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Vignettes from the slave pits
- Thread starter theseus
- Start date
theseus
SERVILIS CURATOR
Shameless Slut!
“The slut! The shameless little slut! Has she no pride? She is flirting with that heathen barbarian who is pawing her. Shameless!”
Eleonore was tired! Tired, annoyed, embarrassed, humiliated! She and the others had been standing like this for hours. Naked, legs spread wide, hands behind their heads, displaying their bodies to the barbarians who were their captors, having to suffer their staring eyes and probing hands. The sun blazed down, hot, burning her skin even darker, she who had been so admired for her dark hair and clear, milky skin that, together with her beauty and virginity, had made her so valuable in the marriage market. Many days of walking, naked, through the desert had darkened her skin. As for her virginity, that precious commodity that her father had planned to barter for status and influence by marrying her to the Duke’s second son, that had vanished on the floor of their mansion, taken from her by a sweaty, dirty warrior, his armour slimed with blood, dirt and gobbets of flesh that had once been her father and his retainers. His armour crushed her breasts as he thrust into her struggling body. Her ears were filled with his grunted curses, overlaid by her mother’s outraged screams as she, too, was repeatedly violated.
Eleonore sobbed with a mixture of disgust and relief as his seed filled her. He staggered to his feet, but her relief was short lived as another took his place, and another, and another. One of them turned her onto her belly, preferring to use the tighter orifice, not yet slimed with the excretions of his comrades. She caught a glimpse of her mother, no longer the haughty, aristocratic lady, curled up into a sobbing ball, whimpring as a strong hand prised open her jaw to perpetrate a final humiliation on the older woman. Eleonore had stopped fighting, realising it was futile. Soon she too had her mouth filled with rampant, reeking, male flesh.
Now she stood, exposed, sneering at the girl from the northern wastes as the gamine blonde flirted with the prospective buyer.
Sigríður smiled at the barbarian pawing her breast. He was young, fairly good looking, slightly intoxicated. She liked his eyes. Sigríður was a realist. Her life had changed totally since the slavers had raided their tiny fishing village. Many of the villagers had died, deemed too young, too old, or too ugly to have any value. Others, like her parents, were taken because they were strong, and could pull on an oar until, eventually, worn out, they would be dropped overboard to feed the fish. The young, attractive ones, boys and girls, were kept to be sold as slaves, destined for the harems and brothels of this far off land. She had willingly spread her legs for her captors, knowing that resistance was fruitless, seeing her mother’s look of resigned approval as she pulled at the oar beside her husband, their naked bodies streaming sweat and already liberally marked by the whip of the overseer. After all, she had no precious hymen to protect. That worthless membrane had long ago been pierced by Halfdan, a young fisherman twice her age; on a bright, warm summer’s night, nestled in a pile of aromatic fishing nets. He, too, now pulled at an oar.
She glanced at Eleonore, noticing the sneer. She felt almost sorry for the once noblewoman. It must be difficult to adapt to their new reality. No longer was there an unbridgeable chasm of class, privilege and wealth between them. They were both equal now. Mere naked toys, destined for the beds of men, toys to be fucked, chattels! She smiled again at the man groping her, spreading her legs wider, easing the access for the fingers exploring her womb. She held the smile as he offered the fingers to her, licking her juices from them. He reached into his pouch, produced three small coins, and offered them to the dealer. There was a short discussion, another coin changed hands, and she had a new owner.
She gave Eleonore a smile as she followed him away. “At least I have an owner, one who is not old and fat and smelly. You are still standing there, flaunting your aristocratic cunt. I hope you don’t end up in a whorehouse, even if you are a stuck up bitch.” Swinging her hips, she followed her master to her new life.
Eleonore watched her go, suddenly feeling lonely. She studied the crowd. Perhaps she, too, should make eye contact with a likely buyer?
Artwork by Tamasser
“The slut! The shameless little slut! Has she no pride? She is flirting with that heathen barbarian who is pawing her. Shameless!”
Eleonore was tired! Tired, annoyed, embarrassed, humiliated! She and the others had been standing like this for hours. Naked, legs spread wide, hands behind their heads, displaying their bodies to the barbarians who were their captors, having to suffer their staring eyes and probing hands. The sun blazed down, hot, burning her skin even darker, she who had been so admired for her dark hair and clear, milky skin that, together with her beauty and virginity, had made her so valuable in the marriage market. Many days of walking, naked, through the desert had darkened her skin. As for her virginity, that precious commodity that her father had planned to barter for status and influence by marrying her to the Duke’s second son, that had vanished on the floor of their mansion, taken from her by a sweaty, dirty warrior, his armour slimed with blood, dirt and gobbets of flesh that had once been her father and his retainers. His armour crushed her breasts as he thrust into her struggling body. Her ears were filled with his grunted curses, overlaid by her mother’s outraged screams as she, too, was repeatedly violated.
