canvass overhead awnings have been raised to shelter the crowds from the late afternoon sun. Shadowy light filters down to illuminate the sweat covered bodies of the many suffering forms hanging from the rows of crosses aligned across the earthen arena floor.

For nearly 8 hours now the captive women of the vanquished barbarian foe have been crucified by the dozens to the delight of the shouting masses who fill the stands. One by one the victims are led naked into the arena, scourged mercilessly at whipping posts set around the perimeter, nailed or bound to waiting crosses and then raised to dance and writhe, tormented by irons and fire, until exhaustion and death overtake them. Those who expire are quickly taken down and replaced by others. The cruel entertainment is non-stop, the supply of naked maidens waiting in the wings seemingly inexhaustible.

My name is Barbaria. I have been hanging on my cross now for nearly four hours. My arms ache from the unnatural strain of having been pulled back, wrapped around and bound at the wrists behind my patibulum. The soldiers have also bound my ankles tightly together and tied them loosely to the stipe, thus making it impossible for me to push myself up to relieve my discomfort. Too weak now to struggle any longer, I simply hang in place.

My head lolls forward, the ends of my dark braided hair splaying across my sweat-sheened shoulders and chest. I look down through teary eyes on my poor battered body, my soft smooth skin marred with blood-flecked crisscrossed marks left by the whipping they administered to my breasts, tummy and thighs. I wince at the stinging pain coming from my damaged right nipple, so viciously sliced by a well-placed whip stroke, and feel shame as I lose all self-control and a hot stream of urine runs down my bare legs. The crowd roars in laughter at the sight.

To my right a full-breasted young woman, nailed to her cross but an hour ago, grunts and moans as she vainly struggles to raise herself … pulling with her arms, pushing with her legs, arching her back and swinging her torso from side to side in an endless dance that can only end in exhaustion and death. It’s hopeless, yet she keeps trying, muttering to herself incoherently, and casting defiant looks in the direction of the crowd as they cheer her on with loud hoots, taunts and applause.

The poor thing on my left died a short time ago. They have already pulled her down, recovered the nails that pinned her to her cross, and are dragging her corpse across the arena floor to be thrown on a growing heap of dead victims.

Her cross is on the ground already, and a new girl … thin and small-chested, with golden blonde hair and bearing the marks of a brutal scourging … is being laid back onto the hard rough surface of the stipe with the helping hands of two soldiers. She looks down with resignation, eyes closed, her sweaty skin covered with grit from being dragged along the arena floor to her waiting cross.

Another soldier stands ready, holding in his fist the three blunt-pointed spikes soon to be driven through the tender flesh and shattered bones of her hands and feet and deep into the blood stained cellulose fibers of the waiting cross.

I shift my body as best I can, grimacing with pain as the torn and bloody flesh of my back scrapes against the rough surface of the stipe. Below me the young blonde screams shrilly, plants her heels in the ground, arches her back and throws here weight to one side as a pair of nails simultaneously penetrate her delicate narrow wrists. The ringing sound of hammers on iron blends with and is punctuated by her hysterical cries and pitiful sobs. A bloodthirsty crowd roars its approval, chanting “raise her, raise her”.

I don’t know how much longer I can last. The pain is unbearable. I drift in and out of consciousness, my breathing has become ragged and shallow, my head aches and my vision blurs. A soldier with a heated iron attempts to keep me awake by thrusting its glowing tip between my thighs, and I squeal in pain and buck my hips as the searing heat is applied to my loins.

This goes on and on until I just become too weak to care. I pass out, recover and half open one eye. A soldier looks up, points at me, turns toward the nearest scourging post and signals for another girl.

Moments later, I am gone.
Click to expand...
:clapping: very impressive!
 
Barbaria1 said:
View attachment 174132 It’s nearly dawn. They dragged me from my cell over an hour ago, stripped me naked, taunted and ridiculed me, and marched me out to the gallows. I now stand with the middle of three nooses, each on its own gibbet, tightened around my neck. They are affixing a crudely scrawled sign to the gibbet above me that reads: "Barbara Moore ... thief".

Three young women … villagers accused of thievery, caught stealing from the granary belonging to the Master of Cruxton Abbey … will die here today. The Master insists they die as an example. All pleas for mercy fell on deaf ears. He cares not that the villagers are hungry while he has plenty.

The noose to my right is already occupied; the one to my left sways gently in the morning breeze, still awaiting its unfortunate victim.

I admire the courage of the girl on my right. She stands so straight and tall on her stool … no tears, or sobs … she just looks straight ahead. I also admire her body as she stands their so stiffly … the gentle uplift of her breasts, the lines of her ribs, the slight swell of her tummy and the way it slopes down to the soft flesh of her delicately clefted mound.

They have just brought out the third prisoner. She will soon be mounting the steps and taking her place on my left. She seems both frightened by the thought of her impending doom on the scaffold and embarrassed by her nakedness. She awkwardly covers her breasts with her arm and her sex with an open hand, and has a look of foreboding in her dark eyes.

