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The Knight And The Gnostic

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I'm busy later so posting early today



Episode 34.

Now things move very rapidly. The Abbot has planned for this, his men have prepared the way. We descend to street level and make our way to the outer wall, an odd group of guards, clerics, myself and the naked and bound Barbara. Arms still stretched along the beam across her shoulders, she is forced to endure the stares, catcalls, and attempted groping of the rapidly gathering crowd as we pass. Word has got around and people are curious to see the final act of this drama, the execution of the arch heretic Barbara de Moore.

Breasts swaying and with stumbling steps she is forced to climb to a high point near the wall just outside the chateau, clearly visible to those now gathering. Soldiers, knights, townspeople and peasants have come to see the spectacle, some with sorrow, many with eager anticipation. They know something spectacular, something unusual was about to happen.

madiosi 2016 - 230-KatG.jpg

Standing upright before the wall we find a chilling sight, a heavy wooden post. Bernard's face broke into an unpleasant grin at this, but he no longer has favour with the Abbot. Another man waited there, tall, strong, grim of visage. Barbara was released from the beam on her shoulders, a brief respite. The executioner indicated with a gesture that the post be laid down and united with its cross-beam and she be placed on the wood.

When all is ready, Barbara takes a deep breath and steps forward, but men seize her arms and forced her down, taking from her the chance to accept the cross with dignity. Hands held her down, stretched out her arms and legs. With care her wrists were positioned on the crossbeam, one and then the other, while the condemned woman looked around wide eyed at her tormentors. The executioner cast a cold glance over her body, took up his hammer, and placed the first nail against her slender wrist. I forced myself not to look, I tried to focus on her face instead, to give her support, but by the Lord I could not help that my gaze was constantly drawn to the rise and fall of her bare chest.

Face and chest, face and chest, my eyes flick back and forth with each ringing blow of the hammer. Barbara tried to endure the pain, but after the first blows a low animal wail tore itself from her throat, rising in intensity. Then ragged breathing, chest rising and falling, rising and falling, a faint whimper escaping her lips as the executioner shifts, positions himself for the other wrist. Now suddenly her body arches, stiff with agony, and the wail starts again, flesh gives way to the unforgiving nail and her second wrist is pinned forever to the wood.

She looks at me now, face full of pain, eyes asking why? Why do they do this to me?

Time to gather strength once again, briefly, with her back against the rough wood and arms outstretched. Blood flows from her wrists, fingers contract, curve like claws. Breath, Barbara, hold your self together. You ask why? Because you are a woman. Because you challenge them. You stand in their way, and must be removed. This is why.

Now her feet. Sweet Lord her lovely feet are gripped and held to the wood, held tight and unmoving as the nails press on her once again. As the hammer swings once again, flesh parts before the nail, iron tears sinew and vein, grates on bone. Her screams are sharper now, even more elemental than before. Give voice to the pain, dear Barbara. Give voice to it, let it out.

It hurts to see her like this. But this is not the end. Not by a long way.

Fixed forever, permanent and unmoveable. Pinned and ready for the cross raising. And so they begin. Many strong men surround the cross, raise it gradually, guiding it back into its prepared hole. So many strong men to raise such a slender woman. Barbara's weight shifts, her body swinging forward, sliding down the cross as it rises inevitably upright.

I can feel the thud of the cross as it slips into the hole, and I hear the agonised cry that slips from the tortured woman's throat, all her weight now held by a few nails gripping her torn and bloody flesh. Now the real ordeal begins. Now Barbara must fight for life, must dance on her cross, here in front of the assembled people. She must struggle against her cross, every grunt and every shudder a public testament to her pain.
 
phlebas said:
I'm busy later so posting early today



Episode 34.

Now things move very rapidly. The Abbot has planned for this, his men have prepared the way. We descend to street level and make our way to the outer wall, an odd group of guards, clerics, myself and the naked and bound Barbara. Arms still stretched along the beam across her shoulders, she is forced to endure the stares, catcalls, and attempted groping of the rapidly gathering crowd as we pass. Word has got around and people are curious to see the final act of this drama, the execution of the arch heretic Barbara de Moore.