Eleonore sobbed with a mixture of disgust and relief as his seed filled her. He staggered to his feet, but her relief was short lived as another took his place, and another, and another. One of them turned her onto her belly, preferring to use the tighter orifice, not yet slimed with the excretions of his comrades. She caught a glimpse of her mother, no longer the haughty, aristocratic lady, curled up into a sobbing ball, whimpring as a strong hand prised open her jaw to perpetrate a final humiliation on the older woman. Eleonore had stopped fighting, realising it was futile. Soon she too had her mouth filled with rampant, reeking, male flesh.
Now she stood, exposed, sneering at the girl from the northern wastes as the gamine blonde flirted with the prospective buyer.
Sigríður smiled at the barbarian pawing her breast. He was young, fairly good looking, slightly intoxicated. She liked his eyes. Sigríður was a realist. Her life had changed totally since the slavers had raided their tiny fishing village. Many of the villagers had died, deemed too young, too old, or too ugly to have any value. Others, like her parents, were taken because they were strong, and could pull on an oar until, eventually, worn out, they would be dropped overboard to feed the fish. The young, attractive ones, boys and girls, were kept to be sold as slaves, destined for the harems and brothels of this far off land. She had willingly spread her legs for her captors, knowing that resistance was fruitless, seeing her mother’s look of resigned approval as she pulled at the oar beside her husband, their naked bodies streaming sweat and already liberally marked by the whip of the overseer. After all, she had no precious hymen to protect. That worthless membrane had long ago been pierced by Halfdan, a young fisherman twice her age; on a bright, warm summer’s night, nestled in a pile of aromatic fishing nets. He, too, now pulled at an oar.
She glanced at Eleonore, noticing the sneer. She felt almost sorry for the once noblewoman. It must be difficult to adapt to their new reality. No longer was there an unbridgeable chasm of class, privilege and wealth between them. They were both equal now. Mere naked toys, destined for the beds of men, toys to be fucked, chattels! She smiled again at the man groping her, spreading her legs wider, easing the access for the fingers exploring her womb. She held the smile as he offered the fingers to her, licking her juices from them. He reached into his pouch, produced three small coins, and offered them to the dealer. There was a short discussion, another coin changed hands, and she had a new owner.
She gave Eleonore a smile as she followed him away. “At least I have an owner, one who is not old and fat and smelly. You are still standing there, flaunting your aristocratic cunt. I hope you don’t end up in a whorehouse, even if you are a stuck up bitch.” Swinging her hips, she followed her master to her new life.
Eleonore watched her go, suddenly feeling lonely. She studied the crowd. Perhaps she, too, should make eye contact with a likely buyer?
Artwork by Tamasser
I especially love this vignette., Theseus. The text covers so much, with imagination and style.
theseus
SERVILIS CURATOR
Thank you!I especially love this vignette., Theseus. The text covers so much, with imagination and style.
old slave
FELIS RESPICIENS
A new word to me, very useful in this context.
M
montycrusto
Guest
Masterpiece of vignette-writing!
theseus
SERVILIS CURATOR
Thank you! I am humbled.Masterpiece of vignette-writing!
theseus
SERVILIS CURATOR
Ready for Sale
“You are ready Chrissie. Your body is perfect, and I have taught you all I can. I have spoken to the dealer, and he will put you on the block at Friday’s sale.”
Emotions swirled through Chrissie’s mind. She was ready! Ready to realise the dream she had cherished ever since she could remember.
But!
Was she really ready? She would be leaving home, leaving her family. She knew that it was unlikely that she would ever see them again.
But!
She wanted this! She wanted this more than anything in her life! She knew she was prime flesh. She knew that men, and women, would salivate at the sight of her body, her small but perfect breasts; her shapely thighs; her silky, smooth sex; her full, inviting lips. She could imagine standing on the platform in the sale rooms, all eyes on her, all those people lusting after her body, prepared to pay a small fortune for the pleasure and privilege of owning her.
But!
She was free now, free to accept or refuse her future, to live her dream or to be a ‘normal’ girl, a girl who met a boy she loved, married him, and live happily ever after. Or not! She was free to choose to be sold, to realise her dream, to become a slave. That would be the last free decision she would make, at least for many years. She would have no control over her life for the next twenty, perhaps thirty years, until she was old and ugly, and was freed as being of no use as a sex slave, cast out into a world she would have no knowledge of.
She was ready! Her face lit up; her decision made. “I’m ready! I can’t wait! But, I’ll miss you. Will you come to the sale?”
“Of course! I would like to see who gets to own my favourite daughter. I hope that the training I gave you will make your life easier and happier.”
Chrissie rushed forward, her naked body moulding against her equally naked parent. “Thank you! I love you! You’re the best mom a girl could ever wish for!”
