Caius stepped back to view the task he had just finished. He was quite satisfied. The young blonde Christian girl was perfectly positioned on her cross. He had only two regrets: he was not the one who whipped her; Rufus was given that assignment. He would have done a better job. Rufus had given her a good but only an ordinary lashing. He, Caius, would have etched long curving welts across her full tits and carved sinuous lines of pain over and on her lush pussy lips. And the carpenters had not added a cornu to the stipes. He would have much preferred to have seized her voluptuous ass cheeks with both hands, squeezing her butt flesh as he guided either her vagina or ass hole onto the sharp point of the device. Oh, well.
Her resounding screaming had ceased now, replaced by sobbing and whimpering. As he was nailing her wrists and feet, her wild, high-pitched strident shrieks echoed around the arena, obviously delighting the crowd, who cheered and whistled in approval.
She was a strong wench, having suffered a whipping and crucifixion without fainting as many other girls in the arena today did. She was a pretty thing, making a decorative spectacle for the arena. Maybe the magistrate would let her live, taken down from the cross and sent to a public brothel. Or a worse fate, chained up as a galley slave condemned to a life of hard labor under the whip or busting rocks in a silver mine.
“Caius,” Rufus yelled. “Grab a rake and come over here. We’ve got another Christian girl to deal with.”