Breasts swaying and with stumbling steps she is forced to climb to a high point near the wall just outside the chateau, clearly visible to those now gathering. Soldiers, knights, townspeople and peasants have come to see the spectacle, some with sorrow, many with eager anticipation. They know something spectacular, something unusual was about to happen.

View attachment 399878

Standing upright before the wall we find a chilling sight, a heavy wooden post. Bernard's face broke into an unpleasant grin at this, but he no longer has favour with the Abbot. Another man waited there, tall, strong, grim of visage. Barbara was released from the beam on her shoulders, a brief respite. The executioner indicated with a gesture that the post be laid down and united with its cross-beam and she be placed on the wood.

When all is ready, Barbara takes a deep breath and steps forward, but men seize her arms and forced her down, taking from her the chance to accept the cross with dignity. Hands held her down, stretched out her arms and legs. With care her wrists were positioned on the crossbeam, one and then the other, while the condemned woman looked around wide eyed at her tormentors. The executioner cast a cold glance over her body, took up his hammer, and placed the first nail against her slender wrist. I forced myself not to look, I tried to focus on her face instead, to give her support, but by the Lord I could not help that my gaze was constantly drawn to the rise and fall of her bare chest.

Face and chest, face and chest, my eyes flick back and forth with each ringing blow of the hammer. Barbara tried to endure the pain, but after the first blows a low animal wail tore itself from her throat, rising in intensity. Then ragged breathing, chest rising and falling, rising and falling, a faint whimper escaping her lips as the executioner shifts, positions himself for the other wrist. Now suddenly her body arches, stiff with agony, and the wail starts again, flesh gives way to the unforgiving nail and her second wrist is pinned forever to the wood.

She looks at me now, face full of pain, eyes asking why? Why do they do this to me?

Time to gather strength once again, briefly, with her back against the rough wood and arms outstretched. Blood flows from her wrists, fingers contract, curve like claws. Breath, Barbara, hold your self together. You ask why? Because you are a woman. Because you challenge them. You stand in their way, and must be removed. This is why.

Now her feet. Sweet Lord her lovely feet are gripped and held to the wood, held tight and unmoving as the nails press on her once again. As the hammer swings once again, flesh parts before the nail, iron tears sinew and vein, grates on bone. Her screams are sharper now, even more elemental than before. Give voice to the pain, dear Barbara. Give voice to it, let it out.

It hurts to see her like this. But this is not the end. Not by a long way.

Fixed forever, permanent and unmoveable. Pinned and ready for the cross raising. And so they begin. Many strong men surround the cross, raise it gradually, guiding it back into its prepared hole. So many strong men to raise such a slender woman. Barbara's weight shifts, her body swinging forward, sliding down the cross as it rises inevitably upright.

I can feel the thud of the cross as it slips into the hole, and I hear the agonised cry that slips from the tortured woman's throat, all her weight now held by a few nails gripping her torn and bloody flesh. Now the real ordeal begins. Now Barbara must fight for life, must dance on her cross, here in front of the assembled people. She must struggle against her cross, every grunt and every shudder a public testament to her pain.
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Wow, very erotic writing, very detailed, I feel like I am there at the scene of the crucifixion.
If I was in attendance, I would use a sword, and end her suffering:(
 
And so it begins. Poor dear Barbara has met her grim fate on the cross with no hope of escape. But her agony has only begun. I wonder if the other the remaining perfecti women will suffer the same fate as Barbara. Provided that the terrible Abbot and his fellows haven't already executed them.
 