Artwork by Ziege58
“You are ready Chrissie. Your body is perfect, and I have taught you all I can. I have spoken to the dealer, and he will put you on the block at Friday’s sale.”
Emotions swirled through Chrissie’s mind. She was ready! Ready to realise the dream she had cherished ever since she could remember.
But!
Was she really ready? She would be leaving home, leaving her family. She knew that it was unlikely that she would ever see them again.
But!
She wanted this! She wanted this more than anything in her life! She knew she was prime flesh. She knew that men, and women, would salivate at the sight of her body, her small but perfect breasts; her shapely thighs; her silky, smooth sex; her full, inviting lips. She could imagine standing on the platform in the sale rooms, all eyes on her, all those people lusting after her body, prepared to pay a small fortune for the pleasure and privilege of owning her.
But!
She was free now, free to accept or refuse her future, to live her dream or to be a ‘normal’ girl, a girl who met a boy she loved, married him, and live happily ever after. Or not! She was free to choose to be sold, to realise her dream, to become a slave. That would be the last free decision she would make, at least for many years. She would have no control over her life for the next twenty, perhaps thirty years, until she was old and ugly, and was freed as being of no use as a sex slave, cast out into a world she would have no knowledge of.
She was ready! Her face lit up; her decision made. “I’m ready! I can’t wait! But, I’ll miss you. Will you come to the sale?”
“Of course! I would like to see who gets to own my favourite daughter. I hope that the training I gave you will make your life easier and happier.”
Chrissie rushed forward, her naked body moulding against her equally naked parent. “Thank you! I love you! You’re the best mom a girl could ever wish for!”
Artwork by Ziege58
theseus
SERVILIS CURATOR
It is not only women who become sex slaves. Men suffer the same fate, sometimes with more horrifying consequences.
Auction Day
Perhaps he would wake up. Perhaps, just perhaps, this really was just a bad dream, a nightmare, and he would wake up in his bed, in his comfortable little apartment.
Except that he knew that this was no dream. No nightmare. This was real! Horribly, tragically real! He wondered whether there was a missing person report filed for him. After all, it had been four days since he had been taken, kidnapped while running in the park. Surely Lynne, his fiancée, would have gone to the police, reported his disappearance? Surely, they would be searching for him?
He looked out of the window, through the heavy wire mesh, at the shimmering heat haze over the desert. There was no chance that he would be found. He was not even on the same continent now. The flight had been too long, it seemed to go on forever, while their two captors chatted, drank beer and taunted the seven naked, handcuffed young men, each crouching uncomfortably in their tiny, steel barred shipping cages.
“Nice cock, boy,” the pudgy, constantly sweating thug purred, his hand stroking Richard to involuntary erection. “Nice body, too, especially once they get rid of that nasty body hair. Them Ayrabs is gonna pay top dollar for your nice, hard bod. Ever sucked cock, boy? You gonna get used to it!” He giggled hysterically, clutching at the crotch of his jeans. “Wanna get some practice?” He unzipped his fly, revealing a lack of underwear and a semi-erect, not too clean penis. “Want some practice, boy? You gonna be doing a lot of cocksucking, boy, when you not lying on your belly with a fat, smelly Ayrab shoving his cock up your asshole.”
They had been unloaded at an airport in the desert. The open truck, loaded with their cages, had bumped for miles in the dusty heat, before pulling into a compound. Robed men, each armed with a short, vicious looking whip and a cattle prod waited for them. Their cages were opened and they half crawled, half slithered out into the dust, still in their painfully constricting hogties. The link connecting his handcuffs to his ankle chains was released, and Richard joined the others as they painfully struggled to their feet, hampered by their hands still being cuffed behind them and the short length of chain connecting their ankles, while being encouraged by liberal use of the electric cattle prods.
It was almost time. He could hear the guards down the corridor. Soon he would be taken to the viewing pen, to be examined, pawed, and then sold. Sold! How was this possible? In the twenty-first century? Sold?
He looked down at his cock, stubbornly half erect. Somehow, a part of him was excited at the thought of being sold. What then? After the sale? The sounds went around and around in his head. The pleading voice. “No! Please Sir? No! You can’t do this to me! It’s inhuman! Gelding me like a steer! No!” The sound of a man, sobbing. Laughter. Hysterical screaming! “No!!! Not that too! Noooo!!!”
The man, no longer a man, was brought into the cell some time later. His wound was neat. Tiny sutures ensuring minimal scarring. A tube poked out between the stitches. There was no dressing. Richard almost vomited. There was nothing left. Nothing!
Keys rattled in the door. It was time. Auction time. He looked down, once more at his manhood. Was he destined for the same fate? It was out of his hands.
He was a slave.
Auction Day
Perhaps he would wake up. Perhaps, just perhaps, this really was just a bad dream, a nightmare, and he would wake up in his bed, in his comfortable little apartment.
