theseus
SERVILIS CURATOR
A hard day at the office.
“Well, that’s the last of them! So much for my bloody day off!” Rufus wiped the sweat from his brow. The day had been a scorcher, a perfect day for a public holiday, a day at the races with a jar or three of cool wine. Instead…
“Get dressed, Rufus! There’s a flap on! The Procurator has a couple of dozen bints need nailing! Today! Get to it.” Rufus looked blearily at the Optio. “C’mon, Opt. find somebody else. It’s my day off! Got a nice seat at the races, in the shade, three jars of good Falernian, all nice and chilled. What’s the rush? Let ‘em wait. We can fuck ‘em all tonight and nail ‘em tomorrow. C’mon!”
“On your feet! You get double time ‘cause it’s a holiday. Got to be done today! Bunch of silly priestesses plotting to poison the Emperor. Stupid bitches! Good looking bunch, too. I wouldn’t mind having a go at them tonight, but the Proc wants ‘em stripped, whipped, nailed and screaming! Today!”
Rufus dragged on a tunic, one still stiff with blood from yesterday. “We got no crosses, Opt! used the last of them yesterday. That lot are still good for a couple of days, all strong, they is. Got no crosses.” The Optio sighed. “All in hand. I got some slaves rough shaping some trees we have in stock. Get on with it!”
Rufus collected his tools, a couple of bags of nails, and followed his superior out. The girls were huddled in a group, mostly sobbing. Good looking bunch, too. All young patricians, playing at being priestesses of that Asian cult. What was it? Arse something? Where they all danced naked? Astarte, that was it. He looked them over, all dressed in little white tunics. One of them had been manhandled, her tunic ripped down the front, pretty, pale little tits hanging out, the girl desperately trying to cover them. “No sense trying to hide ‘em, love,” Brutus mocked her, “you’re going to be showing us a lot more than that.” He gestured to one of the soldiers, “She’s half stripped already, get her naked and tied to the whipping post. She can be the first to get her back decorated.” He opened his bag, selecting a multitailed scourge. The girl screamed at the sight of it, begging, pleading and struggling as the tunic was ripped from her and her wrists were tied high up on the post.
Brutus was a man who enjoyed his work! He ran his fingers down her back, appreciating the soft skin covering the muscle underneath. His fingers trailed down, finding the dimples at the base before ascending the firm mounds of her buttocks. “No. Please. No.” She moaned softly.
He stepped back, rolling his shoulders, loosening the massive muscles. The leather strands hummed, then slammed into her back with a crack and a thud! Her scream echoed off the walls of the courtyard. “Oh goddess! Why? Why? I served you well! Why?” Her cries tailed off into broken sobs as she writhed, prettily, against the unyielding post. The scourge hummed again, drawing more screams. Brutus was efficient. In half a dozen strokes he stripped the skin off her back, no longer a beautiful back, from shoulders to buttocks, exposing thousands of nerve endings, yet not damaging the muscle underneath. After all, she needed that muscle to dance erotically on her cross, dance for days before she finally succumbed. He looked at the centurion. “Are they carrying their crossbars up the hill, sir?” The officer nodded. Brutus nodded. The lashes hummed once more, cracking against her shoulders, preparing them for the chafe of the raw, splintery wood she would carry to her death.
She was cut down, forced to her knees, the heavy crossbar, so recently a tree, placed ungently on the raw flesh of her shoulders, her slight body almost collapsing under the weight and the pain, as her wrists were tied to it.
Brutus was like a machine. Six strokes to strip the skin off a priestess’ back, a seventh to tenderise her shoulders for the carry. “Next!” He was sweating heavily; flogging women was hard work. The seventeenth priestess was his undoing. She was one of a pair of twins, exquisite, delicate nymphs, with masses of red hair cascading down backs as smooth as the milk their colour resembled, hair that was carefully coiled on top of their heads to prevent it impeding the whip. The first of the pair, number sixteen, had turned her beautiful green eyes on him, begging. “Please don’t hurt me, sir. I couldn’t bear it. I have done nothing wrong. I simply served the goddess. She hadn’t screamed at all, merely whimpered and sobbed as her back was stripped of skin. Her sister had been defiant, spitting at Brutus as he stroked the back he was about to ruin. She prayed loudly to the goddess as the first three strokes blazed across her back. On the fourth she arched her back, gasping! She convulsed again, then vomited a great gout of blood, before convulsing a third time. She was limp.
