The following fictional account is intended solely for readers of legal
adult age and in such communities where extremely graphic material of a
sexual nature is permitted. Should you not qualify, or prefer topics other
than non-consensual acts of torture, please read no further.
If you decide to continue, keep in mind that your readership is valued
and that constructive criticism valued.
Faibhar
(F,nc, tort, humiliation)
Zenobia, Queen of Palmyria
Two seasons had gone by with the Agony of Defeat. After initial abuse
shortly after her capture, Zenobia had been enslaved and sent to work at
the gristmill. The exercise had actually given her strength that she did
not realize was hers. The body felt much stronger and little did its
strength reveal that defeat was not yet to be part of history.
Work was arduous and the tattered skins given to wear hardly
matched her former designer wardrobe. Daily routine was monotonous. Each
day she was awakened before sun-up from her stall by livery hands and
chained to the mill wheel. At first, being the only woman on the wheel was
taxing. The other three with her were males and they had long ago adapted
to their fates. But the mill master was fair and at the end of each day,
Zenobia was released from the wheel to then be taken with the others into
the where they were groomed and fed, just like animals. Gradually,
the queen adapted to the harsh routine.
One day the arrival of the mounted city sheriff broke the drudgery and
charged most with excitement. Zenobia stopped, wrists chained to the bar
in front of her and head lowered as she heard her fellow workers unchained.
The growing stir of gathering townsfolk caused her to dispiritedly raise
her head.
Over the protests of the elderly mill master, the black-clad sheriff
announced his demand that the female move the wheel all by herself. No one
present had heard of the mill being operated by just one slave. It seemed
impossible to all. Aside from his relative kindness, the mill master was
concerned for the injury of one of his best.
Frustrated by the miller's recalcitrance, the sheriff looked around.
He proclaimed that a new house would be awarded to any who succeeded in
forcing the female to make one revolution of the wheel. Real estate was
currency these serfs could understand, he sensed, yet no one volunteered.
That is until a shout was raised. The miller's assistant came into
view. Looking down at the lad, the sheriff promised the grant, and then
nodded to a soldier to hand the a long, black whip, the kind
herders used for beating animals.
Digging in her bare feet, Zenobia gasped as the first lash tore through
the skimpy covering of her back. The developed upper body and powerful
legs pressed harder. More lashes sounded. To save her very skin, she
strained. Gradually, the wheel began to move. Heavy timbers creaked.
Leather from the whip smacked against the exerting body. Excited murmurs
filled the spectators. The sheriff's whinnied. More lashes
reported. Grunts from the female could be heard as she further bent to the
task. Cheers erupted as the wheel moved further. At last the revolution
was completed.
Yells for both the and especially the female erupted. Wildly
they applauded. Spent, the exhausted woman fell to her knees, arms
upraised by wrists still chained, oblivious of the approbation.
Quickly, the assistant was granted his reward and sent away.
Soldiers freed Zenobia. They yanked her to her feet. On the orders of the
sheriff, the guards ripped away the tattered remnants to reveal the female
body in all its shining definition. Adding heavier chains to her manacled
wrists, Zenobia's feet were then hobbled by more iron and she was led past
the throng to follow their lead to the arena.
As her heart and breathing slowed back to somewhat normal, she shook
matted hair from her face so that her eyes could see. The rabble may have
been excited by her nudity, but she proudly walked, knowing full well that
they had never seen such form. The lashes on her back were already
practically a distant memory. Scars would remain, but Zenobia knew that
now she had far more to worry about than mere complexion woes nor was there
any point to fretting over bad hair.
The mill master quietly wept as he saw his best worker led away. He
knew that he would never see the likes of her any time soon and he was sad
to see such fine stock led away.
Standing in chains with feet slightly spread, Zenobia looked down at the
young handmaidens sent to join her in the large circle. She patiently
allowed them to wash her body, dab ointments over her wounds and even
sipped from a chalice some cool water as it was offered. They hurried
about their work, and as soon as they finished, the took their gear
and ran away, leaving Zenobia standing alone, her feet planted in the
burning sand. Instinct told her that there was no use searching around for
the nearest exit sign.
