Here are my new texts for 'Romans':
P034 Some people say, it must be boring, torturing girls in the arena, don’t you get tired of it? Oh no! It’s never dull – each one is different. Some of them cry like babies, faint – or pretend to swoon, we soon get them squealing! Some scream and struggle, they’re the best fun, breaking their spirit, showing who’s the boss. And then, when the pain begins, it’s always a thrill to watch – the ones that seem the meekest may prove tough, stoical, able to cope much better and much longer than the noisy ones who shriek and squirm. Each girl has her own delicious dance of death, no two are ever the same, the crowds flock to watch them, always yelling for more!
P051 It’s one of the perks of this fatigue, guarding the girls while they’re writhing on the cross – they often whisper to me, in between their struggling and gasps for breath – oh yes, they seem to want to spill out all their secrets as they die, and I’m as good a listener as they’ll get! You’d not believe the fantasies they’ve owned up to – about us Roman soldiers, what they’d dreamed we’d do to them, just how they spent long, sleepless nights, hot with imagining just how we’d torture them, use them, brutally break their lovely, writhing bodies. And, when it really happens to them – yes! – they even thank me, tell me it’s just what they’d longed for, even more – their final climax of orgasmic agony!
P041 Now, contemplate my fate, as I’m slowly raised, my quivering body stretched to the extreme. I know what they do to us, these monsters – yet I never dreamed, how huge, how hard that hideous brute is. Soon I’ll be swung above it, lowered down, and feel that evil iron dildo driving into me, impaling me, conquering my female organs slowly, bit by bit … I shiver and sigh, I try to fight it but I can’t pretend, my woman parts are weak, so wet, so thrilled with naked horror at the thought … I’m ready, Sirs – open my legs, let me begin to feel the hideous ecstasy of slow death on the girls’ cross!
P063 A girl who looks like me, dark brown hair just down to my neck, where my slave-collar holds the sirik-chains that cumber my bare body. Small breasts, a pair of rosebud lips, deep, dark brown eyes – that watch, intently, drinking in the fate of this woman. Why is she there? I do not know, I don’t suppose she does, not any more – she’s just a captive animal, for Roman rods to break! Her slim, stretched body’s taut, tight as a drum, when that stick strikes she’ll squeal so the echoes ring around this desert waste, calling the vultures and the jackals, telling them flesh is being ripped apart for them. And my fate? Merely slave-labour, heaving rocks till my muscles tear, and then, when they’ve tired of whipping me, they’ll leave me here to die, two girl-feasts for the scavenging beasts.
P064 This torture’s so exquisite – simple, excruciating. And it shows a girl’s body, so stretched, so displayed. The pain that’s piercing her tortured spine will only grow and grow, the stretching of her arms racking her till her shoulders dislocate … and that’s without the strokes of the cane across those lifted breasts, the lash across her throbbing abdomen… perfection in the art of torment!
As for us slavegirls, set to clear the ground of rugged stones, arm-straining, body-breaking work in the sweat-sucking, searing heat … for why? Are we condemned to suffer, just like her? Oh gods, please no!
P701 The agony is spreading through my arms and shoulders from my nailed wrists, the rough wood chafes my sore, scourged back – how many girls have died like this before me, on this dry, sweat-greased, blood-soaked wood? The men laugh as I turn to croak my hopeless plea … strong, handsome men, who’ve enjoyed my body so, why do you leave me now – to writhe in pain, to heave and strive in vain to free myself … while searing heat scorches, thirst and biting insects drive me wild, vultures circle patiently … waiting till they can tear my throbbing flesh, scatter my bones on the Desert of the Lost Dead?
You swore you didn't do that!
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