Brutus felt her throat for a pulse. Nothing. “Fuck!” He said, “the bitch has croaked!”
The centurion came forward, felt for a pulse. “You’re on a charge, Brutus!” He looked at the remaining seven girls. “Right! They go unmarked. Get those beams on their shoulders and get them up the hill!”
A long line of naked girls staggered up the hill, loaded with the beams they would soon become part of. Whips cracked if they flagged. Several fell, assisted to their feet with the help of a sharp stick applied to the anus.
Rufus waited for them, his thoughts still on those jars of expensively cooled wine. “Now listen, Rufus,” the centurion growled, “I want no more fuckups! Nice neat nailing, don’t hit any arteries. These bints need to be dancing for two, three days, four if we’re lucky.” Rufus nodded. “They won’t consider that to be so very lucky, will they sir?”
“Why do they have to scream so much?” Rufus had a headache. This mass nailing thing was no fun at all! Get the muscle to place the girl right, the bitch screaming as the splintery wood scraped against her flayed back. “Hold that wrist still, you gormless bugger. It’s only a girl!” The air was filled with screams, prayers, curses, moans, begging. This was the ninth one. The first half dozen were hanging, discovering the exquisite agony of iron spike grating against nerves and bone as their entire weight hung by four iron spikes. Two were being raised, screaming shrilly as the felt their weight hanging from the nails for the first time. He tried to shut out the screams as he felt carefully for the right spot on her wrist. Such a fine, slim wrist, such beautiful, soft hands. He found the spot, just at the base of her palm. Clear of arteries. Good, solid bone so that the spike didn’t tear out. She begged, softly, as she felt the tip of the spike against her skin. He swung the hammer, driving the spike through skin, bone, flesh; into the wood. She screamed! Shrilly! Four strong men struggling to hold down her slender body. Two more blows, the broad head of the spike nestled perfectly against her wrist. That arm was going nowhere! “Stop screaming, bitch!” He growled. “Anybody would think that hurt. You ain’t felt nothing yet. Wait until you’re hanging!” Move to the other wrist. Find the spot, three good blows.
“Hold her down, you useless bunch of fairies!” One leg had escaped their grasp, flailing desperately, her knee slamming into his kidneys. “Hold the bitch down! For fuck’s sake. Feet flat on the sides of the stipe! We’ll spread her legs for her!” Iron slammed through flesh and bone. Her legs were spread wide, tight little pussy gaping. Thighs straining! He slid a finger into the moist slit, felt resistance. “Oh, for fuck’s sake! We’ve got a virgin here! You! And you! Fuck her before you raise her! Even you should be able to get into her. It’s not as if she can close her legs!” He moved to the next cross, mumbling. “A virgin, for fuck’s sake! Worst of bad luck, that is. A fucking virgin!”
One after the other, twelve carefully aimed blows of the hammer for each of them. It was hot! Somebody handed him a wineskin. He took a deep draught, thinking about that icy cold Falernian. Girls screamed, crosses thumped into their pre-dug holes, wedges were hammered in. The little redhead lay on her cross, sobbing quietly. Green eyes pleaded silently as he found the spot, swung the hammer. “Oh! Goddess!” She gasped, her body arching involuntarily. The green eyes were accusing as he moved to the other arm. He nailed her feet, neatly, next to each other, as she whimpered softly. He stroked her face, wiping away the tears. “I’m sorry,” he said softly, undoing her hair to allow it to tumble over her pretty breasts. He turned to two of the gawkers. “You two! Make sure she isn’t a virgin, then lift her up!”
