CruxNico

DAY II

Dawn had broken only a short while ago - an hour or two ago, Sam wasn't sure, it was increasingly becoming difficult to estimate time spans - but the heat of the day was fast approaching and the shivers of cold were already replaced by the first drops of sweat forming on his forehead, strands of his hair clinging to it. Grimacing as he tried to control the pain from his nailed arms, he leaned back his head until the back of it touched against the raw wood of the upright, opening his eyes to look up into the cloudless clear blue mediterranean sky above him. A sharp pain shot through his gut as his body twisted slightly while he straightened at the cross, reminding him of last night's events. He looked down at himself and saw that cum was splattered onto his thighs, abdomen and chest. His scourged front was practically caked in the dried semen of his executioners and of himself. Any man with half a brain would know what stuff flaking off of him was and what had been done to him. In the grand scheme of his execution it was at worst a minor indignity, a small humiliation, considering how he was to be tortured to death, but it felt like an especially malignant twisting of the knife.

Sam looked over to Anton, wondering whether he should ask if the same had been done to him, but he saw the other slave hung limp and lifeless from his cross, drool seeping from a slack mouth. Maybe the guy had expired during the night. The first spectators of the day had arrived as well, about half a dozen men. Sam recognized them all from yesterday. Men with not much to do and looking for what little entertainment could be had in this provincial city. With Anton completely out of commission now, he was the center of their attention. They ogled him shamelessly, some talking amongst themselves, making remarks they probably thought knowledgable, but only revealed their salacious glee at what was being done to him. Some walked up to him, touching and fondling him. Sam tried to jerk away from the intrusive grabbing, but he had little room for movement and every attempt to avoid a spectator's greedy hand was met with sharp pain from both his wrists. So, most of the time, he just had to let them grab, prod and paw at him. At some point a younger blonde became quite insistent on grabbing Sam's cock and after some futile attempts of evasion, Sam had to endure the man trying to jerk him off. In public! With dozens of men looking on! To make matters worse, the guy fondling him was very easy on the eyes, lean but athletic build, around twenty with boyish looks and a mischievous glint in his blue eyes. Sam's cheeks were burning red with shame as his treasonous cock was going from limp to half-hard again. Sam's reaction caused the young man jerking him to go at it with even more enthusiasm. Sam leaned back his head again, trying not to look down at his erection, but he couldn't suppress a moan, though it was borne more from pain and humiliation than from pleasure. After a minute of trying to ignore what was going on at his crotch, he suddenly felt something new on his cock. Really? Really? He couldn't help but look down and sure enough, the guy had knelt down and taken Sam's cock into his mouth and was sucking it with considerable skill. Did the guy have no sense of decency?

"Okay, that's enough there, Liam!" Caius had approached unnoticed by Sam and now grabbed the blonde by his short hair and pulled him back. "You know, at some point I am going to put up a sign that says 'no blowing the condemned', just for you." He shoved Liam aside. "Now, scoot, back to your master. I'd wager that he wouldn't be well pleased knowing his slaves suck cock in public. So fuck off, unless you want to join this guy up on the cross."

With the back of his hand, Liam wiped away some salvia from his mouth, glowering at the soldier. "As you say, boss." With a last longing look at Sam's erect cock, he turned and walked back towards the city.

"We ready?" Andros was suddenly standing next to Caius along with Marcellus. Caius nodded.

"Yup, it's time we get this show underway. Tie his right foot, Marcellus, we'll start with the left."

Within seconds Sam found his right leg tied to the upright at the ankle with a coarse rope. As Marcellus worked, Caius produced a wooden mallet. Something metallic blinked in his other hand and Sam's gut churned as he saw that it was a nail. A carpenter's nail, fairly long at around five inches, it's length not quite straight, one end tapered, the other with a leveled head. The whole thing looked fairly crude, but also like it would be able to withstand quite a heavy load. Sam had seen them used in the construction of houses, to fuse beams together. And yesterday he had felt them used to fuse his wrists to the crossbeam and make him scream. Now they would be used to nail his feet to the upright, to complete his crucifixion.

"Please Dominus! Don't!"

Caius ignored Sam's pleas and instead continued instruction Marcellus. "Now grab the other foot and pull it against the upright. Don't let him push it down, I need to have it stay where it is to nail it down."

Marcellus nodded, kneeling down to Sam's right, reaching around the upright to grab his left foot at ankle and forefoot. The soldier pushed it upward by about two feet, bending Sam's leg at the knee and causing him to yelp as he suddenly had to shift to balance his whole body weight just on his tied right leg. Caius knelt down to Sam's left, mallet and nail in hand.

"Please, Dominus!" Sam pleaded. "Please, gods, please don't... don't nail my feet. At least spare me that, please."

Caius shook his head now. "Fucking slaves." He looked up at Sam. "Take your punishment like a man, slave, or at least save your breath for the screaming and let me do my job."

