riwa
Governor
Twisting and moaning, Xena works her way back to consciousness. She remembers dimly: there was a fight; there were too many of them; she fought bravely, but to no avail. One of them struck her skull with the flat of his blade.
Her memories are fragmented after that. She remembers being bound, slung over the back of a horse. She remembers the men talking amongst themselves as they rode: something about a Tree of Shame. But what could that mean?
The realizations hit her, one after the other, each worse than the last. She can't move her arms or legs. She feels the sun on her skin, on all of her skin. She's naked!
She can't move her limbs because they are bound, tightly bound, to a large cross which must surely be the Tree of Shame. The sun is hot; the land is dry; the men are gone. They have left her to die here, knowing that she is a warrior princess, knowing that she will not die quickly, or easily.
She tests her bonds, her wiry muscles rippling as she strains against the tight leather cords which bind her to the cross. The slender thongs hold firm. Her massive round tits bounce exquisitely. Her supple, fluid black mane flows about her bosom as she twists and struggles.
There’s one thing more. She feels a sharp, biting pain between her legs, in that special sacred place for which she has no name. It is a stabbing, horrific pain, razor-sharp teeth biting into her womanhood.
She tries to recall the design of the Roman cross. Yes, there is that part they call the sedulum, the seat, where the victim's crotch rests. But on this particular cross, the sedulum is made of serrated iron: an extra cruelty, just for her. If she moves her pelvis at all, even just a little bit, the vicious teeth bite into her tenderness, and that is almost more than she can bear...
Still, she can't remain where she is, not for long. That is the point of crucifixion, after all. It places the victim in a position where breathing becomes first difficult, then painful, and eventually impossible.
Xena feels this in her chest, beneath her monumental flesh spheres. She feels the horrible aching in her increasingly desperate lungs. She feels the growing tightness in her muscles. Each breath is harder than the last, and more painful, for that is the design...
At last she can take no more. She knows what she must do. She draws the deepest breath she can manage, under the circumstances. She flexes her biceps, and lifts herself up off the sedulum.
Her relief is immediate. She can breathe more freely now, and her breasts rise and fall rapidly as she fills and empties her hungry lungs. Better still, she is free of the sharp-toothed sedulum; the pain between her legs quickly fades.
Xena holds herself up for quite a while. She is very strong; it's easy for her. But as the minutes drag on, she feels a growing sense of unease. And now she sees the true cruelty of the Tree.
She can stay up for quite a while, but not forever. She must come down eventually. And when she does, the sedulum awaits.
She waits until her muscles are practically screaming at her. Then, reluctantly, she lowers herself onto the iron teeth. She tries to do it as gently as possible, but the teeth still bite. She whimpers as they dig into her flesh, and curses herself for her weakness.
And now it begins again: the agonizingly slow suffocation, each breath just slightly more difficult than the last, as her respiratory muscles grow weary once more. This is followed by the all-too-short respite, as she lifts herself up, the brief beautiful moment when breathing is actually possible. And then she is back down, iron slicing into her bloody womanhood as her arm muscles rest and prepare for the next session.
It goes on like this all day. The sun is merciless, hot and sadistic. It beats down on her like a cruel master, making her sweat, punishing her. She is hungry, and very, very thirsty. But there is no food or water. There is only pain.
The sun sets, bringing some respite from the heat. But she gets no rest. How can she sleep, when she must continually lift herself up to breathe? And so she dances through the endless hours of the night, up and down, up and down, in a grim parody of sex.
It is a broken and humbled Xena who greets the sunrise. Now her ordeal begins in earnest. The sun beats down on flesh which is already burnt.
She wants to cry, but she is too dehydrated; she has no tears. Proud, haughty Xena is almost out of strength. She has been on the Tree of Shame for a full day.
It takes everything she has now just to lift herself up for a few quick, meager breaths. And then she is back down, onto a sedulum which has already cut her to ribbons, down to the place where breathing is an idle fantasy, a dream of days gone by.
This is how Xena approaches her death: gradually, one step at a time, over a period of hours. She fights through the morning and into the afternoon. The pain she feels is astonishing.
It is everywhere: in her wrists where the leather bites; in her arms, which scream exhaustion; in her crotch, ravaged by the iron-toothed sedulum; and above all, in her lungs, always empty, always starving. And yet it is so hard to die.
She cannot do it, not as long as she has the tiniest bit of energy left, as long as she has any fight in her at all. She cannot. They know that, these men who have put her here. They know that she will die only when there are no other options.
At last, that moment comes. She reaches a point where she tries to lift her body up and--to her astonishment and infinite shame--fails. Her strength is spent. She cannot save herself. She cannot breathe. She is finished.