One after the other. Bodies to be nailed.
The last one was tall, slender, her breasts seeming too heavy for her slim body. She was unmarked, not even by the whips of the drivers as she carried her crossbar up the hill. She was calm, her eyes met his, showing…sympathy? Surely not, he thought, surely not. She smiled slightly as he winced at a fresh bout of screaming as another cross was raised. “The screaming hurts you. I am sorry. I shall try not to scream. I shall do my best, but…I may not be able to control myself. I am sorry.” She lay down on the cross.
Rufus looked at her. She was beautiful, serene. “You…you…are sorry? You are apologising to me?” He was confused. How many had he nailed? Hundreds? Never, ever, had one apologised to him. Never! “I…I…I…” he stuttered.
She smiled at him. “Deep underneath, you are a kind man. This is your job. You do it well. I shall try not to scream. It hurts your head.”
He felt for the spot, found it, hesitated. Looked at her. She nodded. He swung the hammer! Her back arched. “Oh, goddess.” She said softly, as he hammered the spike home. He did her other arm, his eyes drawn to her fine breasts as she panted away the pain. Each deep breath was released with a shudder. “Put her feet next to each other,” he growled at the muscle. The muscles in her thighs twitched as she tried to keep her feet still. He drove the nails home, wincing as he felt bones break. He glared at the eager volunteers pushing forward to ensure that she was not a virgin. “Piss off!” He hissed. “Leave her alone!”
She whimpered as she was raised, as her whole weight was taken on those four nails. He wiped the sweat from his brow. That Falernian might still be cold. He looked at her for the last time. She smiled. She smiled! He shook his head.
She took a deep, shuddering breath. “How long will I be here?” She asked, softly. He shook his head. Two days, three? Perhaps four. I’m sorry.”
He turned away. “Thank you,” she said. “There was no plot. It is all a mistake. The goddess be with you.”
He walked down the hill, leaving the screaming and moaning behind him.
“What a bitch of a day! What a fucking bitch of a day! I need a drink.”
Artwork by Crucificateur
“Well, that’s the last of them! So much for my bloody day off!” Rufus wiped the sweat from his brow. The day had been a scorcher, a perfect day for a public holiday, a day at the races with a jar or three of cool wine. Instead…
“Get dressed, Rufus! There’s a flap on! The Procurator has a couple of dozen bints need nailing! Today! Get to it.” Rufus looked blearily at the Optio. “C’mon, Opt. find somebody else. It’s my day off! Got a nice seat at the races, in the shade, three jars of good Falernian, all nice and chilled. What’s the rush? Let ‘em wait. We can fuck ‘em all tonight and nail ‘em tomorrow. C’mon!”
“On your feet! You get double time ‘cause it’s a holiday. Got to be done today! Bunch of silly priestesses plotting to poison the Emperor. Stupid bitches! Good looking bunch, too. I wouldn’t mind having a go at them tonight, but the Proc wants ‘em stripped, whipped, nailed and screaming! Today!”
Rufus dragged on a tunic, one still stiff with blood from yesterday. “We got no crosses, Opt! used the last of them yesterday. That lot are still good for a couple of days, all strong, they is. Got no crosses.” The Optio sighed. “All in hand. I got some slaves rough shaping some trees we have in stock. Get on with it!”
Rufus collected his tools, a couple of bags of nails, and followed his superior out. The girls were huddled in a group, mostly sobbing. Good looking bunch, too. All young patricians, playing at being priestesses of that Asian cult. What was it? Arse something? Where they all danced naked? Astarte, that was it. He looked them over, all dressed in little white tunics. One of them had been manhandled, her tunic ripped down the front, pretty, pale little tits hanging out, the girl desperately trying to cover them. “No sense trying to hide ‘em, love,” Brutus mocked her, “you’re going to be showing us a lot more than that.” He gestured to one of the soldiers, “She’s half stripped already, get her naked and tied to the whipping post. She can be the first to get her back decorated.” He opened his bag, selecting a multitailed scourge. The girl screamed at the sight of it, begging, pleading and struggling as the tunic was ripped from her and her wrists were tied high up on the post.
