Warrior of the Chevaan

Conine

"The Discipline of the Lash"

In the dungeons of the Roman fortress Conine stood silent, her wrists held close together before her by the manacles and the connecting length of chain.  Her face was a mask of clam, but inside the proud warrior woman raged at herself for allowing herself and Satyra to be taken unawares so easily.  She had not seen the beautiful half satyr since the two of them had been set upon by the Roman soldiers, but her mind crowded with imagined horrors that the her recent lover might be enduring, adding to her shame. 

  The room in which she was imprisoned was large, about 30 feet square, and lit by the flickering red light of torches – no windows onto the outside world were present.  She was bound in roughly the centre of the space; on one side there was a low dais, upon which sat a chair backed by a purple and gold tapestry.  At the other end was a heavy wooden table or platform, fashioned in the shape of an X sitting parallel to the cool flagstone floor, and adorned at each corner with heavy iron manacles which were attached to lengths of chain running into grooves in the dark wood.  Conine had no problems imaginings the grim implications of such an adornment. 

 Her only company in the room was a pair of heavily muscled Roman soldiers, dressed in their tunic bottoms, sandals and helmets, but bare-chested.  The soldiers were obviously well trained, for they made no attempt to take advantage of her bondage, but their eyes did take the opportunity to rove over her unclad figure, 6 feet of exquisitely sculpted womanhood mixed with the firm lean musculature of the warrior. Starting with her well toned arms with their smoothly undulating biceps, the soldiers eyes would travel down to a proud and beautiful face, steel blue eyes with long lashes and a straight nose above and generous red mouth and firm jaw line framed by a square-cut halo of straight raven-black hair. Those tresses were cut at shoulder length so it rested about her strong deltoids, her shoulders wide for a woman, again speaking of her unusual strength. Further down the Romans eyes enjoyed lingering on the swell of her magnificent bosom, nipples hardened by the dungeon chill, rising and falling rhythmically in the torchlight. Beneath those impossibly firm orbs her waist tapered until her hips flared invitingly, the space between breasts and pubis a washboard rigid plain, flat and smooth. Her legs were long and well proportioned, muscular and yet distinctly feminine, the dark patch of trimmed fur between her strong thighs not quite concealing the pouting cleft of her womanhood. 

 Abruptly a noise outside the heavy wooden door, and the two guards either side broke off their inspection and snapped to alert.  The door was swung open by another guard dressed as the firs two, and followed in by a man of slightly lesser build.  The newcomer was also older than the others, his hair and neatly kept beard steely grey, and his tunic was richly woven.  Nevertheless, he carried himself with the same rigid posture and proud bearing, and Conine could tell with a practiced eye that his body retained the athletic qualities of a seasoned warrior.  This man was a warrior as well as a leader, and that meant Conine knew who he had to be; Gracus, general of the Roman army that had recently hunted and slain so many of her fellow Chevaan.  

 Gracus took his seat on the dais, facing the young woman chained before him.  He was impressed with her courage, as eh was with all Chevaan warrior women, almost as much as by her stunning physique.  The fire in her eyes was unmistakeable; she was not afraid of either him or his men, even though she fully understood the fate they had planned for her. 

Or thought she did, Gracus thought with a smile.  

The general took a cup of spiced wine offered by one of his guards and sipped it thoughtfully as he studied her proud carriage.  'You have been quite the criminal, my dear, with your mistreatment of my men I the forest.' 

Conine faced her captor without flinching, and the thought of the blood from the men who had raped Satyra running down her sword game her a feeling of warm satisfaction.  'I had no idea it was a crime among your people to butcher vermin,' she replied softly. 

 Some of the guards muttered darkly, but the General only smiled again.  'I can see that we will have to be quite harsh with you, dear girl.  But you are young, and we may hope to educate you in proper manners before you pay in full for your crimes.'  He signalled the men near the door.  'Prepare her; the lash first, I think.'  

 The men moved forward and took her roughly by the arms, detaching the chain from the brace in the floor and forcing her hands up over her head.  A hook hung from another chain running to the ceiling, and her manacles were attached to it, keeping her arms raised.  That done, the men signalled to one of their companions who worked a winch mechanism, near the wall.  Quickly the hook rose so that Conine's wrists were dragged upwards, until her arms were stretched either side of her beautiful face and her heels were just clear of the floor, her weight supported by the front balls of her feet.

 The whole time, Conine never let her proud stare waver from the grinning Gracus.  

 Behind her one of the Roman soldiers took from the wall a coiled whip, a length of leather platting eight feet from handle to tapered end, tipped with three thin cords which would flick their target with the speed of a crossbow bolt when the heavy hide behind snapped around it's victim.  He let the weapon skitter across the stone floor as he uncoiled it, and the spectators were rewarded with an almost but not quite invisible flinching of that magnificent form as the leather hissed softly across paves.   Watching, Gracus allowed the prisoner before him a little time to anticipate what was to follow, as arranged with the whip-master outside.  Her gaze was still defiant, but now the Romaner could almost believe he saw a slight strain of fear creeping into those cold blue eyes. 

 Alert as a young deer in the forest, Conine heard the first stroke coming before she felt it.  She tensed for the inevitable pain, and was not disappointed when a burning line of fire blossomed between her shoulders.  She grunted, and closed her eyes, the muscles of her back tensed.  She drew a slow breath, and when she knew she was again in control, opened her eyes slowly to again gaze with loathing at Gracus. 

 For his part, the general smiled appreciatively.  His slave girls at home would have been crying like a baby under that first stroke, and even some Chevaan sluts too, he knew from experience.  But he had never had the joy of finding a woman who could so endure the lash with such control.  Her arrogant posture and the hatred burning in her eyes fairly cried out to be broken.

 The whip-wielder drew back his arm and again the leather cord flew forward.  This time the lash curled slightly about the victim's slender waist, causing her to jerk sideways and leaving a bright red weal on the smooth skin.  Once again, Conine gritted her teeth against the desire to cry out with pain, but there was nothing she could do to prevent the tears welling in the corners of her sky-blue eyes.    

 With callous precision the man continued his flogging of the chained warrior, concentrating on her curved back and broad shoulders.  Up and down the length of her spine he worked the pitiless leather, so that soon a fine sheen of perspiration silvered the prisoners skin.  Conine bore the torment a silently as she was able, but before long found she could not entirely subdue the moans and soft whimpers of anguish welling with her.  She had to blink to clear her eyes from the sting of sweat and tears, while on her back she could feel the trickle of blood from some of the deeper cuts of the lash.     

 After five minutes the soldier with the whip paused to rest his arm, and Gracus took time to notice how the warrior woman's spirit continued to sustain her through the torture.  No cry of pain had she given, only tiny groans, but somehow Gracus found them more arousing than full-throated screams for mercy.  He found the notion of hurting such a powerful, strong willed woman compelling, much more so than the torture of mewling, easily subdued slaves.  He had hoped that this girl's endurance would be a match for her stubborn pride, and it seemed he would not be disappointed.       

Conine heard the soldier whipping her quenching his thirst with a cup of water near the door, and licked her lips enviously.  Her back was a fiery ordeal; the slightest movement bring unrelenting burning pain.   The salty perspiration stung the open wounds where her skin had been broken by the leather and blood oozed to the surface and trickled down towards the curve of her buttocks.  She blinked again and shook her head a little to clear it, and tried to stand a little straighter in the chains holding her.     

She heard the man picking up the whip again, and lifted her head to maintain her proud bearing under the flogging.  She was surprised to feel the chains on her ankles being removed, but had no chance to try and take advantage of the fact.  No sooner had her legs been freed of their pinioning to the stone floor than she heard the crack of the leather again and felt its cruel caress, only this time the target was the soft but muscular pads of her full buttocks.    

 'AAAAhhh,' Conine gasped in pain and jerked forward, more tears instantly springing to life. 

 The whip cracked anew, this time just nicking her left ass cheek but filling it with pain.   The right soon suffered a similar fate, and the Chevaan was force to dance uncontrollably as the man alternated the slow flaying of her backside.     

 Gracus sipped spiced wine as he enjoyed the second stage of the flogging.  With her feet freed the tall, muscular prisoner was able to jerk more fitfully in her bonds, and under the encouragement of his whip-master was soon dancing with abandon.  She hopped frantically from one long leg to the other, twisting and turning as the leather sometimes stayed up about her waist again, so that her full rose crested bosoms bounced and danced erotically.  Her moans were fuller now, and spaced with hissing gasps of agony and frustrated anger.  Her eyes, which previously had been fixed defiantly on his own, now squinted shut with the effort of holding back the cries and screams Gracus knew where building inside her with each razor slash across her exposed ass cheeks.       

 Sensing it was time to take the lovely prisoner to a new level of pain, the soldier with the whip moved froward a few feet and sent the lash whistling forward.  Moved closer the cord could now curl more fully around its lithe target, wrapping about her narrow waist and smacking hard across her taught belly.  As the leather was dragged back it pulled at the broken skin and left a red smear on the lightly tanned skin.      

 Conine moaned softly as the leather worked its abrasive charm on her, then yelped as it leapt out again to blaze a new trail around her other hip.  She knew that her writhings were arousing the Roman general directing her torment, but could do nothing to prevent them, a torture in itself for the proud beauty.  Before long there were angry red weals crisscrossing her abdomen and the tops of her shapely legs, each one a burning fire set in her flesh.  The wounds on her back throbbed steadily as she moved and weaved to try and ease some of the force of the blows.  She was drenched with sweat now, her black fringe matted to her forehead while tiny rivers ran down over her breasts as they heaved up and down with each shuddering breath. 

 There was another pause in the proceedings, and this time Conine did not even try to hold herself erect.  Instead she slumped forward limply, held upright only by the thick iron manacles about her wrists.  Every inch of her body from her sternum to her knees felt raw and exposed.  The cool air of the dungeon chilled the film of perspiration covering her and despite the ever-present heat of the whip marks that coursed through her she shivered uncontrollably.  The world swam about her and she felt sick.       

 Gracus took another sip of his wine and fondled himself unashamedly at the site of the Chevaan warrior thus humbled.  He did not fool himself into thinking she was broken, but knew her pride must be suffering almost as much as her firm young body to be forced to show him such frailty.  

  Standing behind the chained prisoner the whip-master took another swig of water and surveyed his efforts.  The warrior-woman seemed near to exhaustion, her hanging form drenched in gleaming sweat mixed with blood oozing from the more damaging welts, but so fat she had not given up the screams that would show he had truly broken her.  The soldier grunted, at once impressed by the bitch's stamina, but also professionally offended.  Did this slut think to embarrass him in front of his commander by withholding that sweet music?  Well, fortunately he had left the most tempting targets on her luscious body until last.    

 Conine was still struggling to regain her strength when the lash curled around again, the leather giving its fiery caress to the tender flesh of her full breasts.   

 'AaaaaAAAAhhhh!!'  

 The pain was horrible.  The torment of her previous wounds did not disappear, but in a spit second it was pushed to the back of her mind by the agony blossoming in her tits.  The half-cry was accompanied by her whole body convulsing as the plated cord was dragged back against the soft skin, leaving a burning trail of pain traced across the tops of the quivering mounds.    

 The whip curled around her ample breasts again, and a louder moan of pain bubbled from the red Chevaan lips. 

Again and again the coarse leather stroked the full mounds of soft flesh, so that tears streamed unceasingly from the beautiful warriors crystal blue eyes, and her agonized groans echoed off the stone walls.  The whip-master was a veteran, and despite the obvious temptation did not focus solely on those tender orbs.  Up and down her body the leather roved, leaving its red weals in its wake.  He varied his targets, giving her no chance to predict whether the nest stroke would sear her already bloodied back…

 'Nnnnnhhh.'   

 ...leave a trickle of blood from some new cut across her abdomen…    

 ' Ohhh haaamm.'   

…kiss her heaving tits and firm nipples with its acid fire…   

 'uuUU nnhhh !'   

 …or add new heat to the reddened, bleeding globes of her tightly clenched ass…. 

NNnnnniiahhHHHH!!! '    

 Gracus felt his manhood swollen to the point of bursting as he played spectator to the whipping.  He could imagine what it would feel like to plunge his rampant member into that tight young body hanging helpless in it chains and felt her write under the lash while impaled on his jutting manhood.   But the warrior woman had yet to give him the full blooded howl of anguish he craved from her full lips, despite being flogged almost unconscious, and it appeared she had no intention of doing so without the most extreme persuasion.  The whip-master was looking over at him, the man's energy visibly flagging.  He sighed.  It seemed his coupling with the stubborn whore would have to wait a little longer.  

 Conine's whole world had been reduced to the stripes of anguish crisscrossing her back, legs, stomach and breasts.  The heat from the welts burned its way into her, leaving feeling like one vast, quivering, raw wound, but the sweat soaking her pale skin left her shivering.  Tears seeped from the corner of her blue eyes and her breath came in shuddering sobs, but still she would not surrender her ultimate self to her captors.  The desire to cry out for mercy was like gorge rising in her throat, but she clung to the last shreds of her pride, as tattered as her smooth skin, and denied the urge to plead.   

To be continued…

Interlude

The depths of the forest

Then…

The three men had taken their turns with the beautiful young priestess and now they were ready to deliver her final punishment for her people's defiance of Roman supremacy.

Strewn on the ground before them, the angelic creature retained her radiant beauty even despite the mud and dirt and cum that stained her. The thin. Low cut tunic that would have once provocatively displayed her cleavage as it hugged her full breasts and narrow waist had been torn away within seconds of her capture, likewise the leather belt that pulled the garment tight and the underwear that she wore beneath the cloth that fell down between her long legs at the front and back, leaving her bare almost to the hip at the sides. Only the soft buckskin shoes on her feet had been left to her; that and the trailing cloak and its face-shadowing hood, beneath which her eyes shone bewitchingly.

None of the soldiers could have answered, if asked, why they had chosen to leave the captive holy woman's hood undisturbed, when an simple wrench of its cloth could have afforded them a full view of a face that, by all visible accounts, was fair indeed. Only the woman knew why, but that knowledge served little to help her in her current plight.

The woman moaned softly as she fought to recover her strength. They had wasted no time once they had overtaken her, as she fled from the destruction of the Holy Grove, her abilities exhausted by the healing of the wounded warriors until only flight had been the only option left to her. A stumble, a cry, and the human beasts had been upon her, ripping away her clothes with vicious glee to reveal the handsome body beneath. The look in the eyes of the men as they drank in her full breasts, tanned nipples, flat stomach, long slender legs and thin thatch of curling copper hair between her smooth thighs had told her she could expect no mercy at the hands of these invaders. To them she was a prize to be conquered and possessed, a thing to use. And use with abandon.

The eldest had taken her first, pushing between her legs and ignoring her cries and curses and as his two subordinates held her down, one pinning her arms and the to other her legs. They had laughed as she squirmed futilely to deny him access to her, while his strong coarse hands mauled her breasts, squeezing them painfully and sucking them loudly, biting them. She had bucked and heaved but the three of them together had pinned her fast, until with horror she had felt the sickening brush of his phallus as he used one hand to guide his head to her pubis. She had prayed this was a nightmare, that she would awaken and find herself safe among her sister, but from this nightmare there would be no escape.

The man had smiled as he pushed his cock-head between her outer lips, enjoying the hurt he could se on her face. He liked that it hurt her, this proud barbarian who thought her people could defy Rome. The dryness of her channel had chaffed him to, but he could endure the discomfort, knowing her pain would be so much greater. Her melon tits and been warm and soft in his hands as she used them to pull her onto him, wiggling his hips to borrow deeper into her and being rewarded with her angry sobs.

The two men watching had felt their own members rock hard beneath their tunics as they watched their superior fucking the young captive, watching the way her firm body moved and struggled under his weight and anticipating how she would feel under them when their own turns came. Her musical voice was turned to cries of anguish and impotent rage, her red lips curled in disgust as she endured the feel of the man inside her, pushing deeper into her most sacred place. As the Roman began to build a steady trusting rhythm her round boobs had danced erotically as the rapist had shifted his hands to grip the firm round muscles of her ass, gaining leverage for his pumping of her red haired quim.

The soldier quickened his pace, eager to reach his climax. His thrusts became rapid and shallow, grabbing onto her tits and using them to pull her ups onto him as he ground her firm ass down into the dirt. Finally he stiffened, a wordless gasp bursting from him as he had felt his manhood unload its contents inside the gorgeous savage as he drove into her up to the hilt, grinding against her mons.

When at last his powerful orgasm had subsided the soldier had withdrawn, leaving the prisoner lying panting and sweaty on the ground where she was still held by her other captors. The Roman had smiled down at her as she wept softly and glared up at him beneath the shadows of the hood, but the other men left her no time to collect her strength. Immediately they hauled her up, flipping her over roughly so that she lay belly down on the brown forest floor, sticks and leaves rubbing against her naked tors and tits as the man who had been holding her feet wrenched her legs apart and mounted behind her, his hand fumbling to release his engorged penis as he pushed apart her ripe ass cheeks, seeking her hole.

The shriek of protest when the man finally pushed his cock into her tight anus had brought a laugh from the rapists and a fresh flood of tears from their victim. His phallus had felt like a forest oak as it punched brutally at her sphincter, tearing cruelly at the puckered flesh as it drilled into her rear. Strong hands had dragged her into a position on all fours with one man pinning her hands in front of her while she was sodomized, her big boobs bouncing as they hung towards the ground. She had struggled to relax her ass muscles, allowing him to bugger her more easily in the knowledge that resistance would only make the rape more excruciatingly painful.

The man behind her felt her ass relax, calling a comment to his friends that bought an appreciative chuckle. They had known it was only a matter of time before the primitive slut would succumb to her need for Roman cock. The man in her rear sped up his attack, glad to be able to penetrate her more easily and fully, though she remained wonderfully tight around his rampant organ. His hands had slid up to fondle her plump young tits as he fucked her, tweaking her nips and squeezing the ripe orbs like udders.

The sight of his friend thus engaged had been too much for the last Roman – unable to wait any longer for his piece of this young captive he had thrown himself on the ground beneath her, pulling himself around as he discarded his runic bottom and aimed his jutting member up at the moist reddened folds of her still aching pussy.

The delectable Chevaan girl had watched the Roman squirm beneath her but could not muster the courage to glare hatefully at him as she slid under her. As she had felt his hands reach up and push open her battered outer lips she had squeezed her eyes tight shut and prayed to the goddess this horror would end. When his vile instrument had at last pushed into her from below to add to the painful humiliation of the cock in her ass, she had known her prayers would go unanswered.

For ten minutes, the two men had fucked her mercilessly between them while she wept in shame.

The man in her ass had come first, his jism emptying into her like a scalding flood while her slammed his cock inside her, trying to hurt as much as possible. Her anguished cry and the feel of his companions movement filtering through to his own encased phallus had pushed the other man over the edge, his athletic body bucking as she gushed inside her cunt and reached up to grab the dangling tits, biting them hard enough to draw blood and illicit his won trophy scream from the helpless woman.

Finally, exhausted, the priestess had swooned and passed out.

When she had woken she had found herself tied with her hands above her heads to a forest tree, her back against the hard bark and her legs spread shamelessly wide and held in place by tow stakes that had been driven into the ground and her ankles bound to them with ropes at about 90 degrees apart. She felt hot and sticky and could still feel and smell the men's warm sex trickling from her abused orifices, so when knew she had not been unconscious long, no more than half an hour.

Any further musing on her part had been interrupted by the sight of the naked swords in the nem's hands.

Satisfied with their use of the prisoner, eager to report back to their cohort before they were missed and due punishment, and too lazy to drag the young captive all the way back to their fortress, the soldiers had decided to indulge in a well loved and sadistic game developed by their kind for dealing with these savage womenfolk. Each would take turns making cuts somewhere on her beautiful body, the object being to make the prisoner scream and writhe as erotically as possible. Dice would be cast to determine the location of the incisions. At the end of an allotted time, the man who done the most to make the prisoner suffer would have the honour of delivering the final cuts, this time to her sweet and unprotected young sex, before she was at last allowed to die.

The first cut had been across the top of her luscious young tits, a thin red line that birthed ruby drops that spilled down over her heaving breasts, highlighting their magnificent firm curve and the trickling down over her hardened nipples to fall in crimson raindrops on her flat abdomen. More tears of pain had sprung form her eyes and ran down over her cheeks, but the words she had spat at her tormentors had carried no pleading, only venomous hatred.

'You may ravage my body, you may mark me, you may even kill me, but you will never break me` or my people. We shall be avenged, scum of Rome!'

The men had not understood her primitive babble, but had caught its tone of defiance. It made them laugh more, as they kept on hurting her.

While she cried and sobbed and cursed and screamed, they cut her. Over and over.

They cut her stomach so the blood rand down between her thighs. They cut her upraised arms so that it ran down onto her full chest.

They cut her legs, her calves, her strong smooth thighs. The blood made pretty patterns against her previously flawless skin while she wriggled and squirmed. Some cuts wee quick; others they took their time like a scribe with a quill while the woman struggled to hold herself rigid, lest she impale herself on the steel blade.

They had left the torture of her splendid breasts until last. By then her whole body was drenched with perspiration, shining a she wiggled. With deft precision they had taken turns cutting the soft pleat flesh, razor cuts that bled freely and sent red streams running down those goddess-like orbs. Above, below and around her nubbins the blades carved a journal of pain into her helpless mammaries, so that she screamed and howled freely and then sucked lungfuls of air that made the sliced tits rise and fall like mountains of flesh as they paused to allow her to recover her strength.

At last they had had enough, their time at an end. One man had come forward, the agreed sinner, and with his word parted the putting lips of her crack. She had winced, looking up at him, spat at him, listed to his laugh. He had pushed harder, piercing the fold, making her suck in air as she prepared to feel the roman metal tearing her open, wanting him to cut her, for the pain to end, hating him for drawing the torture out, even at the end.

