GabriellaSivilla
Governor
Dear all,
here is my latest story. Before I start, I just wanted to say a few words about it, in particular about how I conceived it.
First of all, the story is written from the point of view of the protagonist, the victim. It goes without saying that she's me, and that I tried as much as possible to identify myself with the character. The descriptions are based on the sensations of the protagonist, on what she sees and hears. A partial vision but, in my opinion, very effective and involving, too.
Also for this, the background story is kept to a minimum. Everything takes place in the "here and now" of the protagonist, and there is only a brief mention of what previously happened, just to make it clear the background to the reader. I trust that the average reader will be more interested in what is happening on the scene then in the background story.
The story is violent. Very. Strong. Very. But in my mind an execution on the cross, in which a young girl is tortured to death, cannot be otherwise. Being then a public torture, all the most spectacular aspects are exalted. And they have to be terrifying, and obscene, to serve as a warning to onlookers. Then, everything takes place in the immediate aftermath of a conquest, which adds drama and violence to the scene.
That said, I hope you enjoy the story, and please post your comments, of any kind. They are of great help to the writers. By the way, I would LOVE if somebody wants to illustrate it.
Kisses !
Gabriella
_____________________________________________________________________________________
GOLGOTHA
by Gabriella Sivilla
It's there, in front of me. It's scary.
It's a low hill, no trees, almost no grass. Clay. And stakes driven into the ground. Dirty. And white stuff around. Bones. Broken bones.
"AAAAAHHHHH"
One of the soldiers has hit me with the whip. It's one of those long ones, made of hardened leather, with a metal tip. Terrible. The tip enters my tender flesh, tearing it apart and drawing blood. I stagger, bend one leg and hit the ground, painfully, with one knee.
"WHORE!!! STAND-UP!!! STAND-UP AND MOVE, OR I SWEAR I'LL SKIN YOU ALIVE WITH MY WHIP AND THEN I'LL MAKE YOU ASS BUGGERED BY A HORSE! STAND-UP!!!"
Whore. That's what they call me. And all possible insults, all obscenities. Slut. Bitch. I'll fuck you. I'll break your pussy. Shouting, screaming in my ears with full force. They didn't done anything else since they took me.
But I'm not, and I haven't been, a whore. I am the daughter of the king of this little kingdom. Indeed, I was. And when the Romans arrived, and the generals went out with the soldiers to face them, I stayed in the palace. And when the generals betrayed, and the Romans entered the city, I was the first they came for, guided by their directions.
I'm dressed. They don't let me march naked. They took a long cloth and wrapped it around my body, tying it around my waist, making sure to leave one of my long legs clearly visible. And another knot on one shoulder, leaving one of my breasts exposed. Tender breasts.
When they took me to the courtyard, they stripped me of my clothes. Always yelling, always shouting obscenities. Punching me in the stomach while someone held their arms firmly inside my back. Slapping me. Spitting on my face. Squeezing my boobs until I screamed in pain. Twisting my nipples. Surrounded by stinking, callous soldiers, guarded by two men on horseback, in armor, their eyes hard.
When they brought the patibulum and dropped it on the ground, I heard a dull thud, amid the cries of the soldiers. The insults: "Bitch, is there where you get fucked on, every night?" "How many buggered you tonight? Did you scream? Never how much you'll scream today, while we're butchering you."
Then someone brought a long cloth. And the ropes. And another brought my makeup and took out a brush. He painted my boobs in red, laughing like crazy, while the others held me down. And then the cheeks. And then a red circle around the pussy. And another one on the butt. And everyone was laughing and snickering like crazy.
Then they dressed me in the dirty cloth; it's a rag, full of holes, there are lice on it. But they have taken care to leave my back naked. And they tied the patibulum on my shoulders. It's heavy, so heavy. And they pushed me forward.
In arriving here, barefoot, I stopped several times, exhausted, overwhelmed by the cacophony of soldiers' insults and shouts from the crowd. Deafening cacophony. And each time they whipped me, over and over again, driving the metal tip of the whip deep into my flesh. Causing my hot blood to smear the fabric on my butt in bright red.
And now here I am, contemplating the hill on which I will die in excruciating torment. At eighteen. Among people who will bask in my screams of pain, who will cum to see me writhing from pain on the cross.
"MOVE IT BITCHAAAA!!!!" "DAMN I TOLD YOU I'LL FUCK YOUR ASS AND I WILL, BITCH!!!" I scream from fear, while he reaches down and grabs with one hand my hair and yells in my ear, and with the other lowers the cloth around my butt. I feel him shoving something hard between my ass cheeks, probing for my little hole. The handle of the whip. I panic: "No no... please... noooooo !" I cry. "Please, no, no, I move, I move.. ! nooo ..."
He stops, I get up with difficulty and take a step forward. Then another, staggering under the wooden pole, blood running down my bare back, that they left me naked, so they could whip me bloody. He looks at me, his gaze fixed on my bloody back, on my long legs. Someone from the crowd shouts: "Look at the beautiful ass of the whore!" Because he left my butt exposed. A tear rolls down my cheek and streaks the red on my cheeks.
We continue slowly, climbing the hill. I can get a closer look at the human remains. The stench fills my nostrils. The ground becomes more compact. The screams that, if possible, get even louder.
The soldiers lead me to one of the posts, making way through the crowd.