My last night was a fitful one, knowing I was condemned to die on the scaffold at first light made me too sick with worry and terror to get any rest. They offered me a bite to eat at first light, but I refused. I knew I wouldn’t be able to keep it down, and I also wanted to avoid the embarrassment of losing control of myself when the stool is kicked from under me and I begin my last dance.

The gates are open now and the crowds are pushing their way into the viewing area in front of the scaffolding. The third girl mounts the steps, shoved and pushed along by her handlers. She is hoisted onto her stool, told to stand straight. The noose is slipped over her head and tightened by her left ear. She begins to cry.

I look away from her and focus on the crowd. For them this is a show. They are here to see the three of us dance and writhe nakedly at the ends of our ropes. There is much excitement, pointing, lewd catcalls, whistles and laughing.

I close my eyes rather than watch them anymore. Oh, why don’t they give us a hood or blindfold? Save us from the humiliation of witnessing the delight of the crowd seeing us on naked display like this.

It’s time. The executioner mounts the scaffolding. He reads aloud our death warrants before the raucous crowd. Three men take their positions behind us, ready to kick our stools away on command.

I gulp, close my eyes … any second now…. Oh my God…. the stool flies from beneath my feet …Oh my God…. gahhhhhhhhhhhhhher ….gggggggggg… .it hurts so much …. I can’t breathe ……. umhl….gggggggg…gahahhaha…yechhhhhh……..gasp………gurgle…. ….. ….. …. ….. ……
Click to expand...

It is a very beautiful and useful division of labor. Thus, the own share gains in value and in the end comes something impressive out.
I understand English now a little better but still far from good.
Melissa, Barbaria, Eulalia and M = Good team. Give me five!
:goodjob:
 
madiosi said:
It is a very beautiful and useful division of labor. Thus, the own share gains in value and in the end comes something impressive out.
I understand English now a little better but still far from good.
Good team. Give me five!
:goodjob:
Click to expand...

hV6sahV.jpg clever way to get a girl to uncover....:p
 
Barbaria1 said:
View attachment 174902 It’s late in the day. The people of this provincial Roman border capital have been enjoying a full day of celebratory entertainments following the crushing defeat of a quarrelsome neighboring barbarian host that dared to defy the power of the Empire.

The arena’s canvass overhead awnings have been raised to shelter the crowds from the late afternoon sun. Shadowy light filters down to illuminate the sweat covered bodies of the many suffering forms hanging from the rows of crosses aligned across the earthen arena floor.

For nearly 8 hours now the captive women of the vanquished barbarian foe have been crucified by the dozens to the delight of the shouting masses who fill the stands. One by one the victims are led naked into the arena, scourged mercilessly at whipping posts set around the perimeter, nailed or bound to waiting crosses and then raised to dance and writhe, tormented by irons and fire, until exhaustion and death overtake them. Those who expire are quickly taken down and replaced by others. The cruel entertainment is non-stop, the supply of naked maidens waiting in the wings seemingly inexhaustible.

My name is Barbaria. I have been hanging on my cross now for nearly four hours. My arms ache from the unnatural strain of having been pulled back, wrapped around and bound at the wrists behind my patibulum. The soldiers have also bound my ankles tightly together and tied them loosely to the stipe, thus making it impossible for me to push myself up to relieve my discomfort. Too weak now to struggle any longer, I simply hang in place.

My head lolls forward, the ends of my dark braided hair splaying across my sweat-sheened shoulders and chest. I look down through teary eyes on my poor battered body, my soft smooth skin marred with blood-flecked crisscrossed marks left by the whipping they administered to my breasts, tummy and thighs. I wince at the stinging pain coming from my damaged right nipple, so viciously sliced by a well-placed whip stroke, and feel shame as I lose all self-control and a hot stream of urine runs down my bare legs. The crowd roars in laughter at the sight.

To my right a full-breasted young woman, nailed to her cross but an hour ago, grunts and moans as she vainly struggles to raise herself … pulling with her arms, pushing with her legs, arching her back and swinging her torso from side to side in an endless dance that can only end in exhaustion and death. It’s hopeless, yet she keeps trying, muttering to herself incoherently, and casting defiant looks in the direction of the crowd as they cheer her on with loud hoots, taunts and applause.

The poor thing on my left died a short time ago. They have already pulled her down, recovered the nails that pinned her to her cross, and are dragging her corpse across the arena floor to be thrown on a growing heap of dead victims.

Her cross is on the ground already, and a new girl … thin and small-chested, with golden blonde hair and bearing the marks of a brutal scourging … is being laid back onto the hard rough surface of the stipe with the helping hands of two soldiers. She looks down with resignation, eyes closed, her sweaty skin covered with grit from being dragged along the arena floor to her waiting cross.

Another soldier stands ready, holding in his fist the three blunt-pointed spikes soon to be driven through the tender flesh and shattered bones of her hands and feet and deep into the blood stained cellulose fibers of the waiting cross.