"Dominus! I beg..." Sam felt the tip of the nail press against the side of his bare foot and he looked down. The crude iron spike was aimed right at the center of Sam's heel, pressing against bone there. There was a spike of pain as the executioner pressed harder and the nail pierced the skin and thin layer of flesh, connecting directly with the heel bone. "Plea-" Sam couldn't even finish the next word, barely seeing the mallet come down.

Sam's world exploded in pain as the impact of the mallet drove the nail into him, into his foot, into hard bone. White-hot agony gripped him as he felt the iron spike penetrate him and he threw back his head with force to scream at the top of his lungs, the back of his head smashing against the wood of the cross behind him. He roared in pain with everything his powerful lungs gave, screaming open-mouthed, unable to stop the primal, primitive howl of unadulterated agony he produced. The laughter and cheers of the men watching his execution rang in his ears but barely registered in his mind as it was swamped with the brutal sensation of his foot being nailed into place on the cross. He barely had time to take a breath before the mallet came down again and he felt and heard bone break with a sickening crunch as the nail went in further, his screams quickly morphing into uncontrolled shrieks, the pain robbing him of conscious thought and turning his world into hell. He was now pushing his foot down with everything his muscles had to give, heedless of the additional pain it caused, doing anything, everything he still could to get his foot out of the way of the mallet, even though the nail was already deep inside it.

Sam heard Caius yell something, but he couldn't understand, the sound of rushing blood in his ears dampening the outside noise now. The hands on his foot now gripped it tighter, harder and then the mallet again found its target and Sam howled with renewed strength as he felt the nail break through the other side of his foot, pierce him and find purchase in the upright, instantly robbing him of any ability to move the foot. Sam screamed like he had never screamed before, screamed at the top of his lungs, screamed louder than he had ever thought himself or any man capable, the muscles in his neck flexing as he produced sounds of pain he could not have imagined only seconds before. And yet his screams still did not hold a candle to the utter, unmitigated agony he was experiencing. His screams were pointless, worthless, undignified and uncontrollable at the same time. He was abasing himself even further by howling out the pain his executioners were inflicting on him and he could do nothing to stop it. He was providing the spectacle they wanted, making a show of the agony they subjected him to. There had been the illusion in his mind that he could somehow endure his punishment in stoic silence, to shame his executioners by suffering this ordeal with dignified calmness. That illusion was gone, instead Sam was betrayed by his body and shamed by screaming like a pig being slaughtered. But unlike an animal being butchered he couldn't hope for a quick death, instead he would suffer for days or weeks. In public, naked, screaming in pain, put to death in the slowest and most brutal way imaginable even for a slave. His flawless body and savage punishment on display both as entertainment and deterrent.

Sam felt his right foot being untied. He tried incoherently to beg for mercy again, but when his foot was pushed upwards and he finally lost his last way to support his body weight by standing, his body suddenly slid down on the cross. The descent was stopped when his arms fully extended and his whole body weight shifted with a jolt to the nails in his wrists. It was impossible, but Sam's pain magnified by a hundredfold. He had never stopped screaming, and he was already screaming and howling with everything his body had to give, but if his screams had been inadequate to express the full extent of his pain before, they were now dwarfed by it. It was simply not humanly possible to mirror Sam's actual pain in screams. He had lost all control over what his body was doing, he didn't pay any mind to the men watching or even the men crucifying him. He simply couldn't. He couldn't form words, he couldn't form thoughts. He could only feel pain, agony. His body's reflexes had taken over, desperately trying to get him out of his position of agony, mindlessly trying to get away from the cross, trying to pull free from the nails already inside him, already fixing him permanently in place. Sam was thrashing and bucking on the cross, uselessly and hopelessly trying to free himself, causing even more pain on top of the already unimaginable horror he was subjected to, but he couldn't stop himself. The primal part of his mind had completely taken over and only understood that he was in mortal danger and abject pain and put every ounce of his strength as a young, muscular man into trying to get away. As the mallet came down again and the nail smashed into his right foot, Sam, screaming and yelling, pulled and yanked on his arms, literally trying to rip them free. But his executioners had done good work. Even with all his muscle strength and all the pain even the attempt caused, Sam's wrists barely budged. He was securely and once and for all fixed to his cross. The mallet's blow rang out again and Sam's shrieks reached a crescendo as the nail burrowed deeper into the bone in his foot. He was reduced to a mindless beast now, howling, roaring, bucking, sweat spraying in every direction as he thrashed on his cross, his limp cock flailing from side to side. He lost control of his bladder, piss spraying everywhere, the curses from the executioners to his sides not even registering with him. The mallet sounded again and Sam felt the nail drive through his foot into the upright, robbing his last limb of any free movement. 

Crucified!

He was crucified! They had nailed him to the cross!

Crazed with pain Sam irrationally pushed with his legs, standing up on his cross, his bare ass and back arching away from the wood, muscles flexing and bulging under his skin as he screamed and screamed and screamed again.