The men had been looking down at the brutalised prisoner as the sword tip poised at the pink entrance to her cunt, loving her pain, her fear, and her beauty that was amplified by the other two. They had wet their lips in anticipation of her final screams and her erotic dance of agony as she felt the sword ripping her sex apart, confident in their victory and the fact that no one could save this savage young beauty.

It had only been when the warrior woman Conine had dropped from the shadowed branches above, clad in chainmail and wielding a three foot iron sword that cut through the sword-wielders shoulder like butter, that they had guessed they might be mistaken.

End of interlude…

'The Discipline of the Lash'

Part II

The desire to cry out for mercy was like gorge rising in her throat, but Conine clung to the last shreds of her pride, as tattered as her smooth skin, and denied the urge to plead.   

She heard the man behind her preparing to renew the torture, and she prayed to the Goddess that she might find blessed oblivion this time, if only for a brief while.  She tried escape by remembering Satyra' soft, skilful hands caressing her, the pleasure of her lips as they had roved over her, her tongue laving against her own in the warm cavern of their mouths, circling her nipples with impudent affection. Delving into her navel, across her flat belly, over her thighs and into the wet warmth of her feminine centre.  Licking her.  Loving her…

Abruptly Conine realised that more than memory was stirring her inner fires.  There was a physical presence as well, a touch between her legs that bespoke an intimate understanding of a woman's centre of pleasure. 

Shaking the sweat form her eyes she looked down and saw the face of beautiful young woman between her tapering thighs.   The girl was dark eyed, with a foaming pile of brown hair piled up with a gold cord and lustrous red lips.  Conine realised that this must be one of the Roman's female slaves, no captured Chevaan warrior or even priestess but a woman raised in servitude by the Romans, knowing no other life that to serve the will of her masters, however vile or degenerate. 

The girl was clad in a set of gold chains that accentuated the arch of her full breasts, and a thin wisp of silk between her legs, which barely concealed the dark patch of trimmed fur beneath.  Her eyes, large and brown as a young doe, were fixed on Conine's with a mixture of sadness and resignation, and the Chevaan realised that this girl would do nothing to help her, could not even conceive of it as a possibility.  She knew no other life than to obey her masters, and to that end would even work to participate in the humiliation of a captive who would have spilled her own blood freely to liberate her from slavery.  

However that might be, the girl's Roman-warped outlook did nothing to diminish the skill with which she employed her full lips between Conine's splayed legs.  As she had hung swooning from the pain of her cuts the soldiers had again fastened her ankles to the shackles on the floor, and now there was nothing she could do to close her sex to the degrading stimulation of the slaves girl's ardent tongue. 

Gently the girl used her fingers to part the soft outer lips to show the pink splendour beyond, and Conine was burningly aware of Gracus' hungry gaze resting on her revealed womanhood.  Then those red lips were kissing, nibbling, nuzzling; waves of pleasure rolled outwards from the Chevaan's warm pussy, but a horrible pleasure, a lewd and perverse intimacy, made rotten and corrupt by the men watching who had arranged this interval in the physical pain of her whipping only to further torment her proud warrior soul with the sight of her trembling and moaning softly in unwanted rapture, a spectacle for their voyeuristic entertainment.   

Without pause the girl used her tongue to probe Conine's wet channel and tease the hooded button just above.  She tried to remember Satyra, in her heart to stay true to her lover.  The tears in her eyes were tears of shame now – shame that even after the brutality Gracus had subjected her to he could still force her to wriggle in sexual abandon, that her very womanly centre could so betray her into the hands of her torturers.   Her pride stripped away, the only thing left to sustain her was the remembrance of Satyra's touch, her gentle love…

…then that memory of pleasure exploded into agony as the whip crashed mercilessly into her exposed and helpless twat.    

As Gracus watched the exhausted warrior-woman whole body convulsed in a paroxysm of agony.  The slave girl, at his silent signal, had leaned back just far enough to escape being lashed across the face as the whip darted forward to savage the pink swollen mound between the prisoner's legs.    Conine was blind with pain, her mind almost shutting down as it was overloaded by the signals exploding from her pussy.  Only the shock of the blow, coupled with the indescribable torture of having her stimulated cleft turned into a fiery torment, saved her from giving up a blood-curdling scream.  Instead her head snapped back and her mouth was stretched in the silent wail of a damned soul.

Only her warrior training and Chevaan discipline allowed her to recover from a torture that would have left a lesser woman a mindless creature of spasming agony.  Even so, she had barely enough time to steel herself as much as was possible for this new horror before the whip struck again, ripping at her labia and the exposed softness beyond, again driving the young beauty to the brink of madness as her womanhood shrieked its terrible message into her reeling mind.

 Leaning froward hungrily on his throne Gracus licked his lips in anticipation.  She must break soon now, he knew.  The agony tearing at her brain as the cords tore at her essence was a pain no woman could withstand, especially after the stimulation of the slave-girl's adept tongue.  It was only a matter of time before the Chevaan warrior was begging for his mighty phallus inside her, a request the general would happily grant.  He savoured the for-knowledge of how she would weep and scream as his member worked in and out of that whip-slashed channel. He had ordered his man to shift to a smaller instrument, with cords of silk instead of leather.  Leather cords would have quickly reduced the woman's soft pink quim to bloody rags of flesh, and Gracus wanted his cock sheathed in that wet warmth while it was still firm and tight.   

As the brutal torture went on Conine felt her hold on sanity slipping away under the merciless punishment.  Her wrist and ankles were bleeding freely where the convulsions brought on by the pussy flogging had caused her to strain violently against her bonds.  High-pitched sounds of wordless agony emerged from between her clenched teeth.   

The whip struck again, forcing its way deep into her intimate self and setting her nether lips and the soft-hooded clit above ablaze, and Conine knew that she could die.  The agony burning through her mind was like a white-hot blade; searing, unendurable, inescapable.  She had only to focus on that pain, concentrate all her will upon it, and the experience would destroy her nervous system, shutting her off like puppet with its strings cut.  Conine had never accepted the idea that any of her sisters should willingly seek the release of death, no matter what the torment they faced, but now under the terrible fury of the Roman lash she experienced a level of suffering she had never imagined.  Death would be a merciful release from the horrible, never-ending pain as the cords cut again and again, each time deeper and deeper into her now swollen mound and pouting girl-slit.  The chance to be free danced before her like a taunting demon, offering her the chance to end the horror.   

Only one thing stayed Conine from that final course: Satyra.  The battered, bleeding warrior knew that somewhere in the Roman fortress the beautiful young priestess was also a helpless prisoner, like herself facing unimaginable torments at the hands of her sadistic captors.  To give in to the final release of oblivion would be to abandon her to face that agony alone.  Conine knew in her heart that the chance she would ever see her lover again were small, and even smaller the odds that if they did meet that she would be in any way able to prevent her companion's suffering.  But while there was even the slenderest chance that Satyra might somehow be spared Conine could not abandon her.  Even in the face of such horrible torture, the Chevaan warrior would struggle for life, for the possibility that she could somehow help her friend to escape pain of the kind she was forced to endure.    

The whip lashed between her nether lips again, and her swollen clit fairly exploded under the latest stroke.  The cord had curled up from below with a deft flick of the Roman's wrist and landed its devil's kiss on the exposed nubbin of flesh.  Conine's back arched until her magnificent breasts aimed their rosy nipples at the ceiling, the muscles of her flat belly seeming ready to explode through their sheath of welt-striped flesh.  For one endless second her brain was a breeding place for a million tiny demons, each with their red hot spears stabbing into her brain with malevolent fury, her tall, ripe body almost tearing itself apart as it heaved while her mouth was clenched so tight it seemed her bared teeth must shatter under the strain.  Then her tortured mind finally succumbed and she slumped exhausted and senseless in her bonds. 

Gracus sat back in his chair, privately surprised at what he had just witnessed.  He had fully expected the Chevaan bitch to scream for his cock, for his to do anything he wanted to stop the terrible pain, but instead the woman had ridden to the point of death without breaking.  He had known the bitch-race was stubborn, but this went beyond anything he had witnessed.

For a moment he considered having the torturer douse the unconscious beauty in salt water and listening to her screams as the brine burned like acid into those welts before the flogging recommenced.  But no; in her weakened state she might not survive another round, however careful his men, and he did not intend for her to experience the sweet release of death just yet. Also, her prideful resistance had earned form the general a grudging respect, and he had decided for such a warrior a new and entirely different level of pain was called for.

Signalling to the whip-master the session was ended, Gracus waved the young slave girl over to him.  For a half-second he thought about having her chained against Conine and whipped while he watched her wriggle against the Chevaan's exquisite frame, as a way to gratify his still throbbing member.  But the girls tongue had proved most adept between the prisoner's legs, and Gracus was minded to sample its skill himself.  The girl nodded obediently at his direction, and soon her tongue and red lips were working up and down the generals gorged shaft, while her would be saviour hung limp, battered and bleeding ten feet away.

Gracus sighed with pleasure.  It would be a long night, but an eventful one.  While one of his torture physicians prepared to dress the prisoner's wounds, Gracus settled back and enjoyed the slave's sucking while his eyes drank in Conine's sweaty, battered, gently swaying body.  'Prepare the table,' he ordered one of the guards, then waited to wave for the physician to begin his work as soon as the dark haired slave-girl had brought him to his climax.

 NEXT - THE RACK!!! >:)

Second Interlude

The Waters of Desire

Her body scourged by the whips cruel caress, oblivious to the fresh horrors her captors were engineering for her behalf, Conine's unconscious mind wandered, seeking solace in the recent past. The harsh present ebbed away, and again she was far from the Roman dungeon…

Then

Conine allowed herself to relax in the waters of the mountain lake. The sun was warm on her skin but a cool breeze, chilled by the water of the rivers bed by the snow on the heights above, prevented her form becoming to warm. The athletically built Chevaan warrior had shed her armour and other raiments, and now let herself enjoy the simple pleasure of the lake-water, mist from the nearby waterfall, and heat of the sun all playing over her tanned, naked from.

Though her eyes were closed, however, her mind was still alert, considering the difficulties of eluding the men that hunter her and her companion. The Roman army that had broken the Chevaan women's forces a fortnight ago was still sweeping through the hills looking for stragglers of its enemies. Fuelled by their ancient loathing of the independent and self-willed women warriors, the Romans were determined to see every one of the Chevaan west of the Mountains dead or in chains. The spot Conine had chosen to rest in was secluded and safe from such searches, but the black haired beauty knew that eventually she and Satyra must leave and find more permanent safe-haven elsewhere.

Thinking of her new friend Conine felt again the strange flutterings that had accompanied her almost since she had first rescued the lovely priestess from the Roman soldiers who had captured and brutally raped her, once she had recovered from the initial shock of the priestess' true appearance after the glamour that had concealed her nature had fled with her consciousness after her ordeal. Conine had been certain the lovely acolyte would not survive the night, so serious had been the abuse she had suffered at her captor's hands, but Satyra had recovered from her ordeal with miraculous speed. Within a day she had been strong enough to travel, and by a week she was able to walk unassisted, though she did not decline Conine's generous offers of help in traversing the steep mountain paths. Once the copper-haired priestess had pushed herself to far too soon and Conine had had to carry her up the steep slopes until they were in a place of better cover.

The memory of the feel of the girl's supple body nestled in her arms , rather than being one of toil, was a pleasant remberance of gentle intimacy, as were the memories of Satyra's from snuggled against her own on the nights when the air grew chill and the tow could not risk the light of a fire to warm themselves with.

As her thoughts travelled such times Conine found her hand moving lightly over her full breasts, imaging the feel of Satyra own oft palm cupping the full globe as they huddled in the dark. The priestess had shown no sign of similar stirrings, a fact Conine attributed to the horrible degradation the gentle beauty had suffered during her capture, and of course the warrior had not pressed the issue. She felt her heart brimming with a combination of pity and fury as she thought of the young priestess pinned beneath the thrusting weight of the Roman swine. She wanted to express her feelings more fully, more physically, but Conine would not allow her desires to come before the well being of her charge. So she endured the sting of her frustrated passion stoically, using the times when she was alone like this to allow her mind and hands to vent her womanly needs without forcing herself on her recovering friend.

Lying back against the smooth, cool rocks that lined the shore of the lake, Conine allowed her fingers to play lightly over the curve of her breast, brushing against the rosy nipple and stirring it to hardness. As the nubbin firmed she took it gently between her finger and thumb, twisting and pinching, behind her long lashes imagining the feel of Satyra's hands cupping her bosom instead of her own. Conine's other hand left her side and the fingers traced small circles over her belly, round her navel. Instinctively her legs fell apart a little more as the centre of her womanliness warmed with awakened needs. The fingers brushing her firm abdomen quested lower, dabbling in the water damp thatch between her thighs. A small moan escaped her lips as she imagined the gorgeous acolyte straddling her, the pressure of their two centres rubbing gently together as her body began to gyrate softly against the hand cupping her pouting mons.

'Conine?' Satyra's voice snapped like a bowstring in the warrior's ears, jerking her from her interlude. Conine glanced about fearfully, panicked by the thought that her companion had seen her self-indulgence, though among her own seasoned companions the tall Chevaan had been know to partake in far more tawdry entertainments to break the occasional monotony of the war-camp. She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw that Satyra was not in sight, then quickly composed her self as she heard her moving around the rocks to Conine's resting place.

Moments later, as Conine still fought to suppress the last of her thwarted yearnings the acolyte arrived, climbing slowly around the rocks that formed the shore of the pool. Like the warrior woman she was naked, and Conine fought the desire to let her gaze linger over her companions unclad form. Satyra was as tall as Conine herself, her slightly less tanned form lithe without being skinny. Long well formed legs tapered up to a trim waist and flat belly. She was long bodied, athletic as were most of her people, with full round breasts that jiggled slightly as she picked her way down to the water with a natural grace, stepping lightly from foothold to foothold. Her shoulders were partially hidden by the cascade of fiery red hair that foamed down over her back and framed a face of almost unearthly beauty, a appraisal that was emphasized by her white-less, emerald green eyes and the two ivory white rams horns that curled outward just above her ears on either side of her head.

Conine's blue eyes lingered on those supernatural features, remembering that initial surprise. She had heard of pairings with the woodland spirits producing such offspring, but had never actually beheld one before Satyra. The deeply instilled reverence of her people for the ancient dwellers of tree and stream stirred in her again, only serving to increase her discomfort at her sensual musings.

Making a little leap down the remaining distance between them, the strange yet radiant young Chevaan came to stand by the water's edge. Her voice, when she spoke, was strong yet musical. 'This place is wonderful,' she said with a beaming smile. 'May I join you?' Conine felt a surge of warmth rising inside her, but kept her face calm and her voice level. 'Of course,' she smiled back. 'I would have invited you, but I had thought the journey had wearied you.'

Satyra stepped into the water and gave a little shiver as she adjusted to the temperature. 'It's delicious,' she said, and waded out til the water was lapping at her thighs. 'So cold,' she said with a giggle of excitement. 'I had forgotten how cold the mountain streams were at this time of the year.' Watching Satyra wade about getting used to the chill waters of the pool, secretly pleased at the effect it had on her friends anatomy, particularly about in the area of her ample chest, Conine leaned back and floated in the rippling pool, her head held just above the water. 'Did you used to live in the highlands, then?'

'Oh, all over,' was the casual reply. The acolyte's fingertips brushed the water as she sung her arms back and forth in lazy arcs. 'Before I was taken to be educated by the Priestesses I travelled from the mountains through the forests and up and down the length of the great rivers. It wasn't until I reached my thirteenth year that my mother took me to the Sacred Circle, and by that time I had walked every trail there was from the slopes of Mount Kilarsis to the edge of the Western Wilds. Or at least, I thought I had,' she added, glancing around. 'This place must be a great secret, for me never to have found it before.'

'It is, right enough,' Conine answered. 'The warrior sisters have a few such refuges which we alone keep. They are known only among a few of us for times such as this, when every mouth that can talk of a hiding place is a threat to our sister's survival.'

Satyra eyes grew haunted and she shuddered at Conine's words. 'Once I would have answered proudly that no priestess would ever betray our sisterhood, whatever the cost. But now…' Voice trailed off as she remembered her own to brutal encounter with Roman cruelty.

Seeing the pain in her friend's eyes, Conine moved closer and took her hand gently. 'Tell me of the ways of the Priestesses,' she said, changing the subject. 'Though we of the warriors venerate your calling, and through you the Goddess, these days of strife have left us few opportunities to study the gentle ways. You said you joined the Circle at thirteen.'

'Yes,' Satyra answered with a small smile. 'My mother thought it time, though I would nave happily remained a child of the forest. But once I entered the circle I came to understand the beauty of serving the Goddess, eventually.'

'Eventually?'

'Well, yes. Much of the early learnings in the circle are about understanding yourself, centring yourself. My nature back then was…rather more wild. It took time for me to learn to find my centre. And…' Satyra paused a looked a little uncomfortable.

'Yes,' said Conine, intrigued.

'Even among our sisters there are some who take time to get used to,' Satyra paused again and ran her hand over the curl of her left horn, 'something so different.'

Conine moved closer to the young priestess. She had avoided examining the curling horns to closely previously, except when her companion was sleeping. She had thought it would have appeared rude. But now that Satyra herself had broached the subject she felt she could reveal her curiosity. Gently she reached out a hand, then asked the young acolyte 'May I?'

Satyra looked at her for a moment as if she were hesitant, but then her face softened. She reached out and took Conine's wrist and guided her fingers to the looping horn, tracing its outline.

Conine let her fingers explore. The horn was smooth, with slight ridges banding its breadth from end to end except for its slightly hollowed underside that was perfectly smooth. As she ran her fingers around the groove behind Satyra stiffened and giggled. Conine smiled and looked at her in surprise. 'It tickles,' Satyra said, and Conine laughed softly herself. Moving her hand she pushed back the lush curling hair to reveal two swept back ears, slightly pointed. Her fingers traced the shell-like outline of the ear. Closing her eyes Satyra relaxed and 'Mmmmmm'd softly.

Conine leaned a little closer, captivated by the half-satyr's exotic beauty. She was completely unprepared for Satyra's hand dipping down behind her back and scooping up the chill lake water to empty over her head and back.

The shock of the chilly water after her body had accustomed itself t the warmer air sent shivers up the warrior's spine. She yelped aloud even as Satyra laughed again and stepped back, using her other hand to splash more water over Conine's front. Cursing playfully the warrior lunged forward, wetting her playmate and chasing her round the knee-deep water, both women laughing like girls playing truant. Diamond-like drops sparkled on their smooth skin and their eyes shone. Finally Conine made a leaping catch and seized Satyra by the hand, quickly bringing her round to face her until they stood grappling at arms length, finger intertwined while they shifted their weight back and forth t try and gain advantage.

'Do you yield,' Conine asked with a smile, feeling the strain on Satyra's well-toned arms. Both women were panting from their exertion, their breasts rising and falling rhythmically. Satyra only smiled a little more widely, then suddenly stepped forward with a speed that left Conine stunned. Forcing back Conine's arms almost without effort she stooped low and gathered the warrior woman up below the waist, then hoisted her bodily into the air.

Held aloft by her smaller companion Conine looked down in amazement. Satyra had lifted her so only her toes were touching the water, supporting her 6' mass as easily as if she had been a small child. Her hands rested on the priestess' shoulders, but Conine could tell that even without that aid Satyra would have been perfectly capable of balancing her over her head.

Smirking just a little at her friends surprise Satyra spoke. 'A gift of my father he bestowed when he planted me in my mothers womb. I told you I used to be wild.' Conine brushed her raven tresses away form her face as she caught her breath. 'You have muscles like that, and you became a priestess?' she asked.

Satyra shrugged, still holding Conine up without effort. 'The strength I have is borrowed form the land, and needs replenishing quickly. I wasn't strong enough to outrun my pursuers when you found me, after using my powers to heal our sisters form the battle.

'So how long can you hold me?' Conine asked .

'Oh, quite some time,' Satyra said with a wicked little grin. Her hands clamped onto Conine's thighs kneaded softly.

'Well, you should put me down anyway,' Conine said. 'There's a breeze up here.'

'As you like,' Satyra answered, pulling her in close and relaxing her grip. Conine slid down slowly, feeling her knees pressing against the priestesses chest, then the arc of those two ripe mounds rubbing over her belly and ribs, finally feeling the squeeze against her own peaks as she slipped down chest to chest with the horned acolyte. Her own hands reached round to circle Satyra' back. The two all-green eyes gazed back up at her, setting a heat smouldering in her breasts and loins. Finally Conine wriggled down the rest of the way, her feet touching the sandy bottom of the pool by the warrior making no attempt to step free of her friends embrace. The two women stood facing each other, drinking in the feel of their bodied meshed so close together that they were aware of every dip and curve. Through the satyr woman's smooth skin Conine could feel her heart beating wildly and it filled her with joy to know that her touch could thrill Satyra as much as the feel of the priestesses body aroused her.

For an endless moment the two beauties stood together while the sound of the waterfall rose and fell in the background. Slowly their heads dipped forward. Conine felt the need to taste her partner like a fire in her belly but was terrified a sudden movement might ruin the moment. When their full lips finally touched it was with the gentleness of a butterflies wings, but the warrior woman felt a shock pas through her entire being. Nestled against she felt Satyra's body experience a similar thrill. The priestess extended a furtive tongue, playing across Conine's moist lips until at last the raven-haired gladiatrix opened her mouth fully and returned Satyra's kiss with passion. Small moans came from each woman as their mouths worked with vigour, lapping, pressing, sucking. Their arms struggled to draw each other closer so that their firm smooth bodies were crushed together in a rapture of desire. Breast mashed breast, thigh rubbed against thigh, and between their long legs two tufts of hair, one jet black midnight and the other ginger fire, ground against each other as the heated mounds they covered sought to become one.