Except that he knew that this was no dream. No nightmare. This was real! Horribly, tragically real! He wondered whether there was a missing person report filed for him. After all, it had been four days since he had been taken, kidnapped while running in the park. Surely Lynne, his fiancée, would have gone to the police, reported his disappearance? Surely, they would be searching for him?
He looked out of the window, through the heavy wire mesh, at the shimmering heat haze over the desert. There was no chance that he would be found. He was not even on the same continent now. The flight had been too long, it seemed to go on forever, while their two captors chatted, drank beer and taunted the seven naked, handcuffed young men, each crouching uncomfortably in their tiny, steel barred shipping cages.
“Nice cock, boy,” the pudgy, constantly sweating thug purred, his hand stroking Richard to involuntary erection. “Nice body, too, especially once they get rid of that nasty body hair. Them Ayrabs is gonna pay top dollar for your nice, hard bod. Ever sucked cock, boy? You gonna get used to it!” He giggled hysterically, clutching at the crotch of his jeans. “Wanna get some practice?” He unzipped his fly, revealing a lack of underwear and a semi-erect, not too clean penis. “Want some practice, boy? You gonna be doing a lot of cocksucking, boy, when you not lying on your belly with a fat, smelly Ayrab shoving his cock up your asshole.”
They had been unloaded at an airport in the desert. The open truck, loaded with their cages, had bumped for miles in the dusty heat, before pulling into a compound. Robed men, each armed with a short, vicious looking whip and a cattle prod waited for them. Their cages were opened and they half crawled, half slithered out into the dust, still in their painfully constricting hogties. The link connecting his handcuffs to his ankle chains was released, and Richard joined the others as they painfully struggled to their feet, hampered by their hands still being cuffed behind them and the short length of chain connecting their ankles, while being encouraged by liberal use of the electric cattle prods.
It was almost time. He could hear the guards down the corridor. Soon he would be taken to the viewing pen, to be examined, pawed, and then sold. Sold! How was this possible? In the twenty-first century? Sold?
He looked down at his cock, stubbornly half erect. Somehow, a part of him was excited at the thought of being sold. What then? After the sale? The sounds went around and around in his head. The pleading voice. “No! Please Sir? No! You can’t do this to me! It’s inhuman! Gelding me like a steer! No!” The sound of a man, sobbing. Laughter. Hysterical screaming! “No!!! Not that too! Noooo!!!”
The man, no longer a man, was brought into the cell some time later. His wound was neat. Tiny sutures ensuring minimal scarring. A tube poked out between the stitches. There was no dressing. Richard almost vomited. There was nothing left. Nothing!
Keys rattled in the door. It was time. Auction time. He looked down, once more at his manhood. Was he destined for the same fate? It was out of his hands.
He was a slave.
theseus
SERVILIS CURATOR
Awaiting Trial
“Is this a joke? Since when is contradicting your husband a criminal offence? And why must I be held like this? This is indecent! Obscene!” Astrid had been defiant when the police had burst into her house. Now she was just frightened.
The policeman sighed. “I told you once, bitch. I’ll tell you once more. The Marital Relationship Act came into effect yesterday. Last night you were heard to raise your voice when speaking to your husband. This was reported as required by the law. You will be taken for trial. If you’re lucky, as it is a first offence, and if your husband pleads for mercy for you, you will get away with a public whipping. Now! If I hear one more complaint from you, I will ensure that you are also sentenced to six months in a chain gang. Understood!”
Astrid was silent. The world had gone mad!
The guards made a point of leading her to the court by a circuitous route through the streets. There were pointed fingers and laughter at the naked woman, tripping over her chains. There were lewd comments, pointed references to the size and firmness of her breasts, her naked, shaved cunt.
The court was full. To her surprise, the judge was a woman. She sighed with relief. She would be sympathetic, surely?
The judge was in a hurry. “Prisoner Jones, you are accused of raising your voice to your Husband and Master. How do you plead?”
Astrid took a deep breath to calm herself. “With respect, Your Honour, he is my husband, but not my master.”
The judge smiled, grimly. “The court will note that the prisoner has effectively entered a plea of ‘Guilty’. I will proceed with sentencing.”
“Hang on a minute!” Astrid erupted. “I have been in this court for less than a minute, and you have decided that I am guilty! What kind of a court is this?”
The judge’s expression was grim. “The prisoner will be gagged!” Two orderlies moved rapidly to her side, forcing a wooden plug into her mouth, secured by a leather strap. “I sentence the prisoner to fifty lashes of the whip, to be administered in public to her naked body. I further sentence the prisoner to be released to her Husband and Master on probation., for a period of ten years. The conditions of her probation are that she is prohibited from wearing any clothing or using any other means to conceal her person. I further rule that the Free Use symbol be tattooed on her forehead, her breasts and her buttocks.” Astrid’s protests came out as no more than incoherent grunts.