Crucified!

He was being put to death! They were executing him! He was now nailed naked to a cross for everyone to see. A condemned slave suffering justice. No, not even a slave. Nothing more than a beast damned to suffer a gruesome and slow death.

He had known the word 'Crucifixion' since he had become a slave. His first master had explained to him what it meant and the description alone had sufficed to put the fear of the gods in him. He had seen it done to other men. He had seen other men howl their lungs out as the nails went in. He had known it was an awful, painful way to die. But only now he understood. Only now he knew what crucifixion really meant. The brutality, the savage cruelty of it. The screams of the condemned, his screams, were only pale imitations of the true agony and shame a crucified man felt.

He continued to roar in pain, bucking on the cross, yanking on his arms in futile, mindless, panicked attempts to rip himself free. He twisted his hips this way and that, but horizontal movements had become near impossible as he was fixed permanently in place in four spots now. He had to stop moving! He was inflicting more agony with every twitch of his body! He had to stop! Stop! But he still couldn't - everywhere he turned, there was pain and more pain. He kept struggling, jerking on the cross, insane with the agony he was experiencing, causing even more as he tried to escape it, unable to get a grip on himself. He was fully conscious, even the worst storm of pain not clouding his mind, every sensation on the cross remaining crystal clear - and he now certainly heard the cheering, hooting and jeering of the men watching him, loudly laughing at his throes, his cock flapping about and anything else they could find an insult for. He didn't know how long it took for his first desperate struggle on the cross to ebb, it felt like hours, but it couldn't have been more than a few minutes before his muscles started to strain and his lungs to burn, his screams to grow hoarse.

He finally managed to bring his ass back to the upright, trying to brace himself there, but he found no support on the raw wood with his ass cheeks and slid down on the cross, his wrists and arms screaming with agony as they had to take his whole body weight. He yanked back his head and howled again, despair, pain and hopelessness ringing out.

Crucified. 

Panting, coughing, shivering, he hung his head, sweat running down his whole body, dripping from the toes of his bare feet and the tip of his cock. For the first time since they had begun nailing his feet, he managed to glance around at the men watching. His heart sunk. The place had filled up and he saw at least three dozen men of varying ages, though most had to be in their twenties or thirties. He was the center of attention, men pointing at him, hurling insults, joking with their friends obviously at his expense. And he was being ogled by almost all. No, not just ogled, leered at. Every nook and cranny of his muscular, taut body was being stared at by at least one guy, though many openly stared at his crotch. But worst were those who tried and succeeded in locking eyes with him. He saw lust, glee, scorn, arousal, ridicule. He didn't see sympathy, none at all. These men were here to see him scream, to see him shamed and to see him put to death. No one here would shed a tear for a crucified slave or even think twice about the justification of his torture and execution. To these men, he was entertainment, his misery a way to pass the time. Sam wanted to shrink from the spectators, wanted to avoid them looking at him. He had never felt as naked as he was feeling now, even with all the pain he was in. He had been sold and resold at slave markets, paraded naked and chained before sometimes hundreds of people there, he had stripped and fucked as his owners had demanded, had trained naked when asked to and jerked off in front of party crowds if a master needed to entertain his guests. But now he wasn't just naked. Now he hadn't stripped voluntarily or even on command. He had been stripped. And not just of clothing, but of everything that made him a man, of every last shred of dignity. The men watching him were not just looking at his naked body, they were looking at him, at his pain and they knew that he would die naked and that he would die slowly and publicly. They knew that he would never again be covered in clothes.

"What. A. Fucking. Show!" Andros was standing a few feet to the side, his fellow soldiers next to him. "Caius, I think we need to charge an entrance fee for this one. I mean, I knew he was a screamer," Andros winked at Marcellus at that, "but, man, I haven't seen a show like that in quite a while!" He turned around and assumed the air of a man making an announcement, proclaiming to the crowd. "If you like what you see, don't miss this slave's impalement the day after tomorrow!"

