Where Are You Going? part 2 SeXStoRY

The Roman Republic 58 BC Trans-Alpine Gaul He hated this place. He hated the miserable climate. He hated the miserable, leaden gray skies, heavy with snow, that glowered over the mountains during the northern winter. He hated how his breath hung in a cloud in front of him. He hated the raw winds that blew through these hills, abrading his cheeks like the sting of a lash, and he hated these miserable, smelly barbarians they had come to subjugate, and, if necessary, destroy. Most of all, he hated the rugged hills and forests of this miserable country, which hampered the efficiency of the deadliest fighting machine the world had ever known. It had been slow, painful going for his cavalry detachment, and he’d lost many more men than he would have liked to admit, while inflicting comparatively few casualties on the barbarian guerrillas who harassed them. What began as an easy mopping-up expedition had turned into a costly and embarrassing game of cat-and-mouse. General Lucius Claudius Draconis shifted in his saddle. His bones ached from the chill. How he missed the warm, sunny climate of Rome! He shivered against the cold, and pulled his cloak up tightly against his neck to keep the wet snow from dribbling down his back. A white blanket had shrouded the land during the night, adding to his misery. But it had aided them in capturing the barbarian bitch who had been dispatched to spy on them. They caught her hiding in the hills within earshot of their newly-constructed fort. With typical Roman efficiency, they cut down a tree, fashioned a cross, and crucified her outside the walls of the fort within an hour. Under normal circumstances they would have gang-r**ed her first, with every man in the garrison enjoying the pleasures of her most intimate orifices. But it was just too blasted cold! She was an Arverni girl, a pretty little thing, although now her nubile body was marred with bl**dy whip welts. She hung nailed to her cross, naked, shivering uncontrollably from the biting cold. Spatters of crimson stained the snow at the foot of her cross. She was only eighteen. She was idealistic and dedicated. She was also inexperienced, and her inexperience had led to her downfall. She was an advance scout for the female army that had bedeviled him for the better part of the past year. So far, they had been unable to pry anything from her, except her name, which was Martica. Draconis hoped he could make her talk soon; she couldn’t last much longer, and he was weary of the cold. “Tell me what I want to know, Martica, and I promise you a quick and merciful death. Tell me where I can find your commanders.” The girl raised her head painfully, her blue eyes glazed and feverish, her long golden hair plastered to her head. She spat bl**d at him. “G….go…fuck y..yourself.” Draconis chuckled, and his men laughed at her. “An entertaining suggestion, my dear, but anatomically impractical.” Steam rose from her trembling body. She looked very appealing hanging up there, defiant even though she was bleeding, her firm breasts heaving as she fought to breathe, her legs splayed wide apart to display her tortured cunt. Her knees had been bent at a sharp angle and her feet nailed so that her heels almost touched her buttocks, insuring that it would take her a long time to die on the cross. But she was wasting his time with her refusal to talk. He nodded to a centurion. “Perhaps she’s too cold to talk, Flavius. Warm her up!” Flavius leered at the crucified girl. "I need to know where to find your commanding officers, Martica. Tell me, and you can avoid this. Tell me where I can find Brigida Calista and Diana Aureliana. Tell me where your army is deployed. How many troops are there? Tell me these things, and I won’t need tot torture you any further." He thrust a long-bladed knife into the bonfire where the men had been warming themselves as they watched him crucify the girl. Martica swallowed hard, terrified. "I have nothing to tell you. Branding me won’t make me talk." "Would you like to bet on that, Martica?” The Centurion withdrew the knife from the fire and examined the cruelly-glowing blade as he approached the girl spread on the cross before him. He held the blade before Martica's face; she stared at it, mesmerized. She squeezed her eyelids tightly shut against the searing heat. Then, with a savage snarl, Flavius applied the glowing blade to the inside of her left thigh and held it there. Her soft, perspiration drenched skin sizzled, and her piercing screams shattered the muffled, snow-blanketed quiet of the mountain forest. "Yes, Martica, the pain is beyond belief, isn’t it? Tell me what I want to know, bitch, or I’ll burn every square inch of skin off your body!" The