At last the need to breathe overrode even these consuming desires and the women broke their kiss, though their bodies remained solidly clutched together. The sharp intakes of breath pressed their swelling mammaries even harder together. Starring at her companion Conine saw a need kindled in those luminous green eyes that matched her own, coupled with a worldliness that would have rivalled that of any of the hardened warrior women with whom she had shared herself in the camps of her sisters. Satyra's hands quested down over her clenched buttocks and fought to draw Conine even harder against the half-satyr's quim, a seething cleft of hot juices that Conine could feel dampening her own pubic tuft. It was clear that the studies of the ways of the Goddess had by no means robbed Satyra of all her wildness, a fact for which Conine offered up her own silent prayer of thanks.

A wicked smile stole across Satyra's lovely face as their two centres pressed firmly together. 'Is that the effect of my kiss, Conine, or are you still wet from playing with yourself earlier?'

Conine blushed as she smiled, and let her own hands reach up to cup the underside of Satyra' bulging breast. 'Spying on a warrior can be very dangerous,' she declared, rolling the nubbin of the curving mound between her fingers.

'I can handle such danger,' came the breathy reply.

The two women's lips met again, and Satyra's soft tongue slipped deftly into Conine's waiting mouth, laving her own pink member with a subtle sensuality that promised untold pleasure when it was directed elsewhere in the near future.

Instinctively taking the initiative, Conine leaned into the kiss, easing her lover back against the smooth rocks around the water's edge, slipping one lithe leg between Satyra's thighs and using it to grind softly but purposefully against her sex. Satyra continued the embrace as she eased the two of them over to a pebbled stretch of flat shoreline. She kneeled, Conine followed suit, all the while their hungry lips alternately pressed together or delivering a barrage of feathery kisses across each others eyes, cheeks, neck and shoulders, punctuated with a melody of moans and sighs.

As the acolyte settled on the damp bed of smooth pebbles, Conine pushed her back gently, her hand running down over her throat and collar to fondle the ample swell of smooth flesh making up Satyra's heaving bosoms. The girl's breasts quivered with delight at the attention of her fingers, tweaking the rounded nipples and gently squeezing the ripe tit-flesh. Conine felt the fire burning in her own flushed love-mounds. Her head arched down to take the tip of one of those rearing pinnacles in her mouth, and she was rewarded with deep-centred groan as her tongue flicked and laved the hard button while she fought to suck as much of that sweet softness as she could between her wide-spread lips.

Feeling the rapture of Conine's mouth suckling her firm young tit left the gorgeous satyr women undulating in pleasure. The muscles of her thighs and calves rippled as they took the weight of her rearward-arched form, while her hands and fingers ran through Conine's raven tresses as she pressed the warrior more forcefully against her chest.

Intoxicated by her partner's feel and smell Conine showered affection of Satyra's bounteous breast while her hand reached up to forcefully knead the it's twin. Her head flung back, the sounds of sexual abandon issuing from the acolytes smiling ruby lips left Conine in no doubt her ministrations were being well received. Slowly Satyra sank back against the moist sands as the women's bodies continued the undulating rhythm.

Her heart hammering against her ribs, Conine moved her lips from her partners quivering teat and slid her tongue south across the stretch of flat midriff towards the curling bush covering the young priestesses inmost being. Conine was hardly surprised by the heat radiating from that soft pink mound. Fingers trained to grip the hard lethal weight of the broadsword now gently coaxed that moistening slit until with a sigh from their mistress the lips parted to expose the hot pink interior. Moving with the surety that only another woman could know for what her lover wanted Conine dipped her head forward and nuzzled into the simmering honey-pot of sexuality hovering before her.

At the first glance of Conine's lips along her parted slit Satyra felt her mind awash with unbridled desire. Everything in her and of her was a fire burning without respite, yearning uncontrollably for the touch of the muscular body belonging to the raven-haired beauty working between her legs. Conine felt as if she had left her own body and was watching the sex-play between the two of them from above, though she was still exquisitely aware of every rapturous caress. Without even knowing how she found herself off the shore and in the water with Satyra, the two of them lying in the shallows while the cool water splashed playfully over their wriggling forms. Satyra raised up an exquisitely tapered leg to reveal the splayed furnace of her femininity, and Conine used her fingers to burrow into that dampened copper crested cleft and evoke small sounds of passion form her lover. Looking up the length of the acolyte's perfect form the warrior woman could see her lovely companion cradling one soft orb in her hand, lifting it to use her won tongue to circle the hardened nipple at the peak. The sight goaded her to reach down with her other hand to find her own sex, squeezing and kneading her labia almost painfully as her mouth clamped with passionate tenderness over Satyra's hot mons and her tongue squirmed like a serpent of desire within the horned girls womanhood.

Without warning Conine felt herself lifted bodily as Satyra used her mystic strength to hoist her overhead, the warrior woman pirouetting in mid-air as the groaning priestess turned her around so the twain were inverted, Conine lying atop Satyra with her head pointed down between her long legs. Rather than being intimidated by such a show of strength, Conine found it exciting. Never before had she taken a lover, man or women, who was more than her match in strength, but in Satyra she felt no competition, only respect and flaming desire. The pink tongue now working feverishly between her won legs was a sign that the move was not meant to impress or intimidate, but borne from a genuine need for the young satyr-woman to please Conine as the warrior was pleasing her.

For an endless time the two women sucked and licked at each other's vaginal opening, fingers spreading the pink lips wide as their lips and tongue played a melody of pleasure upon inner lips and gently protruding clitorises. Such levels of ecstasy could not be sustained forever, no matter how skilled the artists, and Conine felt a knot of pure rapture build within her loins, then surge outward in a sudden and uncontrollable tidal wave washing outward through her. She gasped, cried out, at the same time using her lips to squeeze Satyra's engorged love-button and twirl it masterfully until the young red-head spasmed beneath her and gave a hoarse cry of delight.

Her own need briefly assuaged, Conine twisted about, enjoying the feel of her full breasts twisting atop Satyra's tight abdomen. Face to face again the two lovers twined in each other's arms and kissed tenderly. Just the touch of the others lips and feel of their forms melding together was enough to begin a fresh bout of sexual hunger rumbling within Conine's athletic frame.

'You know,' whispered the green eyed priestess after a short time, 'there is a legend that a satyr can never be satisfied sexually.'

'Really,' Conine smiled back, intoxicated by the fires smouldering in those half-closed emerald orbs. 'A Chevaan warrior relishes a challenge.'

They kissed again, more deeply, and while they did so Satyra levered herself up. Conine followed suit until they were both standing, the chill mountain air raising goose bumps on their smooth skin and tightening their nipples to almost painful hardness. Their lips found each other again, with even greater passion, and Conine forced her young lover back against the damp stone wall of the low cliff nearby. Satyra squirmed back deliciously, braced by the rock face, and Conine drank in the feel of the priestess body squirming madly against her own. As before her hand reached down and found Satyra's still parted outer lips, then her own, and then the two were interlocked in a delightful wriggling embrace, their labias mimicking the actions being done by their sweet mouths, their hooded sex-nubs fighting to rub together like tow little tongues of passion.

Conine heard Satyra muttering softly, a low singsong chant that sent a slight shiver through her. The shiver turned to a jump as she suddenly felt something warm and firm brush her inner leg and begin questing at the opening of her crotch. With a start Conine glanced down and saw a column of water about the width of three fingers probing upwards like a liquid snake, it's rounded head pressing gently against her quim. An identical member was wriggling against Satyra's essence. The priestess was smiling mischievously and leaned froward to pur into Conine's ear 'There are many advantages to having a priestess for a lover.'

'So I can see,' Conine answered, then gasped and stiffened as she felt the liquid column wriggle inside her, pushing gently but forcefully towards her womb. The sensation was delicious, the column pulsing softly within her while the magic Satyra had used to call the serpents forth changed the chilly mountain lake into warm shafts of delight stabbing lovingly into her womanliness.

Conine began to grind Satyra with a steady rhythm and found her water snake moving to match her timing. Below the two columns moved to coil about each other, so that the movements of the two Chevaan were transferred to the magic phalluses lodged within them. Sensing the change Conine began to pump more forcefully. The feeling was extraordinary. She had used phalluses in her loving of other women before this, but those experiences could compete with the sensations she now enjoyed. As her movements pushed the interlocked members deeper into Satyra' yearning cleft they simultaneously transmitted the force to her won pulsing crotch-serpent. The effect was that she was rutting within Satyra but at the same time masturbating herself, the feeling redoubled by the fact that Satyra herself was pushing back delightfully against her thrusts. It was like being fucked by four cocks within her pussy at the same time, while her body was driven to a frenzy of excitement by the full-breasted form grinding against her own.

For the second time that day Conine felt her orgasm building to crescendo, and her thrusts became more desperate. Satyra answered the pace, and the two girls humped madly against each other; eyes locked together, nostrils flaring as they fought fro breath and made unintelligible sounds of pleasure.

Conine quickened again, and Satyra's red mouth mad an 'O' as she reached her climax, bucking furiously in the warrior's embrace.

Conine yielded to her own orgasm, grunting and thrusting with all her strength.

For almost a minute the tow beauties writhed together in the throes of passion, every muscle on their tapered flanks straining to smash their delicate tufted mounds together into a single flesh. Until finally, they slumped, exhausted, Satyra's enchanted phalluses slipping back down into the lake as the lovers sucked in air and rested in each other's arms.

After a long moment Conine reached up and brushed a sweat slick strand of golden hair form her lovers face. ' Now do you yield,' she asked with a sexy smile.

'Do you ?' a deep baritone voice off to her left. Conine's head snapped around instantly but at the same time a hand reached around and grasped Satyra by the throat. Conine moved to help her lover but a grip like steel locked on her forearm, even as the Roman soldier who had grabbed Satyra brought his short sword up to the priestess's throat.

'Well' said the Roman who had grabbed Conine, 'that was quite a show you two put on. We'll have to get you to perform it again for the general when we deliver you to his dungeons.'

Conine glared venom at the man but the sight of his half-dozen companions, all armed, killed any thought of resistance. She railed at herself furiously but was helpless to act as the Roman soldiers closed about her and Satyra, producing heavy iron shackles to adorn their gorgeous captives for the journey back to the Roman fortress.

Conine

Table for One

Gracus watched his beautiful young female prisoner struggle back to consciousness with a thrill of anticipation. It had only been a couple of hours since his men had released her from the chains holding her aloft during the whipping, yet the Chevaan warriors amazing stamina once again showed itself in her regaining her senses of her own accord, rather than having to be enticed back to awareness with ice-cold water. She truly was a trophy, and the Roman general promised the spirits of his forbears he would make every use of the opportunity such strength and beauty afforded.

As her eyes fluttered open the prisoners arms and legs moved slightly to rattle the chains that bound her wrists and ankles. Even that soft clinking was enough to rouse her more fully, instincts akin to those of a hunting animal alerting her to the new peril surrounding her. Like a trapped beasts the girl came fully awake to face the next torment her captor's had devised.

With renewed enthusiasm the Roman commander, and the men rewarded with this sweet duty, watched rapt as the woman bound before them jerked against the chains binding her deceptively delicate limbs, pinioning her to the chambers central cross-rack. Torches had been moved so as to provide the best possible illumination in that windowless stone vault, their fluttering light playing over the warrior-woman's exquisitely athletic physique, the shadows of well honed muscles highlighted against smooth slightly tanned skin, now barely marked by the caress to the whip, thanks to the skill of the Roman healers while the victim had lain senseless.

Clenching her fists in frustrated anger Conine jerked again against the chains holding her on the table until she realised it was beyond her strength to pull free of the metal shackles. She lay in a circle of light in the centre of the room staring directly up at the shadows of the ceiling hidden in the gloom above. Her arms were stretched back over her head, her long legs chained so that her feet, like her hands, lay about three feet apart, a position Conine was all to aware of leaving the neatly trimmed mound of her sex on full display. She could also feel something on the table like a knob or dull spike digging into her back between her shoulder blades, forcing her to arch herself so that her full breasts were thrust proudly upwards of the inspection of her tormentors.

With her heart hammering against her ribs the veteran warrior fought to calm her fears and regain her composure. Her body still smarted form the cruel cuts of the whipping, especially were her back and buttocks rested on the coarse wood of the table, but she seemed otherwise unharmed. Conine was forced to admit that the feel of the cool dungeon air on her naked pubis was something of a relief, considering the mind-destroying pain she had felt there when the cords of the flogger had landed squarely on the soft folds of her womanhood, but she knew that it was no act of mercy on the part of the Roman general. She had refused him the screams she knew he so eagerly sought from her, but that denial would only goad his appetite for perverse cruelty against his female prisoner.

As if sensing Conine's thoughts lingering on him Gracus appeared at the edge of her vision, stepping down from his chair on its dais and walking patiently over to where the Chevaan women lay helpless. Conine ground her teeth in fury at the sight of his cold eyes lingering over her spreadeagled form.

'You endured the flogging well,' he said, his tone clearly conveying how honoured she should feel at such praise. Conine shifted her gaze back to the roof and said nothing.

Gracus took a sip form his wine cup and let his eyes feast on the splendid specimen before him. She was quite the most beautiful woman he had ever had in this position, an intoxicating combination of raw physical beauty and stubborn, unyielding courage. The yearning to mount her now and ride that magnificent from with its high pink tipped breasts and pouting nether lips, unconcealed by their well trimmed ebony thatch, was like a fire in his blood. But his military discipline served him well. He would wait until he had rested the cries of anguish that signalled his domination of her from that lovely red mouth. Only then would he honour her with the feel of his noble manhood between inside her defiant Chevaan cunt.

Lowering his cup he allowed his other hand to drift over and trace the upper curve of one of those spectacular mammaries. 'You have courage, and strength, that much is certain.' His fingers moved with a lovers softness to the crest of her fleshy mount and he rolled the pink bud at the peak between is finger and thumb, bringing it to life. 'As a recognition of your stamina, I shall not fuck you until you see fit to let us hear your lovely scream.'

Conine's eyes were pools of cold blue fire and above the manacles about he wrists her hands clenched furiously. 'You never will!' she snarled.

Gracus smiled and finished his manipulation of her now erect nipple. Nodding to the darkness beyond the table and its occupant, he turned and moved to seat himself again for the coming event.

Off to the side Conine sensed movement and from the corner of her eye saw a Roman soldier step forward and walk around behind the head of the table. She refused to let her audience see her twisting like a trapped, panicky beast, but could hear the man begin working some sort of device, like a crank, over near the far wall. Almost instantly the tension of the chains holding her legs and arms spread increases, telling the black-maned Chevaan all she needed to know of her resting place's function.

As the manacles on her wrists and ankles drew back Conine felt the subtle pressure of tightening muscle and sinew begin in her upper arms and thighs. It was not yet uncomfortable, no more strenuous than the stretches she would perform before exercise drills while training, but it carried with it the promise of ever-greater pain. She realized that dreadful anticipation was probably intentional and her anger grew. How many of her friends and peers had been denied a clean death in battle only to find themselves made to suffer for the perverse gratification of men like Gracus on an obscene device like this table rack. The manacles holding her arms outstretched grew tight enough to dig into the flesh at the base of her hand but Conine's mouth remained a thin red line as she stoically endured the discomfort.

The wheel behind turned again, and the pain grew. Now the muscles in her arms were tight knots, and her calves felt cramped. Her shoulders and hip joints, too, had begun to protest, while her ample chest rose and fell more unevenly as she fought to draw air into lungs being compressed cruelly by the stretching of her diaphragm. But Conine was a warrior, and while she knew it probably to be useless, she could not bring herself to suffer the tortures off the Roman invaders unresisting. Girding herself with as deep a breath as she could take, the fiery young beauty set her aching muscles and pulled.

Watching the display, Gracus saw the physical exertion of the gorgeous victim and the sudden increase in effort from the man on the winch. The muscles concealed of the Chevaan's arms, shoulders and things worked like slender cables against the tanned surface of that smooth skin as she struggles mightily against the relentless pull of the machine. While the Roman general continued to observe, fascinated by her efforts, small drops of blood formed around the manacles on her ankles and wrists. Her face was a mask of physical exertion, her midriff taught as she tried desperately to resist the irresistible tug of winch and pulley.

Gracus was entranced by the scene. Inch by inch the manacles drew further and further apart, hauling the prisoner's limbs with them, but despite her failure she fought on. Sweat formed like diamonds on every part of her exquisite form and ran in tiny rivulets down over her face as it twisted with passion. Her full tits rose and fell in shuddering spasms that set their soft fullness quivering, and still she resisted. The blood began to flow more freely from the cuts of the steel shackles into her flesh, but she persevered. And most amazingly, she was actually succeeding in slowing down the progress of the machine, the man on the wheel perspiring freely himself as his strength was set against that of the warrior woman squirming on the rack.

Ultimately though, even so magnificent a performance was in vain. Mortal muscle and sinew, even in so athletic a package, even backed with such will as she possessed, could not overcome the terrible power of the machine to which she was bound. Slowly but surely the stretching continued.

On her bed of torment Conine fought on with all her strength, all her courage, but in vain. The discomfort in her joints had grown to pain, and was quickly becoming and inescapable agony. Her struggle had probably gained her a few moments respite, but now, as her energy waned, she was helpless before the pull of the Roman machine. Sweat stung her eyes and she felt her body soaked with a glistening dew of pain. Her teeth remained clenched, but as the torture went on she could now no longer prevent the small groans of anguish that were forced from her as the strain on her limbs became ever more unbearable.

Click by click the machine continued its fiendish work. Now her arms were stretched so taught that they felt as if at any moment they might be wrenched from their sockets. The pain in her joints had spread like a slow fire across her shoulder blades and down to the small of her back. Below the curve of her waist her legs were cramped horribly by the tension, toes curled painfully and pointed towards the far wall in a feeble attempt to alleviate her suffering. The cheeks of her firm backside chaffed against the wood of the table as the torture forced Conine to squirm unwillingly for her Roman captors. Her hip joints, too were a source of torture, as the pulling of the chains drew her long wider, opening the intimate space between her sleek thighs, revealing her womanhood ever more fully and adding humiliation and deep shame to the merciless cruelty of the racking.

Watching over this entire spectacle Gracus sipped his wine and savoured the delightful contortions of the prisoner. There was not now a single part of that magnificent form that did not shine beneath the torchlight, every exquisite dip and curve glazed with a sheen of pain. Plump tits reared fitfully as the were drawn up higher by the pull on muscular arms, their firm budded peaks jutting upwards in a mockery of their owners pride, the soft globes quivering as more and more strain was applied to female flesh. Below those eye-catching mounds the woman's midriff was rendered with the tightness of a war drum, so that every crease of those sculpted abdominals was visible to his appraising eye. Such a body spoke of years of discipline and effort, now reduced to a piece of flesh made to suffer unspeakably to please his quivering member. Not for the first time did Gracus thank the gods for delivering this untamed hellcat into his hands.

Stoic silence had now given way to tortured moans and gasps of agony as every creak of the chains heralded new levels of pain. By now Gracus knew his stubborn captive to be hurting in ways she never dreamed possible. She would be able to feel her muscles and sinews being ripped slowly, inch by horrible inch, the ligament in her joints screaming their message of anguish in her brain as they strained to keep her trim young body from being torn asunder. By this stage of the stretching even breathing would be a battle, the nightmare of slow asphyxia combining with the subtle brutality of the machine.

On her bed of pain Conine's beautiful face was contorted by the effort to keep from crying out. The torture was methodical, inescapable. Her lovely 6' frame was now truly stretched well past the point of its normal limits, and shining sweat trickled from every pore of her skin. The pain in her triceps and shoulder muscles was like they were being squeezed with a vice. Her ribs and sternum felt as if at any moment they would rip through the thin sheath of flesh holding them.

Another terrible crank and her lower back howled a song of torment. Conine shook the matted fringe of her black mane from her eyes and gurgled piteously. She took a desperate breath that raised her proud mammaries roof-ward and bit her red lip until she tasted blood.

Gracus smiled as he played with his engorged penis beneath his tunic and signalled the man on the winch to halt. Any more tension would certainly dislocate his captives hip joints and shoulders, a pleasure he would save for another time. The spread-eagled young minx was at the limits of her formidable endurance, and the general wanted something special to push her over the edge. He raised his hand slightly, and the man at the wheel locked it in position, then stepped back.

Stretched wide on the rack Conine only half realised through the haze of pain in her mind that the terrible pull of the chains had abated. Her neck muscles burned with the pressure being conveyed to them via her tortured shoulders, and her hip joints were a mass of knotted agony. She blinked her eyes to clear away the stinging sweat that had plastered her hair to her forehead. Her whole body was soaked in her own juice and she felt cold. Her body tried to shiver, but she was drawn so taught now that she could only quiver slightly in her restraints.

Footsteps sounded nearby and she tried to turn her head. The new pain this simple action caused wrenched a muffles yelp. Her head feel back to the hard wood and she was forced to use only her eyes to follow the approach of another of Gracus' soldiers. To her horror, Conine saw he held in his hand a long metal implement, tapered at one end and ending in a curling hook, as less than half a fingers width and ending in a needle sharp point.

'Our guest lacks all modesty, Quintilus,' came Gracus' voice from his dais. 'See how she spreads herself so brazenly for our inspection. Be helpful and assist her in revealing her intimate secrets for our pleasure.'

The man with the hook, clearly Quintilus, smiled evilly and came closer, moving the hook in the light and allowing Conine to get a good look at it before he went to work. The Chevaan felt rage and despair mixing as she examined the wickedly sharp device and seethed at the General's stinging words. Not in a hundred years would she ever have willingly parted her legs for these men, yet now thanks to their obscene table she was spreadeagled like the most shameless whore. They could peruse her most secret parts at their despicable leisure, and she was powerless to prevent it.

Pausing at her side Quintilus let the smooth backward curve of the device glide over Conine's shoulder, tracing a languid path across the beads of perspiration on her skin. The metal was cool. Conine could only glare at him, blue eyes glistening. She wondered if the dewy sheen on her face helped to hide her unwanted tears from the pain of the racking.