Sam clenched his teeth, trying to ignore the excited hubbub that announcement had caused. He had been hanging on the cross for a few minutes now, panting hard, trying to gather strength. He wasn't screaming constantly now, but not because the pain had lessened, only because howling had become too strenuous and his throat was sore and hurting. His arms felt as if they were on fire, his full body weight pulling at his wrists, nerve endings frayed by the nails piercing them, sending agony snaking down his outstretched arms. He had to get back up, relieve the pressure on them. Sam flexed his impressive biceps. He didn't dare push with his legs against his nailed feet, so Sam would have to pull himself with his arms. It would hurt any way he attempted it, so he would have to go slow. He began to pull, using his biceps, trying to ease himself upwards, but the pain multiplied instantly, just by virtue of the movement. He screamed as he slowly dragged his torso upward, straightening, his bare ass sliding against the raw wood of the upright, the gap between his back and the upright narrowing. He couldn't go very far with only the strength of his upper arms and he quickly realized that with his wrists nailed to the far ends of the crossbeam he couldn't even bring his arms parallel to his shoulders, not even close. Worse, the move did nothing to relieve the pressure on his arms - his body weight was still entirely on them, he had only succeeded in putting additional tension on his arms. Hanging on the cross, he had no way to support his own weight save for the four nails inside him. The only choice open to him was how to distribute the stress between those four points and to even have any hope of mitigating the pain of his arms, he'd have to put weight on his legs. He had to try. As he shifted to rebalance and flexed his thighs to take the weight, he leaned back his head and screamed, the pain redoubling as more pressure was put on the broken bones in his feet. He roared again open-mouthed as he slowly pushed himself further upwards on his legs, trying to stand on nailed feet. He got farther this time and actually took some pressure of off his wrists, but the additional agony from his feet more than made up for what little relief was to be had in his arms and he quickly found that with his feet nailed with their toes pointing downward, he couldn't even lock his knees to relieve the stress on his thighs. Panting in-between screams, Sam was again hit by the realization of the hopelessness of his situation. Pain from the nails in his feet, pain from the nails in his wrists, pain from his scourged back and ass scratching against the coarse wood  of his cross, the shame of his nakedness and exposure, knowing that he was being put to death, knowing that worse tortures would be coming, knowing that the men watching him were enjoying his suffering, that he could expect no mercy, agony wherever he turned, the despair.

Sam's breath came in ragged gasps as he stood mounted on his cross, his entire body trembling in pain under the strain of his posture, his thighs already starting to make themselves felt as they held him up. The sun was burning down on him now, it had to be close to midday, and he was drenched in his own sweat, trying to blink it away. Clenching his teeth Sam dropped his head and couldn't help but look at himself. He was still bare-ass naked like a cheap mining slave, his bronzed skin gleamed wet in the sunlight, his small patch of chest hair sticking to his sweaty sternum, small beads of perspiration ringing his nipples and small trickles of sweat running from his armpits along the sides of his torso. Abdominal muscles rippled underneath his skin with every breath he took. His large cock hung limp and useless between his thighs, swaying from side to side with every minute movement of his body, sweat occasionally shaking free from its tip. Even with a flaccid cock, Sam realized that he made for an extremely obscene display on the cross, vulgar not just because he was being displayed and exposed stark naked to the crowd of men watching, crude not only because nailing his feet to alternating sides of the upright had spread his thighs and openly exposed his crotch, but also demeaning and humiliating because he had no way to shield his body, his nakedness, his suffering from the leering eyes of the spectators around him. Worse, the men watching knew it and enjoyed the fact that he was forced to display himself in this manner. He lifted his head slightly to look around the place from underneath sweaty bangs. The number of onlookers had only increased since they had nailed his feet to the cross. At least a dozen more had stopped to look at him on their way to or from the town, a few talking amongst themselves, but most had their eyes on him. A shrewd vendor was walking around the place, selling small breads to onlookers, some men had piled up some rocks to form makeshift seats opposite Sam's cross, lounging about while they talked and watched. A brown-haired guy locked eyes with him and pointedly licked his lips before he grinned.

Sam's thighs were trembling now, shaking from the effort of having to keep his body up on the cross and he realized that he would have to lower himself again. Slowly, ever so slowly he started to inch down on his cross, having to exert a surprising amount of muscle strength to prevent himself from just sliding down in one go. As he came down on the cross, his back again leaned away from the upright and he yelled out as the focus of his pain shifted back from his nailed feet to his wrists. Clenching his teeth he tried to bite back another scream as a sharp burst of blinding pain shot down his left arm and he felt the nail in his wrist move slightly. He looked up to the protruding spike, a crude thing which had been even more crudely bent to clamp his wrist permanently into place. Sam's eyes watered as its sight once more drove home the fact that he had been fixed to the cross not just with the simple intent of putting him to death - binding him to the cross with a rope would suffice for that purpose - or even just to inflict the maximum amount of pain on him during the execution. Worse, by nailing him to his cross, his executioners had already made certain that he would die, that his crucifixion was irreversible. Sam was still breathing, still alive and if he was unlucky would remain so for quite some time, but there was no way his crucifixion could be undone without killing him. Men nailed to crosses weren't being guarded to prevent them from being freed after all, but only to make sure no one shortened their suffering. Sure, Sam had once seen an attempt at stopping a proper crucifixion. A slave had received clemency an hour into it and the soldiers had set about prying the nails from the man's feet. They had tried for a while to get the nails out, but in the end had given up and provided clemency by simply spearing the man. Sam knew it was hard to get even dead men cleared from the crosses and that soldiers usually preferred waiting until the cadavers rotted out enough to fall off by themselves. Getting a spear to the heart was by now Sam's best-case scenario and even that wasn't on offer.

He was already dead. His execution might still be ongoing, he might still be screaming and struggling for breath, but the hammer blows that sunk the nails into his bones had been his death knell.