Centurion shoved the knife back into the fire, preparing it for its next caress of her writhing body. The sharpened steel glowed red, then white, and he withdrew it from the flames again. Flavius placed the white-hot blade against the inside of Martica's right thigh this time, ripping another, even shriller scream of agony from her. He held the blade against her tortured flesh for several long seconds and watched her writhe and buck desperately in a futile effort to avoid the elemental pain between her legs. Flavius shouted to make himself heard above Martica's tortured sobbing. "Ah, little bitch, this is so much worse than the whip, isn’t it? Perhaps it’s even more painful than the cross, do you think? Tell me what I want to know, and I’ll end your torment with a quick death!" Martica spoke through agonized sobs. "Y….you p-piece of Roman shit! I don’t know anything! I’m just a f-foot soldier! Brigida and Diana d…don’t even kn….know my name! I…I got l…lost in these mountains. Please stop h…hurting me!” Flavius sighed. "I grow weary of this, you lying bitch. Just tell me where I can find those two sluts, and all of this will stop.” Martica looked down from the cross and spat at the Centurion. "Wrong answer, cunt! So be it; I will not stop until you tell me where they are." Flavius placed the glowing knife against the underside of Martica's left breast and dragged it slowly down her body and over her belly, then laid it between her spread legs to scorch her pubic hair and vagina, pressing it hard against the sensitive flesh. Martica screamed so loudly her vocal cords bled. Flavius did not want her to pass out, so he lifted the iron off her loins and stood back to admire his handiwork as her tender, intimate flesh crackled and smoked. "Try not to faint, Martica. You seem to want this to last a long time, and I’m willing to grant a beautiful girl her dying wish." Martica's eyes were clenched tightly shut; she could barely comprehend what Flavius was saying to her. The searing pain of her burns, coupled with the agony of being nailed to the cross, proved overwhelming. She fervently wanted to die. “B…by the gods, please s…stop!” she screamed. “I don’t kn…kn…know anything!” Draconis stepped forward, shaking his head. “I am so disappointed in you, my dear Martica! Flavius—I believe she requires something more…..stimulating.” Flavius grinned and removed a flaming torch from the fire. Snow crunched under his boots as he stepped toward his victim, his eyes fixed on her vulva. Martica’s eyes flew open in terror as she realized what he was going to do. “N…noooo! Please d….don’t….” She tried to squeeze her thighs together, but the Centurion thrust the blazing brand up between her blistered, unprotected labia and viciously twisted it to open her up before shoving it all the way up inside her. An earsplitting wail of agony ripped from Martica’s throat. She thrashed wildly, and fresh bl**d began to stream over her wrists and feet as she twisted around the nails. Flavius stepped back, leaving the brand burning inside her. “I WON’T TELL YOU ANYTHING!” she howled. “FUCK YOU! FUUUUUCCCKK YOUUUU!” Then her screams trailed off as she burned from the inside out. She died within moments; she went limp on the cross as a gurgling sigh escaped her parted lips. An occasional shudder rippled through her corpse, and the stench of roasting flesh and burning hair wafted through the chill, damp air. The General’s eyes narrowed. “DAMN her! She took her secret to the grave rather than tell us. She was as brave as a mother eagle protecting her nest!” Flavius shrugged. “Commendable on her part, sir. I wish some of my men were half as loyal. But that brings us no closer to finding Brigida Calista and Diana Aureliana.” “Females you seek in Gaestadvia.” Draconis and Flavius whirled around at the sound of the quiet voice, startled, as did the rest of the troop. Several of the horses neighed and reared. “Damn it, Talenc, I’ve told you a thousand times not to sneak up on us like that!” The barbarian was a Votadini, from Britannia, one of the “painted people.” He was not quite six feet tall, and lanky, but compactly muscled, with long, flowing red hair and a bushy red beard. All the skin of his face –- of his entire body -- was tattooed with intricate designs of bright blue and scarlet, even his eyelids. He was a fearsome apparition, sitting astride a magnificent white stallion. He was clothed in a****l skins and leather armor, with a bear fur cape, and he wore a horned helmet. Draconis was unnerved. It rattled him that the barbarian could approach to within a few feet of an entire cavalry detachment – on a horse, no less! – and remain undetected. Talenc smiled, displaying two rows of sharp white teeth that he