'This little instrument,' Gracus commented from his vantage point, is called the "Master's barb". It is deceptively fragile looking, I know, but can be used to produce the most exquisite responses in recalcitrant young girl's, or even barbarian sluts such as yourself. Quintilus, instruct our stubborn guest in the barbs subtleties.'

With sadistic leisure the Roman soldier let the barb stray down over Conine's collarbone, the young warrior following its progress with her eyes. The metal instrument strayed over towards her breastbone, then Quintilus casually turned it in his fingers until it was resting not by the smooth curve of the hook but the wickedly sharp point.

Conine breathing became faster briefly, and her fists clenched and unclenched.

Slowly the man let the point run around the base of the woman's left tit, tracing the gently line of the impressive mammary made more distinct now by the unnatural tension induced by the rack.

Conine winced only slightly as the barb followed it's course. No real pressure was being applied, but it was a measure of the tool's sharpness that even without effort on the owner's part and despite the continuing torment of the stretching, she was fully aware of the pint gliding over her skin. Raising her head a little she could see across the top of her breast a fine red graze left by the passage of the implement.

Completing his circuit of the prisoner's slowly rising and falling tit the soldier moved to repeat the procedure with its twin. Conine watched with resentment but also a growing feeling of dread.

The man finished the second circuit, and paused to look at the prisoner. Involuntarily Conine let her angry blue eyes flick up to make contact with the Roman's dark gaze. He smiled, and the probe began to trace the rising curve of her breast.

Conine fought to keep her breathing steady. This little game was designed to help break her will, she knew. To make the fear growing her until it eroded at her control. Her instinct was to shout curses at the man with the barb but she bit back on her acid words. Such an outburst would only make her weaker in their eyes. She clenched her fist tighter and remained silent.

The barb reached the apex of the warrior-woman's fulsome tit and paused just next to the nipple, the point of the hook gently dimpling the edge of the pink aureole. Conine could feel the diamond top barely nicking the surface. The slightest pressure from the Roman would be enough to drive the metal into her flesh. Despite the agony in the bunched cords of her neck she strained a little to see the hook were it rested atop her sweat-shiny boob. From the side of the room she heard Gracus speaking again. 'You are probably in no position to be aware of it, young savage, but the inside curve of the barb is quite sharp as well. On one occasion such as this a young lady could not control her anxiety and moved suddenly, and I'm afraid poor Quintilus sliced her nubbin clean off. Very distressing, and so much blood. But I'm sure a brave warrior such as yourself will have no trouble remaining calm.'

Conine's eyes flashed angrily towards the wall where the general was enjoying her torture, but she could spare no greater response. As Gracus finished speaking the soldier Quintilus began to circle her chill-hardened nip with the barb, the feathery touch a ticklish underscore of the tool's true purpose. The metal glided lightly, just nicking the pink crest enough to cause the dark-haired beauty to wince but not enough to tear the skin. Yet.

The man mad several circles of the nub then lifted the hook and repeated the action on the other breast. Conine, meanwhile, was forced by fatigue to allow her head to drop back. Staring up at the roof she could feel the hook still teasing her teat, and closed her eyes as she tried to keep her breathing steady and rhythmic.

Abruptly the point exerted more pressure. With the barest effort it pierced just below the surface of the skin where the nipple blended with the surrounding whiteness, causing the Chevaan to give an involuntary gasp. Her lovely features became even more pinched as the barb continued it circle again, this time leaving a razor thin red line in it's wake as it cut through the top layer of skin and into the tiny blood vessels beneath.

From he seat Gracus could not see the tiny red beads springing up behind the hooks passage, but could tell form the reaction of the woman that the sharp little tool was doing its job. Despite his earlier tale the general knew Quintilus was an expert with the device and would not carelessly mutilate the young barbarian, but the thought would be one that tormented the girl's mind as much as the merciless stretching tormented her lovely body.

Quintilus completed his work on the hardened tit-crown and moved the point slowly over the downward curve of the prodigious breast, steering south towards Conine's abdomen. The pressure of the barb was constant now and the Chevaan could felt he metal siding effortlessly across her skin, leaving its telltale red razor cut in its wake. At the base of the mammary the soldier expertly deftly manipulated the hook so that it made the transition to her sternum without either breaking contact with her anguished form or cutting more deeply into her. With that accomplished the man again moved the point slowly down, taking his time as he traced a gently stinging line down past her ribcage and on to the flat, elongated surface of her belly. The skin here was taught as a drum and the soldier had an excellent view of the prisoner's athletic midriff, the muscles delightfully highlighted by the action of the table. He meandered across this lightly tanned landscape of female flesh, taking pleasure in the soft quivering that the barb's progress cause in this sensitive region. The quivering intensified as he passed within a hair's breadth of the distended navel, and a tiny moan drifted form the lips of the warrior woman at this ticklish mockery of affection.

Onwards the evil point made its way across the woman's impossibly flat stomach. As it approached the trimmed thatch of ebony beyond it swerved aside slightly, avoiding the thin tuft of hair and skirting down toward the region where the prisoner's pelvis melded with her savagely spread leg and upper thigh.

Gracus was as fascinated by the Chevaan woman's control as he was by her beauty. As the leering Quintilus dragged the barb across the deliciously sensitive pelvic zone he knew the physical stimulation to be almost unbearable, yet somehow this brave but foolish little harlot kept her response to a low moan and the barest movement of her exposed lower body. Her head had fallen to one side so that her tangled, sweat matted black hair partially covered her lovely features, but Gracus could tell even form a distance that her face held no sign of surrender.

Quintilus dithered a moment around the prisoners thigh and them shifted his hand, rotating the point so that it now curved upwards. Carefully he began to move the pint back up towards the pouting lips of the Chevaan's exposed pudenda.

As she felt the barb change its course Conine clenched her teeth and winced. This was the moment she had known was coming form the moment that the evil metal had first touched her, but she still felt her insides grow cold as the time approached. She wanted to thrash against the steel pinioning her in this lewd display, but knew it would be useless. Her breath came in panting gasps as she felt the point scrapping across the skin of her thigh, then move up around the pouting lips of her outer womanhood. The sharp point in that intimate zone left her shuddering uncontrollably, and she tried unsuccessfully to swallow the groan at the stinging touch.

Quintilus reached the top of the gently parted cleft with its crown of black hair and leaned forward. The musky smell of exposed sex mingled with the scent of sweat covering the prisoner as the fingers of his free hand took position on the red labia and pulled softly, spreading the folds to fully reveal the pink softness hiding beyond.

Conine growled in frustration at the feel of the man touching her most private place, but also at the feel of his fingers pulling and prying at the pink mound still sore from the punishment of the whip. Her poor pussy-lips felt swollen and tender and even the casual touch of the soldier made them smart anew. Fresh outrage flooded through her as she raised her head to glare daggers down the length of her cross-racked body at her tormentor. She could see his hand holding her nether lips apart and the handle of the barb as he moved it towards the exposed inner softness. The muscles of her arms and legs stood out like steel cables as she fought with all her strength to prevent this violation.

Quintilus stopped his examination and nodded, and another man stepped into the young Chevaan's view. From the other side of her spreadeagled body he reached across with what looked like a pair of pincers with the heads dulled and flattened. Conine gave an involuntary start as the rough, warm fingers of Quintilus were replaced by the smooth but cold metal jaws of the tool.

With deft practiced moves the soldier worked the head of the pincers around the inner and outer sides of the left lip of her inflamed cunny, then exerted gentle but increasing pressure, continuing until the fold of soft skin was pinched securely between the bronze jaws and another hissing escaped the statuesque victim. Carefully the man pulled the pincers so that the lips was drawn back to fully expose the hot pink of Conine's love-chasm.

The labia pulled aside, Quintilus wasted no time in positioning the barb just below the glistening leaves of flesh beyond. The smooth metal glided up to the topmost part of the woman's quim.

Gracus leaned forward as her drank in the sight of the warrior-slut's humiliation more avidly than any wine. He knew how tender her pink sweetmeat would still be from the strokes of the lash and that this would add to her experience. Her breathing was faster now as the point of the barb searched for the ultimate expression of her sex.

Pulling the lips back a bit further, Quintilus found the little nub he had been looking for. With the back of the tool he teased the little hood of flesh more fully in the open, pushing with the metal to expose the little button of flesh nestled inside.

He and his companions were rewarded with the rattle of chains as the prisoner reacted to this violation, and through the fingers still poised either side of her cleft he could feel the trembling of her sweaty young body. With exquisite care he moved the point so that it hooked the inside of the covering hood and began to tease softly, prompting the skin to draw back a little as the girl's clitoris, still enlarged form the beating of the cords earlier, grew even more pronounced. The point danced about under the hood, pinching and poking softly but transmitting powerful signals to the raven-haired prisoner. The muscles in her thighs were ridges of marble as he went about his fiendish business, and little groans came long and fast from behind her tightly clenched teeth.

Conine herself had her eyes so tightly closed that stars danced behind her lids. The hook was merciless as it stimulated her sex, an evil parody of the soft, moist touch of Satyra's tongue during their lovemaking. She expected at any moment the barb to pierce her clitoris, impaling her womanhood. She prayed to the goddess that the agony of her clitoris being pierced by the steel tool would be greater than she could endure and that she would lapse into unconsciousness without disgracing herself.

To be continued

Conine

'Table for Two'

Abruptly, just as the prodding of the wicked point against her clit was becoming unbearable, the torture stopped.

Conine blinked and opened her eyes. The direct stimulation had ceased, but the after-effects lingered as a fire in her nether regions. She heard footsteps retreating and glancing down saw that the man Quintilus had left, taking his obscene tool with him. Before she had time to feel any sense of relief, though, Conine heard other steps approaching from the side of the table. They were slow, measured step and somehow filled her with a sense of growing dread as they came closer.

Another soldier appeared in the circle of light around the rack. He was dressed in tunic bottom and helm as Quintilus had been, but this man carried not a delicate metal tool but a heavy iron ladle, so large he had to carry it with both hands, the bowl of which was filled with something that bubbled and steamed. As the Chevaan watched the man, he came to stand level with her upthrust breasts, smiling like a fiend as he kept his eyes riveted to those two glistening orbs.

Conine's breath, which had slowed since the barb had been removed from between her legs, quickened again as she stared up form the wooden torture table at the ladle and its hidden contents. The heat emanating form the lower edge of the container could be felt clearly on her skin even though the metal was poised a good twelve inches above her. She struggled again against the pull of the chains holding her spread-eagled and was surprised to find the tension had eased slightly, though the ache of her brutally wrenched muscles and ligaments continued to torment her. Before she could wonder at this seeming mercy, however, a drop of the liquid contents of the ladle was spat over the side and landed on her right arm.

The pain was startling, a sudden burning shock that cut through the constant suffering of her joints like a knife. The ladle was filled to the brim with some kind of thin oil heated to boiling. The full horror of what was about to happen flooded through the proud beauty, her flashing blue eyes rimmed all round with white as the soldier tipped the ladle gently to one side and began to pour.

For a split second the yellowish liquid was suspended in the space between the metal holder and the soft curve of her bosom. Then the spatter of boiling oil splashed against the upward slope of her breast like lava.

'NNNNHHHHHhhhh!!!' A voice that had never given such an utterance on the rack now choked out a strangled cry of agony as the liquid bequeathed a searing kiss to her tender mammary. Compared to the heat of the oil the whipping had been a sweet caress. Conine's large eyes were no more than a scrunched line as her long lashes mashed tight, and her body shuddered awfully as the pain washed over her.

With terrible precision the man with the ladle moved the instrument carefully. The rain of scalding liquid shifted its target, cascading down directly onto the tit-globe's erect red nubbin.

'EEEEUUUUuuuuuNNNN…NNNN….NNNNRRRRRRRR!!!!!' The pain was unbelievable, as if the Roman fiends had planted a red-hot poker against her flesh. Conine's entire body spasmed mightily, lifting clear of the table in an upward curving arch of gorgeous femininity. Her mind was ablaze with the terrible agony of her scorched nipple as the oil continued to sizzle against the sensitive nerves clustered in her swelling chest mound.

From his chair Gracus leaned forward to enjoy every detail of the display with glee. The easing of the tension on the table's chains allowed the prisoner to writhe exquisitely, and this Chevaan slut was putting on a magnificent show. The tortured athletic frame on the rack heaved and shook so that the entire exquisite composition of lean muscles, shining smooth skin, long tapering legs, flat midriff and blessedly large firm tits performed a cock-stiffening dance macabre, accompanied by the strangled cries bubbling between those as-yet still clenched teeth. As the man with the ladle continued to move his tool the burning liquid showered down over the sensitive underside of that rigidly defined love-orb, causing the victim to crash back down onto the wooden table again as she thrashed and heaved, straining with muscles already wrenched with pain and multiplying her suffering threefold.

The rain of scalding liquid shifted, and the oil splashed now over the lower quarter of the prisoners trembling bosom. Fresh half-choked cries of anguish echoed through the torture chamber as the heat washed over the sensitive underside of the tit. Gracus knew that a woman's breast flesh was often far more tender here, used as it was to being covered far more than the upper part of the mammary. His insight was rewarded by the Chevaan warrior twisting wonderfully in her restraints; lips pulled back form white teeth in a rictus of pain that only enhanced the beauty of her features in the general's eyes.

On the rack Conine continued to struggle hopelessly against her bondage while the terrible searing deluge snaked down over her boob and continued lower, washing her sternum and the flat plain of her abs with its fiery touch. Tears welled freely in her eyes, which were closed tight against the horrible pain. She gasped and tried to catch her breath but the torture was constant, the pain in her scorched tit-flesh as fresh and clear as the moment the oil had first found her budding nipple. As the ladle progressed further down her form her body became a canvas of torture on which the Romans painted a portrait of epic cruelty.

By the time the burning sludge pooled in the cavity of her navel she could no loner think clearly through the red haze stabbing through her mind, but understood instinctively the final destination of the molten flame. She managed to lift her head as her belly was added to the list of tormented flesh, willing herself to stare down as the ladle dipped and swayed and scattered burning drops amid the sweat shiny thatch adorning her pubis.

It was a moment of exquisite cruelty for Gracus, the proud warrior staring wide-eyed but still defiant at the ladle of hot liquid poised majestically over her most intimate region, the parted red lips offering no protection to the vulnerable quim meat within. For an instant she waited with her breasts quivering with the fight to control her breathing, to hold onto some shred of dignity in the face of her conquerors.

The ladle dipped again.

The oil fell through space.

Conine's clenched fist drew beads of blood form her palm.

The first drops of the fiery liquid spattered against her inner lips and trickled down into her cunt.

At that flaming touch on her womanhood, Conine lost the battle against the pain washing over her. Her mouth opened wide, her head arched back, her diaphragm flattened as the agony ripped free form her in a single, tearing sound.

'EEEEAAAAAAAA AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGHHHHH!!!!!! '

The watching soldiers were witness to a site such as they had never seen, the exquisite creature on the rack transformed into a goddess of suffering. Her lank back hair was cast back and her red lips stretched wide as the scream and its brethren erupted from her. Her body thrashed so violently it seemed even that muscular body must tear itself apart in the fury of her convulsions. She heaved, trembled, fell back, rose again, all the time screaming, choking, shrieking.

Conine had lost all conscious thought, all control. Her vagina blazed with pain – it ripped through her like a thousand burning knives, tearing away her pride, her dignity. She lifted herself and screamed again, yielding to the need to express the terrible pain, and more than pain. As her cleft of sweet pink flesh howled under the onslaught of the burning oil her womanly soul howled in unison, howled at the terrible pain being inflicted on her, and raged that her agony was the source of pleasure for the human beasts fondling their stiffened members at the exhibition of her torture.

Finally the pain became too much even for her and she collapsed back onto the wooden table, her strength spent, her voice hoarse from screaming. The fire searing her skin and the private places of her womanliness continued unabated, but her body lack the energy to respond to the agony with more than a faint shivering and twitching, or to voice it with more than coarse sobbing groans.

Seeing his prisoner thus humbled, Gracus knew his time had finally come. Setting aside his goblet he rose from his chair and stepped down from the dais, drinking in instead the sight of his victim as he walked slowly over to her. As he walked his hand worked to remove his belt, then he reached up to begin pulling his tunic up over his head. The moment he had waited patiently for since this young bitch's capture had come.

Lying amid her stupor Conine felt her head lifted roughly off the rack and force upward. One of the solders was holding her by her damp black hair and forcing her to face Gracus as he approached, shedding his clothing slowly, dramatically. Water splashed onto her face from a small bucket, helping to revive her. She blinked the icy water from her eyes and saw the Roman general come to a stop at the end of the table between the two beams that angling outwards to keep her tapering legs spread wide.

With evil pleasure shining in his eyes the Roman leaned forward and moved his hands over her thighs, up over her midriff, smearing the slowly cooling oil over, then up over her breasts, cupping them and rubbing them forcefully, pressing and squeezing them. The pain in the scalded mammary flared anew and she gasped instinctively. Gracus continued to manipulate the proud swell of tit-flesh, pressing the twin orbs together and twisting them in his strong grasp. He was leaning so far over her now that the Chevaan could fel the tip of his erection prodding gently against the hard curve of her pelvis.

Without a word Gracus abruptly stepped back and seized his jutting phallus in his hand. The hand twined in her hair still held her head up and Conine had an all to clear view of the general's organ, a stiff length of respectable size and girth that sprang from a body well toned by military life, despite his age. Only the slightest hint of a middle-aged paunch overhung Gracus' outthrust cock, and his arms and chest showed the man's ongoing devotion to remaining in fighting trim.

Gracus stepped forward again and wrapped the fingers of his free hand about the circumference of her oil-burned breast, while his other deftly guided his cock-head to the open entrance of her pussy. Conine struggle feebly against the feel of his dick poised to penetrate her but could do no more than glare helplessly as her captor readied himself for her ultimate degradation.

'This is for your courage, child,' Gracus said in a voice so genuinely respectful that Conine was taken aback. The two enemies stared at each other for a heartbeat, then the Roman surged froward, driving into her.

For Gracus the sensation was beyond pleasure. Lubricated by the boiling oil dowsed on it earlier the woman's outer gates buckled easily, his shaft carrying more of the now warm liquid deeper into her, moistening her further. Her muscles were taught with the suffering caused by the racking and her sensed her trying to resist him, fighting to the last, but that only added to thrill of his conquest. Beneath him on the table her body surge, rising up like a wave, a sensual groan bubbling from deep within her.

For Conine the thrust was like a flaming torch being plunged into her quim. Though the oil itself no longer burned her, the heat lingering within the reddened flesh was fanned to new heights by the friction of the man's hateful penis driving into her. She bit back another shameful cry but shook helplessly as the pain continued to tear at her.

In vain she tensed her exhausted muscles, tyring to expel the invader form her inner regions, but ebbing strength was no match for the oil-slick harness of the Roman member, backed with all his strength and contempt for her people as he pushed, pulled back, pushed again. Every plunging movement of the oak-hard organ drove deeper and deeper into her, ravaging her unstoppably. With sick comprehension Conine fully realised the full horror of Satyra's rape beneath the sweating bodies of the Roman soldiers, as she was now force to endure her own defilement.

Gracus surged onward, building into a rhythm and determined not to let the moment end to quickly. The girl beneath him squirmed only feely now, and the general found that somehow unsatisfying. After her performance during the flogging, racking and scalding he was not now content to let her lay idly when he knew the fire in her simply needed a little rekindling to make the experience truly memorable. 'Anthus,' he called over to the man by the wheel, watching appreciatively with his peers, 'our young guest is in need of refreshing. Stretch her a little to perk her spirits would you.'

The man smiled and nodded and seized hold of the machine, unlocking it and tensing himself as he felt the gentle tugging caused by his commander movement carried up the chains form the fetter about the gorgeous captives wrists and ankles. Carefully he increased the tension, drawing the prisoner's body taught again, stretching her further along the wooding platform on which she was being fucked.

Conine gelt her limbs drawn anew toward the extremes of the rack and gasped, her eyes screwed tight. The pressure from the invading meat between her legs increased as her diaphragm compressed under the strain and her thighs sent messages of overstrained ligaments and ruptured muscles.

Feeling life surging through his victim again Gracus increased his assault. Sweat beaded on his back and hest and his hands were now wrapped around the girls pointed hips, using their leverage to ram himself forcefully into her hot moist opening. Anthus had now felt out the rhythm of the motion and was working in concert, hauling on the wheel with a sow steady pace, easing back, hauling again, stretching the prisoner painfully then allowing her a moment to recover before stretching her again, and again.

For Conine the rape was a nightmare of brutal pain, shame and sex. Tears flowed openly now, and little cries of pain were coming freely form her lips, mixed with a colourful barrage of curses. She could not fight what was being done to her, could not prevent in any way the relentless use of her body. Her only means of resistance was to sporadically lift her head and stare fixedly into the eyes of the man embedded inside her. She cursed her own weakness that her eyes should be filled with tears, but they were also filled with defiance, and contempt. This male would hurt her, could have her, but he would not break her.

Riding atop the prisoner Gracus matched her fiery gaze with his own look of mocking triumph. Did she know how much more her strength inflamed him, as he pumped in and out of her goddess-like form. Unlike sessions of love with his slave girls the general felt not the slightest temptation to close his eyes and envision other women, other pleasures. The sight and smell and feel of the warrior jerking to pulse of his cock was all the sight he needed to keep his shaft hard as iron. His strong hands roamed over her, gripped her powerful biceps, curled around the steel cables of her neck and shoulders, gripped her chin as he watched her every flicker of pain and shame in those large liquid blue eyes.

The general quickened his fucking, feeling his climax building within him, no longer to be denied. His breath came more quickly and his lips were drawn back in a grimace of control. Conine felt the change too and tried to relax herself, but the merciless tug of the rack on her swollen joints was an inescapable stimulus, forcing her to respond.

