--- Tarquinius Rex

Spyder's Crossroad

They took her out to the crossroad before first light. She stumbled behind the wagon that bore her cross, tethered to it by a thick leather collar around her neck. While he had always required her to cover herself in public, she now wore only the loincloth that he allowed her in the villa, leaving her breasts exposed to all that the wagon passed.

The wagon drew to a halt at the spot he had chosen and she stopped with it. She said nothing as one of the two male slaves accompanying her yanked her tether roughly to move her to one side in order to remove the cross from the wagon. Both slaves would enjoy this, having felt the sting of her lashing tongue on more than one occasion. It was not only her master who felt she had too much pride for a slave.

She kept her eyes straight ahead, focused on nothing, careful not to look at the others crucified at this dusty crossroad. They pulled the tall cross most of the way from the wagon, leaving it leaning against the back to fasten her to it as their master had specified. She did not realize that she would hang in an unusual manner for this community.

The slave that had first yanked her tether did so again, this time bringing her to straddle the pole that would stand in the ground. He pushed her back onto the pole, enjoying the pain it caused to her as the raw skin of her back scraped against the rough post. She did not struggle as they wrapped bindings tightly from hand to elbow, but gasped as the slaves yanked her legs roughly down the post to stretch her arms as far as the bindings would allow. Splinters from the post drew fresh blood from her back. One slave grasped her left leg roughly and brought across the pole. The other was brought up to cross it at the ankles, then they pushed her feet higher to leave her knees spread apart. They bound her feet tightly to the sides of the pole.

They left her there, lying bound to the cross, with her weight now resting on the welts and cuts that crisscrossed her back. As they dug the hole to stand her cross in, she laid well within earshot of their crude comments about her body and the position she was now in. When they had finished, they dragged the cross over to the hole and set it upright. All of her weight now rested on her arms and she stifled a moan as searing pain shot through her shoulders. She was oblivious to the other slaves as they finished their task and left her.

She realized now what her master had done. With no horn supporting her ass, agony though it would have been, and with her legs crossed as they were, there was no way for her to relieve the pain across her shoulders. She was unable to move at all. Pulling up would only serve to intensify the pain of her feet and ankles and would do little to ease her shoulders. It was then that she opened her eyes and saw him. Sitting astride a horse a few feet away, he watched her intently.

"Master" was all she whispered. She could not bring herself to beg. Even now, when she was to face unbearable pain and a slow death because she, a slave, could not abide the thought of another's hands upon her flesh and had refused her master's wishes. She hung on the cross high enough that strangers passing on foot would not be able to reach her. But on horseback the scrap of loincloth was almost at eye level.

He moved the animal closer and stood in the stirrups, trailing his fingertips lightly across her naked breasts, then trailed them down to the top of her loincloth. She moaned and closed her eyes in shame. Even now, when he had had her crucified, she wanted him. Her betraying body made it plain as her nipples hardened and she felt moistness between her legs.

Her eyes flew open as she felt the dagger tip at her throat. His eyes held hers as he ran the tip of the dagger down between her breasts, and over her stomach, carving a thin trail of blood behind it. He stopped again at the top of the loincloth. Then, he slipped the thin, flat blade under the cord that held it at her hips. He hesitated only a moment before slicing the thin cord to let the cloth fall to the ground below, leaving her naked upon her cross.

His eyes continued to hold hers as he flipped the dagger in his hand. She shuddered as he continued his downward path with the hilt of the weapon, sliding it down through the hair at her loins and running it slowly into her as far as it would go. He dragged the hilt across her clit, twisted it and pulled it out, and brought it back to his mouth to suck her juices from it. He smiled, then, he turned his mount and left her crucified.

She watched him go. She could not bring herself to call him back and beg for her release, a release she was sure he would not grant. She drifted into a daze as daylight grew and the heat began to rise.

The ache in her loins added to the agony. She felt as if there were no part of her body that was not in pain, the muscles of her shoulders screamed as her weight pulled at them, her tightly bound arms and feet were burning as the circulation slowed. There were bites and bruises on her breasts and thighs, and the skin of her back was raw with the scourging she had suffered.

She had not thought that he would take it this far. He had punished her before, but always with the lash. Sometimes, as he had this time, he would take her savagely from behind. However, never with an audience, and never had he offered her to another for their pleasure.

