Jardonn's Erotic Tales
Baron's CONQUERED LAND, featured here in its scaled-down 600x280 size. The original composition size of 1680x805 will be available at Baron's Yahoo Group, SUBTERRANEAN. More info HERE
Crucifixion duty. That's what my commander calls it. I say it's shit duty.
"Watch and listen," said Lucinius Vallo, as though it would matter if either of these two men
uttered any words of importance. Of what use could their information be to us now? After two-
thirds of the Eastern Legions have been wiped out, erased from existence, who really cares which of their people killed our Emperor? Had I been given the chance, I might have done so myself, just to save 60,000 men from senseless slaughter.
Of course, that is foolish talk, treasonous talk told only to myself. It is born of disappointment. It is fueled by anger and bewilderment with such a man, a leader so arrogant and so abusive of his own subjects that he would lead us into this catastrophe. And for what? His ego? His insecurities? His grand place in history? It is done and he is dead. I do not envy him his place.
Normally there'd be a battalion here to help me supervise and mock these two crucified men.
Inevitably we'd hire prostitutes to degrade them with repeated oral milkings of their penises,
oft-times hoisting the whores up to force-fuck our tortured prisoners, but today this garrison is
a bit short on manpower. Most of my mates have joined Commander Vallo inside the Constantinople walls to assist the City Battalions in trying to calm the panic, quell potential riots. A few of my fellow soldiers sleep inside our barracks awaiting their turn to go. People within the city walls are scared for valid reason. Me? I'm consumed by a sense of dread, of helplessness and defeat, for if this is not the end of all, it is for certain a good beginning.
It is the same emotion I felt on a much smaller scale last time I visited Rome. The year was 364,
Valentinian's ascension to the throne, and even though the games taking place at the
Amphitheatrum Flavium were a grand affair, the Amphitheatrum and city itself looked tired. The
arena performances lacked enthusiasm, skills of the gladiators mediocre, animal hunts non-
existent. Too many of the great African cats have been slaughtered over the centuries, much more difficult to find, much too expensive to import. Security in the stands on this day was lax. I sat and watched with jaw dropped as hoodlums stripped fixtures from the plebeian upper tiers with no guards anywhere near to stop it. The city's new color was that of grime, marble and stones everywhere chipped and worn, trimmings of gold, silver and bronze dulled to the look of iron. Fourteen years have passed since my eyes absorbed this demoralizing decay. I shudder to imagine Rome's appearance now.
Still, at that time with the ascension of Valentinian came renewed hope. He was a strong leader
both on the field of battle and in his administration of the Western Empire. Too bad he appointed his inferior brother Valens to run the East. A foolish man he is, chasing follies of perceived quick victories in Persia while leaving the true menace in Thracia unattended. He continuously ignored the influx of Germanics illegally crossing the Danube, and when he finally did make arrangements to allow the Tervingi tribe safe and legal passage, it was done only so he could swell the ranks of his legions with new Germans to help him in Persia. Even in this endeavor he screwed up. Assigning too few Romans to supervise the river crossing of a few thousand, his men were overrun by tens of thousands of very unfriendly Greuthungi, Huns and Alans who proceeded to plunder the countryside inside our borders until Valens was forced to return from Persia and deal with it.
He'd have done better to leave it alone, rather than taking nearly every good soldier with him to
their deaths. The Battle of Adrianople is a devastating blow from which we will never recover.
Valens? He ran to a farmhouse and was burnt alive when Greuthungi set it afire. Pity. Now,
Gratian will be forced to further stretch weakened defenses in the West, send his troops here to
regain control. It will be a tempory fix. These Germanics are here to stay and what Rome can't
give them they'll take for themselves.
So, I shrink away from the big wide world, narrow my interest to this barren hill and two stipes,
one with a cross and one without. This crucifixion business used to be an efficient method of
sending a message, but that was when Rome had the power to back it up. Lucinius wants to know who burned the farmhouse, so these men are crucified for interrogation purposes. I'm supposed to watch them suffer and listen for their words. I will make the most of this shit duty by admiring two glorious forms of tortured masculinity.
We use rope. Their feet hang freely because we intend for them to endure their agony for as long as it takes. Their garments lay on the ground beneath them, their naked bodies glisten with sweat in this heated afternoon of August. Upon the vertical stipes without crossbeam is a man near thirty. His wrists are bound by singular rope threaded through singular hole bored into top
portion of the stipes, each end of rope wrapped around and knotted to his wrists. His body hangs vertical, his feet inches from the ground. He can dig his heels against the wood and use his arms to raise himself, which he will do from time to time so he can prolong his battle against
suffocation, a battle he will lose.