Gracus pumped more forcefully, feeling his eruption surging in the depths of his loins, fighting its way free. He thrust again, and again, growling as he did. The muscles of his buttocks were clenched tight as he drove deeper into the woman under him, then gave a triumphal cry.

Conine's head fell back as she felt the man's disgusting seed shooting into her like a hot torrent. Her tortured and inflamed sex burned like fire between her legs and she cried out as the Roman cock slammed into her, grating her scorch-sensitive quim-meat. Her own cry was a strangled echo of her rapists' as she arched back, trying to pull herself off his impaling member.

Gracus continued to pump his sperm into the hot orifice, releasing himself utterly. Then, looking at the defeated women under him he pulled back further, allowing his dick to slip free of the grip of those lovely inner lips, but not escape them. Using his weight to force her hips back down onto the table Gracus continued to thrust. Grinding his exposed phallus into the cleft of her pussy, the Roman watched the gleaming head showering her oily/sweaty belly with pearly drops.

By the time the Roman general's passion was spent Conine's midriff was a gooey puddle of translucent white liquid. Thirst and exhaustion wracked her and as the soldier behind her let to of her hair she could no longer keep her head raised, so that it feel back with a thud onto the wood of the torture table. Her breasts rose and feel slowly as she tried to regain her energy.

Wiping his cock on the inside of the prisoner's leg, Gracus stepped back and accepted his tunic form a soldier that had retrieved it form the floor. He stepped out from between Conine's legs and walked around to look down at her directly. Her eyes were closed and her mouth was open as she fought to catch her breath. Gracus took a sup of water from one of his men and drank, then tipped the last quarter of the water onto the girls face. Conine gasped and looked up angrily, but Gracus noted with satisfaction that she also used her tongue to lick the water form around her lips.

'You are a magnificent fuck, my dear,' he said sincerely, 'a credit to your people. I will treasure the memory of our encounter, and your screams, always.' Gracus smiled at the tightening of her face at the mention f her anguished cries under the torture. 'It would give me no greater pleasure than to deliver you to my villa in chains and continue your education, but alas, your crime against my soldiers in the forest demands justice, and I would not deny my men the chance to personally repay you for the murder of their comrades.'

'But I do feel that some measure of reward is due to one whose endurance provided such rare entertainment,' the General went on. So I shall spare your lovely horned companion. I am sure there is much she can teach us about your people's ways under the right promptings, and much she can learn from us as well. I think when the time comes I will let her recreate your own experience on the table. It will be interesting to observe how well she can live up to your high standards.'

Conine's eyes burned with hatred as Gracus smiled down at her, but the thought of Satyra suffering on the abomination to which she was strapped left her throat swollen and incapable of speech. Only her eyes could give voice to the terrible fury inside her. Gracus nodded appreciatively and turned to his soldiers.

'Crucify her.'

More to follow.

They took Conine back to a cell and left her. Exhausted from her ordeal, she could offer no resistance when they tossed her through the door. Landing hard on the dirty straw that covered the flagstones, she was unable even to muster the strength to glare at the soldiers taunting her. Conine looked down instead, at the bruises and marks on her body, the vile stains on her thighs from Gracus' seed. She ached in every joint and sinew, so she lowered herself gently to the floor, breathing deeply to block some of the pain and horrible memories.

Eventually, she fell asleep.

In her dreams she again heard the click of the rack mechanism, the stain (strain) of the ropes as they pulled her apart. She saw Gracus' face leering down at her like a giant as he used the awful machine to wrench her limbs until blood leaked from her armpits and thighs. As she screamed, his breeches clothes disappeared and a penis the size of a horse's rose up between his legs. As he positioned it to thrust into her helpless body it suddenly burst into flames, so that he shoved the whole fiery length into her womanhood and she howled as she felt her most tender meat being roasted between her legs.

Her own awful scream woke her up.

High up in one wall a window showed the night sky, but there was no noise. Alone in the dark, the Celtic beauty pulled some of the filthy straw over her to try and screen out the night chill, and lapsed again into fitful slumber.

When she woke again some hours must have passed. The sky in the window had turned from blue-black to a dark steely grey. Conine heard men outside her cell and stirred as the door opened. She winced as the aches in her shoulders and back returned, but already the stamina of her warrior physique was helping her recover form her ordeal. It would be days before she could move with any kind of grace, but she managed to pull herself to a kneeling position as four soldiers came through he door.

'On yer knees, eh?' said one of the men, older than the other, probably a centurion. 'Good to see.' The others laughed. Conine glared and pulled herself to her feet, facing the men with a tired but determined stare. They openly admired her beautiful body, 6 feet of exquisitely honed female flesh adorned with raven dark shoulder length hair, bountiful firm breasts and bronze lightly-tanned skin over a well-defined muscular frame, still bearing the imprints of the whip's caress. The soldiers alternated their leering examination between her lovely features with their burning blue eyes, the sweet swell of breast meat tipped with their rosy buds and, and the subtle mound between her tapering thighs, crowned with its cum-stained crest of fine black hair. There was nothing about this naked savage that did not ooze of sexuality.

Conine met their stares evenly, saying nothing. She knew she was no match for these men in her current state but refused to show them any form of submission. Nor did she move to try and conceal her nakedness. She felt no shame at their examination ; why should she? She was proud of her body, trained to peak condition through years of toil. All she felt was disgust that these so-called soldiers should parade their lust before her, reducing themselves to more beast than human.

The centurion interrupted his men's appraisal with a crack of his knuckles. 'Alright, my young beauty,' he snarled. 'I was afraid you'd not be up to today's entertainment, but I see the General hasn't over estimated your endurance. My boys and I are going to get you ready. You can be a good girl, or the fun can start right now.' He smiled. 'Believe me, you don't want what we've got in store for you to begin sooner than it has to.'

Conine watched as the soldiers moved further into the room, encircling her. One of the men came forward and grabbed her arm, and Conine stiffened. One of his companions on the other side did likewise. Conine struggled a little as they drew her arms away form her body, flexing her muscles, but the torture had left her drained. With some effort the men hauled her arms wide, then tied leather cords around her wrists and used them to keep her arms spread as they backed away.

Conine stood between he soldiers breathing a little heavier from the struggle. Her hands balled into fists as she tested the strength of the cords, but they were cured rawhide and had behind them the full weight of the men holding them. She could twitch and flex between them, but not escape.

Nodding the centurion signalled the third man, who moved strode of the room and retuned with two buckets of water. With a smile he stepped up and flung the contents over the prisoner, soaking her from head to foot. Conine snorted and shook the wet hair from her face. The water was freezing and she felt herself instantly more awake.

'Water's cold all right, lads,' said the centurion, noting the instant stiffening of the nubbins on Conine's breasts, and all the men laughed.

Carrying the second bucket, the soldier moved behind the gorgeous Amazon and tipped it slowly over her head, letting the water run down in a shower over the contours of her body. Conine snorted the water out of her nose as the shower continued, the icy flow sluicing over her skin and washing away much of the filth form the straw and the sticky remnants of the boiling oil and Gracus' violation of her. She felt invigorated, but knew it was a false mercy. These animals meant only for her to be alert and well-presented when they paraded her for their amusement.

'Let's go,' said the centurion, and the men holding the thongs moved quickly, stepping in and seizing the Celt's arms and dragging them behind her back. Grasping her elbows and armpits they hoisted her off her feet, and she tried to kick. A backhand slap from the officer stilled her efforts, and she felt her head ringing as they dragged her from the cell.

Outside there was a short stone corridor, which opened onto a doorway leading to a large courtyard, the training ground for the soldiers in the fort. The men carried Conine out into the grey morning light, and she felt the chill air on her skin. Blinking at the brighter outside light, she could see a patchwork of clouds in the pre-dawn sky with just a sliver of blue peeping through in places. She shook her head to clear it, and was grateful for the sky above her. Whatever torment the Roman's had devised, she would prefer to endure it with the open heaven above her, rather than die down in the pits.

Soldiers were gathered to watch her being led out, the men just relieved from guard duty. Their replacements on the walls and towers also looked on, laughing and talking. Few of these Celtic Harpies were ever taken alive, and the humiliation of such a wondrous specimen brought a festival atmosphere to their harsh military existence.

Still hauling Conine by her arms the men brought her to the centre of the courtyard, where two more were waiting, standing either side of a heavy wooden beam about five feet long and the thickness of a man's thigh. As Conine was forced by the leverage of her arms to kneel on the cobblestones, they lifted the wood between them and laid it across her broad shoulders, taking care not to drop it on the back of her neck and possibly maim or kill her prematurely. With more struggling for the amusement of the spectators, the men loading her arms levered them out and positioned them across the wood, hands on top so that her shoulders took the weight. Then thick ropes wound about the beam where her wrist rested atop it, lashing it to her forearms. Another rope was tied into a noose and passed over her head, despite her efforts to prevent it, and then tightened about her slender throat.

'Get her up!' barked the centurion, and a soldier holding the makeshift leash used it to drag Conine to her feet. The onlookers cheered. Conine snarled like a trapped panther, struggling for balance under the weight of the beam across her shoulders and feeling the coarse wood digging into her skin at the bottom of her neck. 'Lets go,' the centurion snapped. Connie was forced to march across the courtyard towards the gate, one man leading her by the rope halter, one walking on either side bearing a spear and shield. Two more followed, one carrying a heavy mallet and the other a bucket full of large rusty spikes.

The warrior woman was marched out of the gates and along the beaten road leading form the fort. A short distance from the walls the group turned and headed up a low hill. Conine kept her head down to bear the weight of the beam, tremors running down her arms as muscles fatigued from the brutal stretching of the rack fought to support the thick wood. By the time she was halfway to the top perspiration beaded her face and her breathing was laboured, but she plodded on stoically, refusing to sink to her knees in a display of weakness. The men following behind nudged each other as they enjoyed the view of the gluteus muscles in her tight young ass flex and relax as she walked.

Finally Conine reached the level ground at the top of the hill, and paused. The men stood around her. She blinked sweat out of her blue eyes and raised her head a little to take in her surrounding… and her eyes widened in horror.

Ranged about the hill were a half-dozen wooden frames of various typed. Some were simple crosses in a T shape, others had been arranged to form an X. Two of them were A-frames, two wooden struts angled to come together as the apex of a triangle while another was bound between them at the base, just off the ground.

Bound – no, nailed to each of the terrible wooden constructions was a naked young woman, each bearing the signs of terrible torture. The marks of whips and heated irons crisscrossed their pale skin; bruises sullied their once-beautiful bodies. Dried blood from the wounds they had suffered covered their flesh. In the slight morning breeze their hair, some blonde, some black as Conine's own, and some various shades of brown, blew freely. On their fair young faces the grimaces of pain and anguish revealed the level of their ultimate agony. None moved, and Conine could see that they were dead, helpless victims of the men ranged around her. Anger burned bright in her soul, and she raised her head. 'Roman pigs,' she spat. 'You are nothing but butcherers. By the Goddess, I will see every one of you burn alive before my time is done!'

'You recognize some of your sisters, I see,' the centurion said, stepping around the vile display. 'They were given the choice of becoming willing slaves of Rome, or an example to their companions. Needless to say, they chose unwisely.' He smiled at the prisoner who stood, glaring at him with murderous rage. 'Personally, I am grateful to them. After their demonstration of obstinacy, many of your tribeswomen became much more compliant.

'Bastard!' Conine snarled from beneath her square cut mane. The solders laughed.

'They were brave, that should please you, at least at first.' He came to stand beside one brown haired victim who had been nailed by her wrists and thought (through) the tops of her feet to one of the T frames. About five foot nine and with a willowy figure with long legs breasts just big enough to fit in a man's spread palm, those legs bore the signs of branding and work of some kind of crushing tool, perhaps steel tongs, while her young tits were scorched and blistered, and one had had the pale pink nipples of her breasts cut off and cauterised. Her face beneath thick brown curls was still lovely, despite the bruises on one cheek and the stains of tears. 'This one lasted almost a half hour before she began begging for mercy. 'She was the youngest looking, and we started on her first, while the others watched with gags in their mouths and the rest were a little way down the hill. You should have seen them struggling and cursing through their gags. Real hellcats.'

The centurion moved around to the next cross on his right, an X frame holding a woman with curling black hair and bearing a diamond pattern wode tattoo across her forehead. 'This one actually volunteered to go next,' he said with a shake of his head. Conine was not surprised – the tattoo was the mark of a healer, and those of her sisters who practiced such arts would do anything to alleviate the suffering of others, however temporarily. The woman looked to be about twenty, with high cheekbones and a pointed chin, currently slumped above two full breasts, as big as Conine's own but not quite so firm and with large pink nipples. Her body was trim but her legs shorter, spread now and nailed though the tops of her feet to the lower arms of the X. 'We whipped her with a thonged flail,' said the Roman, using his fingers to traces the scores of red welts across her white skin, particularly across her breasts and between her legs. 'We flogged her pussy last, after we were done raping her. You should have seen her buck like a Phoenician whore when we rubbed salt into her tits with our dicks inside her. Her cunt went crazy. By the time we got around to salting her bloodied quim she was gibbering like a crazy woman.'

'Now this one,' said the Roman, moving around again, 'she was easy to break.' The woman he referred to had long straight blonde hair and exotically beautiful features. She had been nailed to a T frame, but with her feet on either side of the upright and pierced through the ankles. The mound between her legs was bald, and her pink slit pouted openly, the lips inner lips pushing out past the labia. Her legs were long, longer even than Conine's, and she had a piercing in her navel, the mark of a spirit dancer. Her breasts were full but not large, crested at their domed apex with bright pink nips. The meat of those orbs had been pierced with steel rods, three to each mammary passing though to form a six pointed star emerging from the flesh at the base of each luscious tit. 'She was pleading for death by the time the last skewer went in, but we wanted your bitch sisters to appreciate the seriousness of defying Rome.' Reaching up he fiddled with one of the skewers, jiggling the tit playfully. 'We heated these up with torches until she agreed to fuck us on the cross. She was good too, I can tell you. We told her we'd strangle her and not let her suffer if she could do six of us.' He smiled at Conine. 'We lied.'

Conine stared back at the centurion with fury that made her tremble, her hands working spasmodically. If she could have burst free of the beam across her back by shattering her own spine, she would have. Her kinswomen deserved better than this, to die by pain for the sick degenerate pleasure of these scum. Red rage misted her eyes, but she said nothing.

The centurion moved on, and as the prisoner's eyes followed they grew wide again, but this time in terrible recognition. She knew the young woman nailed to the A frame. Wavy brown hair foamed down beside her face and spilled over her shoulders, and her face was round and beautiful. Her full red lips and eyes with long lashes, brown doe-eyes that Conine remembered so well and had now been forever shut. Looking at the ruin of her cousin, Conine fought down a sob. She had known she would eventually see the face of a friend or loved one, but nothing could steel her for the ordeal.

Anitha's body, like the others, was a patchwork of brutality. Her skin, tanned like Conine's own bore the marks of knives and skewers. A fisherwoman and diver, Anitha's physique was trim and athletic, her legs long and well developed. Her breasts were ripe and slightly pointed at the peaks, with bright pink nipples that contrasted with the brown skin around them. A tattoo passed around her upper left arm and her right ankle.

Anitha had been nailed with her arms hauled high above her head, dragging her torso up to accentuate her chest. Her feet were nailed though the tops to the bar across the base of the frame, spread wide so that her intimate regions were luridly displayed. Like the blonde dancer Anitha bore no pubic hair, and with despair Conine could remember the times when she herself had helped shave those curling tufts, when as teenagers she and Anitha had spent time near the ocean. She had thrilled to the feel of that body nestled up to her on the warm sand. The two young girls exploring each other in one of the first such encounters for Conine; two youths developing into women with the help of each others hands and lips and tongues.

"This one was a real fighter,' said the centurion with a smile, patting Anitha's still form so that Conine felt her guts churning with hatred. 'Even when we were nailing her up she was shouting to the others to be brave. We gagged her when we were fucking her so she'd stop shouting in our ears. That little bald slit was some of the sweetest pussy meat I've had my dick in. The A-frame is a perfect little tool for raping a woman like this. You can get your feet up on the bar while you're between her legs, and really jam it into her. Of course, that moves the bar nailed to her feet and hurts like hell, which is good, because then she moves around more.'

'After we'd all had a turn in her pussy, we ungagged her. Do you know the little bitch was still cursing us? Hell, I'd have thought she was one of your warrior sluts if we hadn't taken her unarmed when we raided the village. Spat on us, she did. Well, we knew right then this one would be up for something special.'

Conine choked quietly. She could imagine Anitha facing down her torturers, extolling her sisters to have courage even form the horror of the cross. Conine herself had tried to persuade her cousin to follow the warrior path, but Anitha had laughed and said why did she need to be a warrior when she had such a strong sister like Conine to protect.

Only Conine hadn't protected her. She had been saving Satyra when her cousin/lover was taken by the Romans. The thought that she might have been making love to the priestess at the same moment her cousin was being tortured to death burned like a brand in Conine's mind. Tears welled in her eyes and she blinked them away.

Noticing her reation the centurion paused and looked at the victim on the frame. 'Well, lads, I think our young spitfire here knew this one.' He smiled and came closer, and Conine met his eyes with cold fury. 'Heh, yes you did, didn't you? Then you'll be especially interested in hearing what we did to her.'

He signalled to his men and they dragged Conine closer, until she was within three feet of Anitha's limp form. Up close the Celt could see the bruises from her cousin's rough handling clearly, the marks on her kinswoman's arms, hips, and breasts where the Roman's had squeezed her firm flesh as they pumped into her. The space between her legs was swollen and red, evidence of the angry members that had battered the prisoner while she hung nailed to the wooden frame. Her splendid body was lined with cuts of knives and longer blades, some shallow, some deeper, not unlike the ones inflicted on Satyra before Conine had rescued her. But where Satyra had had a saviour to deliver form the pain of the blades, Anitha had been forced to endure without release.

Worse, Conine could see the blades' terrible work had been made worse by the use of heated knives – some of the wounds were partly cauterised, the sign of the heated metal simultaneously cutting and burning it's victim. 'She was a good screamer this one,' said the centurion, drinking in his prisoners horror at the tale. 'We tortured her for an hour while the others watched. I left her ungagged, so they could hear the moment we broke her. It took a while, I can tell you. She was cursing us like a pirate when we started cutting her. By the time we were using the heated knives she was crying like a baby, but she still wouldn't break. We used the knives on her ass and belly and tits and she shrieked like a dying mare, but she wouldn't ask for mercy.'

'Eventually we had to use the knives on her slit – a shame, because she was so beautiful, and we wanted to fuck her again once she was beggin' for it.' The Roman indicated the space between Anitha's legs, where Conine could see the marks of red hot metal on the thighs and the lips near the pouting woman-flesh. 'We sizzled her cunt mound four or five times, but she just screamed and cursed. Passed out one time, and se had to wake her with a dousing. One stubborn bitch.'

'So do you know what we did,' the centurion whispered, leaning in to stare into Conine's eyes. 'We took one of the knives and let the heat go out of it a bit, just short of red. Then, I took my finger,' he help up a digit and moved it over to Anitha's scorched privates, 'and I made a space just here.' With his finger her parted the outer lips. Beyond Conine could see the dried blood crusting the inside of her cousin's quim. 'And I stated to slide it into her. Oh she howled then, I can tell you. Took three men to hold her steady so she didn't gut herself on the blade. I just worked it around inside her little sweet pussy. She lasted almost a minute before she begged me to stop. I kept going a while, just to let the others hear her pleading like a whore.'

'Well, needless to say none of us felt like shoving out dicks into that sliced up hole after that.' He grinned, and patted Anitha's firm ass. 'Fortunately she had another we could make use of. She made a fine site straining against the wood while we raped her tight little butt hole.'

'Not so tight now,' one of the soldiers murmured, and the others laughed softly.

The centurion smiled. 'All right, lads. Cut these sluts down and ready them for transport.'

Conine started, and the Roman smiled at her reaction. 'Oh yes, little warrior bitch, they're alive. Waste not want not, as we say. As soon as we'd done with them we gave the a drug to knock them out – takes an hour or so to work, so they were still suffering and moaning when we led your bitch sisters back inside, then they pass right out. For all to see they're as dead as these wooden planks, but they wake up a day or so later.' He smiled up at the crucified women. 'Of course, with all these marks they'll never fetch top price, so we have to sell them cheap, but there are men in Rome who still take such merchandise – some even prefer such decorations. They'll serve as do your sisters who watched, as proper servants for the manhoods' of the Empire.'

As the centurion spoke the women were being taken down, heavy tongs used to pull out the long metal spikes as the men laid them in a heap. At the base of the hill a wagon pulled into view and began approaching.

Conine breathed heavily. Anitha was alive, along with the rest. She watched her cousin being laid on the ground, her beautiful body ravaged by the tortures, but still alive. I will find you cousin , she thought to herself, as the wagon drew near and men jumped down to begin loading their human cargo for transport. I will find all of you.

As the men in the wagon began loading the unconscious Celt women, the soldiers returned to stand about Conine. She stood proud and tall before them, facing them squarely. Her hair had dried in the breeze and ruffled a little in the morning air. In the east the sun was almost up, and the sky had turned form grey to red, and now a dull gold.

The centurion rubbed his chin and looked at the woman before him, tall and strong and proud. He knew that she would never fold as easily as even the most spirited of her predecessors, and he was made warm by the knowledge. This was a duty that could last hours, if he was lucky.

'Alright, warrior bitch,' he smiled. He scanned the frames, then settled on the one recently occupied by Anitha. 'Since you seemed to know the slut who hung here, we'll let you take her spot.' But I should warn you,' he added, stepping close so that his chest was mere inches from the curve of Conine's magnificent breasts, ' that my orders for you are different form that whore. No easy out for you, my proud fuck toy. You're going to hang on that wood til you breath your last, and me and my men are going to make sure you only die when we tire of hearing you beg us for it.'