I was looking forward to this, sad that it wasn't a double crucifxion, but a beautiful woman, nailed and exposed, what a sight, eh?
I got my front row seat, saw the nails go in, her wails and screams, the blood oozing round the nail-heads. I nearly puke, swallowing hard to keep it all down. All the killing in the town these last few days haven't prepared me for this ritualised torture.
Now for the erotic bit, when the cross is raised and she starts to 'dance'. With her legs splayed, I see her private parts, with pinkish drips visible. I look away, this isn't right, she's a holy woman, maybe misguided, some say a heretic, but I shouldn't look at her like this.
I hear her moans and sudden shrieks as she moves. I watch her piss a bit. This is wrong. I look at the Abbot and some of his men, they're grinning, bulges in their breeches, hands fondling their groins. I look at the crowd around me, some grinning like them, but many grim-faced, looking down, one or two with tears. A butcher and blacksmith I know, two big, stong men, get up and walk away.
I feel no excitement between my legs. I look again at Mistress de Moore, and see only suffering that upsets me greatly.
I leave the scene, join the butcher and blacksmith in a bar, sitting in silence, drinking.
We feel no need for words, we all have the same emotions. Barbara de Moore speaks for us, her cries still plain and loud. I'll be drunk before she's dead.
 
Episode 35.

I am amazed at how swiftly things are happening as I am led to the place of my execution. It's not far, but I have been weakened from all that I have been through, and as my little procession, followed by a growing throng of onlookers, approaches the city wall I stumble and nearly fall to my knees ... but strong hands lift and propel me forward.

Weighed down and stooped under the weight of the heavy pole pressing against the back of my neck and down upon my shoulders, I stagger ahead and then pause to steady myself. I turn briefly to look back. A sea of faces meet my gaze. I avert my eyes.

I continue on, turn a corner and come to a full stop. There in front of me, waiting, stands a heavy wooden upright, which together with the crossbeam I carry, will be my closest companion over the many long hours of suffering that lie ahead. Oh, what a spectacle this is turning out to be! The Abbot has planned well.

While they release the beam from my aching shoulders, and attach it to the upright, which has now been taken down and laid in the grass at my feet, I think that I might still be able to wrest a shred of dignity out of this by stepping boldly forward, when all is ready, and seating myself on my cross. But I am deprived of even that small show of independence when the guards suddenly grab me and throw me down.

Sensing that the show they have all been waiting for is about to begin, the crowd reacts to this with a mighty roar, and begins to chant "Crucify her, Crucify her! Death to the heretic, Barbara de Moore". The chant echoes off the walls of the chateau and the battlements above.

Once again, resistance is futile. I go limp and allow them to stretch me out on the cross and position my arms. But the Abbot is taking no chances. Even though I am being cooperative, no fewer than half a dozen men are detailed to hold me down.

As I lie there helpless, I look ... wide-eyed ... first to the left and then to the right. Strong hands tug and pull on my outstretched arms to pin my wrists tightly in place against the crossbeam. I feel the firmness of the wood against the back of my wrists.

To take my mind off the inevitable horror, I turn my attention to the sky, squinting into the harsh light of the sun. Such a beautiful day, I think to myself ... the sky so blue without a cloud in sight. Is the brightness of the day not a sign from God? Am I to be martyred? How will my crucifixion be remembered?

I am filled with emotion by these thoughts and tears well up in my eyes. I force myself back to reality, back to the present. I drop my gaze to my bare breasts and contemplate with curiosity how they look from my prone position ... how my erect nipples appear to float in the center of wrinkled areolas atop twin mounds of undulating pale soft flesh. It's a short diversion. My little reverie is broken by movement around me.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see him approach ... a hooded behemoth of a man ... whom I immediately recognize as the town executioner! So, he works for them now!

In his hands he carries a leather pouch of nails and a hammer.

He looks me over, slowly taking in the entire length of my naked body. Then, with a long sigh he kneels alongside me, bending forward to position a nail above my delicate left wrist. I gasp. The nail is much bigger than I imagined it would be ... so thick and long!

He is ready. I turn my head away. The first mighty blow sends the nail point straight through my wrist and into the wood beneath. Three more quick blows drives the long shank of the nail deep into the wood. I moan throatily and break into a whimper. I try desperately to refrain from screaming, but it's hard not to cry out.

