The following is a work of total fiction and intended solely for consumption by those legally of age and where ADULT MATERIAL is permitted. Strong subject matter is contained and is for those not easily offended by such. Any reuse of the material without the author's express consent is strongly discouraged. Thank you and enjoy. Faibhar Author's note: The following is a third of three episodes. Readers are encouraged to read the first two, though every attempt to make this tale stand-alone has been exerted for those not accessing the previous episodes. The complete work can be found on the bdsmlibrary pages. CRVCIFIED! III Small dust clouds trailed the plodding feet of the two elderly women as they rushed their way up the hill. One of them carried a small stone bowl. Both had been dispatched to nearby woodlands on a mission ordered by the centurion, and were now returning, their assigned task complete. Arneior dully stared at her shadow on the red soil below. It had grown since the last time. Her lungs insisted she repeat the inevitable. Beads clattered, cloaks rustled and murmurs grew as one then another jabbed fingers in the air. Keen eyes spotted the crucified once more preparing to lift on the nailed feet. Glossy blood glinted over and between toes. The two old women set their bowl down on the ground, eager to also watch. More obvious than the twitching toes, Arneior's whipped back slammed into the scraped upright. She fought to raise herself up until her arms were almost level. The female wailed in pain, gasped a few gulps of needed air before her strength relinquished, and then slumped back down to hang by wrists now much higher than her head. Hair reached down past the sunken waist swung and breasts jiggled. Arms stretched more from their sockets. The crowd cheered as the Viking woman hung suffering abject shame and exhaustion. Sorex fiddled with the garnet ring, and resumed composing his thank you note. The missive would be sent the next day to the port of Lepcis Magna and then on some ship leaving the Tripolita region of Northern Africa headed for Rome. Pasty pattern baldness gazed up in the cool atrium as the local ruler conjugated. He needed just the right composition for his father and the rest of the privileged back home. They must understand not only his gratitude for the gift of the toothless Dacian, but more importantly, the very reasons why his recall from this desolate part of the Empire demanded immediate attention and his prompt return. The burly centurion squatted next to the kneeling women. He ignored their crinkled skin and rotted grins. His interest lie in what the two had brought. In the middle of the clay bowl heaped a small mound of slivered seeds retrieved from the Mediterranean forest. What he saw pleased. The slivers would make excellent itching powder. Lightly coating the wart hog's tusk, he examined the curved piece mounted on the small piece of wood at its thickest end. Straightened it would be as long as his forearm, and the thick end was easily as wide as his wrist. The old women watched as the centurion rolled the tusk into the mixture they had brought and coated its entire length with the slivers. They made way as the Roman stood and waved it by gripping the wooden base. "This is to be her cornu. Set a ladder for me to climb." Arneior groaned as she felt the sharp pang, but almost immediately began to breathe as its point and the Roman lifted her up. Gratitude overwhelmed. The horrid lifting eased, and the new pain in her ass was a small price to pay for being able to breathe again. Shallow moves rapidly expanded and contracted her chest. Arms extended straight out. Arneior hardly noticed that her new position thrust her hips out as the impaling device was nailed in place to the upright. She was just happy to breathe. And then the itching took effect. Tribes people and Romans alike chuckled at the crucified. The female shifted from one hip to the next, aping some sexual move. All knew the movements were caused in a futile attempt to relieve the itching, but all knew that the moves only exacerbated her plight. Her contortions were actually helping the cornu dig deeper. They laughed and jeered at the lewd gyrations. The intensity of it all had blocked her recognition of the line of locals impatiently waiting. Arneior's chin slipped down to the beginning of her right arm. Her legs and hips continued to slowly grind onto the cornu. Half-lidded eyes first saw her right breast rise as it was prodded from below. Lacerated meat fattened. Her right nipple lifted until it was positioned into her mouth. Arneior swung her head away. Immediately the prodded breast was dropped. She cried out as its heft fell, tearing her chest. The back of her head hit the upright. Falling forward, her chin rested on her breastbone as she panted away pain of this latest torture. Those in line joked at the crucified's attempts to mitigate trauma caused by succeeding prods. Hollow cheeks sunk deeper, elongating and contorting the heavy mammaries in futile attempts to keep each from falling back down. Frantic efforts aside, the wet flesh inevitably slipped from the gripping lips. Each frustrating loss, every pain created by the weighty drops tore new cries from her throat. The jabbed and sucked spheres, already burned by the sun and lined with brownish-scarlet stripes, grew increasingly hard to hold as the slave's own saliva slicked the reddening breasts plopping out from her desperate sucking. Arneior did not realize the line below ended until she felt the slight shake of the upright and saw the Roman crest appear. The soldier's helmet was of some metal and Arneior felt heat from the hard surface as a cheek piece occasionally touched. Her head jerked to one side, pulled by the roots. There was a slice. A flash of dagger. A lock of matted hair waved once in front of her. Roots in the back of her head yanked. Another fistful of hair came free. The opposite side of her head tugged, and then was freed. She felt the soldier descend. Looking down from her cross, she saw the Roman distributing strands of her hair to the locals. The crowd then dispersed. The afternoon sun warmed her torn back. In the distance Arneior could see the ant-like trail of spectators returning to the outpost. Farther off she knew lay the coast. It appeared that she would be spending the night alone, save for the posted sentries who already looked bored as they listlessly gathered firewood for their camp. Much more animated were the winged creatures. Black-winged insects crawled over the tops of breasts, along salt-covered arms, inside the relative moistness of Arneior's mouth. They greedily fed. The flies were to be replaced at