Nevertheless, he had done so. Moreover, she had refused, the words coming out of her mouth before she could stop them. Her horror at being offered to a Senator, whose brutal passions were well known, overrode good sense and she had given vent to her feelings. She could not recall now when that had been. Was it only yesterday? She was in so much pain she could not remember.

Retaliation had been swift. Her master had snatched a handful of her long, soft hair and forced her to her knees in front of him, taking offense at her tone as well as her comments on the Senator's resemblance to a barnyard animal. He dragged her into his chambers and bound her wrists over her head to a post kept for the purpose. Then he had invited the Senator to watch as he whipped her back, sides, and thighs. Worse, he made her count every blow. There had been over a hundred that first time.

She could still recall the Senator's demented urgings as her master covered every inch of her back and buttocks with welts and cuts from the lash. She could hear him still as the pig pleasured himself with his own hand. Her master, having whipped her until she sagged against the post and could no longer count the blows, took her violently from behind. He paid no heed to her moans as he rammed into her over and over until she felt she would split in two, her agony was so great. He left her there for the remainder of the night, hanging from her wrists because she could no longer stand. Her legs refused to hold her upright as the blood trickled down her back, while he slept in the bed they had always shared.

She slowly came back to awareness and felt the first stinging trails across her skin as she began to sweat. She tried to shift herself somewhat, but every movement brought fresh waves of pain from her tortured body. She did not know how long she had been hanging, nor did she even really care. There was nothing but the pain. She did not hear the comments made by the men crucified around her, or by the people passing by on the road. She did not know, nor did she care, what the placard at the top of her cross read.

She could not see the swollen cocks of the men who stopped to look upon her battered body. She did not even care that they hungered after the length of her arms and legs, her full round breasts, the curve of her waist and hips, the silkiness of her long hair. Nor did she know how they hotly craved for the naked nest between her legs. She knew nothing but the agony of her body.

She paid no heed to anything outside of her aura of pain until the soldiers came on horseback. They were in the mood for some sport. The fear she felt as they came closer intensified as she looked at the cruelty in their faces. The comments they made about her body and what they could use it for made her blood turn to ice. They were free to do what they wished as she hung upon the cross. No one would stop them from adding to her torture if they so desired it.

Their lustful comments became increasingly brutish. Then two soldiers took the initiative and began to torment her in earnest. Stroking the curves of her body with a lance, they dragged the tip of it under the heaviness of one breast to lift it. She felt the sharp point sink into her flesh and her chest heaved with the effort it took to remain conscious.

Blood trickled down the lance as the soldiers jeered. As the first one wiped the blood from the lance onto her face, the second used his sword to trace the path her master's dagger had taken. He forced her legs wider with the tip of the heavy weapon as he reached up and ripped out a handful of hair from between her legs. He laughed as her head rolled back in torment, unable even to scream aloud due to the shock and pain.

She found her voice when he used the tip of the sword to part the lips of her nest, and taking the lance from his companion, started to shove the heavy butt of the weapon into her. A scream tore from her as she tried to wrench her body away from the torment he offered. She could take no more, and she mercifully lost consciousness, ruining their sport though they tried for several minutes to rouse her, by striking her legs and sides with the flat of the sword. Finally, giving up their efforts, they left her in pursuit of other pleasures.

She drifted in and out after that, never sure where she was, as she was never fully conscious. She thought her master was there once, but when she could rouse herself to look again, he was gone from her vision. She broke down and began to cry silently, the tears making trails in the dust that now covered her once smooth skin, skin that was beginning to burn in the harsh glare of the sun.

She no longer cared what became of the body that had known such pleasure at her master's hands. She could not bear the thought of never touching him, or of anyone other than him touching her. What pride she had left would allow her to die on the cross rather than beg forgiveness for her insolence.

He released her from the post the next morning, allowing her to bathe and tend to her needs. Then he fastened a heavy collar around her neck, and with a tether attached to it, pulled her along behind him wherever he wandered in the villa. He allowed her only a rag to cover the front of her loins, leaving her naked save that one small scrap of cloth.