Two soldiers came out. They did not seem to be bad looking to Zenobia.
She saw that one of them carried a large metal helmet. The helmet, it
turned out was for her and unlike most, it had only solid metal where
normally eyeholes would be. It weighed heavily and made her tilt her head
slightly forward. She could feel the tightening straps from the helmet
around her neck. A wide flare was supposed to leave room free for the nose
and mouth, but since the size was so large, all Zenobia could see was the
golden sand at her feet. Fresh air wafted only across her lower chin.
Small holes near her ears allowed her to thickly listen as the secured
the helmet. It muffled sounds. Her wrists were being unchained and then
she felt her ankles released from the shackles. As they departed, Zenobia
once more felt herself standing alone.
Somewhere, the sheriff was announcing the beginning of the games.
Applause from what sounded like a growing crowd seemed to surround her.
Zenobia felt fresh sweat begining to trickle down her exposed throat. She
strained to listen as the crowd became quieter.
The sheriff was saying something about archers. They would be shooting
"non-lethal" darts from cross-bows and she, the now blinded Zenobia, would
have to guess where the next shot would come from. One at a time, the
archers were to shoot, and stealthily they would run around the circle she
was in. Zenobia arched back her aching neck, trying to see from under the
helmet but all she could make out was more sand. The crowd roared again,
just as she thought she heard the sheriff say for the games to commence.
Muffled shouts seemed everywhere. She twisted and felt something
whistle past her calf, then land into the sand near her feet with a
"fffft!" Instinctively, Zenobia covered her with her long arms.
She turned and pivoted and tried to hear where the archers where over the
noise.
Fire exploded near the base of her spine. Zenobia cried out.
Reflexively, her arm dropped and her fingers felt until they found the
offending metal shaft. Gritting her teeth, she yanked and felt the dart
come free.
Seeing his advantage, one of the four Ninja-clad archers took aim. His
aim shot true. He tightly grinned as he saw the single-braided hair swing
wildly from behind the helmet she wore. He acknowledged the cheers, but
his eyes narrowed at the shiny metal sticking out from the side of her
large breast.
Zenobia stumbled backwards with the new pain. Turning, she blindly ran,
only to be stopped by a third dart hitting the top of her left thigh. She
doubled in pain. Her foot tripped. Legs entwined. Awkwardly, Zenobia
fell to the arena floor. On hands and knees, she fought to get back up.
Disoriented, the simple, but necessary move of just standing back up proved
difficult.
Another dart sailed forth, this time striking and sinking into the flesh
of the female's rear thigh. The sheriff leered as he watched the formerly
strong enemy thrash on the sand below. More slimy blood flew. The female
slave thought so strong got back to her feet though this time limped
considerably and no longer seemed so strong. No longer was any defensive
attempt made to cover her chest. The archers quickly made easy sport of
their wounded prey.
More darts sailed and more cheers erupted. The strong mill slave
pleased the gathered with her show of stamina but at last, the beauty fell.
Zenobia sprawled across the pit and lay panting. Sticking out of were the
numerous shafts. Blood traced the sweaty muscles. Other shafts had
imbedded and bent under her as she had fallen.
The archers slowly walked to where she lay. One by one, they removed
the dark cloths covering their heads. One of them bent down and removed
the dull helmet from the fallen queen. To the encouragement of the throng,
all then exposed their male members. Gobs of semen shot down and soon the
former queen of Palmyria was covered in a physical and emotional shame no
royal could ever forget.
His lustful appetite for humiliation yet to be sated, the sheriff called
out. He demanded that the queen crawl to him and lick his boot. The
archers lifted the weakened slave to her hands and feet. One of them
kicked as Zenobia's body was lifted. His blow landed in the side of her
wounded and wobbling breast. The slave fell over onto her side. Picking
her up, again, they prodded Zenobia to crawl across the sand.
Finally seeing the dark, matted hair and the persecuted body below him,
the sheriff sadistically extended one boot. Amused, he watched as the
former queen and nemesis slowly began to lick the toe. The rest of the
footwear, he proclaimed, had too much sole.
And besides, he was no heel, correct? The entertained populace had no
choice but to agree.
|
|