She opens her mouth and emits a silent scream, despair flowing through her body as her lungs rebel and rupture. Conquered, brutalized, utterly humiliated and perfectly dominated, Xena shudders and twitches and, finally, expires.
Her memories are fragmented after that. She remembers being bound, slung over the back of a horse. She remembers the men talking amongst themselves as they rode: something about a Tree of Shame. But what could that mean?
The realizations hit her, one after the other, each worse than the last. She can't move her arms or legs. She feels the sun on her skin, on all of her skin. She's naked!
She can't move her limbs because they are bound, tightly bound, to a large cross which must surely be the Tree of Shame. The sun is hot; the land is dry; the men are gone. They have left her to die here, knowing that she is a warrior princess, knowing that she will not die quickly, or easily.
She tests her bonds, her wiry muscles rippling as she strains against the tight leather cords which bind her to the cross. The slender thongs hold firm. Her massive round tits bounce exquisitely. Her supple, fluid black mane flows about her bosom as she twists and struggles.
There’s one thing more. She feels a sharp, biting pain between her legs, in that special sacred place for which she has no name. It is a stabbing, horrific pain, razor-sharp teeth biting into her womanhood.
She tries to recall the design of the Roman cross. Yes, there is that part they call the sedulum, the seat, where the victim's crotch rests. But on this particular cross, the sedulum is made of serrated iron: an extra cruelty, just for her. If she moves her pelvis at all, even just a little bit, the vicious teeth bite into her tenderness, and that is almost more than she can bear...
Still, she can't remain where she is, not for long. That is the point of crucifixion, after all. It places the victim in a position where breathing becomes first difficult, then painful, and eventually impossible.
Xena feels this in her chest, beneath her monumental flesh spheres. She feels the horrible aching in her increasingly desperate lungs. She feels the growing tightness in her muscles. Each breath is harder than the last, and more painful, for that is the design...
At last she can take no more. She knows what she must do. She draws the deepest breath she can manage, under the circumstances. She flexes her biceps, and lifts herself up off the sedulum.
Her relief is immediate. She can breathe more freely now, and her breasts rise and fall rapidly as she fills and empties her hungry lungs. Better still, she is free of the sharp-toothed sedulum; the pain between her legs quickly fades.
Xena holds herself up for quite a while. She is very strong; it's easy for her. But as the minutes drag on, she feels a growing sense of unease. And now she sees the true cruelty of the Tree.
She can stay up for quite a while, but not forever. She must come down eventually. And when she does, the sedulum awaits.
She waits until her muscles are practically screaming at her. Then, reluctantly, she lowers herself onto the iron teeth. She tries to do it as gently as possible, but the teeth still bite. She whimpers as they dig into her flesh, and curses herself for her weakness.
And now it begins again: the agonizingly slow suffocation, each breath just slightly more difficult than the last, as her respiratory muscles grow weary once more. This is followed by the all-too-short respite, as she lifts herself up, the brief beautiful moment when breathing is actually possible. And then she is back down, iron slicing into her bloody womanhood as her arm muscles rest and prepare for the next session.
It goes on like this all day. The sun is merciless, hot and sadistic. It beats down on her like a cruel master, making her sweat, punishing her. She is hungry, and very, very thirsty. But there is no food or water. There is only pain.
The sun sets, bringing some respite from the heat. But she gets no rest. How can she sleep, when she must continually lift herself up to breathe? And so she dances through the endless hours of the night, up and down, up and down, in a grim parody of sex.
It is a broken and humbled Xena who greets the sunrise. Now her ordeal begins in earnest. The sun beats down on flesh which is already burnt.
She wants to cry, but she is too dehydrated; she has no tears. Proud, haughty Xena is almost out of strength. She has been on the Tree of Shame for a full day.
It takes everything she has now just to lift herself up for a few quick, meager breaths. And then she is back down, onto a sedulum which has already cut her to ribbons, down to the place where breathing is an idle fantasy, a dream of days gone by.
This is how Xena approaches her death: gradually, one step at a time, over a period of hours. She fights through the morning and into the afternoon. The pain she feels is astonishing.
It is everywhere: in her wrists where the leather bites; in her arms, which scream exhaustion; in her crotch, ravaged by the iron-toothed sedulum; and above all, in her lungs, always empty, always starving. And yet it is so hard to die.
She cannot do it, not as long as she has the tiniest bit of energy left, as long as she has any fight in her at all. She cannot. They know that, these men who have put her here. They know that she will die only when there are no other options.
At last, that moment comes. She reaches a point where she tries to lift her body up and--to her astonishment and infinite shame--fails. Her strength is spent. She cannot save herself. She cannot breathe. She is finished.
She opens her mouth and emits a silent scream, despair flowing through her body as her lungs rebel and rupture. Conquered, brutalized, utterly humiliated and perfectly dominated, Xena shudders and twitches and, finally, expires.