The Judge had not finished. “For her ill-disciplined outburst in this court, the prisoner is sentenced to one hundred days of community service for each of the years of her probation, a total of one thousand days. The community service will be served at Municipal Brothel #4.”
As Astrid was led away, to the town square where she would have her back turned into bloody shreds, it seemed to her that the whipping was the least of the punishments. Perhaps, just perhaps, her outburst last night had been excessive. Perhaps she should have agreed to her husband’s demand for a blowjob. If only his cock had not been redolent with the smell and taste of the woman he had obviously fucked shortly before returning home. She gave a wry smile. “Well, that bitch of a judge had turned the tables on him. He would have to get used to the smell of the hordes of men who would use her during her thousand days as a whore!”
“Is this a joke? Since when is contradicting your husband a criminal offence? And why must I be held like this? This is indecent! Obscene!” Astrid had been defiant when the police had burst into her house. Now she was just frightened.
The policeman sighed. “I told you once, bitch. I’ll tell you once more. The Marital Relationship Act came into effect yesterday. Last night you were heard to raise your voice when speaking to your husband. This was reported as required by the law. You will be taken for trial. If you’re lucky, as it is a first offence, and if your husband pleads for mercy for you, you will get away with a public whipping. Now! If I hear one more complaint from you, I will ensure that you are also sentenced to six months in a chain gang. Understood!”
Astrid was silent. The world had gone mad!
The guards made a point of leading her to the court by a circuitous route through the streets. There were pointed fingers and laughter at the naked woman, tripping over her chains. There were lewd comments, pointed references to the size and firmness of her breasts, her naked, shaved cunt.
The court was full. To her surprise, the judge was a woman. She sighed with relief. She would be sympathetic, surely?
The judge was in a hurry. “Prisoner Jones, you are accused of raising your voice to your Husband and Master. How do you plead?”
Astrid took a deep breath to calm herself. “With respect, Your Honour, he is my husband, but not my master.”
The judge smiled, grimly. “The court will note that the prisoner has effectively entered a plea of ‘Guilty’. I will proceed with sentencing.”
“Hang on a minute!” Astrid erupted. “I have been in this court for less than a minute, and you have decided that I am guilty! What kind of a court is this?”
The judge’s expression was grim. “The prisoner will be gagged!” Two orderlies moved rapidly to her side, forcing a wooden plug into her mouth, secured by a leather strap. “I sentence the prisoner to fifty lashes of the whip, to be administered in public to her naked body. I further sentence the prisoner to be released to her Husband and Master on probation., for a period of ten years. The conditions of her probation are that she is prohibited from wearing any clothing or using any other means to conceal her person. I further rule that the Free Use symbol be tattooed on her forehead, her breasts and her buttocks.” Astrid’s protests came out as no more than incoherent grunts.
The Judge had not finished. “For her ill-disciplined outburst in this court, the prisoner is sentenced to one hundred days of community service for each of the years of her probation, a total of one thousand days. The community service will be served at Municipal Brothel #4.”
As Astrid was led away, to the town square where she would have her back turned into bloody shreds, it seemed to her that the whipping was the least of the punishments. Perhaps, just perhaps, her outburst last night had been excessive. Perhaps she should have agreed to her husband’s demand for a blowjob. If only his cock had not been redolent with the smell and taste of the woman he had obviously fucked shortly before returning home. She gave a wry smile. “Well, that bitch of a judge had turned the tables on him. He would have to get used to the smell of the hordes of men who would use her during her thousand days as a whore!”
That’s a new one on CruxForums! Kudos, Theseus!
Uh huh. This is why I refuse to do a BJ. Disgusting. Who knows where it’s been? And where’s the pleasure in that for a woman? Who wants to be forced to gag? Yuck!
What? They’ve passed a law against what I just said? When? Now? …. Oh shit! … and the standard sentence if convicted is what????
Ohhhh nooooo!!! Not that!!!!
(Leaving the punishment to Theseus’ and everyone else’s imagination).
twonines
LIMERICUS
A pleasant way to spend an afternoon, devising suitable punishments for the delectable Ms. Moore and imagining her erotic contortions in response to them.
Gibbs505
SERVORUM DOMITOR
Yes, very pleasant and interesting!
M
montycrusto
Guest
theseus
SERVILIS CURATOR
Time for a mother and daughter chat.
“Well girl, think of it this way. You and your mother will have plenty of time to chat. They do say that sharing experiences is good for inter-generational bonding.” Helga stared, helplessly, at her mother’s body, writhing in agony on the cross. Beyond her, she could see her own cross, waiting for her. Waiting for her to be joined to it, for eternity, by four iron spikes.