The men dragged Conine to the ground and laid her on her back, still lashed to the wood. She felt stronger now, despite the load of the crossbeam, and she didn't make it easy for them. It took three of them to hold her down, every muscle of her athletic young body straining as she sought to fight free, but eventually they pinned her. The centurion looked down at his captive lustfully, her sexual charms even more alluring lying bound in the dirt than they had been when she stood upright before him. Her breasts rose and fell evenly, and her abdomen tensed as she tried unsuccessfully to drag herself upright.

'A real fighter, this one,' the leader commented, and his men smiled in agreement. 'Out of respect for your endurance and courage, my beauty, the general has accorded you a special honor.' Conine simply stared up at him. 'Normally prisoners executed on the cross suffer naked, but for you we are going to make an exception.

A man moved forward into Conine's field of view, and she raised her head a little to look at him. In his hands he carried her calfskin boots and her leather arm greaves. 'Dress her,' said the centurion.

The man knelt down next to the prone woman, and another came to help the soldier who clasped her legs. With much tugging and pulling they managed to work her powerful legs apart, the muscled (muscles) in the men's arms standing out as they struggled against those of the Celtic warrior's thighs. Conine herself grunted a little with the exertions, but eventually relaxed and let her head fall back. Her thighs were still sore form the stretching in the dungeons and she knew she would have to conserve her strength for what was to come.

Keeping her left leg pinned by kneeling on it the Roman hauled her calfskin boot up over her foot and up her leg, until it sat fully on with the top about two thirds of the way between her ankle and knee. The man then used the laces to bind it securely. When he was done, he kicked the other boot to the man holding down her right leg, who repeated the procedure.

With her feet clad the fifth soldier came and used a sword to cut free the ropes that had bound Conine to the wooden crossbeam. The men hauled the wood from beneath her, leaving splinters in her flesh along her back and shoulders, and she winced a little.

One of the men holding her arm leaned over and grabbed one of the arm greaves, stopping momentarily when he let one hand go and the female prisoner tried to use the moment to wrestle free. The man cursed and emulated his companions holding the woman's legs, using his knee to lean on her elbow and keep her pinned while he pulled the arm greave on. A curved piece of cured leather that curved around and formed a tube-like shape open a few inches on one side, it soon was over her clenched fist and up over her forearm. Conine tried to fight with the arm., her bicep bulging and she struggled under the man's weight on her elbow, but could not prevent him from eventually lashing the greave to her arm. When it was done the man holding her other arm did likewise.

Staring down at the prisoner now, the centurion felt his cock stiffening against his tunic, a sensation he was sure he shared with his troops. If the Celtic woman's body had been magnificent in its nudity, the boots and greaves only added to her raw animal beauty. Clad on a body whose every inch was toned to muscular perfection they served to remind the men of the fierce strength that was now subjugated to their will. She was a warrior, but now she was also their plaything. The excitement of using such a woman was like a heady wine in their veins as they ogled the fiery black-haired wench held helpless beneath them.

To be continued…

Conine

"Cruci fied fucked"

One of the men came over carrying the bucket of nails and the large, well used wooden mallet. Conine struggled afresh and men strained to hold her in place. When he was standing over her, the men holding her arms moved suddenly, hauling Conine off her back just enough for another soldier to shove the wooden beam she had been lashed to back under her. Then the men slammed the Celtic woman back down hard, jarring her shoulder blades against the timber as they planted her arms along the length of the beam on either side. The men holding her legs grunted as she tried to use those long limbs to get leverage to push up with.

'Right,' said the centurion. 'There are only six of us, and it seems our guest is feeling uppity again.' He rubbed his chin. 'Hmmm.'

'We could rape her a bit, sir,' one of the men holding her arms offered. Conine stared heavenward and closed her eyes. 'That might take some of the fight out of her.'

'Good idea, Rufio; but we don't want her worn out when the real fun starts. I've another suggestion.'

'You, boy,' the centurion barked at the man holding the bucket and mallet. 'What's your name?'

'Quintus, sir,' said the young soldier, coming to attention fro his open mouthed appraisal of the woman on the ground. He was younger than any other in the detail, about twenty years old with a fresh, unscarred face with high cheekbones and a strong chin. Stripped to the waist his body was well muscled but leaner than the bulkier frames of his fellows. His hair beneath his helm showed curly black and his eyes were deep brown.

'Ever seen a woman like this up close, Quintus?' asked the centurion.

'Only in the pens in the keep, sir,' answered the boy. 'My family could not afford slaves back outside Capernaum – that's one reason I joined the legions, sir, to see the world outside Italy.'

'Well, you'll see some interesting parts of it today,' guffawed the centurion. 'Now see here, lad – we need to keep this murderess of Roman men pinned while we get her spiked down. Reckon you're up to it alone?'

'Alone?' said the youth. 'I'm not the strongest here, sir…but if you order it, of course.'

'Good lad!' said the older man, slapping his back. 'Put those down and kneel down over the prisoner, legs astride her hips.'

A little uncertainly the youth did as he was told, settling down so that her squatted over the Celtic woman, legs either side of her narrow waist, the lower curve of his buttocks resting on her quadriceps, which he could feel squirming like two pythons as she struggled with her legs. He looked down at the prisoner, who glared back at him but remained tight lipped. The young soldier hands twitched a little as he watched the woman's spectacular breasts rise and fall but he kept his hands by his side, waiting for orders.

From below Conine looked up at the young troopers face staring down at her with a young man's frank lust, a sight she had seen many a time in the villages as she walked past in her armour but never before had experienced as a helpless victim. In her twenty six years she had often had to gently rebuke the young men of her kin for their unintended insult to her warrior pride, though some she had actually warmed to later and condescended to take into her bed, instructing them in the art of love and in return enjoying their youthful passion and fire. The helmeted stripling straddling her could have been any of those with his handsome looks, but instead of her deciding on his sexual fate she was the method of his education; not in love, but in rape and torture. She struggled afresh, trying to lever him off, but in vain, and the men chuckled anew. This was another aspect of her humiliation, she understood – she was to used like a broken mare to give experience to this dry mouthed young Roman, his first taste in sexually violating a free woman. Conine could see the eagerness mixed with nervousness in his brown eyes and knew the soldier sting on her would blanch form no order the centurion gave. He saw her with a little humanity as he would a deer in trap – a trophy to be had.

'Now Quintus,' said the centurion. Strip of your garb. Don't be ashamed. Show this proud young harlot what she has to look forward to.'

Quintus nodded and complied, removing the lower part of his tunic a little awkwardly, then unwrapping the loincloth beneath. All the while he kept his eyes fixed on Conine's, who returned his uncertain look with one of contempt.

Finally the loin cloth came free and Quintus member literally sprang loose, forged by the sight and feel of the woman under him into a shaft just over six inches in length and impressively erect, rearing a better than 60 degrees from his body. Below the pink shaft, pulsing with energy and of a not inconsiderable girth, the youth's balls hung down with a covering of soft brown hair. His pubis, like his tight, well defined chest was bald and smooth.

'Quintus has been touched by Bacchus,' laughed one of the men holding Conine's arms, and the others joined him in mirth. Quintus looked a little uncertain having his member examined by his fellows, but the centurion squeezed his shoulder. 'No secrets among brothers, Quintus. These eunuchs do but envy your pilum there. Now listen carefully, young stallion. Get yourself ready at the entrance to this Celtic whore's crevice, and balance yourself over her with your arms.'

With eager haste Quintus responded, wiggling around with his hips as his young cock-head sought the meeting of Conine's nether lips while she squirmed indignantly, trying to stymie him. She could see him staring down the length of his body at the space between her legs as he jockeyed for the right spot, and the men holding her legs pulled them wider to help him, straining against the might of the warrior woman's formidable thighs. Finally he announced that he could feel his prick nuzzling against the entrance to her outer temple, a fact Conine could feel for herself. His knob was moist with the excitement of having her against her will and she could feel him trembling with anticipation. She tried to keep her breathing even and to fight down the churning emotions within her with the discipline of her training.

Satisfied with his prodigy's progress, the centurion had Quintus take hold of Conine's arms just above the elbows, using the weight and strength of his upper body to keep her forced down against the wood, while still hovering outside her essence. The men on her arms eased their grips a little, and straight away the young man atop the prisoner had to exert more force to old her down.

'That's it Quintus, one called,' as his hands grasped the iron like swell of her biceps. Her back arched up a little to try and throw him off as both prisoner and soldier began to seat with their efforts.

'Now, young Quintus,' called the centurion hoarsely. 'Start to push into her.'

Quintus sough to obey with an awkward job that skewed off Conine's tight clenched entry. He cursed and repositioned himself, trying again.

On the ground Conine fought with increasing desperation to keep the young man outside of her body. With each attempt she could feel him pushing a little deeper and she closed her eyes as she concentrated on fighting with all her strength. The youth looming over her sickened her with his vulgar excitement, his handsome face and body yet another mockery of her as he proceeded to violate her, to use her against her will. She pursed her lips and groaned as she fought, heaving and shaking but unable to overcome the strength of all the men holding her. They would have her, but not without a fight.

Quintus gave a little shout as at last he felt his prick penetrate the outer gates, and he pushed harder to make his foothold certain. He was breathing hard and fast and his face was flushed with excitement – he had had women before, some very beautiful, but he had never experienced the thrill of having such a magnificent piece of female flesh against the will of its owner. He felt powerful, invincible. The look of anger twisting the face below that midnight back fringe fired his blood, and he smiled from ear to ear, egged on by his companions.

'Good, good, now hold her Quintus, don't breach the temple yet.' With a quick order he had one of the men helping with the prisoners arms grab the mallet and a nail while the youth kept her pinned. 'Now boy, in you go.'

Lacking sophistication of any king the youth surged forward, gasping a little as the resistance of Conine's dry tunnel pushed back against his cock shaft. Conine felt him making headway and snarled like a trapped beast, struggling mightily but only slowing the process. Quintus pushed a gain, pulled back, pushed forward. Each time he sank a little deeper. With a few thrusts he was halfway into Conine, his face a sheen of perspiration while she groaned and strained with every muscle of her young form, lifting her head to stare down at his penis pushing into her and trying everything in her feminine power to resist.

'Hold there, my lad,' said the centurion when his pupil was three quarter embedded. The leader knew that the struggle had taken something out of the prisoner, and that the young soldier's weight and position were pinning her upper body now while her legs were held fast. 'Now, Polinus.' He said

Conine glanced to her left and saw the man there had let go her forearm to position one of the steel spikes just at her wrist, the other hand raising the mallet into position. His knee had moved to help pin her arm at the elbow beside Quintus grasping fingers, now deeply embedded in her flesh despite the hardened muscle beneath. She could se him raising the mallet; fee the steel tip against her skin at the gap in the arm greave. Goddess give me courage , she thought desperately, closing her eyes.

With a sweep the mallet arced over the mans head and came down with a dull thud against the head of the spike.

Instantly the metal pierced the soft flesh, rupturing the skin in a small shower of crimson blood and pushing though to the far side of the arm limb, where it was stopped by the wood of the beam. Small bones splintered as it force its passage and stopped with a shock.

'NNNNNeeeaaaaarrrrrrhhhhh!' grunted Conine, a sound of pain beyond any she had uttered on the battle field. Her young body spasmed and she reared against the wood, fighting for freedom from the pain and finding none. Quintus gasped again as the force of her writhing pushed her against him, burying herself deeper on his own spike as she sought to twist free of the other.

'Great Jupiter!' exclaimed the lad, and the centurion laughed. He had never felt a woman's pussy wrapped about him with the same fire as that of the Celtic prisoner, and he could feel her breasts mashed against him as she struggled. He watched Polonius swing again and smiled.

THWAK!

'AAAAAARRRRRRHHH!' came Conine's scream, a loud, bestial explosion. The metal had pierced her wrist entire now and was pushing into the wood. The pain was beyond description – her whole body seemed to be drawn into the acid fire in her forearm, where her body was being mutilated by her captors. She thrashed about, the men having to wrestle with her strength now doubled by the extremity of her pain. Tears flowed freely. She fought for breath.

THWACK!

'AAAAAIIIIIEEEarrrrrr!'

THWACK!

'YeeEEEEEAAAAAHHHHH….goddess…goddess…aaaa…'

THWACK!

AAAAAaaaaAAAAARRRRHHHHHHHHEEEEEAaaaaa….huh...huhh…'

On the last strike a new cry had mingled with Conine's that of the young man diligently raping her as she was nailed to the wood. Feeling the pain twisting every muscle in the young Amazon's body clenching his rock hard shaft, the young Roman could no longer control his body and felt his seed thunder into the prisoner. He pumped powerfully, shooting his load deep inside her athletic body as their abdomens smashed together, feeling the iron tightness of her flat abdomen squirming deliciously against his own abs, and those huge impossibly firm tits with their bright red crowns hammering against his chest as she sucked air into her lungs to scream.

With the nail firmly in place the man with the mallet cast it and a fresh spike over to his friend on the other side, while he began to warp fresh rope around Conine's forearm to help hold it flat against the wood, for strong captives had been known to thrash strongly enough to shatter their arms while being nailed, and the soldier wanted this victim to last a long time. Quintis, meanwhile, remained at his post with his now flagging member still deep inside his victim, drawing breath and smiling. He looked down at the prisoners sweat soaked face with those enticing, pain filled eyes and smiled. 'I hope that wasn't too bad?' he said quietly to the amusement of the other soldiers.

Conine blinked to clear her eyes, fighting hard to focus. She could feel the second nail being moved into position and she swallowed. Staring up at the youth resting on her expansive chest she muttered scornfully, 'I'm… sorry. Are you…in…yet?'

The men actually paused in their work, and Quintus looked down at the Celt as if she had just defamed his parentage on the floor of the Senate. One of the soldiers made a face to reflect the young mans embarrassment, smiling and getting some guffaws from the rest of the detail. Even the centurion had to wipe his mouth to hide a sudden flash mirth – she was a rare hellcat, this one.

Quintus, after a heartbeat of looking down at her id horror, grew livid, his face darkening with the kind of rage reserved for young men who, sure of their glory who suddenly find the woman of their desire has loftier standards.

'You filthy Celtic whore – we'll see how many times you can scream before you die!' He turned his head to face the men ready with the second nail, who quickly his their amusement. 'Pound that spike into the bitch – I want to feel her screaming like a stuck pig again!'

The men looked at their centurion, who had taken of his helm to wipe his face; the day was growing hot early. He sympathised with the young rapist, and decided to let go the matter of military etiquette this time. 'You heard the man,' he said to the soldier waiting for his order. 'Have to!'

The men complied, and again the hammer came down with the dull crunch of wood on metal. Conine twisted on the ground like a writhing beast, all her muscles flexing beneath the tight tanned skin, and her head was cast back so that her she faced backwards, neck barred to the blue sky. Sound of wordless agony came form her throat, but she held back her cry behind gritted teeth.

At the same time as the hammer struck Quintus drove forward again, his half-soft member beginning to stiffen again with the combination of youthful stamina and the unequalled situation – and woman - in which he found himself. By the time he felt the shock of the second blow coursing through the barbarian goddess underneath him he was almost fully hard again, and he began to fuck the tortured woman with enthusiasm born of revenge.

At the third blow Conine again screamed, despite all her efforts, a piercing cry that echoed in the air until it was followed by another as the nail was driven further into the heavy wood, it's broadening girth battering though flesh and bone and sinew while she convulsed in pain. Quintus rode that pain, drinking in the feel of her body as it shook and contorted against his won in a perverse mockery of lovemaking. In his young mind her thrashing was due to the power of his mighty phallus rampaging between her leg, her cries those of mingles agony and ecstasy as he plundered her innermost womanhood, granting her most secret wish. He could feel every twitch of that powerfully sculpted body as her legs twisted, hips undulated, and chest heaved and shook against him. With a grunt he came again, his pumping rhythm jerking his cock free mid thrust and spattering the Celt's rippling belly with his seed as he shook he head to clear it and the anger and excitement began to fade from his brown eyes.

'Well done lad,' called the centurion, grasping him by the shoulder and helping him up off the Amazon warrior now nailed firmly though both wrists to the crossbar. Time you rested a bit – take yourself down to the stream near the gates and clean off a bit – wipe that noble Roman siege engine of yours free of heathen fluids, and fill our skins while your there.

Quintis nodded, the enormity of his action slowly beginning to days in his young mind as she puled on his lower tunic. He looked down at the woman on the ground; the most beautiful he had ever seen, now pinned by steel spike through both arms, blood oozing form the sounds and her eyes closed against the horror of her situation. He had wanted something from her, something beside the use of her body, but what. Submission? Respect? It seemed absurd. She was an enemy of Rome, and he needed nothing form her, except her surrender or her death. So why was he suddenly troubled?

'Good job, Quintus,' said Polinus, the soldier with the hammer, and the others echoed he praise. 'I hope you didn't fill her up yet – the gods of lust owe me a few blessings before the days out.'

Quintis laughed at the older man's gentle teasing and took up the water skins. Slinging them across his shoulder he gave one last glance at the woman slowly recovering on the ground, then headed back down the hill.

The centurion watched the young man depart, and then turned back to his charge. The men on Conine's legs had been busy hammering a series of wooding spikes into the ground either side of her spread legs, and now were lashing those booted ankles to them. The other men meanwhile used wooden wedges to brace the crossbar init position of the ground sop that it could move no more than a few inches either forward or back.

He wandered over to look down at how the prisoner was faring. Her skin was grimed with sweat and dirt, and her chest rose up and down magnificently as she dragged air into her lovely lungs. Her arms and shoulder muscles stood out rigidly as they were wracked by the pain shooting up from the nail wounds, accentuate , he knew, by the vibration of the wood as the wedges were put in place. Any vibration of movement would be enough to send fresh messages of agony from those punctures; a fact she would rapidly come to appreciate. Her face wore a mask of pain that she tried, and almost succeeded, in hiding, but those large exotic blue eyes could not conceal the hurt they were doing to her.

'Comfortable?' he asked innocently, and she gave no reply. 'No? And her I heard Amazon's liked piercings?'

The men laughed. Conine tried to swallow and watched them through half lidded eyes, her lashes fluttering. The pain of the wounds was terrible, a continuous burning throb that promised to grow worse, not better. She had no need to ask why the men had tied her spread legs to the spikes near her feet.

'Ah, youth,' chuckled the Centurion, then squatted down to address his prisoner. Conine's raven hair was dishevelled from the twisting and turning as the nails were being hammered in and he reached over and brushed a strand from her cheek, causing her to twitch away with a hiss. 'My thanks for helping with the boy's education. In return, we will begin your own instruction, my proud warrior. You probably thought we'd leave the pleasure of having you until you were properly hoisted up – usually we would, but you obviously strong enough for some sport beforehand, so no need to keep good men waiting.'

'I see no good men,' snarled Conine, her throat somewhat hoarse from thirst and screaming. 'Only Roman vermin who are so limp from sucking each other that they can only bed a women when she is tied and beaten.'

The Centurion lashed out unexpectedly, backhanding Conine so that her head snapped to the side and she tasted blood in the corner of her mouth. 'That's for foolishness girl,' he said grimly. 'You should know that I could butt-fuck every man standing her and still have some left over for your little Celtic asshole. ' The men laughed appreciatively. Conine brought her head back around slowly, keeping her eyes on the man nest to her. She rolled her tongue in her mouth where it was numb form his blow and spat some bloodstained saliva onto the ground beside her.

'That's better,' said the Centurion. 'Since your such a big, strong, feisty bitch we're going to have some fun with you now, then some more when we finished nailing you up. I, of course, intend to fuck you both ways.'

He reached down between Conine's legs and wiped her pubic mound with a coarse piece of dirty cloth, cleaning away some of Quintus cum that had spattered her love crack. Conine managed not to wince at the feel of the rough cloth on her oil-tender and now freshly raped womanhood. When he was satisfied, the over man reached down underneath his leather greaves around his waste and tugged loose his loin cloth, laying it on the ground beside the prisoner as she moved to sit astride her. She could feel his erection on her belly and closed her eyes, seeking calm. It seemed the Roman's desire to dehumanise her would never end.

With his breastplate still on the leader levered himself up as Quintis had done and moved his phallus into position. Her channel was more accessible now, and the Centurion considerably more skilled than the young legionary at finding his target. It took the older man only o few experimental jabs with his pelvis to lodge his prick between Conine outer lips, then he eased forward, sliding himself inside.

'Yes!' he exclaimed softly, 'a fine fit for a Roman sword, me, even if the scabbard is Barbarian make. She's as hot as the sands of Libya inside. Or should I say labia, eh, pretty.' He smiled down with grim affection as he eased a little further inside her and Conine gasped, finding herself trying to hold her breath. The Roman was big, and his armour made him heavy. His hips pushed against her inner thighs and forced them a little wider as she rocked atop her. Soon he had built to a steady rhythm that his men could clap to.

Below the rutting Centurion Conine was forced by his thrusting hips to move jerkily to the beat of his movements, her breasts bounding softly as she was pushed up and back over and over. The motion sent fresh waves of pain though he spiked forearms as the metal nails ground within her wounds, and she bit her lip and felt more tears coming. She tried to use the pain to keep her anger strong and bright, but she was tiring now, even her remarkable stamina waning under days of running, whipping, stretching and repeated sexual assault. The young Warrior woman felt her control slipping, and try as she might she seemed powerless to prevent it. She deduced that his is how her sisters on the cross before must have felt, as their pride was chipped sadistically away by humiliation, by violation of their bodies, and by slow, merciless pain. Death would be welcome when it came for her, but that would not be for some time, days perhaps, unless she lowered herself to beg for the mercy of the animals who now owned her body.

My body, yes, but not my soul. I am still a Chevaan, and Amazon, a warrior. If I must die, I can still die with my pride. The thoughts gave her new strength, but in the back of her mind she wondered bleakly if that would always be the case, if sometime during her suffering, the pain would be too much, the way of release to easy. She batted her eyes against the tears – she had never thought thus before, and knew it was a sign of something inside that was slowly breaking under the Roman cruelty.