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here is my latest story. Before I start, I just wanted to say a few words about it, in particular about how I conceived it.
First of all, the story is written from the point of view of the protagonist, the victim. It goes without saying that she's me, and that I tried as much as possible to identify myself with the character. The descriptions are based on the sensations of the protagonist, on what she sees and hears. A partial vision but, in my opinion, very effective and involving, too.
Also for this, the background story is kept to a minimum. Everything takes place in the "here and now" of the protagonist, and there is only a brief mention of what previously happened, just to make it clear the background to the reader. I trust that the average reader will be more interested in what is happening on the scene then in the background story.
The story is violent. Very. Strong. Very. But in my mind an execution on the cross, in which a young girl is tortured to death, cannot be otherwise. Being then a public torture, all the most spectacular aspects are exalted. And they have to be terrifying, and obscene, to serve as a warning to onlookers. Then, everything takes place in the immediate aftermath of a conquest, which adds drama and violence to the scene.
That said, I hope you enjoy the story, and please post your comments, of any kind. They are of great help to the writers. By the way, I would LOVE if somebody wants to illustrate it.
Kisses !
Gabriella
_____________________________________________________________________________________
GOLGOTHA
by Gabriella Sivilla
It's there, in front of me. It's scary.
It's a low hill, no trees, almost no grass. Clay. And stakes driven into the ground. Dirty. And white stuff around. Bones. Broken bones.
"AAAAAHHHHH"
One of the soldiers has hit me with the whip. It's one of those long ones, made of hardened leather, with a metal tip. Terrible. The tip enters my tender flesh, tearing it apart and drawing blood. I stagger, bend one leg and hit the ground, painfully, with one knee.
"WHORE!!! STAND-UP!!! STAND-UP AND MOVE, OR I SWEAR I'LL SKIN YOU ALIVE WITH MY WHIP AND THEN I'LL MAKE YOU ASS BUGGERED BY A HORSE! STAND-UP!!!"
Whore. That's what they call me. And all possible insults, all obscenities. Slut. Bitch. I'll fuck you. I'll break your pussy. Shouting, screaming in my ears with full force. They didn't done anything else since they took me.
But I'm not, and I haven't been, a whore. I am the daughter of the king of this little kingdom. Indeed, I was. And when the Romans arrived, and the generals went out with the soldiers to face them, I stayed in the palace. And when the generals betrayed, and the Romans entered the city, I was the first they came for, guided by their directions.
I'm dressed. They don't let me march naked. They took a long cloth and wrapped it around my body, tying it around my waist, making sure to leave one of my long legs clearly visible. And another knot on one shoulder, leaving one of my breasts exposed. Tender breasts.
When they took me to the courtyard, they stripped me of my clothes. Always yelling, always shouting obscenities. Punching me in the stomach while someone held their arms firmly inside my back. Slapping me. Spitting on my face. Squeezing my boobs until I screamed in pain. Twisting my nipples. Surrounded by stinking, callous soldiers, guarded by two men on horseback, in armor, their eyes hard.
When they brought the patibulum and dropped it on the ground, I heard a dull thud, amid the cries of the soldiers. The insults: "Bitch, is there where you get fucked on, every night?" "How many buggered you tonight? Did you scream? Never how much you'll scream today, while we're butchering you."
Then someone brought a long cloth. And the ropes. And another brought my makeup and took out a brush. He painted my boobs in red, laughing like crazy, while the others held me down. And then the cheeks. And then a red circle around the pussy. And another one on the butt. And everyone was laughing and snickering like crazy.
Then they dressed me in the dirty cloth; it's a rag, full of holes, there are lice on it. But they have taken care to leave my back naked. And they tied the patibulum on my shoulders. It's heavy, so heavy. And they pushed me forward.
In arriving here, barefoot, I stopped several times, exhausted, overwhelmed by the cacophony of soldiers' insults and shouts from the crowd. Deafening cacophony. And each time they whipped me, over and over again, driving the metal tip of the whip deep into my flesh. Causing my hot blood to smear the fabric on my butt in bright red.
And now here I am, contemplating the hill on which I will die in excruciating torment. At eighteen. Among people who will bask in my screams of pain, who will cum to see me writhing from pain on the cross.
"MOVE IT BITCHAAAA!!!!" "DAMN I TOLD YOU I'LL FUCK YOUR ASS AND I WILL, BITCH!!!" I scream from fear, while he reaches down and grabs with one hand my hair and yells in my ear, and with the other lowers the cloth around my butt. I feel him shoving something hard between my ass cheeks, probing for my little hole. The handle of the whip. I panic: "No no... please... noooooo !" I cry. "Please, no, no, I move, I move.. ! nooo ..."
He stops, I get up with difficulty and take a step forward. Then another, staggering under the wooden pole, blood running down my bare back, that they left me naked, so they could whip me bloody. He looks at me, his gaze fixed on my bloody back, on my long legs. Someone from the crowd shouts: "Look at the beautiful ass of the whore!" Because he left my butt exposed. A tear rolls down my cheek and streaks the red on my cheeks.
We continue slowly, climbing the hill. I can get a closer look at the human remains. The stench fills my nostrils. The ground becomes more compact. The screams that, if possible, get even louder.
The soldiers lead me to one of the posts, making way through the crowd.
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