The following totally fictitious writings of Faibhar are intended for the sole readership of those of LEGAL AGE. The ADULT ONLY material contained within is also for personal use only where local standards permit scenes of extreme violence, torture, sex and crucifixion. Please do not read further if any of these subjects offend, or if you are not of legal age. The following is for your sole enjoyment and your cooperation in not using the material in any other application without the express permission of the author is requested. Thank you. Faibhar Tortures, Tortures and More The eyes and full lips captivated most. Other features like a beauteous body seemingly the embodiment of all things feminine yet well-muscled in its athleticism, thick bronze locks cut unfashionably short so that lower curls reached only to mid-shoulders, high cheekbones on a flawless complexion, long arms and legs and white teeth also caught many an eye. But the eyes and lips drew immediate attention of those nearest. The same eyes whose sparkle now hardened and whose full lips once at times alluring now pressed into a sneer of disdain. "The others can ride the cart to town. Let their self-appointed leader pull them." The slaver was not about to argue. His future depended on preserving his contract with the Romans: all captured prisoners were to be collected by him and taken back to the city. There they could do with the prisoners as they chose as much as he was concerned. Just as long as he was paid for his part. The slaver shuffled to unhitch the waiting ox. From a corner slit of vision he saw the female in question step down. Wood from the two-wheel cart creaked. She didn't do too badly. Actually she did close to as much as he could have expected for the mangy, yet still dependable, nag. He only had to use the dusty strap once or twice, and waited until they were around a mound and out of sight from the Romans before he ordered a stop. He hung the strap from his belt and went to face the female. Her face was pleasing, but already shone from the arid air. Or was it exertion from pulling the wagon that prompted sweat to stream down from under the wet bangs? Regardless, it would be a shame to waste such fine wears when he could easily sell them and make a good profit. He slid the thick tether connecting the cart from her shoulder and said, "Take it off, slave. I want your boots and armor." His patience became exhausted. He swung hard. He had to make a point of just who was now boss and spitting in his face infuriated. It was hardly the way to go. Such impertinence must be quickly quelled. A roughened hand knocked her face to a side. The force was enough to knock anyone down, but she stood. His fist bunched and hurled toward her stomach. The slaver screamed a combination of fury and pain as his flying arm was deflected and then twisted. Assistants rushed over to help their crouching boss. Rods and other straps beat the offending slave. He got up from one knee and glared at the female. "Remove her outerwear, down to her boots!" They reached the city by mid-day. Uniformed soldiers surrounded the cart loaded with the captured. Two others pointed spears at the resting female as she hunched forward at the waist. The short gray tunic stained a sweaty dark gray and black revealed much. "Take them to the slave pens. That one," the centurion said pointing at the female as she bent panting, "comes with us." Those around the busy forum buzzed in speculation as to what would become of the attractive newcomer escorted away by the four legionaries. Disembarking male prisoners were ignored. Gossip flew amongst the merchants, affluent shoppers with their elegant styles, citizens and assorted slaves out doing their master and mistresses bidding, all vividly speculating as to the female's fate. Answers were many and varied though all agreed that where she was headed led to no good. Out of direct sunlight and high stonewalls kept the military barracks much cooler. In one gloomy room normally reserved for the quartermaster a lone pale figure stood, arms tied behind her back. Amongst the stacked provisions soldiers gathered to catch a glimpse. To all the shadows accentuated each ample curve. Glimmering light focused on pinkish nipples, sculpted ass and thighs, pronounced ribs, bunched calves, curved back, narrow ankles, white feet and thick auburn hair, as well as the small triangular mass of tight curls. Only the containers of wines and food stuffs in the sheltered surroundings remained mute. "Put her on her back, ass off the edge of that table." The same voice shouting orders earlier spat in boastful tones. "You'll all have your turn, but it is I who gets to be first." The others watched the blustering officer's approach to stand between the female's parted legs. He fussed with his tunic too late to respond to the war cry and see the white leg fly up. Its knee smashed below his belt. He howled in pain and staggered forward. The female's lower torso crunched. Her upper body rose. Foreheads butted. Too startled to defend himself, the centurion stumbled backward clutching his groin. A reddish bruise already erupted just above the Roman nose on his shamed face. "Looks like she'll need these," said another centurion, choking back mirth caused at the expense of his fellow officer and his ineptness in treating the prisoner. Ankle shackles linked by a short chain rattled in his uplifted hand. "Hold her legs down with these, and hook the middle of the chain to the floor." He waited as the wide bands of iron were wrapped around each ankle and chain secured before he approached between the parted legs, now safely held in check. Pausing prior to thrusting with his erect cock, and deciding it prudent to at least make a show of wreaking revenge, the Roman viciously backhanded the female. Whacked to one side, her head rocked. Hair sprayed across the wood. His open hand slapped in the opposite direction. He backhanded the chained female again. "That's for my fellow Roman..." "Wait," croaked the recovering first centurion. "Save this bitch. She must pay, pay and pay!" Hours passed in the storage room. Hours and many rapes, yet she did not cry out. Only the chortles and assorted grunts of the rutting soldiers were to be heard. The female remained quiet even as she was flipped over, bare front pressed against the hard table surface and cruelly sodomized. At last enough officers, infantry men, archers and cavalry soldiers satisfied themselves. One of them shoved