He would stop now and then, and pushing her to her knees, would move his tunic aside and shove her face into his crotch. Keeping her face where he wanted by grasping her hair, he would push his cock deep into her throat until she choked. Then he would force her to lick his balls and his ass. When she was through licking him clean, he would force her to her hands and knees and take her as if she were a dog, and indeed called her such.

Once, when he felt she had been too slow at some task, he dragged her back to his chambers and tied her to the whipping post yet again. He whipped with the lash until she whimpered and the blood trickled from the reopened wounds. Then he threw her to the bed and onto her back.

He became gentle then. Licking and sucking at her breasts until, in spite of her pain, the nipples hardened in response. She moaned as he ran his hand down over her now wet crotch, sliding his fingers over her clit until her body moved in rhythm with his hand. Then he bent his mouth to one breast and bit deep into the soft flesh. The shock had made her cry out.

She knew he was not finished with her. He continued to alternate between arousing her and punishing her for that arousal, leaving bites on her breasts, sides, and neck. Then he moved lower on her body, replacing his hand with his tongue. Bringing her to the edge of climax only to bite viciously at her tender thighs and licking away the blood that he drew.

He used her until every movement that she made was an effort and an agony, but still she could not make the words come: To either beg him to stop, or to kill her. Still, he could bring her to arousal. Her body responded mindlessly to his touch.

When he confirmed her fate to be crucified, it had been almost a relief. She knew that she could not bear much more, and the prospect of death was welcome when compared against the torture she endured. She was sure, if death did not come, the torture would continue without end.

She became lucid again late in the afternoon. Coming out of her fog, into a haze of pain and heat, she could no longer feel her feet or hands. Her arms felt as if they were tearing from the sockets. Her chest screamed in agony with every breath. Breathing became too much of an effort to make. Sweat and blood ran in rivulets down her skin, leaving sticky trails in the dust that covered her. Her once soft hair clung in dirty tendrils to her waist and stuck to the raw skin of her back where the blood had dried into it.

Flies covered her body, and crawled into every orifice, feasting on the banquet of blood and sweat that her body offered to them. She had been hanging for almost ten hours. Her head throbbed from the heat. It was hard for her to think or to focus her eyes in the glare of the sun. She thought she saw him again, riding towards her, but was unwilling to trust her eyes.

She could not bear to look at him as she realized that he was real. She was beyond feeling anything but a mild disbelief that he had returned. Was he there to resume his torture? Or to see if she were still alive?

She would not lift her head to look at him. She could not bear the sight of him seeing her upon the cross, although he had put her here, he who had inflicted the most torture on her body and mind.

He watched her for several minutes, as the flies crawled over her beaten body. Watching the labor of her breathing, he narrowed his eyes at the new bruises. He wondered who had the temerity to abuse her when it was plainly written on the top of her cross that she belonged to him. She was his to abuse, or his to caress.

He wondered too, if she knew how much he desired her. He knew that owning her body was not enough. He wanted her soul. She had always been willing enough to take the pleasure that he could bring her body. Moreover, she gave him pleasure in return. He always wondered if she gave herself to him because she was forced to or because she desired to.

He had never treated her this savagely. Previously, he had never done more than whip her for insolence. It gave him great pleasure to see the bright red stripes across her back and buttocks. She was always that much more responsive to him in bed after being whipped. He reached up and gathered a handful of her matted hair, pulling it away from her body.

For the second time, she screamed. As she did so, her bladder released the urine it held and it flowed down the pole, ran down her legs and dripped off of her crossed ankles into the dust and dirt below. Completely humiliated, the last of her pride disappeared into the dirt. She burst into painful, wracking sobs that she could not control. She pleaded with him to put an end to the agony she could no longer endure. She begged him for a release her body could not grant.

She was barely aware of the pole being taken down and her bindings being cut away. Nor of being carried across the saddle of her master's horse to his house.

She came screaming to consciousness as she awoke in a bath. She whimpered in her agony as her master himself bathed her hair and cleaned her wounds. He then rubbed her body with oils and salves as she laid on a towel at the side of the bath.

Her carried her to the bed where she curled into a ball on her side. He forced her to drink from a flagon of evil tasting liquid and soon her mind began to float, even as her pain began to ease. Her master cradled her in his arms and softly brushed the hair back from her face as she drifted off to a deep, dark sleep.

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