He shifts to my other side in order to nail my right wrist. The nail is placed. I grit my teeth and hold my breath. The hammer strikes, once, twice, three times. Spasms of pain shoot through my arm. Blood sprays into the air. I jerk about, dig my heels in, arch my back, go rigid, gasp and moan much louder this time. It hurts so much!

Why are they doing this to me?

I am given a moment's respite while the executioner moves around and prepares to nail my feet to the stipe. Left foot first ... iron-grip on my ankle ... sole pressed to the wood ... my knee raised and bent ... nail placed, hammer raised.

Oh my God!!! The pain!!! I scream and shriek, and then scream some more as he swiftly pinions and nails my right foot alongside my left. Sobbing and shaking uncontrollably, I turn my head frantically from side to side as the last nail is driven home.

The executioner stands up, the nailing completed, turns to the crowd, and executes a short bow. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of voices, erupt in a thunderous shout of approval, and a repetition of the now all too familiar chant: "Crucify her, Crucify her! Death to the heretic, Barbara de Moore."

Orders are shouted and Bernard's men put their shoulders into raising the heavy cross and its squirming, writhing live burden into place. The base slips into its hole in the turf, falling into place with a thud and reverberating shudder.

I am tossed about like a rag doll, swinging out and away from the stipe before falling back and smashing my tailbone hard against the unyielding timber, crying out in agony as the nails driven through my wrists and feet grind painfully against fractured bone and pull at torn flesh.

I hang helplessly, racked with pain, head tossed back against the wood. Blood runs in braided rivulets down my outstretched arms and oozes between my toes. I have been crucified!

What next? My breathing is constricted. My heart races. I break out in a cold sweat. I must do something, but what? I can't just hang like this, listening to the crowd jeering me. I need to move! I need to breathe. Slowly and shakily I began to push up, pulling with my arms, face contorted in pain, straightening my knees ....
 
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Barbaria1 said:
Episode 35.

I am amazed at how swiftly things are happening as I am led to the place of my execution. It's not far, but I have been weakened from all that I have been through, and as my little procession, followed by a growing throng of onlookers, approaches the city wall I stumble and nearly fall to my knees ... but strong hands lift and propel me forward.
Click to expand...

A tragically beautiful butterfly pinned terminally to the wood until it's glory fades, but to remain forever in the memory of those who knew and loved her.
 
Barbaria1 said:
Episode 35.

I am amazed at how swiftly things are happening as I am led to the place of my execution. It's not far, but I have been weakened from all that I have been through, and as my little procession, followed by a growing throng of onlookers, approaches the city wall I stumble and nearly fall to my knees ... but strong hands lift and propel me forward.

Weighed down and stooped under the weight of the heavy pole pressing against the back of my neck and down upon my shoulders, I stagger ahead and then pause to steady myself. I turn briefly to look back. A sea of faces meet my gaze. I avert my eyes.

I continue on, turn a corner and come to a full stop. There in front of me, waiting, stands a heavy wooden upright, which together with the crossbeam I carry, will be my closest companion over the many long hours of suffering that lie ahead. Oh, what a spectacle this is turning out to be! The Abbot has planned well.

While they release the beam from my aching shoulders, and attach it to the upright, which has now has now been taken down and laid in the grass at my feet, I think that I might still be able to wrest a shred of dignity out of this by stepping boldly forward, when all is ready, and seating myself on my cross. But I am deprived of even that small show of independence when the guards suddenly grab me and throw me down.

Sensing that the show they have all been waiting for is about to begin, the crowd reacts to this with a mighty roar, and begins to chant "Crucify her, Crucify her! Death to the heretic, Barbara de Moore". The chant echoes off the walls of the chateau and the battlements above.

Once again, resistance is futile. I go limp and allow them to stretch me out on the cross and position my arms. But the Abbot is taking no chances. Even though I am being cooperative, no fewer than half a dozen men are detailed to hold me down.

As I lie there helpless, I look ... wide-eyed ... first to the left and then to the right. Strong hands tug and pull on my outstretched arms to pin my wrists tightly in place against the crossbeam. I feel the firmness of the wood against the back of my wrists.