The Centurion could sense the change as well, keen eyed for the signs that would betray his prisoners final surrender. Her eyes were less proud now, the set of her chin less haughty. Taking his cue he moved, sitting up and using his hands to reach under and cup her strong flanks, kneading the hard muscles with his fingers. With deft precision he kept himself inside her while he hauled up her ass, sliding his legs under her so that as he knelt on the ground she was sifted slightly to rest on his knees and quads. Her torso angled up off the ground while her legs were pulled tight against the ropes. Her upper back still rested in the dirt, her breasts made slightly rounder as the effect of gravity and the incline of her body pushed them back up towards her shoulders, making them seem even fuller.

With her body settle the Centurion began to fuck in earnest, using now not just the pushing of his pelvis but also his strong arms to move her on his shaft. Setting his hands just below her deliciously narrow waist he rocked her back and forth on his gorged member, and thrilled to the groans from her lips as his efforts increased the pain felt in her pierced wrists. He wet his lips and quickened the tempo, their pubis' slapping loudly together and her whole wonderful form shining with sweat, a statue to the gods of sex etched in living bronze, hard and hot and marvellous. He set one of his broad hand o her belly, rubbing it, feeling its smooth tightness, the spectacular abdominals undulating in unwanted response to his cock-thrusts.

The rapist moved his hand to cup one of those breasts, those miraculous, divinely crafted breasts, firm yet pliant, the best he had ever felt. He squeezed harder, pinching the nipple, twisting it, hearing her choke as he hurt her. He wanted to hurt her – he enjoyed making her hurt. He liked that her pussy would be raw, that his cock would be source of pain, not pleasure. Her pain was his pleasure. He hated this bitch, and he loved that he hated her, because it meant he could do anything to her – there were no limits. He would destroy her for his pleasure, but slowly, slowly…and with as much pain as he could.

Conine's pain was indeed terrible, pain that wracked her soul as well as her body. With her hips elevated blood rushed down to her head, and it ached. Much worse, her inclined position made the strain on her arms, and especially her skewered wrists, an agony she could not escape, and she flexed the muscles in her upper body to try and steady herself against the jarring movement of the rape. Her back hurt, but she had no power left in her limbs to resist, only to endure. She kept her eyes closed against the sight of the legionaries looming over her, looking down at her while their leader worked his fleshy tool in and out of her.

Small whimpers broke form her drying lips and she made herself stop. They will not hear me weeping! They will not! She rolled her head to the side and forced herself to look down the length of her muscular arm, to wear she could see the steel nail driven into her flesh. She felt the pain of it and concentrated on that pain. They were breaking her body, but not her heart. They were hurting her, raping her, but all on the outside. Pain hammered at her, but she drank it in, trying not to choke on it. She wanted the pain to stop, but on her terms, not theirs never theirs. She could endure anything they did to her, she wanted to be strong – but what she wanted most was for it to stop.

When the Centurion came it was quickly and suddenly, giving a great yell and jerking her savagely onto his phallus, making sure every drop of his Roman seed gushed into her womb. The girl under him gave her own little cry as his rough handling made her wrists bleed afresh, and he showed his appreciation for her effort by slapping her soundly o her sculpted arse. With a grunt he pushed himself back out of her and stood up, adjusting his helm and smoothing down his uniform.

Conine lay prone on the ground, not moving until one of the other soldiers, the next in command, moved to take his superiors place. His dick was hard form watching the two previous rapes and he had no trouble getting inside the helpless beauty's ravaged quim. Quintus cam labouring back up the hill and passed the Centurion a water skin. The Centurion took a swig and smiled at the young man. Quintus smiled back.

On the ground behind them the raping continued. When one man finished in her, Conine felt another start. He arms hurt. He head hurt. Her pussy hurt. She bit her lip and tasted blood. She could endure the hurt. They mauled her breasts, twisted them, bit them. Their teeth drew blood sometimes. The space between her legs was like a fiery wound – like they were scorching her with the oil again, but endlessly, endlessly.

She squirmed and she suffered. They laughed, and she tried to close out the noise. More time, more bodies, pounding her, in and out, over an over. All she could do was endure.

She felt a splash of water cleaning her pubis, then a man's tongue. She felt sick. His teeth bit one of her lips, and she groaned and ground her own teeth. Filthy. When he tired of her taste she felt his cock go into her. He wasn't the last.

She endured. She had to. She could do nothing to make them stop.

But she wanted it to stop. Wanted it so badly.

It was what she wanted that kept the tears flowing from those shining blue eyes.

Conine

"The Tree at the End of the World"

The moon crested the sky in a silver haze. It painted its white glow on the tops of the mountains lying in the middle distance. It fired the tops of the clouds drifting across the horizon. The soldiers standing duty outside the border keep on the frontiers of the empire looked up at its heatless light and drew their cloaks against the night chill.

For the prisoner hanging on the cross, the moon signalled the beginning of another night of pain.

A day on the wooden frame had taken its toll on the tall warrior woman. After the humiliation of the soldiers rape of her they had dragged to the A frame, hoisting her up while the men had used their hammers to drive more nails through the tops of her booted feet, laughing as she tried to choke back her screams as the metal spikes punched through bones and flesh and pinned her to the hard wood crossbar. The men had cheered at the spectacle of that athletic body heaving as the nails ripped her flesh. But that had only been the beginning of the warrior woman's ordeal.

'You might be wondering why we nailed your arms spread, instead of straight up like your little friend's,' the Centurion had said when his men had stepped down to leave the prisoner hanging with grotesque beauty on the awful device, nodding down to the wagons where Anitha had been carried. 'We've heard stories from those favoured by General Gracus of your great strength, and wish to give you the chance to prove it.'

'This bar,' the Centurion had noted, reaching to his full stretch, just short of seven feet, to pat the crossbar to which Conine's wrists had been nailed, 'has been attached to some rather clever rope-work behind you, a system of balances and counterbalances which I don't expect your simple barbarian mind to understand. Usually, a victim on the cross has to pull themselves up with their arms in order to prevent themselves suffocating as their lungs are stretched, but in your case, we've sued the ropes to – well, I'll let you see for yourself.'

The Centurion had then signalled to some of his troops positioned behind the A frame, who responded by releasing the braces they had set on some of the ropes.

Straight away, the twin cables attached to the corners of the crossbar were pulled taught as weights on their further ends were drawn down by the force of mass and gravity. The effect was transmitted along the ropes cleverly strung under and over various pieces of wood so that, on the frame, the tormented Amazon beauty felt her arms suddenly being drawn upwards as the bar was pulled towards the apex some three feet above her head.

Conine had struggled against the pull, the awful memory of the rack flooding through her mind, the remembered sensation of her body being slowly and brutally torn apart by the pitiless mechanism. The drag of the bar was not so relentless, but to fight it she had to use the only leverage available to her, that of her wrist were the Roman's had nailed them to the wood. Lances of red-hot pain shot through those tortured limbs as she screwed her face into a tightly lined mask of concentration. She had attempted holding her breath, but found that the pressure on her lungs was actually forcing her to exhale slowly. Her vision beginning to swim as the oxygen in her lungs was depleted, her body demanded she inhale. She had tried to do so, but her stretched position prevented her from taking more than a shallow shuddering gasp.

Below the Roman had watched the barbarian women realise the full horror of her predicament, trying to inhale but unable to do so sufficiently to alleviate her growing asphyxia. Her large breasts trembled sumptuously as she struggled against the inevitable, her eyes opening and closing as she fought for precious air. Finally she had had no choice; she braced her arms and tugged on the crossbar, drawing it downwards, fighting to relieve the pressure on her diaphragm.

For Conine the pain in her wrists was terrible, the feel of mutilated bone and sinew grinding horribly inside her filling her with nausea. She shook her head and tried to block the pain, sucking in air, filling her lungs with life-giving oxygen. On either side of her head her arms bulged as her impressive biceps maintained their pull on the rope. Conine instinctively realised the terrible agony she would experience if she let the bar snap back to its raised position. Instead, she used her strength to let the bar rise slowly, until it again drew her arms back up above her at 45 degrees to the level of her shoulders and rounded deltoids.

The Centurion shook his had in approval, admiring the woman's spirit and her intelligence, primitive and unsophisticated as it might be. 'Good work, my proud girl. There are many a sesterce riding on how long you can endure on that wood – let's see you prove your Chevaan fortitude.'

Conine had glared hatefully at the Roman as his men laughed, but found no time to respond more fittingly. Already her lungs had started to ache once more and she grit her teeth as she herself to the painful task of again hauling down on the crossbar so that she could take just one more breath.

The ordeal had continued through the day, as the sun had risen up into the sky and the cool of the morning had given way to the steadily mounting heat of the middle day. For Conine the passing of time was measured only by the repeated need to pull down on the bar, draw breath, let the bar rise. Over and over, and endless, terrible cycle. Sweat had formed on her body as she fought the terrible lingering execution of the cross.

The men watching saw the strain of her torment begin to have its toll on the prisoner. After an hour her whole magnificent form had been covered in a sheen of sweat that highlighted every smooth surfaces and rounded curve. Every few minutes the Roman's were treated to the spectacle of watching the barbarian female flexing her well moulded limbs, her face showing the signs of ever mounting agony as she hauled down on the bar. As her biceps swelled and the muscles of her shoulders stood out like cables beneath her bronzed skin her magnificent chest would swell, the majestic peaks of flesh expanding outwards as she sucked air into her lungs, wobbling gently as she gasped for air.

Then, after a moment, the bar would start to rise again, her chest falling back as the air was squeezed from air, along with little sounds of pain, small groans from full red lips as her eyes were screwed tight in concentration. At last the bar would have reached its full extension, her body held taught and her tits sitting high and proud, outthrust by her extension. The need for oxygen would again start to burn within her lungs.

The hours passed.

By midday Conine's pain had grown to the point where every move on the hideous wooden frame was accompanied by tiny whimpers. It was hot, and thirst had assailed her mercilessly, while the glare of the sun overhead caused her eyes to ache. Cramps wracked her arms and shoulders, and the effort of drawing down the bar had become a source of pain in itself. She could feel the strain on the muscles of her sides and back. The warrior woman was forced to compensate by using another aspect of her gorgeous body, that of her well toned abdominals. By shifting her position slightly, Conine found she could use the strength of her abs to help draw down the bar, almost as if she were attempting a stomach crunch such as she might do during her training regimen, but there was a cost. The pressure on her stomach began to increase quickly augmented by her lack of food over the last two days, and the pressure on the small of her back soon became a sharp stabbing torture, as if someone were driving a steel spike into the base of her spine. Worse, she was compelled to take some of the strain on her feet where they were nailed to the wooden base, and the pain of that on the terrible wounds on her impaled feet was enough to cause silver tears to run freely down over her cheeks, falling freely onto the swell of her breasts sitting firm and round below. She could feel the puncture wounds bleeding as her feet swelled inside her boots, and her flesh and bone grinding against the metal spikes. Nausea washed over her, but she choked down the bile rising in her throat and struggle on.

Abruptly, the pull of the bar had stopped. Blinking Conine became aware that the men guarding her had set a wooden brace against the top of the bar, holding it at the halfway point. She could breathe in short gasps, and did so in rapid inhalations, grateful for the momentary respite and not at first caring why it had come. As here head cleared a little she could see the Centurion standing in front of her again with the rest of the detail, each man staring up at her lustfully.

'Time for some fun again lads,' the leader had said, and his troops had nodded in agreement.

Over the next hour, each of the soldiers had taken a turn at raping Conine on the cross.

Shedding his tunic and breeches a Roman would step up onto the crossbar to which the Chevaan's feet had been nailed, positioning himself between her legs with his invariably erect member jutting up towards her naked pubis. Then they would use their position to thrust up between her legs, entering her inner folds and pushing hard with their feet and hips, ravaging her brutally while the others looked on. Their thrusts had sent jarring messages of agony through the athletic woman's feet, adding to their pleasure as she squirmed on the ends of their phallus, and her gasps and whispered curses had added to the pleasure of their violation of her. These, however, had perforce been muffles halfway through the first man's use of her when her attempt to bite of his ear had resulted in a stunning slap to the side of her head, and her being gagged with a dirty bit of rag.

One of the men had discovered her sensual writhing could be enhanced by the application of a leather belt to her exposed rump while she was being ravaged, and soon the Chevaan's muscular ass had been aflame with the blows of the strap. Her world had degenerated into a vile rhythm of forced sex, pain, and shame.

By the time the men had finished with her Conine's pubic region was a swollen sticky mess, the semen of half a dozen soldiers oozing from her battered labia. Bruises and the marks of teeth were peppered across her lush breasts and shoulders, and her backside was a mass of red welts, some of which bled slightly where the men' enthusiasm had led to the leather breaking the flesh. The pain in her wrists and feet was muffled by that between her legs, the throbbing evidence of torn ligaments and wrenched muscles and sinews as a result of the Roman's repeated and brutal pounding at her vagina. Her head hung down with her eyes closed as she tried to conserve her strength, fatigue and despair assaulting her with every laboured breath.

'All right then, back to it my girl. Rest times over,' she had heard the Centurion say, and then had felt the braces holding the crossbar in place removed. Straightaway the bar had begun to drag her arms upward again, and with her gag removed Conine had groaned loudly and again begun the awful struggle for oxygen.

The latter half of the day had passed as a lingering nightmare for the warrior woman. Pain was her constant companion, mixed with humiliation and festering, impotent rage. Her body hurt more than any time in her life, more even than on the rack, and her thirst had become maddening. Flies had buzzed around her head, landing on her to feed off the salt in her sweat and sometimes the blood of the wounds on her arms. Her brain pounded unceasingly inside her skull.

By the time the sun had begun to set in a red and orange crescendo behind the western horizon the female on the cross was half dead, her body performing the actions that allowed her to continue breathing as mechanical repetition, barely enough to keep her alive. Any other woman in her position would have become exhausted and suffocated hours ago, but Conine was cursed now with the stamina and wilfulness of her warrior heritage. She would not surrender to her inevitable fate before her body had failed her.

As she hung battered and exhausted on the torture frame, she had heard the sounds of horses. Turning her head a little she had seen a small company of riders, led by Gracus in full military regalia, and accompanied by a body of legionnaires and a heavy wooden wagon. One of the riders had galloped up the hill and stopped to address the Centurion.

'The General congratulates you on your fine work.' Then he had turned to Conine. 'Out of respect for your courage and excellent…performance skills…General Gracus bids me tell you that if you are still alive by sunrise tomorrow, your arms and legs will be broken to hasten your departure. Also,' the man smiled, 'to say you need not be concerned about the fate of your horned companion. He is transporting her to Rome, where he is sure the Emperor himself will see to her future care.'

Conine has said nothing, had not even had the spittle in her sand dry mouth for an act of defiance. But as the man had turned and ridden off, her raven tressed head had fallen to her chest, and the mighty warrior woman had wept softly.

Now it was night. Pummelling heat had been replaced by a slight chill. The wind blew across the hilltop and ruffled Conine's now matted hair.

Not far away, the day detail had also been replaced by just two Roman soldiers, common legionaries. Apparently Gracus' retinue had so depleted the manpower of the fort that two men were all that could be spared to guard the prisoner from wild beasts or rescue. The men had built a fire and now knelt in front of it, their southern climate leaving them vulnerable to the north's colder climate.

Conine tried to wet her now cracking lips, but her tongue was dray and felt swollen. She trembled with the effort of pulling down the bar. She felt light-headed, and the firelight danced at the corner of her vision.

Suddenly the orange light seemed to expand, filling her gaze. The crucified woman lifted her head a little, half-closed eyes seeing a shape forming in the air before her. As she watched, wonder driving the constant pain momentarily from her mind, the shape took on the aspect of a woman. Soon, the priestess Satyra floated in front of Conine. She was nude, her splendid body swathed in soft orange glow, her hair falling in gorgeous foaming curls over her shoulders and back, the two curling rams horns either side of her head glinting like polished ivory. Her all green eyes shone with tears.

'Oh my love,' she said, her voice anguished, 'my poor, poor love.'

Conine smiled a little, blinking back her own tears. 'I hoped you would come for me, when it was time.'

'Yes my darling, I've come,' answered the vision, reaching out a hand and stroking the warriors strong, beautiful face, 'but not for the long journey, not yet. I've come to help you escape.'

As Satyra's ghostly hand touched her, Conine felt new strength and awareness flowing through, like the warmth of strong drink. The constant pain and struggle for breath seemed to have vanished. She opened her mouth to speak, but Satyr set two long finders against her lips.

'Listen, my love, I have little time. I cannot use my magic to free you, but I can give you a chance, your only chance. It will be hard, but you must take it. Listen.'

The spectral priestess drifted closer, setting her pouting lips near Conine's ear. Urgently she whispered words that made the warrior woman's blue eyes grow slowly wider.

Satyra pulled her head back, looking at her lover's stunned expression with compassion. 'It will be terrible for you, I know, but it is your only chance. For my sake, you must take it; you must endure it, as a warrior endures.'

Conine blinked, looking at the glowing image of her lover. Slowly, she nodded. Satyra smiled slightly. 'I will come for you,' Conine said.

Satyra shook her head. 'You cannot. Do not ask why; only know I shall be safe from the Romans. If I can, if there is any way, I will find you . But you must promise you will not come after me. Promise me.'

Something in her lover's voice told Conine that there was much Satyra was keeping secret, but she trusted the other young woman fully. Again, she nodded.

Satyra smiled again, laughing brokenly. Her long fingers ran through Conine's black hair. 'My love,' the half satyr whispered, drifting closer, her full, long body nestling against Conine's. The pinioned warrior squirmed to make contact with that body, feeling the sweet wonderful pressing of their flesh – their legs, their hips. The gentle, flat firmness of their bellies; the full, round, yielding softness of their breasts coming together, moulding each other, nipples pushing against tender skin; the tender intimacy of their womanhoods nuzzling against each other's thigh, pressing, rubbing.

Conine leaned forward, straining against her captivity to reach Satyra's full lips, aching to feel them again. The satyr woman responded, their mouths coming together, covering each other, their tongues darting and flickering in the warm wet cavity as the kiss became passionate. Conine moaned as she felt new warmth and strength radiating through her, the supernatural vigour of the priestess flowing across the connection. The pain and fatigue did not vanish, but they faded as new energy coursed through the warrior woman's body.

At last, all too soon, Satyra pulled back, severing their joining. There were fresh tears in her emerald eyes as she brushed Conine's cheek with her own. 'I am with you always, my love,' she whispered. Conine said nothing, drinking in the feel of Satyra's body against her, her smell, her taste.

'What was she saying?'

Conine's eyes fluttered open. The vision of Satyra was gone, replaced once more by the mundane night time view. One of the soldiers had moved over to stand in front of her, looking curious.

Conine said nothing at first. She almost told herself that the entire vision was a product of her delirium, but the lingering warmth and strength in her told her otherwise. Satyra had given her this one chance. She would not waste it.

Letting her head fall to one side, she fluttered her eyelids, moaning again as she hauled down on the wood, the need to fight for breath returning. The new energy she had would not last forever. She groaned as her arms extended, and the man smiled. 'Is there something you want, Celtic whore?' he asked.

'P…please…' Conine muttered, struggling for breath, squirming against the frame. Her bruised body shone like an ivory statue in the moonlight, still seductive despite her wounds. 'Please,' she said again, voice trembling.

'What, bitch?'

Conine raised her head a little, meeting his eyes, her own broken; pleading.

'Kill me…' she whispered.

Conine

"The Taste of Pain"

'Kill me…' she whispered.

The Roman looked up at her solemnly. Then he laughed.

'Now why would I want to do that, with so many men still eager for a taste of this sweet-meat?' he asked, reaching over and pawing Conine's sticky crotch. 'And all that money riding on how long you hang up there? No, savage, you're going to suffer a long while yet for defying Rome.'

Conine swallowed – or tried to. The strength lent her by Satyra had not eased her terrible thirst in the real world. She knew she had to play up her desperation, and kept her voice soft – pleading. They must believe she was broken for her to succeed. 'Please,' she said again,' I…I'll do…anything…'

'Do you hear that, Tilius,' the guard said, addressing his friend who had come over to see what was happening. 'She'll do anything. The thing is, slut, we can do that to you anyway, all nice and spread out with your big tits and tight little pussy. So you really haven't got much to bargain with.'

Conine seethed at his mocking tone, but kept her voice subservient. She moved to draw down the bar and used the opportunity to shift her hips, groaning. She could see they liked that. She had to entice them with her pain, these sick creatures. 'I can…do things…for…for a man.'

'Come on, Anto,' the man called Tilius said, 'its cold away from the fire.' But Anto had been drawn in by her seductive movement and submissive tone. 'What things?' he asked.

Got you, you filth, she thought. 'Put your…finger…ahhh…put it…inside…inside me…,' Conine husked, the words tasting vile on her tongue.

The man Anto chuckled, stepping over and reaching up to his first two fingers between her swollen labia. The little sob of pain from her as he pushed without gentleness into her sore and battered recess was only half feigned. Masking her loathing, she whispered, 'Deeper.'

'Alright,' Anto replied, flexing the invading digits and pushing further. He could feel himself getting hard as the moist warmth encompassed his finger. With a groan from the prisoner he wiggled in as far as the knuckles. 'Now what?'

Conine's eyes were closed, concentrating. Every part of her railed against playing the whore for these men, but she made herself remember Satyra, bound for some horrible fate but still thinking of her and giving her this chance. She had to succeed. She shifted her hips, tensing her flat, smooth abdomen and ignoring the pain in her feet around the nails. Then she tightened her pelvic muscles…and squeezed.

'Gods!' Anto gasped, feeling the effect.

'What' asked Tilius, 'what did she do?'

'Her quim could choke a man, if he could get his head inside. She can squeeze her cunt like a fist.'

'Horse shit,' Tilius replied.

'Feel for yourself,' Anto said, pulling out of her as Tilius came over and took his place. 'Show him, bitch,' the guard ordered.