Her mother strained against the spikes in her feet, trying not to scream, whimpering as iron grated against shattered bones, desperately trying to take the weight off her arms so that she could breathe. She dragged in deep, shuddering breaths. “Be brave, my child, be brave.” Her voice was broken, her throat raw from screaming, from abuse, from oral rape. “Do not give these monsters the satisfaction of begging. Be proud!” She managed to straighten her knees, all her weight now on her feet. She gasped as a broken bone shifted. “Oh! Gods! It hurts! It hurts so much!” It came out as a harsh croak.
“Get on with it, Lucius, for fuck’s sake! They can gab when they’re hanging. Let’s get her arms nailed, give her a last fuck, get her up and nail her feet.” Silas was a massive brute of a man, the hammer in his fist looking like a toy. Four spikes stuck out from between the fingers of his other hand. Helga’s knees buckled. Those spikes would soon be driven though her flesh, would shatter bones, causing agony that would last for the rest of her life. Her impending rape held no terrors for her. After all, a whole squad of guards had spent the previous days ensuring that neither she nor her mother were crucified as virgins.
Lucius laughed, pushing he forward toward the rough wooden beam. “That’s a truth, Sile,” he chortled. Legate says to keep ‘em dancing for at least three days, otherwise we’re on shithouse detail for the rest of the year. They’ll have plenty of time for small talk and reminiscing about the good old days.” He pushed her forward again, tripping her so that she fell, hard, next to the beam to which she would be joined. “Yep,” Lucius chortled, “they can hang out and chat for days.”
Her mother’s knees buckled. Her screech of agony, as her full weight was suddenly transferred to the spikes through her wrists, echoed from the hills. Lucius cut the cord binding Helga’s wrists, spreading her arms out on the crossbar. Silas knelt on her forearm, placed a spike on the right spot, and swung the hammer. Helga started screaming!
The mother and daughter duet would last for three days. And all because her father had tried to cheat the Aedile out of his “commission”. Three days! One day for each silver coin her father had tried to save!
Helga’s screams intensified, as the hammer pounded in the second spike! Writhing, twisting in agony, Helga almost welcomed the rape.
Her mother watched from her vantage point. They would have much to discuss in the coming days.
Artwork by Jastrow (I think.)
“Well girl, think of it this way. You and your mother will have plenty of time to chat. They do say that sharing experiences is good for inter-generational bonding.” Helga stared, helplessly, at her mother’s body, writhing in agony on the cross. Beyond her, she could see her own cross, waiting for her. Waiting for her to be joined to it, for eternity, by four iron spikes.
Her mother strained against the spikes in her feet, trying not to scream, whimpering as iron grated against shattered bones, desperately trying to take the weight off her arms so that she could breathe. She dragged in deep, shuddering breaths. “Be brave, my child, be brave.” Her voice was broken, her throat raw from screaming, from abuse, from oral rape. “Do not give these monsters the satisfaction of begging. Be proud!” She managed to straighten her knees, all her weight now on her feet. She gasped as a broken bone shifted. “Oh! Gods! It hurts! It hurts so much!” It came out as a harsh croak.
“Get on with it, Lucius, for fuck’s sake! They can gab when they’re hanging. Let’s get her arms nailed, give her a last fuck, get her up and nail her feet.” Silas was a massive brute of a man, the hammer in his fist looking like a toy. Four spikes stuck out from between the fingers of his other hand. Helga’s knees buckled. Those spikes would soon be driven though her flesh, would shatter bones, causing agony that would last for the rest of her life. Her impending rape held no terrors for her. After all, a whole squad of guards had spent the previous days ensuring that neither she nor her mother were crucified as virgins.
Lucius laughed, pushing he forward toward the rough wooden beam. “That’s a truth, Sile,” he chortled. Legate says to keep ‘em dancing for at least three days, otherwise we’re on shithouse detail for the rest of the year. They’ll have plenty of time for small talk and reminiscing about the good old days.” He pushed her forward again, tripping her so that she fell, hard, next to the beam to which she would be joined. “Yep,” Lucius chortled, “they can hang out and chat for days.”
Her mother’s knees buckled. Her screech of agony, as her full weight was suddenly transferred to the spikes through her wrists, echoed from the hills. Lucius cut the cord binding Helga’s wrists, spreading her arms out on the crossbar. Silas knelt on her forearm, placed a spike on the right spot, and swung the hammer. Helga started screaming!
The mother and daughter duet would last for three days. And all because her father had tried to cheat the Aedile out of his “commission”. Three days! One day for each silver coin her father had tried to save!
Helga’s screams intensified, as the hammer pounded in the second spike! Writhing, twisting in agony, Helga almost welcomed the rape.
Her mother watched from her vantage point. They would have much to discuss in the coming days.
Artwork by Jastrow (I think.)