evening time by large mosquitoes. They also fed on the helpless human. Sorex breakfasted the next day. His thank-you note and plea for clemency accomplished, he summoned servants. Adjusting a pleat in the handsome embroidered ivory silk tunic, the provincial governor demanded his chair be brought. Two large Nubians carried in the impressive golden seat. Moments later, he was on his way to check on the Dacian. Arneior's closed eyes barely noticed the orange ball arising from the far horizon. She still shivered from the restless night. She did not open them, nor pay any attention to the approach of Sorex. Her whole being ached too much to care. One of the first things he noticed as he placed one foot down onto the hard soil and alighted from the chair was that the Viking woman still lived. That much was obvious, though her wounds shown all too brightly in the morning's sun. Shallow rising and falling of her stomach and ribs told him that she had survived. Not unexpectedly, her wrists and ankles were badly bruised where they were nailed. Not one piece of her pale flesh seemed untouched by tortures of the cross. Yet, she did not welcome his arrival. Sorex felt he deserved better. "Give me that staff," he said to the centurion. Using the blunt end, Sorex positioned it under her fallen chin and lifted. Her head rose. He could see the movement cause her eyes to flicker. "Congratulations. Did I not say you would last another day?" He removed the staff and the head fell back down. Sorex reached for his silver flask. True, it was a bit early in the day for his taste but the wine was delicious and being at the sight of the crucified female was hardly routine. He drank as his eyes considered her hanging form, dismissing the shorn locks as a cheap way to keep the superstitious locals happy by giving them souvenirs. He shrugged and replaced the flask. "But...I always give credit where credit is due. It is obvious that you are no slave, despite the titulus and your crucifixion." Sorex motioned to the soldiers and said, "Take her down. This woman does not merit a slave's death." He walked up to the cross and lightly kissed an encrusted toe, then spat out the distasteful grit. "You shall be freed, as you are meant to be." Arneior cried out as soldiers pried out one wrist spike. She no longer had feeling between her legs and did not notice the cornu removed from its deep wedge inside. Arneior was gingerly brought down from the cross and laid on her back. A female nurse wrapped bandages around each wrist and ankle. The cloth quickly colored as fresh blood seeped through. "Take her to the edge of this promontory." Romans dragged Arneior by her bandaged wrists. Below the rise waited Berbers with their camels. Sorex stepped to where they placed her overlooking the Nomads and the winding road. "Guess it is up to me to give you your start for freedom. Enjoy. It has been nice." His golden sandal pressed against the female's flank and pushed. Arneior at first felt relief return as she lay on the ground. Feeling returned as she felt herself dragged. She heard Sorex mention something about giving her liberty, and then felt his foot shove her down the slope. Over and over she rolled down the sand, picking up momentum, and then stopping as the hill leveled out. From where she lay, she could see the swarthy feet of the Berbers. She was turned over. The sky shown above. Arneior felt arms slide under her back and then lift. She let herself be carried. Her head bobbed as it hung along with her free arms and legs. Upside down, she saw the cross and the outline of Sorex standing atop the hill. He appeared to be waving. She heard the man grunt, and she was lifted. Arneior flipped face-down, and was positioned atop the animal. Her breasts squished against its hide. Her stomach felt the animal's warmth. She felt ropes tied around her middle to hold in place, but her arms and legs freely hung over each side. The camel whose haunches she laid across began to slowly walk. Her head throbbed and bounced as her forehead hit the animal. From what she could glimpse, the cross and Sorex grew smaller, and smaller. Arneior did not know how long she slept, but when she awoke it was mid-afternoon. She still lay across the beast. The sun on her back burned hotter. Craning her neck to lift her head and see, Arneior saw that they were no longer in the semi-desert. All she could see as she was jostled along were rolling dunes of sand. No longer were there any woods, or habitants that she could see. The camel stopped. The ropes that had begun chafing her waste were loosened. Arneior felt herself free of the animal. Before her were tattered brown robes. Below stood male feet shod in rough sandals. Piles of sand built around them. And then her universe flipped. The sand spun and then there was clear sky as Arneior felt herself fly through air, only to land hard on her back. She tried to protest, but the tribesmen were already moving away with their camels, leaving her behind. Arneior rolled over and took her bearings. Everywhere there was nothing but sand dunes. She crawled, and cried out for help. Sharp pains stabbed her wrists and lower legs. Managing to make some way on knees and forearms, she plowed through the sand. Arneior paid no attention to her breasts as they and their nipples soon dragged. She tried to follow the steps left behind by the animals and their handlers, but blowing sand began to cover the trail. Thirst consumed. Arneior spat out grit forming in her mouth and continued to crawl. A strange sound appeared. Several sounds, in fact. They sounded as though they were hissing and clattering at the same time. She turned in their direction and looked behind her. Arneior gasped in fright and crawled faster in attempts to distance herself from the African Marabou. More were joining the first two and the storks were closing, flapping their black wings and hissing at each other as they clattered their long beaks. A hundred feet in the air, buzzards circled. They knew enough about the carrion Marabous to let them scavenge first. They could wait. There would still be plenty for picking and besides, they didn't want to fight the other, meaner birds on the ground. One large circle in the sand below made by the human was almost complete. The Marabous saw their opportunity for fresh kill and were venturing closer in the wake left. The flying buzzards circled. The human had stopped crawling. The body lay still in the sand. In the heated air high above the desert sands they saw the emboldened storks move closer, ready to make their move. Soon, the buzzards instinctually knew, their turn would come. The End
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