Taking a shaky breath, Sam looked away from his mutilated wrist and back down, his chin scraping against his collar bone as he did so. He felt bristles brushing against his skin and realized that his habitual five-o-clock shadow must have grown out to a proper stubble by now.

Sam's whole body trembled as he continued to hang on his cross, pain ravaging him. He kept grinding his teeth together, trying to minimize his screaming, but whenever his body shifted slightly, a new wave of hurt washed over him. Sometimes he managed to stop himself from yelling out, but more often than not he threw back his head to scream out before hanging his head again. Pain, pain, so much pain. It was unimaginable and worse, unrelenting. It mingled with the shame of his nakedness and helplessness and almost made Sam wish for death on the pyre. Burning alive might have been an even worse fate, but at least then his agony and shame would've been over by now. As it was, time seemed to stand still for Sam. He didn't even know how long ago his feet had been nailed to the upright. A few minutes, half an hour? It already seemed like an eternity ago, but the shadow of his cross had barely moved as far as he could tell.

Gasping and panting Sam was struggling to breathe. Hanging on the cross, his thighs were almost, but not quite parallel with the ground, his hips even an inch below the level of his knees. Sam realized that he was for all intents and purposes in a squatting position and this was what made breathing hard for him. Maybe he could improve his situation by heaving himself just another few inches, allowing better airflow to his lungs. If he managed to do that, he could perhaps avoid having to raise himself entirely on the cross again and again to avoid suffocation. Sam clenched his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut in preparation, then pushed with his legs to inch higher again. Grunting, then screaming as pain shot through his broken feet and up his calves, Sam skidded his ass higher on the upright. He lifted himself by just two or three inches and even through the blinding pain he immediately noticed that breathing got easier. But the agony he was in was no less than pushing himself up completely, maybe it was even worse. In desperation Sam tried to shift tension to his arms, but only succeeded in adding additional pain to his wrists, then he tried to brace his ass against the upright, pushing against it, but there was not enough friction to keep him in his position without pushing with his legs or pulling on his arms. Still he tried again and again, frantic to find a posture that allowed him to breathe somewhat normally and ease the pressure and the tension on both the nails in his feet and wrists. He struggled and twisted on his cross, howling out his ever-increasing pain, while he was pelted with increasingly vicious insults by his spectators. The men were certainly enjoying the show.

"He certainly knows how to use that ass!"

"Anybody know why he still has that dick attached to him?"

"Hey, slave! How much does it cost to have your balls cut off?"

Sam tried for a long time, before he was overwhelmed by desperation and pain and lowered himself back down on the cross, head hung in shame and defeat. All he had succeeded in was to abase himself even further before the men watching his execution. Trembling, Sam hung on his cross, the hopelessness of his situation sinking in again. Crucifixion meant execution, his execution, but foremost it was torture and torment. Days, maybe even weeks of probably the cruelest torture ever invented for fit young men like Sam. The men executing him weren't satisfied to end his life, to put him to death, they were torturing him to death slowly. Sam couldn't help but lean back his head and let out a broken howl of despair at the thought. Exhausted he let his head slowly tilt forward again. His screams and howls had used too much air and his lungs were burning with the need to properly breathe again, the primal need to rise and inhale making itself felt. Sam had to come up for air. He had to stand up again on his cross, had to push up on his nailed feet and pull on his nailed wrists. What was now pain would become agony again as soon as he started moving and what was an ache would become pain again. Sam was in constant pain, the agony of crucifixion unrelenting and merciless, but as soon as he moved on the cross, the pain would again explode and magnify a hundredfold. A rational part of his mind told him that staying down, remaining slumped down, suffocating, was preferable to inflicting pain on himself to uselessly prolong his own suffering. But Sam's throes on the cross were a primal, pitiful and futile struggle for survival, reflexes dictating his movements, Sam himself just a passenger along for the brutal pain and abject shame. Sam was a slave not just to his executioners, but also to his body's basest instincts.

His need for air suddenly overcame his fear of agony and he pushed upwards, screaming, roaring, as pain washed over him, exploding in his mind, he howled his agony open-mouthed into the blue sky above him as he lifted himself slowly. He twisted this way and that way, trying to use his ass to brace against the upright and to balance between the four focal points of pain inside him, his pitiful screams changing pitch as he moved until he finally stood up on his cross, shoulders and back pressed against the upright again. Panting, Sam gulped down lungfuls of air, knowing that his thighs could only keep him up here for a while. Whistles and cat-calls rang around the site as men commented loudly on his torment.

"Owned a screamer like that once. Pity I never had a good excuse to send him to the cross though."

"Do they have one like that at the market right now, do you know? It'd be great to have a guy like that at next week's orgy."

"Hey, how about you show us how long that dick is in action?"