I shift my body as best I can, grimacing with pain as the torn and bloody flesh of my back scrapes against the rough surface of the stipe. Below me the young blonde screams shrilly, plants her heels in the ground, arches her back and throws here weight to one side as a pair of nails simultaneously penetrate her delicate narrow wrists. The ringing sound of hammers on iron blends with and is punctuated by her hysterical cries and pitiful sobs. A bloodthirsty crowd roars its approval, chanting “raise her, raise her”.

I don’t know how much longer I can last. The pain is unbearable. I drift in and out of consciousness, my breathing has become ragged and shallow, my head aches and my vision blurs. A soldier with a heated iron attempts to keep me awake by thrusting its glowing tip between my thighs, and I squeal in pain and buck my hips as the searing heat is applied to my loins.

This goes on and on until I just become too weak to care. I pass out, recover and half open one eye. A soldier looks up, points at me, turns toward the nearest scourging post and signals for another girl.

Moments later, I am gone.
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beautiful an yet so vivid.
 
Barbaria1 said:
View attachment 174902 It’s late in the day. The people of this provincial Roman border capital have been enjoying a full day of celebratory entertainments following the crushing defeat of a quarrelsome neighboring barbarian host that dared to defy the power of the Empire.

The arena’s canvass overhead awnings have been raised to shelter the crowds from the late afternoon sun. Shadowy light filters down to illuminate the sweat covered bodies of the many suffering forms hanging from the rows of crosses aligned across the earthen arena floor.

For nearly 8 hours now the captive women of the vanquished barbarian foe have been crucified by the dozens to the delight of the shouting masses who fill the stands. One by one the victims are led naked into the arena, scourged mercilessly at whipping posts set around the perimeter, nailed or bound to waiting crosses and then raised to dance and writhe, tormented by irons and fire, until exhaustion and death overtake them. Those who expire are quickly taken down and replaced by others. The cruel entertainment is non-stop, the supply of naked maidens waiting in the wings seemingly inexhaustible.

My name is Barbaria. I have been hanging on my cross now for nearly four hours. My arms ache from the unnatural strain of having been pulled back, wrapped around and bound at the wrists behind my patibulum. The soldiers have also bound my ankles tightly together and tied them loosely to the stipe, thus making it impossible for me to push myself up to relieve my discomfort. Too weak now to struggle any longer, I simply hang in place.

My head lolls forward, the ends of my dark braided hair splaying across my sweat-sheened shoulders and chest. I look down through teary eyes on my poor battered body, my soft smooth skin marred with blood-flecked crisscrossed marks left by the whipping they administered to my breasts, tummy and thighs. I wince at the stinging pain coming from my damaged right nipple, so viciously sliced by a well-placed whip stroke, and feel shame as I lose all self-control and a hot stream of urine runs down my bare legs. The crowd roars in laughter at the sight.

To my right a full-breasted young woman, nailed to her cross but an hour ago, grunts and moans as she vainly struggles to raise herself … pulling with her arms, pushing with her legs, arching her back and swinging her torso from side to side in an endless dance that can only end in exhaustion and death. It’s hopeless, yet she keeps trying, muttering to herself incoherently, and casting defiant looks in the direction of the crowd as they cheer her on with loud hoots, taunts and applause.

The poor thing on my left died a short time ago. They have already pulled her down, recovered the nails that pinned her to her cross, and are dragging her corpse across the arena floor to be thrown on a growing heap of dead victims.

Her cross is on the ground already, and a new girl … thin and small-chested, with golden blonde hair and bearing the marks of a brutal scourging … is being laid back onto the hard rough surface of the stipe with the helping hands of two soldiers. She looks down with resignation, eyes closed, her sweaty skin covered with grit from being dragged along the arena floor to her waiting cross.

Another soldier stands ready, holding in his fist the three blunt-pointed spikes soon to be driven through the tender flesh and shattered bones of her hands and feet and deep into the blood stained cellulose fibers of the waiting cross.

I shift my body as best I can, grimacing with pain as the torn and bloody flesh of my back scrapes against the rough surface of the stipe. Below me the young blonde screams shrilly, plants her heels in the ground, arches her back and throws here weight to one side as a pair of nails simultaneously penetrate her delicate narrow wrists. The ringing sound of hammers on iron blends with and is punctuated by her hysterical cries and pitiful sobs. A bloodthirsty crowd roars its approval, chanting “raise her, raise her”.

I don’t know how much longer I can last. The pain is unbearable. I drift in and out of consciousness, my breathing has become ragged and shallow, my head aches and my vision blurs. A soldier with a heated iron attempts to keep me awake by thrusting its glowing tip between my thighs, and I squeal in pain and buck my hips as the searing heat is applied to my loins.

This goes on and on until I just become too weak to care. I pass out, recover and half open one eye. A soldier looks up, points at me, turns toward the nearest scourging post and signals for another girl.

Moments later, I am gone.
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Wow!!!!!!!!!!......another brilliant short story!!!...thanks!
 
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