had filed into canine fangs. Everything about the Votadini’s appearance was designed to strike terror into the hearts of his enemies – and his allies, for that matter. Draconis repressed a shudder. “Stealth part of Talenc’s job, Draconis – remember? Talenc your scout.” “So, tell me, ‘my scout’ – you say these two bitches are in Gaestadvia? Why in the name of the gods would they be in that miserable shit pile? That village is the asshole of the Cevennes Mountains.” “They meet with Vartorix, chieftain of Arverni tribe. Try to convince him to join f***es with them.” Talenc grinned his vampire smile. “Not expect to find three powerful warriors like them in asshole, right? Good place to have meeting, no? No one expect them to be there.” Draconis chuckled ruefully. “I suppose you’re right – it’s the last place I would look for them. What about their troops?” The barbarian shook his head. “Troops not in sight – Arverni or warrior females. Talenc only saw Vartorix and Diana and Brigida. But troops probably not far.” “Gaestadvia,” Draconis mused. “That’s about ten miles from here, in the lowlands – not too far by horseback. Maybe there won’t be any of this blasted snow down there! If we leave now, we can attack at first light. Take them by surprise.” “Look!” one of the legionaries exclaimed, pointing at the cross. The smoldering torch slid from Martica’s charred vagina, trailing sparks, and landed in the snow with a hiss. Tendrils of smoke curled into the air from inside her body. “The wolves will eat well tonight, if her carcass doesn’t freeze solid before they get their fangs into it!” Draconis said as he regarded the girl’s remains. “Talenc scalp her first, right?” the Votadini asked as he pulled out his scalping knife. Draconis nodded as his flesh crawled. He hated this part of the business, but it netted him a hefty bankroll on the side. The barbarian rode over to the cross and dismounted. His scalping knife in his teeth, Talenc effortlessly shinnied up the back of the cross and locked his legs around the stipes and Martica’s still-twitching corpse. He pulled back her golden mane as he brought the knife up to her hairline. Then he slid the thin blade under her scalp, slicing into the flesh. There was a thriving market for wigs back in Rome. Wealthy women wanted the fashionable, flaxen-haired look of Germanic and Gaulish females. Usually the hair was supplied by female slaves who were shorn of their locks, which were then woven into a wig. Passable, but fairly obvious. But a very realistic looking wig could be made by removing the entire scalp, all the way down the back of the skull to the base of the neck. Once the hide was cured, the skin beneath the hair formed a cap that went over the wearer’s head and attached with hairpins or weaves or adhesives. Talenc, like most of his people’s warriors, was an expert at taking scalps. Draconis paid him a 100 sesterii bounty for each one he took – a bargain, really, which the barbarian thought was a king’s ransom -- and then the General sold them at a high profit through a middleman. Sometimes the barbarian disappeared for several days at a time and came back with a sack full of golden scalps. Draconis asked no questions. Once the soldiers departed, Talenc would do things to the girl’s body, taking indecent liberties with it. That was of no concern to the General, as long as the barbarian procured a good scalp. The Votadini also liked to take “souvenirs,” slicing off the nipples of his female victims. He kept his trophies in a leather pouch. Talenc had shown them to Draconis once; the General had thought they were dried berries. When he realized what they were, Draconis had gone to his knees and thrown up in the bushes. “Better not tarry too long today, Talenc,” Draconis admonished. “The wolves have probably already picked up the scent of her bl**d. They’ve been restless lately. Hunting is more difficult for them during the winter.” As if to punctuate Draconis’s words, a long, mournful howl ululated down the mountainside, followed by another, then another. Talenc paused to listen, but then continued at the same, unhurried pace as before when he resumed scalping the girl, peeling the flesh back off her skull. Draconis wheeled his horse away from the cross. He had other matters on his mind right now. Soon, if the gods willed it, the rebel bitches who had caused him so much grief would be in his clutches. He finally had a chance to break the back of the guerrilla resistance that plagued this area – and reflected so unfavorably on him. Brigida and Diana would pay dearly for their crimes. Once they were dead, their army would surely fall apart, s**ttering to the four winds. He would enjoy watching the two of them writhe on their crosses!