Sam tried to ignore the crude comments raining down on him, but he couldn't help feel the crippling shame of his situation. Trying to distract himself, he tried to concentrate on taking deep breaths, but the pain of holding himself up almost overwhelmed him. He let out a long-drawn out cry as his thighs weakened and he slowly started to sink down. He had to press his asscheeks against the upright to rein in the speed of his descent, crying out again and again as movement and shifting of his body sent new shockwaves of pain through him.

He was hanging again from the cross. The burning of his lungs slightly soothed for now, but Sam knew it would not be long before he had to raise himself again. The way he had been nailed to the cross meant he had to repeat this cycle of pain, of standing up on his nailed feet, of pulling himself up by his nailed wrists, every few minutes to keep breathing. And his reflexes would force him to do so. He had no choice in the matter. He would do it again. And again. And again. Day and night. Dancing on the cross for the entertainment of his spectators. An endless and unrelenting cycle of brutal agony and self-humiliation for the rest of his pitiful existence.

He had been marched from the gaol yesterday morning and only now his crucifixion truly began. Sam swallowed hard.

Time seemed to pass even slower after that realization and Sam's despair grew as it seemed to practically stand still but the desperate need to breathe properly made itself felt again. Not yet, it can't yet be time again, he wanted to cry out, but before he could help it, he was again screaming and bucking as he dragged himself upwards, unwilling participant in his own torture. He only managed a shorter time up on the cross this time, which meant, that there was less time until he had to do it again and again and again. Sam lost count somewhere after the tenth time. On every repetition the cycle seemed to inflict more pain than the one before until finally, Sam hung his head after a particularly brutal stint of standing on the cross, and couldn't help the sobs escaping his throat anymore, starting to weep. The men watching him were delighted, new insults flying at him.

Sam didn't care anymore. He couldn't stop himself from crying in earnest now, even though he humiliated himself even further. At some point he noticed Caius standing a bit to his left, looking at him with his arms crossed in front of his chest, a smirk on his lips.

Sam managed to raise his head to look at his executioner. "Ple-" Sam swallowed. Speaking was hard, his throat was parched and hurt from screaming. "Please... kill me." Caius smirk broadened to a grin. "Please... I can- ... it's too... much." Caius still just looked at him with that grin. The man hadn't said no yet, so Sam pressed on in-between sobs. "Plea- I'll... I'll... do... anything... anyth- you want..."

Caius cocked a brow. "Anything?"

Sam managed a nod. "Any- anything." And he meant it, Sam realized. Whatever his executioner asked of him, Sam would do it, regardless of how demeaning or shameful it was. Anything to put himself out of his misery, his pain.

Caius walked right up to Sam, standing next to him, face only inches from Sam's now. The grin had narrowed back to that smirk. "Well... there was something I have been wanting to try for a while... If you play your part in it well, we might have a deal." Sam looked at the man, hope suddenly blooming in him. "But you'll have to wait a bit. This day is the bare minimum you deserve. Also... you are quite the sensation with people in case you haven't noticed." With that he stepped back again, leaving Sam hanging on the cross.

The minutes continued to tick by slowly, the heat increasing as the sun slowly rose in the sky. Sam was sweating even more profusely by now and he had to constantly blink to keep his eyes clear, sweat dripping from his nose, chin, cock and toes even when he hung close to immobile on the cross, trying to minimize his pain by avoiding movement as far as he was able, desperate to lengthen the time between cycles on the cross. He licked his lips, the salty taste of his own perspiration on his tongue and looked out at the crowd watching him on the cross. The approaching midday-heat had at least thinned out the spectators somewhat, many retreating towards the town to find a meal and shade. Precious little of the latter was to be had at the crucifixion site as it began to bake under the sun. Since it took effort to lift his head, Sam kept looking down at himself, his exposed naked and sweaty body gleaming and trembling, tense muscles visible through skin stretched taut over them. His downward-pointing feet were marbled with veins, making them unmistakably masculine. For reasons that escaped him, some people had thought them one of his most attractive features and once he had had to jerk off a guy using just his bare feet. A young patrician had ordered him to during an orgy and it had taken Sam a fair bit until he had worked out the logistics, finally laying down on his back in front of the man, then grabbing his cock between his bare soles and jerking it. It must've looked completely ridiculous, but luckily the guy came within a minute or so and Sam was able go back to fucking and sucking like a sane person, though he had to walk carefully not to slip on his cum-slicked feet. It hadn't even been the weirdest sexual service he had been asked to perform, but for some reason he remembered it now as he looked down at those feet.

Nailed feet.