Brutus was a man who enjoyed his work! He ran his fingers down her back, appreciating the soft skin covering the muscle underneath. His fingers trailed down, finding the dimples at the base before ascending the firm mounds of her buttocks. “No. Please. No.” She moaned softly.
He stepped back, rolling his shoulders, loosening the massive muscles. The leather strands hummed, then slammed into her back with a crack and a thud! Her scream echoed off the walls of the courtyard. “Oh goddess! Why? Why? I served you well! Why?” Her cries tailed off into broken sobs as she writhed, prettily, against the unyielding post. The scourge hummed again, drawing more screams. Brutus was efficient. In half a dozen strokes he stripped the skin off her back, no longer a beautiful back, from shoulders to buttocks, exposing thousands of nerve endings, yet not damaging the muscle underneath. After all, she needed that muscle to dance erotically on her cross, dance for days before she finally succumbed. He looked at the centurion. “Are they carrying their crossbars up the hill, sir?” The officer nodded. Brutus nodded. The lashes hummed once more, cracking against her shoulders, preparing them for the chafe of the raw, splintery wood she would carry to her death.
She was cut down, forced to her knees, the heavy crossbar, so recently a tree, placed ungently on the raw flesh of her shoulders, her slight body almost collapsing under the weight and the pain, as her wrists were tied to it.
Brutus was like a machine. Six strokes to strip the skin off a priestess’ back, a seventh to tenderise her shoulders for the carry. “Next!” He was sweating heavily; flogging women was hard work. The seventeenth priestess was his undoing. She was one of a pair of twins, exquisite, delicate nymphs, with masses of red hair cascading down backs as smooth as the milk their colour resembled, hair that was carefully coiled on top of their heads to prevent it impeding the whip. The first of the pair, number sixteen, had turned her beautiful green eyes on him, begging. “Please don’t hurt me, sir. I couldn’t bear it. I have done nothing wrong. I simply served the goddess. She hadn’t screamed at all, merely whimpered and sobbed as her back was stripped of skin. Her sister had been defiant, spitting at Brutus as he stroked the back he was about to ruin. She prayed loudly to the goddess as the first three strokes blazed across her back. On the fourth she arched her back, gasping! She convulsed again, then vomited a great gout of blood, before convulsing a third time. She was limp.
Brutus felt her throat for a pulse. Nothing. “Fuck!” He said, “the bitch has croaked!”
The centurion came forward, felt for a pulse. “You’re on a charge, Brutus!” He looked at the remaining seven girls. “Right! They go unmarked. Get those beams on their shoulders and get them up the hill!”
A long line of naked girls staggered up the hill, loaded with the beams they would soon become part of. Whips cracked if they flagged. Several fell, assisted to their feet with the help of a sharp stick applied to the anus.
Rufus waited for them, his thoughts still on those jars of expensively cooled wine. “Now listen, Rufus,” the centurion growled, “I want no more fuckups! Nice neat nailing, don’t hit any arteries. These bints need to be dancing for two, three days, four if we’re lucky.” Rufus nodded. “They won’t consider that to be so very lucky, will they sir?”
“Why do they have to scream so much?” Rufus had a headache. This mass nailing thing was no fun at all! Get the muscle to place the girl right, the bitch screaming as the splintery wood scraped against her flayed back. “Hold that wrist still, you gormless bugger. It’s only a girl!” The air was filled with screams, prayers, curses, moans, begging. This was the ninth one. The first half dozen were hanging, discovering the exquisite agony of iron spike grating against nerves and bone as their entire weight hung by four iron spikes. Two were being raised, screaming shrilly as the felt their weight hanging from the nails for the first time. He tried to shut out the screams as he felt carefully for the right spot on her wrist. Such a fine, slim wrist, such beautiful, soft hands. He found the spot, just at the base of her palm. Clear of arteries. Good, solid bone so that the spike didn’t tear out. She begged, softly, as she felt the tip of the spike against her skin. He swung the hammer, driving the spike through skin, bone, flesh; into the wood. She screamed! Shrilly! Four strong men struggling to hold down her slender body. Two more blows, the broad head of the spike nestled perfectly against her wrist. That arm was going nowhere! “Stop screaming, bitch!” He growled. “Anybody would think that hurt. You ain’t felt nothing yet. Wait until you’re hanging!” Move to the other wrist. Find the spot, three good blows.