M
montycrusto
Guest
Yes, it’s @Jastrow , I’m sure! Great vignette, loved all the details!
theseus
SERVILIS CURATOR
Budget Night
“I fucking hate budget nights.” Rosa growled unhappily. “This is the third week in a row I’ve been assigned this fucking duty!” Emily laughed. “Fucking duty. No doubt about that! At least you only have a month left of your sentence. Four more weeks and you’re out of here. I’ve got nine months left!”
The brothel at the Special Prison for Female Offenders was a busy place. Each inmate had a daily quota to fill. Failure to do so was punished, painfully and with utmost humiliation. The Governor of the prison, a man with a sense of civic responsibility, had inaugurated the concept of budget nights some months previously. Aware that not all the citizens of the city could afford the regular prices of the brothel, he started a system where prisoners were made available at a very affordable price. After all, the prisoner/whores were unpaid, and the prison ran at a handsome profit.
“I just wish they wouldn’t assfuck me so often. What’s wrong with my cunt?” Budget girls were chained to the wall with their legs pulled up way above their heads and spread wide. For the clients it was a quick, stand-up job. Each one had a mere six minutes for his few coins. He had to get his satisfaction quickly! An arse was tight, gave fast satisfaction. For the girls? Well, they had no choice!
The new laws in the state were draconian, and were aimed at keeping women subservient. Even the tiniest infringement by a woman earned heavy punishment. All sentences included service in a prison brothel. Women from 18 to 80 served their time equally. Rosa had been sentenced to 6 months for littering. She had dropped her candy wrapper in the bin, but hadn’t noticed that a swirl of wind had lifted it out and onto the park lawn. Six Months! A quota of ten clients per day, five days week, in the brothel. Budget nights were served on her days off! Four hours! Ten per hour! Forty per shift. Further down the line of beds she could hear granny Wilson praying. “Poor old bitch,” she thought, “she must be seventy, if she is a day. Poor old bitch, she has two holes, same as me.”
Emily sighed as she heard the clack of the turnstile, as the first customer entered. She had been here for three months, three months of her one year sentence. Her crime? Not stopping at a stop street. She had stopped; her front wheels a mere six inches over the line. The cop had grinned, his eyes devouring her; the long, tanned legs in short shorts, the cropped top clearly revealing her bra-less state. He had been the first to fuck her, certainly not the last.
Footsteps and laughter sounded. Emily looked between those long legs, so invitingly, so obscenely, spread, at the wobbling paunch of the first client. Beside her, Rosa started sobbing.
“For what we are about to receive.” She said, softly.
Budget time at State Brothel #14.
“I fucking hate budget nights.” Rosa growled unhappily. “This is the third week in a row I’ve been assigned this fucking duty!” Emily laughed. “Fucking duty. No doubt about that! At least you only have a month left of your sentence. Four more weeks and you’re out of here. I’ve got nine months left!”
The brothel at the Special Prison for Female Offenders was a busy place. Each inmate had a daily quota to fill. Failure to do so was punished, painfully and with utmost humiliation. The Governor of the prison, a man with a sense of civic responsibility, had inaugurated the concept of budget nights some months previously. Aware that not all the citizens of the city could afford the regular prices of the brothel, he started a system where prisoners were made available at a very affordable price. After all, the prisoner/whores were unpaid, and the prison ran at a handsome profit.
“I just wish they wouldn’t assfuck me so often. What’s wrong with my cunt?” Budget girls were chained to the wall with their legs pulled up way above their heads and spread wide. For the clients it was a quick, stand-up job. Each one had a mere six minutes for his few coins. He had to get his satisfaction quickly! An arse was tight, gave fast satisfaction. For the girls? Well, they had no choice!
The new laws in the state were draconian, and were aimed at keeping women subservient. Even the tiniest infringement by a woman earned heavy punishment. All sentences included service in a prison brothel. Women from 18 to 80 served their time equally. Rosa had been sentenced to 6 months for littering. She had dropped her candy wrapper in the bin, but hadn’t noticed that a swirl of wind had lifted it out and onto the park lawn. Six Months! A quota of ten clients per day, five days week, in the brothel. Budget nights were served on her days off! Four hours! Ten per hour! Forty per shift. Further down the line of beds she could hear granny Wilson praying. “Poor old bitch,” she thought, “she must be seventy, if she is a day. Poor old bitch, she has two holes, same as me.”
Emily sighed as she heard the clack of the turnstile, as the first customer entered. She had been here for three months, three months of her one year sentence. Her crime? Not stopping at a stop street. She had stopped; her front wheels a mere six inches over the line. The cop had grinned, his eyes devouring her; the long, tanned legs in short shorts, the cropped top clearly revealing her bra-less state. He had been the first to fuck her, certainly not the last.
Footsteps and laughter sounded. Emily looked between those long legs, so invitingly, so obscenely, spread, at the wobbling paunch of the first client. Beside her, Rosa started sobbing.
“For what we are about to receive.” She said, softly.
