Part 18 (2/2)

There was a round of enthusiastic applause.

Her stomach sank.

”In the tradition of the ancients, this slave will be crucified.”

Flame felt like she was going to collapse. Crucifixion was a death penalty.

”But not to the death,” Thorn said. ”That can take days. Only for half an hour. But, let me a.s.sure you that even a half hour of our crucifixion will be agonizing. It will be the longest half hour this slave has ever experienced.”

Flame wasn't going to be killed, but she was left quivering in fear. She didn't want to experience agony.

But she was a slave. What she did or did not want didn't matter a whit. She was going to be crucified and that was that.

Flame stumbled as she was pulled away from the wall and the other slaves. Strong hands held her by her upper arms. These weren't Thorn's hands. Handlers had been brought into the room.

She didn't resist. It would have been futile. These men were far stronger than her. Fighting them would only earn another punishment. Maybe an extra hour of crucifixion.

A dozen steps to the middle of the room and she was stopped. Her right arm was stretched away from her body and her hand was placed around a thick metal bar. A handle of some kind. She understood that they wanted her to grab it so she did. A leather strap was wrapped around her fingers so that she could not open her hand and release the handle. Then the same was done on the other side so that her arms were loosely outstretched. She heard the ratcheting of some mechanism that pulled the handles apart. It stopped when her elbows were straight and her arms were stretched as far as they could be extended without pain. Yet.

Thorn narrated. ”Instead of the traditional cross, this slave will be crucified on a steel frame. She will have no support behind her. Instead of suspending her by her wrists, we are going to suspend her by her hands. There's less risk of nerve damage that way. I hope that you appreciate our consideration for our delicate flower.”

There was gentle laughter from the audience.

Thorn was quite a card.

The handles that Flame was forced to grip began to rise. When her hands were higher than her head, they put pressure on her shoulders. Pain flared sharp and hard as her joints began to take her weight.

”The reason for crucifixion is that the slave has her hands stretched to the side rather than overhead. In this position, the slave's shoulder joints are bearing her body weight in a direction that they were not designed for. The stress of her weight will cause more pain than you can imagine.”

Flame whimpered as her heels left the ground. Her arms continued to rise and stretch until she had to stand on tiptoe.

Even when she strained her calves to the limit, she couldn't raise herself high enough to relieve the stress on her shoulders.

It had only been a minute and the pain was already severe.

”The slave now faces a dilemma. If she relaxes her legs, her weight will be supported entirely by her arms. She risks dislocating her shoulder joints. But her legs will not support her forever. She will spend the next half hour, struggling to maintain a balance between how much she can afford to strain her calves and how much weight her shoulders can tolerate. It does not help that breathing is difficult in this position because her rib cage is raised and her diaphragm is stretched.”

Flame was beginning to feel the truth of that last a.s.sertion. She had to try to rise higher on her toes to gasp for every breath.

”I will now start the clock.”

Good G.o.d, Flame thought, I'm already hurting something awful and she hasn't started the clock yet.

”Gentlemen, you have half an hour to enjoy your drinks and to take advantage of all the slaves who remain here to serve you. If any of you would like to fondle our crucified slave, she won't try to stop you.”

There was more light laughter from the gentlemen.

Flame was barely aware of the clinking of ice in drinks and discussion of further wagers. None of the slaves had been unmasked yet, so the gentlemen still did not know if it was the former Lady Irene who was suffering crucifixion or some other slave. Serious money was being put at risk over her ident.i.ty.

She could not remain stationary. She had to keep raising herself higher to breathe then sinking as low as her shoulders could tolerate to rest her calves. But she could never sink low enough for her heels to touch the floor.

Every time she exhaled, she groaned.

After a time, she felt increased pressure on her shoulders and had to raise herself a little further. Oh, G.o.d! Someone was adjusting the height of the handles that trapped her hands to make certain that she was in exactly the optimal position to experience the most stress possible.

Taking the next breath required an even greater struggle.

She was still hooded. She had no idea how many men were cl.u.s.tered around her nor how close they stood until she felt a hand begin to ma.s.sage her breast.

”I love a suffering slave.”

She recognized the voice. This was the gentleman who had tricked her with the false promise of marriage.

The hand moved down to her belly. Stretched taut with her ribcage pulled high, her belly was concave above her hips.

”I'm in love with you, right now, you know,” the voice said.

The hand moved around to cup her b.u.t.tock, which was clenched into a small, hard melon as she struggled to stay on her toes.

”Lord Hoffman is to be commended for arranging such a beautiful entertainment.”

Another pair of hands began stroking her calves. ”Wow,” another voice said, ”her calves are like knots of solid wood and it's only been five minutes. They'll feel like concrete before this is over.”

She sobbed and struggled to suck more air. Five minutes. It had only been five minutes. She was going to die before a half hour was over. The pain alone would kill her.

The hands on her calves continued to feel how her muscles worked as she raised and lowered herself.

She tried s.h.i.+fting her weight to her left foot to give her right rest, but she couldn't support herself on only one foot. The effort increased the strain on her shoulders. The pain was so intense that she wasted precious air to scream and had to struggle to take another breath.

”Lovely,” the first voice said. ”I could feel that scream right through her t.i.ts.”

A new voice said, ”Let me help you out, dear.”

A hand shoved between her legs to push three fingers into her c.u.n.t. Another hand parted her nether cheeks to shove two fingers into her a.s.shole.

Then she was lifted by c.u.n.t and a.s.shole. Not off the ground, and not really by her c.u.n.t those fingers put most of the pressure on her pubic bone, painfully crus.h.i.+ng her c.l.i.t but it was enough to help a little. For the moment, she did not need to put so much weight on her feet or her shoulders. Despite feeling like her a.s.shole was about to be torn asunder, she took the opportunity to gasp a great gulp of air. It was the best breath that she'd drawn since the crucifixion had begun.

The hands in her crotch fell away and her shoulders protested the return of her full body weight. Waves of agony surged through her chest.

She cried aloud and someone laughed.

She never realized how well men could be entertained by the suffering of a woman.

Hands drew away to be replaced by new hands and new voices marveled at the rigidity of her muscles.

Her ordeal continued, on and on. She was caught in a timeless dark eternity of unbearable pain. Pain that she had to bear, regardless.

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