“Hold her down, you useless bunch of fairies!” One leg had escaped their grasp, flailing desperately, her knee slamming into his kidneys. “Hold the bitch down! For fuck’s sake. Feet flat on the sides of the stipe! We’ll spread her legs for her!” Iron slammed through flesh and bone. Her legs were spread wide, tight little pussy gaping. Thighs straining! He slid a finger into the moist slit, felt resistance. “Oh, for fuck’s sake! We’ve got a virgin here! You! And you! Fuck her before you raise her! Even you should be able to get into her. It’s not as if she can close her legs!” He moved to the next cross, mumbling. “A virgin, for fuck’s sake! Worst of bad luck, that is. A fucking virgin!”
One after the other, twelve carefully aimed blows of the hammer for each of them. It was hot! Somebody handed him a wineskin. He took a deep draught, thinking about that icy cold Falernian. Girls screamed, crosses thumped into their pre-dug holes, wedges were hammered in. The little redhead lay on her cross, sobbing quietly. Green eyes pleaded silently as he found the spot, swung the hammer. “Oh! Goddess!” She gasped, her body arching involuntarily. The green eyes were accusing as he moved to the other arm. He nailed her feet, neatly, next to each other, as she whimpered softly. He stroked her face, wiping away the tears. “I’m sorry,” he said softly, undoing her hair to allow it to tumble over her pretty breasts. He turned to two of the gawkers. “You two! Make sure she isn’t a virgin, then lift her up!”
One after the other. Bodies to be nailed.
The last one was tall, slender, her breasts seeming too heavy for her slim body. She was unmarked, not even by the whips of the drivers as she carried her crossbar up the hill. She was calm, her eyes met his, showing…sympathy? Surely not, he thought, surely not. She smiled slightly as he winced at a fresh bout of screaming as another cross was raised. “The screaming hurts you. I am sorry. I shall try not to scream. I shall do my best, but…I may not be able to control myself. I am sorry.” She lay down on the cross.
Rufus looked at her. She was beautiful, serene. “You…you…are sorry? You are apologising to me?” He was confused. How many had he nailed? Hundreds? Never, ever, had one apologised to him. Never! “I…I…I…” he stuttered.
She smiled at him. “Deep underneath, you are a kind man. This is your job. You do it well. I shall try not to scream. It hurts your head.”
He felt for the spot, found it, hesitated. Looked at her. She nodded. He swung the hammer! Her back arched. “Oh, goddess.” She said softly, as he hammered the spike home. He did her other arm, his eyes drawn to her fine breasts as she panted away the pain. Each deep breath was released with a shudder. “Put her feet next to each other,” he growled at the muscle. The muscles in her thighs twitched as she tried to keep her feet still. He drove the nails home, wincing as he felt bones break. He glared at the eager volunteers pushing forward to ensure that she was not a virgin. “Piss off!” He hissed. “Leave her alone!”
She whimpered as she was raised, as her whole weight was taken on those four nails. He wiped the sweat from his brow. That Falernian might still be cold. He looked at her for the last time. She smiled. She smiled! He shook his head.
She took a deep, shuddering breath. “How long will I be here?” She asked, softly. He shook his head. Two days, three? Perhaps four. I’m sorry.”
He turned away. “Thank you,” she said. “There was no plot. It is all a mistake. The goddess be with you.”
He walked down the hill, leaving the screaming and moaning behind him.
“What a bitch of a day! What a fucking bitch of a day! I need a drink.”
Artwork by Crucificateur
