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The following fantasy fiction is intended solely for ADULT ONLY personal enjoyment and only where local standards permit such content. Should you be in any way troubled by themes dealing with extreme torture and abuse leading to crucifixion and death please do not read any further.
Use of the "Faibhar" name any or all posted works for uses other than personal without the author's expressed permission is strongly discouraged.
Thank you.
Faibhar
Layla's Judge Jury
And
Crucifixion
Trim
Rising from the temporary stage arose a timber taller than any. Brocchus stood respectfully behind his boss, the dungeon master. Two armed soldiers, one of whom untied Layla's hands secured behind her back, joined them. Despite the early hour many jostled at the edge of the stage, vying for prime positions in which to view the scourging of the barbarian prisoner. Sun heated rooftops of surrounding apartments as if it too were seeking a good view from the lofty heights. Into the shadows of an opposing building moved a litter bearing Oppius Gellius Sorum and his hair-dyed mistress, her yellowish tunic clashing with his purple garb. A soldier pushed Layla against the tall timber as her arms were freed. Brocchus took hold of the soiled pale blue gown she wore and lifted. Applause greeted Layla's undressing. She stood nude before them, the still cool morning air causing goose-bumps on the taut skin.
Fasting for the past three days in that horrible cell had sapped much of her strength. Layla knew that she would not be scourged before the enemy without one last fight. Violently her right leg flew out impacting directly into the dungeon master's groin. Side-stepping she smacked the nearest soldier with her elbow. Stepping over the fallen dungeon master she flew at Brocchus from his blind side. Grabbing an edge of his scale armor she flung him into the post.
The assembled crowd cheered the courageous nude fighter as she battled with her hands and feet men on the stage with her. Brunette hair flew as she expertly kicked and punched. All the men were on the knees when she yelled and leapt high off the stage, landing on the porch of a store. More soldiers came. Pots and baskets exploded in the melee.
Layla fought as hard as she could, but experience taught her that the battle was futile. Two more guards jumped her, and then a third and fourth. She soon was at the bottom of a pile, ropes tightly securing her wrists and ankles. Consciousness of pains renewed in her chest, pain she had had to ignore during the scuffle. Darkness unveiled itself as more and more Romans got off of her. The sky seemed bright. She winced as hands lifted her up and she was carried back to the stage.
Brocchus recovered faster than his boss who had to be led away to seek further treatment. In his stead Brocchus assumed command. He ordered that the prisoner be stood upright. Taking her tied wrists, he attached a hook from the top of the scourging post and pulled. Her body fell into the timber, full tits wobbled to either side, arms secured high. He untied, and then retied her ankles to posts set in the stage, spreading her legs slightly outward.
Brocchus reached up and ran his fingers through her long locks, hair that reached to the small of her back. He would soon take care of that…"Who amongst you wishes a strand or two of hair from our lovely victim? Do keep in mind, such a keepsake of one to be crucified just might favor you with good luck." Brocchus bent down and rummaged around the inside of his workman's bag until he found what he was after. Pulling out heavy shears, he selected a portion of her hair and then cut.
Her chin set into the rough wood. Stretching high above ran her muscled arms. Layla heard Brocchus exhort the crowd and then felt as the first snip was made. She shut her eyes as more of her brunette hair was shorn. There was little she could do.
The crowd approached hysteria as Brocchus threw the cut hair into the air and it flew over their heads. People jumped and clawed with their hands. Those lucky enough to make a catch cherished their good fortune. Too soon the trimming ceased. Brocchus cut everything hanging down, using the top of the prisoner's neck as his guide. They quieted somewhat as they saw the old dungeon assistant lay down his tools and waited for what was next to come. The strung up prisoner's back now looked more naked that before. Only moments ago they had cheered this same person for her courageous fighting bravery. They began to boo their impatience.
Furiae enjoyed imagining herself as some myth incarnate; one with brass wings and talons. Sorum's mistress of several years by now knew well of her lover's quirks. Without turning her coiffed head and looking directly at him, she placed her hand over his lap. Already a bulge was growing. The mere sight of the helpless female was enough to capture his fancy. This could be turned to her advantage. Besides, the bitch with her hard body was asking for it. Brushing a red-gold ringlet from her face, she quietly smiled and with her one hand fondled Sorum's protruding evidence of his manhood. At least, she mused, it was cool where they were…
No longer were they pink. Brocchus inspected his handiwork. The nipples he had the other day so laboriously freed remained erect. Scabrous to be sure, but no longer hidden away by their invertedness. Bruising colored the rest of the surrounding area, but that was to be expected. He lightly ran the tipped barbs of the scourge around the fine tits, pleased that he noticed the prisoner flinch. The surrounding town folk reminded him of his foremost duty and that somewhere out there must be Sorum. He stepped behind the prisoner and aimed his first swing.
All viewing areas around the stage provided something. The opposing side, e.g., showed off plenty. There were the extended legs with their shiny definition; sides of the beating rib cage, the magnificent though bruised breasts, upper shoulders, clipped hair and so forth. And of course there was the sound: The scourge cracking as it sailed through the air, the sharp intake of breath from the victim, her muted sobs. Those on the sides of the stage were treated to a profile view every bit as satisfying as those early arrivals who had staked out positions behind the prisoner.
Sorum and his mistress Furiae had the best view, of course. Despite the swirling wind increasing and somewhat lowering the temperature of what had seemed to be another hot weather day, Sorum noted that the barbarian's fine body glistened-and not just from streaming blood caused by the scourge. He surmised her sweat was probably caused by the drama of the moment. At least, he and Furiae had good seats.
Brocchus halted the lashings. Taking a breather, he used his current position of authority and ordered soldiers to free her legs. Tip-toes scratched over the wood. He turned her around. Reddish skin down her breast-bone marked where she had repeatedly slammed into the whipping post. Her reddened chin, also scraped by the timber, fell to her chest. Brocchus stepped back to continue the scourging when he heard Sorum's baritone call out from the shadows. "She has endured much. Save her strength for what is to come."
Winking to the side at his perceived new fans Brocchus ordered and received a cup of hot wax. Inside the clay cup containing the melted wax was a brush that he then used to liberally coat the prisoner's dark triangle of curls. Brocchus then smoothed over the coating of wax three narrow rectangular strips of cloth. He allowed the wax to soak into the strips and then taking the corner of one ripped.
Layla moaned and her head raised and fell back against the timber. Brocchus threw the strip, with the attached hairs into the crowd at one side of the stage. Another cheer arose. He ripped another strip, and threw that hair-covered cloth to the other side. The middle strip he ripped away, but instead of throwing it to the crowd, brought it up to his nose, inhaled deeply, grinned and stuffed the rag into his belt. Looking back at his victim he bent forward and exaggeratedly inspected her now bald vaginal lips.
To be continued…
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