To take my mind off the inevitable horror, I turn my attention to the sky, squinting into the harsh light of the sun. Such a beautiful day, I think to myself ... the sky so blue without a cloud in sight. Is the brightness of the day not a sign from God? Am I to be martyred? How will my crucifixion be remembered?

I am filled with emotion by these thoughts and tears well up in my eyes. I force myself back to reality, back to the present. I drop my gaze to my bare breasts and contemplate with curiosity how they look from my prone position ... how my erect nipples appear to float in the center of wrinkled areolas atop twin mounds of undulating pale soft flesh. It's a short diversion. My little reverie is broken by movement around me.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see him approach ... a hooded behemoth of a man ... whom I immediately recognize as the town executioner! So, he works for them now!

In his hands he carries a leather pouch of nails and a hammer.

He looks me over, slowly taking in the entire length of my naked body. Then, with a long sigh he kneels he alongside me, bending forward to position a nail above my delicate left wrist. I gasp. The nail is much bigger than I imagined it would be ... so thick and long!

He is ready. I turn my head away. The first mighty blow sends the nail point straight through my wrist and into the wood beneath. Three more quick blows drives the long shank of the nail deep into the wood. I moan throatily and break into a whimper. I try desperately to refrain from screaming, but it's hard not to cry out.

He shifts to my other side in order to nail my right wrist. The nail is placed. I grit my teeth and hold my breath. The hammer strikes, once, twice, three times. Spasms of pain shoot through my arm. Blood sprays into the air. I jerk about, dig my heels in, arch my back, go rigid, gasp and moan much louder this time. It hurts so much! Why are they doing this to me?

I am given a moment's respite while the executioner moves around and prepares to nail my feet to the stipe. Left foot first ... iron-grip on my ankle ... sole pressed to the wood ... my knee raised and bent ... nail placed, hammer raised.

Oh my God!!! The pain!!! I scream and shriek, and then scream some more as he swiftly pinions and nails my right foot alongside my left. Sobbing and shaking uncontrollably, I turn my head frantically from side to side as the last nail is driven home.

The executioner stands up, the nailing completed, turns to the crowd, and executes a short bow. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of voices, erupt in a thunderous shout of approval, and a repetition of the now all too familiar chant: "Crucify her, Crucify her! Death to the heretic, Barbara de Moore."

Orders are shouted and Bernard's men put their shoulders into raising the heavy cross and its squirming, writhing live burden into place. The base slips into its hole in the turf, falling into place with a thud and reverberating shudder.

I am tossed about like a rag doll, swinging out and away from the stipe before falling back and smashing my tailbone hard against the unyielding timber, crying out in agony as the nails driven through my wrists and feet grind painfully against fractured bone and pull at torn flesh.

I hang helplessly, racked with pain, head tossed back against the wood. Blood runs in braided rivulets down my outstretched arms and oozes between my toes. I have been crucified!

What next? My breathing is constricted. My heart races. I break out in a cold sweat. I must do something, but what? I can't just hang like this, listening to the crowd jeering me. I need to move! I need to breathe. Slowly and shakily I began to push up, pulling with my arms, face contorted in pain, straightening my knees ....
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This is so, so, sad:(.....not a fitting end for Barbara de Moore.
Another great episode Barb!
:clapping:
 
Barbaria1 said:
To take my mind off the inevitable horror, I turn my attention to the sky, squinting into the harsh light of the sun. Such a beautiful day, I think to myself ... the sky so blue without a cloud in sight. Is the brightness of the day not a sign from God? Am I to be martyred? How will my crucifixion be remembered?

I am filled with emotion by these thoughts and tears well up in my eyes. I force myself back to reality, back to the present. I drop my gaze to my bare breasts and contemplate with curiosity how they look from my prone position ... how my erect nipples appear to float in the center of wrinkled areolas atop twin mounds of undulating pale soft flesh. It's a short diversion. My little reverie is broken by movement around me.
Click to expand...
A poetic moment amidst the horror.
 
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