SLINGSHOTS AND THE CRUCIFIED.

Please note that the following contains graphic scenes
of violence for ADULT ONLY readership. If you are in
any way offended by such themes read no further.
Should you decide to continue, make certain that your
local community standards permit such material.

This is written for personal consumption. Do not use
this story elsewhere without the author’s express
permission.

Thank you.

Faibhar.




       An ancient form of Chamber of Commerce long ago
lobbied that the sign of a cross perched on a hill
alongside the main road to the city was sufficient
deterrent and that rotting corpses on said cross might
possibly repulse potential boosts to the local economy
by visiting mercans, or merchants. Their measure,
readily approved by the politically sensitive
administration, decreed that the condemned should be
taken down, dead or alive, on their second day and
cast over the opposite side of the chalky rise to rot
on the scavenged bones of their predecessors. Out of
sight and therefore out of mind, the execution site
remained available to those intent on meting out the
most extreme form of justice while at the same time
the local business community was appeased.

       True, this crucified had lasted into the second day,
but clearly the last hours differed from the first.
For one thing, crowds of spectators had evaporated.
Secondly, dryness wrapped skin tighter around the
muscular form. Dehydration evaporated just like the
crowds. Scarce liquids remained. No longer did her
nude body shine luxuriant in its own wetness.
Congealed wounds cracked more blackly than former
rivers of red. Stamina proved to be a double-edged
sword for this shamed warrior. She endured through the
night through strength more of will than physical
attributes. An occasional flutter from her sunken
belly were all that indicated life yet remained. Gone
were the mad gyrations during yesterday’s nailing,
replaced by a repose broken only by increasingly
infrequent stirrings. Tangled and matted hair no
longer shown of gold, but limply clung in dank
disarray around a countenance once used to a beautific
command. Abject sorrow now replaced that former
confidant look.

       Stamina certainly was assisted by the cornu, or small
saddle she rode. Firmly affixed to the upright, its
phallic tongue deeply imbedded inside, it provided
support, allowing weight to somewhat ease from spikes
piercing her now swollen wrists and feet. Aligned with
prolonging her torment, she was able to breathe more
easily because of the tiny support.

       Too far away to be identified by the two sentries
posted near the base of the crucifix, two diminutive
figures emerged from the towering walls of the city.
They moved along the main road and at first appeared
to be headed in the direction of the site until an
abrupt turn into a nearby vineyard hid them from
sight.

SLINGSHOTS AND THE CRUCIFIED PT. 2

Please note that the following contains graphic scenes
of violence for ADULT ONLY readership. If you are in
any way offended by such themes read no further.
Should you decide to continue, make certain that your
local community standards permit such material.

This is written for personal consumption. Do not use
this story elsewhere without the author’s express
permission.

Thank you.

Faibhar.


Closer this time, the two returned to the main road.
The taller of the two sentries nudged his colleague
alert. He recognized one as the eldest son of the
local magistrate, and with him appeared to be his
personal slave. The more observant of the guards was
not about to have critical remarks make it back to his
boss. Whispering an aside regarding who it was that
approached, he urged his fellow sentry to look smart.
The boys detoured off of the road and clambered up the
side of the hill. In sacks they carried grapes just
picked from the nearby vineyard. They also brought
Y-shaped branches; the Y’s connected with strips of
animal innards.

Once atop the rise, they looked up and appraised the
hanging nude. Ignoring his father’s minions, the
patrician’s son inserted a grape in the middle of the
strip and urged his slave to do like wise. Aiming the
ancient slingshot upward, he pulled back on the grape
and fired.

Fruit skin burst as it hit just below her left breast.
Juice from the grape glistened as it erupted, a flow
immediately beginning down over lashed ribs. Another
grape hit, this time atop a breast and rattled
dangling chains hooked to her nipples. More juice
flowed over drying flesh.

The guard who had to at first be reminded of the VIP
guest’s approach chuckled at this mischievous stunt.
His more stoic counterpart merely smirked. Any
activity prolonging the inevitable was fine with him.
Both silently stood by and watched this latest action
unfold. It was, after all, not in their job
descriptions to interfere. Besides, this latest
development provided a new distraction.

One of newcomers shot a grape close to her parched
lips. The crucified showed more alertness as her
tongue sought out the fresh juice frantically
attempting to lick it all. Another shot landed
squarely between her two lips. She lapped at the
welcome refreshment, gratefully wetting her parched
mouth with its moistness. She even hungrily ate the
broken grape skin splattered around her mouth.

The one in wearing the royal tunic grinned maliciously
and extended a brown arm around the more humbly
dressed slave, turning him around so that the two
showed their backs to the crucified. The two conspired
as behind them hung the no longer parched, but once
again glistening form. As they huddled she begged for
more juice, ignoring the attracted winged insects and
the curious trail of ants ascending up her right calf.
Whispering so as not to be heard, the patrician’s son
ordered the slave to dump the rest of his gathered
grapes. Molding dirt around a small pebble, so that it
was roughly the size of a grape, he handed the lump to
the slave to use instead of the juicy fruit. Taking a
similarly sized lump for him, they both turned back
around to face the crucified.



Both sentries cringed as they saw first one clod, then
the other smack. Quickly recovering from the initial
shock, chuckles consumed even the stoic one. Dirt
covered wetly shining lips. The crucified recoiled and
tried to turn her head away, but of course, she could
not. The soil dried then turned to mud. A rivulet of
blood sprang from where a lip had been split, flowing
like lava atop a miniature volcano.

The slingshot shooters bent to reload when one of the
sentries noted to the other that the afternoon had
gotten really late. Shadows had lengthened and evening
was almost upon them. Upper class privilege or no,
official decrees took priority. It was time for all to
go. Orders were to leave no condemned on the cross for
more than two days, and orders must be obeyed. One of
the sentries spoke and told the two shooters to head
back. Upset at having their fun interrupted, the two
complied with great petulance.

With bars they freed her and lifted her off of the
saddle’s prong. She lay face up on the ground, nails
still in her hands and feet. Placing a hobnail sole on
her breastbone for leverage, one of the men tugged
free the hooked chains. Scabs ruptured as they came
free. He handed the links with their bloody ends to
his partner, and then removing his foot from her chest
he kicked her so that she rolled closer to the far
edge of the hill. One final nudge with his boot and
they both watched as she rolled parallel down the
craggy hillside to crunch to a landing atop scattered
remains below. Satisfied that their job was at last
complete, the two guards turned back for the city.

She hit hard, facedown into a pile of bones. Gasping
in horror, she agonizingly turned over and stared up
at the darkening sky. A few evening stars began to
show. Her eyes closed for a night that would never
end.



Fini