His closely-shaven head of hair is black, his chest, belly, arms and legs are covered with short
follicles of same color. His chest is thick and impressive, at least 40 inches when we began,
probably sunken to 39 as he approaches his second hour of torture. This difference can only be
measured, not seen, for he is a mighty warrior, a short, stout, compact powerhouse. The weight of his body is supported by arms stretched overhead and close together, which causes a flaring of his muscular laterals to a width much greater than his rib cage. This strong expansion tapers handsomely in a V towards his flanks. His belly is horrifically stretched as gravity separates ribs from pelvis, but this only further enhances the muscle between them. A deep ridge begins at the pit of his stomach and continues to the bushiness of his pubic hair. A line of dark hair covers the ridge. Extending in pairs of three from either side of this ridge are curved lines formed by muscle beneath skin. A punch to him here would crack my knuckles, or so appearances would make it seem. The beauty of his belly tempts me to test the theory.
Instead, I gaze upon the other victim, a young man of about 20 years with arms roped to the
patibulum and spread like wings. His head hair was blonde but now is brown, drenched with sweat. So too is the hair of his arm pits and crotch, and as for the rest of him I see no hair. His
build is that of an athlete, slender, sinewed, engineered for performance. Gravity stretches him,
tortures him, dramatizes his beauty, and just like the other man he sporadically plants his feet
to the stipes and flexes his arms, lifting himself to breathe. When this happens, all muscles
flex and expand to further glorify these two crucified male forms.
One of our field physicians explained it to me once. Each tormented breath becomes more difficult for a man suspended, mostly in his attempts to exhale. Minute by minute, the diaphragm becomes increasingly compressed, unable to expand and contract. The lungs lose their ability to send oxygen to the bloodstream. Poison gas slowly overtakes useful gas inside them, and to compensate the heart increases its pace in a vain attempt to oxygenate the bloodstream. With legs dangling free, the victim can raise himself to delay the inevitable, to nearly intake a normal supply of air, but regardless of his strength the length of time he can elevate decreases as his weakening condition worsens. The heart rate continues to increase. Blood in the extremities becomes stagnant, tissue dies until only his chest and brain are serviced with oxygen. That will also end, and unless his heart stops or explodes first, he will die inch by inch in unholy agony.
I never asked the physician about it, but it is obvious that a man's hard-working heart beat is
what causes his unwanted erection. The penis and testicles fill with blood even though the blood is rather useless, and once it enters a man's phallus, the blood never leaves. For spectators such as myself this makes for a good show. As though his naked and public torture weren't enough humiliation, now he is forced against his will to display his manly phallus in all its glory. These two have nothing for which they should feel ashamed. Their cocks are thick and strong, their swollen cock heads gallantly protruding beyond their foreskins. In fact, the longer I gaze upon these men the more my heart softens towards them. Why do they struggle? Why do they raise themselves and prolong their agony? Their strength of will matches their strength of body, that is why. They will never talk. They will never surrender to Roman scum, and even if they did their words would be of no use to us. Who would go search for the supposed perpetrators? Who would risk their own life to avenge the death of Emperor Valens? A man with so little regard for his legions and his citizens that he would bring such disaster upon us? Not I, and since I am the only one on this barren hill with any power to do anything, I will end the meaningless torture of these two men.
"Stop fighting," I tell the dark-haired warrior on vertical stipes. He flexes his arms, expands
his chest, tightens his belly. I punch his belly, left hand, right hand, either side of his navel, the pit of his stomach, but still he attempts to raise himself. He tries to kick me with lifted knee. I deftly avoid him with a side step before taking hold both of his ankles. "Let go," I say in Roman tongue, not knowing or caring if he understands. With my weight I add to his, further stretching him by pulling his legs towards the ground. From my knees I gaze up at him, admiring his hard belly and powerfully protruding chest. I watch and listen while his breath becomes more shallow. I pray to hear silence instead of gurgling and wheezing as he continues his struggle to survive. A drop of syrup, lubrication for a screw he will never get, drips onto my head from the slit of his cock head. All else goes limp. His resistence is no more. His life is no more.
After seeing what I had done, the man on the cross of T speaks to me. He speaks in a whisper; he speaks in Roman tongue and his speech is direct. "Finish me." His blue eyes, staring at me as his lips move, now look down. He glares for a few seconds at his own penis, and then again at me with a pained smile. He chooses his own method for ending this. Into my hand I gladly take his cock, jacking him as he hangs with muscles relaxed in surrender. He asphyxiates himself as his seed ejaculates to the ground, wasted.
Lucinius Vallo says little when he returns to find his prisoners hanging dead, their still-glorious bodies shaded in silhouettes of blue with a blazing orange of setting sun behind them. "No matter," he says, and truer words could not have been spoken. They are the victors, not we,
and every Roman in Vallo's battalion knows it. He joins me and a detail of three to bring them
down from their crosses and burn their former bodies. From the underworld, they smack their lips, anticipate our end. I can feel them mocking us, and they could do no worse if they plunged a dagger straight through our guts. Perhaps I should do exactly that, to myself, for myself. This
nausea will be with me until the end of my days, for I know they are correct. Rome's days are
numbered. It is only a matter of time.
Man is not limited by his environment. He creates his environment by his beliefs and feelings. To suppose otherwise is like thinking the tail can wag the dog. Emmet Fox