The iron nails were sticking out of their sides as cruel mementos of his current predicament, keeping them in place, keeping him in place and mounted on the cross. Keeping him in his pain and ultimately killing him. Unthinking he tried to wriggle his toes. They moved, but a lightning hot flash of pain shot through him at the same time, making him scream. Panting, grimacing and clenching his teeth he involuntarily readjusted his body on the cross, muscles straining and screaming at him. As a young man used to physical exercise, Sam knew what overused muscles felt like and many of his were already reaching that point. Even just hanging on the cross required constant minute adjustments and without wanting to he had to keep a fair bit of tension on his outstretched arms. Despite the burning pain it caused, it was the only thing that kept the tearing feeling he had in his shoulder joints somewhat at bay. Hanging from the cross meant that his shoulders were stress points and they were already protesting the fact that they were not meant to support a grown man's full body weight for long periods of time. Keeping his arms under tension and flexing his neck at least distributed some of that strain. Sam gasped as another random flash of hurt raced through him. He had to get up again. Hanging as he was put a surprising amount of pressure on his midriff and he realized that was what was keeping him from breathing in and out normally. Flexing his thighs and pushing, Sam started to scream as he began to lift himself again to satisfy his body's pointless need for air. Up he went, gulping down air as long as he was able before he had to lower himself again. The cycle repeated again and again. Up and down. Up and down. Every few minutes. He screamed when he pushed himself upwards and howled when lowered himself down. The pain never left, whether Sam was hanging on the cross or standing up on it, only its intensity varied with his movements on the cross, but its base level steadily increased with each cycle as Sam's muscles gradually began to tire and both raising himself and lowering himself on his cross began to take longer and longer each time. As exhaustion began to grip him, tension drained from his muscles until he finally simply dangled from his cross, head lolling forward, panting open-mouthed, his whole body as limp and flaccid as the cock between his thighs. The coarse iron of the nails in his wrists cutting and grinding into his skin where they had been bent upwards to clamp him in place. His mouth had begun to dry out and his lips were cracked and chapped as he hung in the midday heat.

"Now, now, Sam. Defeated so easily?" The voice was drenched in malice and glee and Sam recognized it immediately. He wanted to ignore the bastard, but in the end he couldn't help but look up slowly with some effort, seeing his former foreman stand only a few feet from him, grinning from ear to ear. Sam was getting really sick of the grins men were wearing when they enjoyed the sight of another guy being tortured. "I mean, a man with your body hanging on the cross like a wet sack of grain barely two days in? Isn't that a bit embarrassing?"

"F- fuck off." Even those two words took a lot of energy for Sam and he knew he was wasting precious breath engaging with the man. He glared at Hector who chuckled.

"There's the annoying little pissant I know." Hector took a step closer, bringing him within inches of Sam's trembling body. "You should be thankful, you know?" Sam must've looked confused because the foreman continued. "I mean, I kept my promise to you." Sam stared at the man, now completely at a loss. What was that prick talking about? "Really, Sam? Really? You forgot my promise to you right after that training session two weeks ago? I'm disappointed."

Sam clenched his teeth and broke eye contact, dropping his head again, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He remembered now.

"I told you I'd have you on the cross within a fortnight and, lo and behold, here we are." Hector looked nauseatingly smug at that. "And let me tell you, Sam, it was quite a feat keeping that promise. I mean, you gave me the opening to have you nailed, but, boy, did you have the master's head turned. The boss really, really liked you. In fact, if he'd come by here now, he'd probably bribe the guards to take you down, as pointless as that would be. The man was practically drooling over you every time you stepped into the yard for training practice. It was actually a bit embarrassing to see an old guy with that kind of standing and wealth making goo-goo eyes at some barbarian slave barely worth the food he eats." Hector was studying Sam intensely now. "Though somewhat understandable, I suppose. I mean, I don't have an eye for men, but even I can admit that you're quite the looker if stripped from unnecessary clothing."

Sam looked back up at Hector, angry. The foreman held up his hands in a mockingly placating gesture. "Hey, man, if it weren't for me, you would have been sharing his bed chamber within another week. So, I saved you from having to suck off a crinkly old dude. Even you wouldn't have liked that." Hector cocked his head. "You should really thank me."

"Fuck... you..." Sam wanted to shout it, but his words were barely more than a hoarse whisper.

"Witty." Hector said sarcastically. "Anyway, it took a lot of convincing to get him to send you to the magistrate for crucifixion; days of needling to sway him. Should've seen him. 'Yeah, he was absent from the estate without permission, I know," Hector affected a nasally voice in a caricature of Sam's former master Tullius, "'but he did stay within city limits. So he isn't technically a fugitive. It'd be such a waste.'" The foreman snorted and continued in his normal voice. "At first he didn't even want to give you the lash! Can you imagine! Slave runs off and doesn't even get whipped because the master wants to bed the guy! Our whole household would've been the laughing stock of the city! Ridiculous!" Hector huffed indignantly. "My tongue felt all fuzzy when he finally saw reason and agreed that punishment was necessary. Took me another day of wheedling to get that upgraded to a day of rope crucifixion. And then yet another day to get it upgraded to a proper crucifixion with all the bells and whistles. And I only managed that with a little trick. You want to know how I did it?"

Sam hung on his cross, shivering, grimacing and panting as pain continued to ravage him. He shook his head even though he knew it was pointless.