Swallowing her anger Conine complied and heard Tilius gasp. 'She's like one of those Phoenician whores you hear of.'

'Only better,' Anto finished. He looked up at Conine. His face was not unhandsome, but his lust was plain.

'Please,' Conine whispered, hating the word, 'I can give you pleasure…give you anything…you desire….just…unnnhhh….' She paused, shifting her weight for effect. 'Just…promise…you'll kill…kill me.'

Anto kept looking up at her, rubbing his chin with its evening shadow. Conine felt Tilius withdraw as he stepped across to his friend. 'Anto,' he said, caution in his voice, 'you know our orders. With only two on guard, we have to stay at the alert. It's a scourging if we're caught not watching.'

'And is it fair Rufio and his detail got to play with her all day, and we miss out because old Gracus takes three cohorts and leaves us short? Think of your cock in that squeezebox, Tilius.'

Conine listened, her mind working. She had wondered why the new guards had not raped her as soon as they arrived; it seemed they had orders to leave her alone to her torment. That could help her, given Anto's obvious frustration, but she needed them both involved to succeed. She coughed. 'Do you…both…' she moaned, head down.

'What?' said Anto, looking up at her as Tilius did like-wise.

'Both…together…' she said, voice full of pain. 'Take you…in my…my bottom…please...anything…' The Romans saw her head drop and heard the sounds of weeping.

Anto turned back to his friend. He was the elder, his helmet off to reveal curling black hair. His face was square jawed and rugged, the sort some women would find appealing in a rough sort of way, with quick, bright eyes. 'You hear that, Tilius,' his face alight with anticipation, 'her ass. Think of what she could do with that tight rump of hers.'

Tilius paused, wavering. As the younger and more concerned with discipline, his face fresher, with hazel eyes now narrowed in uncertainty. He stood taller than Anto, his frame leaner, and the stands of hair visible beneath his helm were a light brown color. His face was narrower, though comely, and now wore a look of extreme discomfort, like a small child's when forced to choose between something desperately desired and obeying the wishes of a stern father. 'You think she can do that with her behind as well?' he said, clearly wavering.

'Gods, man, have you never squeezed out a turd after a long march. Of course she can. And its cherry, by Mars, unspoiled. Hell, if you like you can go in front and I'll sink my own spear in her backside.'

'Alright,' said the younger soldier, the thought of his shaft buried inside that magnificent she-creature overwhelming his caution. 'But I get the back.'

'Done,' said Anto with a nod. 'Now, go move some logs off the fire so it dies down. We don't want any watchers from the walls. Don't fret about the cold, boy; you'll be warming yourself in Celtic wrappings soon enough.'

As Tilius moved to comply, Anto returned to inspecting the prisoner. She raised her head a little and muttered, 'Water.'

The Roman grunted sourly, but saw no sense having the woman fainting halfway from thirst. Grabbing up a skin he stepped up beside her, marveling at the swell of her chest as her leaned against her. 'Brace the bar,' he hissed to Tilius as the other was finishing at the fire. 'We want her to have all her strength when we start.' Tilius nodded and set to work.

Conine again felt the weight of the bar ease, the relentless upward pull abate. Her upper limbs were now held just above the level of he head, elbows bent outward and biceps half-flexed.

Anto smiled, liking the way the position of her arms accentuated the thrust of her hefty tits. He raised the skin to the woman's lips, letting some of the contents slosh forward over her chin. 'Drink,' he murmured.

Conine obeyed, using her mouth to catch some of the fluid. It tasted bitter and she coughed a little, spluttering. 'A little wine as well to keep off the chill,' Anto said. 'Drink.' Conine moved her head again, lapping at the mixture as it ran over her face, trickling down her neck and between the swell of her breasts. After a few seconds Anto stopped. 'Waste not,' he said with a lascivious grin, and bent his head down to nuzzle her cleavage, licking the spilled water from between her breasts. Conine closed her eyes at the feel of his thick tongue.

'Ready,' came Tilius' voice as he stepped into view. With the impatience of youth he had already shed his cuirass, and stood now only in his tunic, sandals, and sword belt.

'Take off your helm and sword, their glint may be seen,' growled Anto, still half suckling the prisoners firm tit, as he loosed his own armor binding one handed.

Once free of the harness he lowered it gently, stooping down and licking the crucified woman's inner thigh, enjoying her little shudder. When he straightened, the bulge beneath his tunic ground against her muscular quadriceps. 'Ready bitch?' he asked, smiling up at her face sitting several inches above his own.'

'Wait,' Conine gasped. 'My legs.'

'What about your legs?' Anto growled, frowning.

'I'll need my legs…to pump with. Take out the nails in my feet.'

Anto looked at her skeptically. 'It's not your legs I favor, sweetmeat, just what's between them.'

'I use my legs to grip with…with my thighs.' As she spoke, Conine kept her voice pleading, husky, her body moving rhythmically against the Roman's as she breathed slowly and deeply. 'If you want me to please both of you together…I need my legs free.'

She could have fired the blood of a eunuch as she hung there, naked but for boots and greaves, a perfectly toned body marked with bruises and cuts but still unspeakably desirable with its long legs, tight belly and tremendous, impossibly firm breasts. Her beautiful face was framed by her thick black hair as she looked down at him with her dark-lashed, crystal-blue eyes. Her red lips parted just slightly as she panted quietly.

'Pass me the tongs,' Anto said finally.

'Anto, no,' Tilius said in a panicked voice. 'If you draw the nails they'll know what we've done. We'd be stoned for releasing a prisoner on the cross.'

'We're not releasing her, just her legs,' Anto replied, 'and we'll put the nails back when we're done. After we've put her out of her misery, of course,' he added as an aside to the tortured woman.

'They'll hear you hammering the nails back in,' Tilius complained.

'Will you quit your whining,' Anto shot back, his patience not helped by the lust churning inside him. 'We'll cover the head of the nails with a rag to muffle the sound, and the points will go in easy enough to the holes already there. Now pass me the bloody tongs.'

Muttering softly Tilius complied, passing his companion the heavy metal tongs from where they had been left by the previous detail, should the prisoner have expired and needed removal from the cross. Anto took them as he stepped down from the frame, kneeling over in front of Conine's punctured feet in their high calfskin boots. 'No screaming now,' Anto said as he looked up at the Celtic Amazon's face from his view between her thighs and breasts, 'or the deal's off.'

Conine set her self, nodding a little. She felt Anto grip her right calf with his off hand, the other hand with the tongs guiding them to the broad flat metal head of the nail flush with the top of her boot.

Fresh pain surged through the warrior woman's body as he began to pry with the tongs, and she arced up on her legs, teeth gritted as a long 'NnnnnnnnNNN!' escaped her throat. Her feet had swollen inside the boots, and the Roman had to dig the jaws of the tongs down into the tortured flesh in order to get a grip on the nail. The spike, however, proved stubborn in being removed. Pulling did no good except to wrench free the tongs and send the guard half sprawling backwards, cursing under his breath.

Regaining his position Anto began again, this time instead of trying to pull the nail out directly twisting it to loosen its grip on the wood.

For Conine the experience was a nightmare, feeling the metal working from side to side inside her badly swollen foot. Bright lightning flashes of agony exploded behind her eyes and she ground her teeth together to keep herself from shrieking.

Just as she was sure she would pass out from the pain, she felt the metal spike give a little. With a sudden jolt it pulled free, blood spurting from the wound in her mangled foot. She gasped and sucked in air, her body slick with perspiration.

'That's one,' Anto grunted, and shifted his stance to begin work on the other foot. Again Conine felt the pain rocketing up her limb and through her body as he gouged her broken skin, sawing the impaling metal back and forth. She could feel the spike gouging at the torn flesh on top of her foot and below in her instep.

Finally the target came free, and the Celt nearly collapsed from the torment, the nails still through her wrists pulling her up painfully before she could fully lose her balance on the crossbar below.

Anto and Tilius looked up at the woman with renewed enthusiasm, her squirming and groaning as the nails were withdrawn having further added to their excitement. Without any regard to letting the beautiful prisoner time to recover from the ordeal Anto mounted the frame, setting one of his legs between the prisoners and leaning against her as she caught her breath.

'Now, my beauty,' he whispered,' time for you to pay up.' He reached down and loosened his breeches one handed, still holding the tongs with his arm against the frame. His manhood was well hard by now and it took a moment to free it from its prison, and he grinned as he felt it jut forth and brush her smooth thigh.

'The tongs,' Conine gasped, feeling his hard body leaning in against her. 'Keep them.'

Anto looked at her in confusion, and then smiled slowly as his mind reached its ugly conclusion. 'Oh-ho,' he gloated. 'So its true, you bitches do enjoy pain. I've always thought as much. You hear Tilius; this will be a rare treat. Very well, by young Celt, I'll accommodate you, but first you must take care of my needs.'

'The boy first,' Conine whispered, her face close to the Roman's. He could feel her breath tickling his cheek. 'He has to go first, so I can hold you both.'

Anto grunted and motioned to the younger soldier to climb behind the prisoner. He did so, having shed his own loin-clothes and knotted the bottom of his tunic so that it only came down to his mid-thigh, his young erection poking upward from beneath the hem. Quickly he reached up and grabbed hold of the side frames of the wood, using them to step up onto the crossbar from behind. The frame leaned back at about 15 degrees from vertical and he had to hang off using one arm to remain in place while with the other he ran his hand over the woman's firm buttocks, feeling clumsily for the cleft of her backside.

Conine felt his awkward probing and winced, moving her ass a little to help him part her cheeks and find his way to her puckered anus.

'I feel her,' Tilius said excitedly, caution forgotten as he felt the female prisoners smooth warm back against his torso and moved his hand around the globes of her sculpted posterior. With a push of his finger he forced the entry of her sphincter, working his index digit up to the first knuckle, then the second. Anto watched and smiled as he saw the pained expression grow on the woman's face as her anus was penetrated, reaching up to grab one of her voluminous breasts and squeeze it gently, kneading the supple flesh. Behind her' Tilius continued to work his finger around, loosening her rear passage for the arrival of his now rock-hard shaft.

'Ah, goddess,' Conine moaned, her voice heavy with desire. 'Yes, now, do it now.' Her eyes were closed and the rise and fall of her breasts had become faster.

'You heard her, Tilius,' Anto urged from in front of her. 'Give her what she wants.'

Trembling with excitement Tilius pulled his finger free, producing a little grunt from the crucified woman, and then used his hand to guide his stiffened phallus between the tight embrace of her ass cheeks. He felt the tight flesh squeezing the head of his cock as he reached her opening, nudging the orifice with his prick-head and moistening it with the juice of his excitement. He leaned close to the woman, his face buried in the black hair falling down the back of her neck, his chest against her shoulder blades. One hand still held onto the frame, the other moved around from her ass and set a firm grip on her right hip, drawing her close to him, her ass mashed up against his pelvis.

With a heave of his hips Tilius pushed forward, his prick bending as it met the resistance of her tight asshole. He made a little headway, then was pushed back. He thrust again, working his hips around, drilling forward with his member, gaining more ground, then pushing again.

Conine bit her lip as she felt his phallus wedging itself inside the entry to her sphincter, fighting her own instincts to resist the intrusion. Knowing that prolonging the experience would only cause her greater pain, and perhaps rupture her internally, she relaxed her ass muscles, moving her hips in sync with the young Romans to help his shaft work its way inside her. Even without her fighting him she found herself gasping in pain as his head finally lodged completely within her anus, the rest of the shaft forcing an entry to the passage.

Despite her accomplished sexual prowess Conine had never taken a man into her rearward orifice before, and the sense of fullness within her bowel left her moaning between clenched teeth. It felt to the spirited Warrior Woman as if a mighty forest oak were being pushed into her minute hole, her organs being pushed aside to accommodate a wholly alien invasion of her body.

Anto watched the look of anguish on the woman's face, feeling her pushed forward against him as Tilius' cock made its way deeper. The younger man eased in and out, widening the shaft. Finally, Anto decided his friend was sufficiently well established for him to begin his own assault. Grasping Conine's hair and pulling her head up to face him, he snarled, 'My turn, slut.'

Conine winced, her blue eyes narrowed, but she nodded. With a heave of her muscular body that left Tilius groaning with pleasure she lifted her left leg up over Anto's hip. The motion opened the crack between her thighs and revealing the pink softness within.

Anto stared down at the warrior's smooth belly as she trembled from the effort, her face buried in her shoulder as fresh pain burned in her wrists. Excitedly he guided his stiffened weapon to the opening beneath her tuft of short black fuzz, moving until he could feel her nether lips pouting either side of his smooth round cock-head. Then without preamble he thrust hard, breaching her in one violent stroke and ramming into her channel.

'AAAaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh.' Conine gasped, experiencing the Roman's length filling her. Behind her the other rapist pushed harder, buggering her now with short, quick thrusts. His motion kept her pelvis pushed forward as Anto ground his loins against hers, burying himself to the hilt inside her body.

'Alright, bitch,' Anto growled, mouth near her ear as she smelled his garlic breath. 'Squeeze.'

Conine felt tears stinger her eyes as she paused, breathing deeply. She wrapped her right leg about Anto's left, pulling him deeper into her, and arched her back a little. With a flex of her abdominals, she applied pressure to the members inside her.

For the Romans, the sensation was beyond pleasure – the divinely warm woman-flesh sheathing them compressed, squeezing their engorged phalluses in an embrace of pure ecstasy. Both men groaned, Anto pressed hard against the crucified beauty and drinking in the contours of her body while Tilius gripped the crossbar and leaned back, lifting his hips and pushing the woman's ass upwards as he impaled her with his tool.

For Conine it was the ultimate degradation of her being; willingly pleasuring the men who had mercilessly raped and tortured her sisters, her lover, and herself.

After a few minutes her efforts began to lose strength as fatigue set in – the vigor granted her by Satyra was fading, the exhaustion of her day long ordeal asserting itself. Her breath cam in ragged gasps and her body slouched between the two guards.

'Keep going bitch,' Anto growled, fucking her hard. 'Don't you dare stop now.'

Conine tried to rally, but the men felt her body becoming slack, unresponsive. Tilius still felt the tightness of her ass around his shaft but Anto could sense her flagging. He lifted the tongs he still in one hand, using the other to steady himself against her shoulder. 'I said keep going, cunt!' he hissed, and jabbed the pincers cruelly into the sparse flesh of her waist, digging the metal in painfully and squeezing hard.

The sharp pain revived the warrior woman instantly, her head coming up with her lips parted. Anto moved his free hand and slapped his palm over her mouth, stifling her cry. She looked at him from over the tip of his hand, seeing the manic fervor in his eyes. 'No screaming, whore, or you'll hand on this wood until the crows peck out your eyes. You hear me?'

Still meeting his eyes she nodded slightly. Anto smiled and grabbed Tilius from over her shoulder. 'Stop their lad; this Celtic slut is going to do the rest of the work for us.'

Reluctantly Tilius obeyed – he had been close to his climax and the woman on the cross felt unbelievably good, her powerful body reacting superbly to his member up her ass. He shifted his weight and hung off the back of the frame, one hand reaching around and fondling her full breast.

'Now, whore, beg me to use these on you, and when I do, you use that body of yours to squeeze the cum right our of the boy and me.'

Conine swallowed, allowing her eyes showing the horror of her situation for the first time. He wanted her to beg to be hurt – her every sense rebelled. 'Do it, ' he snarled, 'or I'll cut out your pretty tongue and you can hang here 'til you rot.'

Wetting her lips Conine breathed deeply. Her body was pinioned between their two members, and she could feel them stiff and hard inside her. 'Hurt me.' She said finally.

He did, the pincers digging hard, and she stifled a cry and used the pain to bear down on the men's cocks in her ass and pussy. When he eased off, she slumped, gasping.

'More,' Anto leered, utterly enthralled by her enslavement. 'Beg me to use them on your tits.'

'Please…' she half sobbed

'Do as he says,' Tilius hissed in her ear, carried away by the moment, his young face twisted with passion. He squeezed the breast in his hand so hard the crown stood out as firm as marble, the nipple erect. 'Or every man in this fort will fuck your ass before you die.'

With a whimper Conine lifted her self a little, meeting Anto's eyes. 'Hurt my breasts,' she said brokenly.

'More,' Anto demanded, grinning like a ghoul.

Anger flared in the young woman, and her voice was thick with it. 'Hurt my tits with those pincers; is that what you want to hear, you sick filth. Put them on my breasts and squeeze until I bleed, you disgusting, perverted fuck!'

'At your command,' Anto said sarcastically, and lifted the tongs to the boob trapped in Tilius grasp.

Next moment Conine felt pain like a dagger rip though the mammary as the metal clamps bit savagely into the tender underside of her breast. She clenched her teeth and moaned, clamping her muscles down hard on the men while they hurt her. When the pressure eased, she slouched, only to have the process repeated at the side of the abused orb. She shook her had form side to side and bit her lower lip to keep from crying out. When the pain stopped again her head fell back, her face next to the young Roman's behind her. Looking at her in the moonlight Tilius was hypnotized by her savage beauty, made more radiant by her pain. In his young mind the _expression on her face was of rapture at his prowess. She wanted this, wanted him.

'Please,' she sobbed, 'please, it hurts so much.' Both she and Tilius could feel Anto moving again, pumping gently. 'Please, Tilius,' she whispered.

He stared at her open mouthed, transported by her helplessness. He owned her now. He felt Anto moving the tongs toward the peak of her breast as her lips brushed against his chin. 'Kiss me,' she husked. 'Oh Goddess, let me scream into your mouth…'

'Do it, boy,' smirked Anto from in front, listening as he positioned the tongs for the helpless woman's ultimate torment. 'Taste her pain.'

Tilius swallowed and dipped his head forward, moving around under the crossbeam so that he was leaning over her shoulder as her face turned to him. Their lips brushed lightly, and he felt a surge run through his body. He kissed her harder, feeling her respond in kind, her lips parting as their tongues met and lapped at each other with fierce urgency. He felt his prick practically bursting and thrust forcefully once, twice.

The metal jaws of the tongs pressed down on either side of Conine's erect nipple and clamped together.

Conine screamed, her whole body shaking in agony as her anguished shriek flowed into Tilius mouth as the young soldier kissed her with fierce lust. As the muscles of her athletic body spasmed uncontrollably Tilius gave a gurgling cry of his own as the pressure on his member brought him to a shattering climax. In front Anto slammed his meat into her again and again, rushing to his own culmination as he watched her writhe with her nubbin being crushed by the tongs.

That was when everything went horribly wrong for the two Romans.

As she shook and bucked on the frame Conine moved back, bringing Tilius' head further round over her shoulder. With a sudden deft move she shifted her weight, hauling down on the crossbar and trapping his throat between her powerful shoulder and the hard wood of the crossbeam. A twist and a wrench, and the young Roman's neck snapped with a sound like a wet branch, his final cry stifled by his crushed windpipe. The soldier toppled backwards, his erect penis bursting free of the Celt's anus and showering her back with the fluids of his final ecstasy as he fell to the ground.

At the front of the rape Anto had only a second to realize through the haze of his pleasure what had transpired before Conine's legs had whipped up and locked around his lower ribs, squeezing him in a vice like grip just as he opened his mouth to gasp towards his orgasm. The air was driven from his lungs brutally by the muscular thighs. His eyes grew wide in fear, but before he could act Conine had used her legs to lift him and pull him closer, her head arcing back and then snapping forward to smash his nose to a bloody pulp. He gave a stifled cry with what little breath remained to him, only prevented from falling by the warrior woman's legs still holding him in a python-like embrace.

'Now, you sack of filth,' Conine growled as the stunned Roman looked up at her in terror. He was transfixed by the burning savagery in those beautiful blue eyes. 'It's your turn to taste my pain. If you don't want your last sight in this life will be my teeth ripping out your throat while I crush your heart to jelly, take those tongs off me and do exactly as I say.'  

 

It was only several hours later as the sky began to lighten towards morning that the guards on the wall of the fortress sounded any alarm.

By the time the Centurion led a detail out to the execution hill, it was almost dawn. The soldiers made their way up quickly, only to slow to a stunned shuffle as they came up to the crest.

Tilius lay on his back, face to the sky, neck broken, his face frozen in an expression of surprise and delight while his still rigid penis pointed towards the brightening sky.

Anto's fate had been far less gentle.

The elder soldier hung on the crucifixion frame, bound by ropes but not nailed. Despite that seeming kindness his fate was awful to behold. The frame had been set for a taller victim, and whoever had strung up Anto had not bothered to tether him to the cross base of the frame. At least, not by his legs.

A thin leather strip made from the straps of sandals had been strung fro the middle of the base to Anto's genitals, passing in a loop about the base of his phallus and around behind his scrotum. With no way to hold himself against the upward pull of the weighted bar the soldier had been hauled up, tightening the noose around his privates.

When they cut the barely living Anto down the noose had narrowed to barely an inch across, his penis and balls horribly swollen and black from lack of circulation. A ragged gag had been tied around his mouth and the blood from the corners of his mouth gave evidence of the terrible agony the victim had suffered before he finally lost consciousness.

The Centurion looked about as the soldiers got Anto down. Tracks of a stumbling, barefoot individual led down the hill, heading towards the dark wild forests of the north.

The veteran of Rome sniffed. He felt no pity for the two guards stupid enough to allow themselves to be so humiliated, and neither did he feel any hurry in pursuing the escaped prisoner.

'Run my beauty,' he said to the distant horizon. 'If the stories I've heard of those woods are true, you may soon wish you'd stayed on the cross.'  

 

This ends the first part of the story of Conine, Warrior of the Chevaan.

The further adventures of Conine the Warrior Woman will be told in the upcoming Ranger of the Chevaan.

Meanwhile the story of Satyra, and the other Celtic women, after their transport from the fortress of Gracus towards distant Rome will be chronicled in Underworld of the Chevaan and Gladiatrix of the Chevaan.