The hazel is fresh cut from the many thickets that surround the settlement to supply both protein rich nuts and the thin rods used in the wattle and daub construction of the iron age huts. Stripped of it's bark and cut into three foot lengths, the whipping rods are strong and very flexible. You curse your impatience in beginning this scenario so hastily, now you will be forced to suffer the consequences for not taking more care in choosing your avatar.
You hear the swish of the descending hazel switch and a loud crack as it strikes the upper slope of your ass. Intense red heat blossoms through your buttocks and you jerk forward away from the pain. Only by clenching your jaws tight do you avoid screaming out loud. With only your toes gripping the floor, your involuntary flinching away from the source of pain transfers all of your weight to your wrists and shoulders. You swing on the rope, your sandalled feet scrabbling to regain a grip on the ground beneath.
Shaking your head wildly in denial of the humiliation inflicted upon you you see the other two women. Like your own, their faces reflect the searing sting of the hazel rods. Boudicca and your sister have clamped their mouths firmly shut, muscles in their cheeks twitch with the effort of denying the Romans the pleasure of their screams. Another swish and crack behind you and again intense agony suffuses through your ass and your legs kick forward in the uncontrolled reaction to escape the source of your hurt. Your lose grip with your toes and swing briefly, your shoulders straining as your own dead weight wrenches at your muscles.
"Hah ha, look Africanus." The legate calls out, clapping his hands in delight at the sight of you. "See the little red vixen dance."
Your toes barely touch the ground before the next blow lands, lower and delivered more horizontally this time as the legionaire adjusts his swing to your movements. Already the pain of the blows from the supple switches are starting to merge, the burning aftershock running into the sharper more intense sting of contact. The Roman steadily thrashes you, working his way from the very tops of you firm little buttocks downwards over the gentle swell of your asscheeks, even in administering a flogging it seems the Romans work with methodical efficiency. Soon your bottom is one flaming red sheet of burning pain, leaving you no respite between the merciless blows. Despite your resolve the sting of each strike cutting through the duller glow of those that have come before is beginning to loosen your tongue. Muffled at first and quickly stifled, each of the legionaires savage stripes across your ass are rewarded by cries of frustrated anger and pain from your trembling lips.
"Oh listen to her." Quintus gushes, coming to stand scant feet in front of your abused body and gazing transfixed with bright avericious lust. "Isn't that a sweet song to your ears Africanus. Sing louder little Aedhir."
The Roman behind you strikes harder, heeding the legates wish and attempting to force you to vocalise your suffering more loudly. The brute grunts with the effort he puts into each slashing blow. The pain intensifies with the force of it's delivery, piercing through the numbing hurt of what has gone before. You yelp for the first time, feeling intense shame that your commitment to deny the Roman pigs the satisfaction has been broken. Beside you soft cries from Boudicca and your sister tell you that their tormentors have responded to the legate and seem to be competing with each other to see who can make their victim cry out the loudest.
The blows have traversed the globes of your buttocks now and the Roman angles his attack upward striking at the softer underhang of your bottom and the crease where your little buttocks meets the flesh of your thighs. You're shrieking in accompaniment to each stinging crack of the rod now, your tongue loosened by the remorseless assault upon your senses. The legate Quintus laughs gaily at the sound of your screams.
"AAAAGHHH, ROMAN BOYFUCKERS!" Your sister screams out, channeling her pain and screams into curses at her tormentors. "FUCK YOU ALL TO HELL."
"Pretty language for one who presumes herself a noble." Quintus mocks. "Her tongue is that of a Capuan tavern trollop, though that is probably higher in station than any Iceni royal."
A flurry of blows strike you and you scream loudly in agony and shame. The strikes have moved from your tortured bottom to the tender backs of your thighs and this fresh target of pain doubles the sensation being as yet not numbed as your ass has become. You feel an uncomfortable pressure in the pit of your stomach as the new heights of searing pain sends a muscle loosening wave of shock through your lower body. Control of your bladder is weakened and a high arcing yellow stream of piss gushes from between your legs. Quintus, immediately to your front, reacts too slowly to avoid the wildly fountaining spray of urine and it spatters his face and uniform in a warm golden shower.
"Disgusting little bitch." Quintus howls, oblivious to the smirks of the troops around him rapidly being disguised by hands raised to their mouths. "Bring me the switch."
The flogging ceases and as your jets of piss weaken and subside the legionaire to your rear walks around and hands the slim whiplike rod to the legate. Snatching the switch from the soldier Quintus steps forward and slashes at your defenceless body, striping your chest with his wild blow. The hazel sears across your nipples and areolea, sending white hot pain throughout you breast and you scream out loudly. You jerk instinctively backwards, once more losing purchase with the dirt beneath you.
As your toes stab downwards to seek a grip your slim thighs part and Quintus sees the prize of your fleshy sex exposed. His arm sweeps upward in an opportunistic strike, the tip of the hazel slashes at your vulva. Agonised wracking shrieks of hurt burst from your throat and your thighs clamp together as tightly as is possible, your knees whipping up protectively curling you into a foetal position swinging pendulum like from your wrists.
"Enough." Quintus snarls. "I tire of this sport. Africanus, take a squad and locate the royal treasury. The imperial loans to these scum are hereby recalled. The rest of you men who suffered assault take your compensation from between these sluts thighs." |