the limp female off the table. She fell in a grimy heap, still on the stone floor, smeared legs slightly curled inward toward her chest as she lay still on her side. "Wash the bitch as best you can...Put on her garb...Take her outside...Time to let the townspeople have their fun..." A most interesting sight to the uniformed onlookers watching from their tower post overlooking the square came in the late afternoon when a couple of inventive locals entered the bitch at the same time. One faced her while the other entered from behind. From their towering perspective the prisoner with the upraised arms and spread legs took quite a pounding. Shortly after the two-on-one scene other soldiers appeared in the square. They reached high to unchain the bitch's wrists, caught her as she collapsed into their arms, undid her ankle chains and then dragged the bedraggled victim with them as they entered once more into the barracks confines. "You'll find this no ordinary whip," rumbled one of the centurions. The nude back chained spread-eagle before him remained impressive, yet she refused to answer him. His dark browns navigated along the various contours, ridges of the spine, defined ribs muscled shoulders and thighs. Despite his earlier conquest, inner urges revitalized. "No, this one has many tails, each of which end in sharp tips. It is used for only the severest of punishments... Like yours. You see it flays the skin. Cuts it easily." He paused as he saw hip muscles flinch then relax as some of the strands lightly teased the proffered flesh. "Surely one so worldly as you has heard of it. It is called a scourge." The flinch was the only response he got. He made a vow to see that change. Word passed quickly throughout the barracks. Many assembled in the room that was somewhat larger than the quartermaster's. Chained before one wall, like a living "X", stood the prisoner. Room was cleared in the crowded interior, and then it began. When the "X" was turned to face the others in the room, what their eyes feasted on proved dramatic. What color vividly splashed crimson across the lashed back as scourge after scourge cut was devoid from above her neck. Her face was ashen. Once sparkling eyes moistly swam in agony. Full lips shivered over chattering teeth. "What's a matter? Still not up for screaming?" The centurion's eyes steeled. He could see that the bitch was hurting. He nodded to underlings to crank what essentially was a vertical rack holding the bitch even higher. The clanking chains drawing tighter yielded nothing more than a short groan. Save for a few scratches and bite marks, her front provided a fresh canvas of sorts. Limbs pulled in four directions. Tits thrust outward. Rapid beating of her stretched torso increased its pace. Arm muscles lengthened as thigh and calves flexed. Only the big toes of the sweaty captive's feet touched the floor. The centurion knew that he could, and would, do better to make this bitch finally cry out for mercy. Reflecting briefly on the Roman psyche, however, he had to be impressed by her tolerance for pain so far. He stepped closer and wrapped fingers around one warm tit. Its soft bulk rested in the crook of his hand. Close as he was, he heard the short gasps of breath coming from the parted lips. His eyes bored into hers. Her smell intoxicated. Thumbing the raised nipple he said, "Now we do the same to your front as we did to your back. The scourge returns. However," his eyes wander down her shiny body, "this time will be a little different." Nodding to a waiting female slave, the centurion stepped back and watched as the slave expertly shaved away the triangle of curls. A soldier appeared from the side. In his hands he held two fish hooks. "Now this might smart a bit. Try to keep in mind it only gets better..." One of the hooks snagged a lower lip. A thin smile spread across the centurion's face as he heard the audible gasp. Chains rattled as the second was sunk into the yielding flesh. Turning to the soldier who had brought the hooks he said, "Start with three weights on each line." And to the one holding the bloody scourge, he gestured towards the lengthening labia with the dangling weights hanging toward the floor and said, "Start with those first." "Looks as though she decided to call it an early night," the centurion said to those gathered. Her head hung still as it lowered on her chest. A bloody lattice-work of lacerations marred the spread-eagled nude. Syrupy blood slowly dripping from fishing weights hung between her legs. Pulled labia not scourged purpled black in color. "Wash the bitch as best you can and throw on that old thing she wore. Find her a comfy cell for the night. She has an even bigger day tomorrow." Hours after the sun had risen, they came. Stiffness and soreness made it barely possible to move, and so the prisoner was dragged from her cell. "Give the bitch some water. Nevermind any food. Just bring the patibulum." Dark circles ringed the dulled eyes. Cracks and splits interrupted the fullness of her lips. Weight of the crossbeam demanded a forward lean. Numerous times the weight shifted causing her to lose balance. One end of the beam would crash into a building wall lining the narrow streets, or she would lose footing and land on both knees. Crowds would scatter or shout each step of the way as the Roman military escort carried standards and tried to maintain decorum. Outside of the city gates and atop a barren plateau the procession stopped. The female fell to her knees again. Hands untied her arms from the crossbeam. When it was lifted off, she fell face-first onto the dirt. Other hands promptly reached down and pulled her back to her unsteady feet. A sign proclaiming the prisoner to be another of the enemy was nailed onto the longer piece of wood. This upright was then raised and planted into the hard ground. "The bitch is not only our enemy, but was witnessed to attack a Roman officer. The penalty is death by crucifixion!" A glimmer of fire renewed in the fabled eyes as hands tore away the stained tunic. What cloth had adhered to scabs shredded as it was torn away. The fabled lips formed and oval and with the fiery eyes a croaking, but loud battle cry formed. The yell did not silence even as she was laid down, shoulders across the patibulum, arms outstretched, wrists upturned, prepared for the spikes that were to come. The enemy bitch had yet to answer the centurion's goal and beg for mercy.
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