Hector grinned. "Knew you'd be interested. Well, I talked to the foreman at Agrippa's estate. His boss and the Dominus haven't really seen eye to eye in a while, you know, so I told his foreman about the whole sordid affair. Guess who asked our master all about it at the dinner party that evening? Well, Agrippa of course. Inquired whether he could help, that he knew it was sometimes hard to punish favorites but that of course he'd be happy to offer the crucifixion detail he employed for his own slaves." Hector chuckled. "Dominus was so embarrassed he told the man right there and then that his household was able to handle these kinds of trifles, help was not needed, thank you very much, and that he already had you scheduled for the magistrate in the morning."

Silence descended and finally Sam looked up to find Hector locking eyes with him. "That's how I got you nailed naked to a cross, slave. Remember that while you waste away in pain for the rest of your miserable existence." He smirked, then looked up in the sky. "Well, I have to be off, lots to do. Just wanted to check that they actually nailed you up and didn't just sell you to a brothel or a mine or something. Can't ever be too careful with these corrupt soldiers." He sighed, an annoyed look ghosting over his features. "Have to get to the market, actually. Tullius sent me to buy a new slave and I had to promise him to get one that looks like you or better. Can you believe it? Horny old fool. Luckily I think I have some leeway when it comes to dick size, otherwise I'd probably be scouring the whole province for a replacement."

After another moment of studying Sam, Hector turned and began walking back towards the city, leaving Sam on the cross he had brought him to, leaving Sam in his pain, leaving Sam to die.

Sam noticed Caius standing a few feet away, arms crossed, looking after Hector. "Neat story. Not exactly a happy end for you though." Of course the soldier had overheard, knew now how Sam had gotten the cross, knew now that he was being put to death because of a petty squabble between two rich men. Sam didn't know what was worse: Being crucified as a fugitive slave or knowing that he had been nailed to the cross because his master wanted to save face at a dinner party.

Sam's mouth was parched and he licked his chapped lips in a desperate attempt to wet them to little avail. "Yeah, you need some water, otherwise this is gonna be cut a wee bit too short." Caius unhooked a waterskin he had attached to his belt and approached, lifting it to Sam's mouth. Sam knew that he shouldn't drink, that dying of thirst would simply cut his suffering short, but before he could finish that thought, he was already gulping down the water pouring into his mouth, reflexes overriding any conscious decisions he might have made. "There you go. Drink up slave."  Sam was slugging down all water coming from the waterskin with the desperation of a man dying of thirst, slurping audibly. "Come on, down it goes. All of it." Some of the water ran out the sides of Sam's mouth, trickling down his chin, neck and then chest, mingling with the sweat on his body. Sam didn't feel refreshed when Caius finally removed the emptied waterskin from his mouth and patted his cheek. "Good boy! Now you can ride your cross for the day." Caius walked away passing Andros who was approaching, obviously taking over the next shift of the watch.

Sam fell back into the rhythm of the cross, hanging for as long as he could bear it before standing up to catch his breath, howling, screaming and roaring in abject agony as he lifted himself. His whole existence shrinking to the brutal, relentless suffering of a crucified man, struggling for air to prolong his own torture. Heaving himself up on his cross seemed worse than simply hanging from it, not just because of the unimaginable pain his broken feet caused, but because pushing up, straightening, his hips arching away from the upright, Sam was presenting himself, presenting his nude, exposed body, his cock and balls, even more lewdly in front of the spectators. Every time he danced this way catcalls and insults flew at him. The number of men watching him was growing again as the midday heat slowly began to lessen. So every time he had to repeat the cycle of the cross he had a greater audience than the time before. Whenever his mind allowed for anything but the sensation of utter, brutal agony, Sam realized again and again the abject shame of his execution. It wasn't simply the cruelty of his punishment which terrorized him, but the public nature of it. It wasn't enough for his executioners to torture him to death. Inflicting agony on him was certainly a point of the exercise, but probably not even the main one. Showing off his punishment seemed to be at least as important, after all he hadn't been crucified tucked away in a secluded courtyard or even somewhere in the wilds. His cross had been erected prominently just beyond the city gate at the main road. Crucifixions weren't justice handed out in secret, a necessity hidden away for decency. Instead his executioners showed off their handiwork proudly not just to the townsfolk, but anyone visiting the city. Sam's pain and agony, his helplessness, his nakedness and shame were on full display to citizens, freedmen, slaves, travelers and even other condemned alike, making his punishment a statement on the sort of justice dispensed in this city. Look how misbehaving slaves fare here, look what we do to them regardless of their physical prowess. And in a terrible way making an example of him fed into Sam's humiliation and degradation even more. Putting him to death this way, his executioners were also making plain that what he was feeling or experiencing accounted for nothing, that he was worth less than nothing, worth less than a beast. Subjecting him to the cruel tortures of the cross they announced to the world that they could and would do with him as they pleased.