Budget time at State Brothel #14.
messaline
Crucified Amazon
Coming from the French "gamine" = petite fille ( little girl )
Oh yes… oh Ghod yes! Taken to an unknown fate, sold like meat, treated like livestock, subject only to the will of the new master.
A dream, this boy has such luck, and it is such a small price to pay in exchange for a beautiful life of servitude, degradation, and punishment. You will understand your luck after a year or two under the lash, boy!
thank you!
theseus
SERVILIS CURATOR
Divorce Settlement.
“Honey, I really think this is the best solution for both of us.” Laura looked good, very good. Somehow, handcuffs suited her. Her expression was neutral. We were past the stage of tears, past the screaming tantrums, past the silent sulks.
“Look! A divorce is going to cost an arm and a leg, and neither of us will come out of it well. This way, it costs us nothing, and I should clear around forty grand on your sale.”
“And me? What do I get out of it?” her voice, like her expression, was neutral. Resigned.
Lust stirred in me. God, she looked good! “You get want you want, what you say I can’t give you. Plenty of sex, the kinky sex you say you need and want. The perversions you want, and I don’t feel comfortable with.”
She opened her eyes, those green eyes, like a deep forest pond, eyes you could drown in. “You’re so fucking conservative! All I want is a bit of adventure, to try new things, to explore, to push my boundaries, and yours! We could have so much fun!”
She had certainly pushed my boundaries. The trouble was, her boundaries were so much greater than mine. I had taken to sodomy like a duck to water, relishing the tight silkiness of her anus, so willingly and skilfully given, the depths of her throat, the rippling muscles of her vagina, muscles she religiously exercised every day. I had, with some reluctance, accepted the threesomes. Not that I was averse to having two attractive women in my bed, not at all. It was just that the realisation that I was the odd one out, that they derived much more pleasure from each other than from me, dented my ego.
There were other things I could not do. She had brought home an assortment of “toys”. Implements designed to hurt her. Clamps, whips, strange devices. She wanted me to push needles into her nipples, into her clitoris. I could not bring myself to hurt her. She wanted multiple men, all at the same time. “I reckon I could handle six, maybe even seven,” she said one night. “Maybe two in my mouth, two in my ass or cunt, one in the other hole, one in each hand. Wouldn’t that be fun?” I was appalled! She had other, even deeper, darker desires.
Suddenly she smiled. “How long before he arrives? The dealer?” I looked at my watch. “Forty minutes.” Bugger me! Now! Hard! I want your cum dripping out of my arse when he arrives.” She saw the doubt in my eyes. “Please? Please? This last time? Please?”
I couldn’t resist. She had turned me on to buggery. I bent her over the arm of a chair.
How could I refuse her last wish?
“Honey, I really think this is the best solution for both of us.” Laura looked good, very good. Somehow, handcuffs suited her. Her expression was neutral. We were past the stage of tears, past the screaming tantrums, past the silent sulks.
“Look! A divorce is going to cost an arm and a leg, and neither of us will come out of it well. This way, it costs us nothing, and I should clear around forty grand on your sale.”
“And me? What do I get out of it?” her voice, like her expression, was neutral. Resigned.
Lust stirred in me. God, she looked good! “You get want you want, what you say I can’t give you. Plenty of sex, the kinky sex you say you need and want. The perversions you want, and I don’t feel comfortable with.”
She opened her eyes, those green eyes, like a deep forest pond, eyes you could drown in. “You’re so fucking conservative! All I want is a bit of adventure, to try new things, to explore, to push my boundaries, and yours! We could have so much fun!”
She had certainly pushed my boundaries. The trouble was, her boundaries were so much greater than mine. I had taken to sodomy like a duck to water, relishing the tight silkiness of her anus, so willingly and skilfully given, the depths of her throat, the rippling muscles of her vagina, muscles she religiously exercised every day. I had, with some reluctance, accepted the threesomes. Not that I was averse to having two attractive women in my bed, not at all. It was just that the realisation that I was the odd one out, that they derived much more pleasure from each other than from me, dented my ego.
There were other things I could not do. She had brought home an assortment of “toys”. Implements designed to hurt her. Clamps, whips, strange devices. She wanted me to push needles into her nipples, into her clitoris. I could not bring myself to hurt her. She wanted multiple men, all at the same time. “I reckon I could handle six, maybe even seven,” she said one night. “Maybe two in my mouth, two in my ass or cunt, one in the other hole, one in each hand. Wouldn’t that be fun?” I was appalled! She had other, even deeper, darker desires.
Suddenly she smiled. “How long before he arrives? The dealer?” I looked at my watch. “Forty minutes.” Bugger me! Now! Hard! I want your cum dripping out of my arse when he arrives.” She saw the doubt in my eyes. “Please? Please? This last time? Please?”
I couldn’t resist. She had turned me on to buggery. I bent her over the arm of a chair.
How could I refuse her last wish?