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From: Fibar Fibar <faibhar@yahoo.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Zenobia by Faibhar (nc, tort, fMMM)
Date: Thu, 26 Jul 2001 00:10:03 -0400
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Pls. Note: The following is historical fiction rated R
and involves NC, tort, fMMM

                Zenobia, Queen of Palmyria

	Two seasons had gone by with the Agony of Defeat.
After initial abuse shortly after her capture, Zenobia
had been enslaved and sent to work at the gristmill.
The exercise had actually given her strength that she
did not realize was hers. The body felt much stronger
and little did its strength reveal that defeat was not
yet to be part of history.
	Work was arduous and the tattered animal skins given
to wear hardly matched her former designer wardrobe.
Daily routine was monotonous. Each day she was
awakened before sun-up from her stall by livery hands
and chained to the mill wheel. At first, being the
only woman on the wheel was taxing. The other three
with her were males and they had long ago adapted to
their fates.
       But the mill master was fair and at the end of
each day, Zenobia was released from the wheel to then
be taken with the others into the barn where they were
groomed and fed, just like animals. 
	Gradually, the queen adapted to the harsh routine.
	One day the arrival of the mounted city sheriff broke
the drudgery and charged most with excitement. Zenobia
stopped, wrists chained to the bar in front of her and
head lowered as she heard her fellow workers
unchained. The growing stir of gathering townsfolk
caused her to dispiritedly raise her head.
	Over the protests of the elderly mill master, the
black-clad sheriff announced his demand that the
female move the wheel all by herself. No one present
had heard of the mill being operated by just one
slave. It seemed impossible to all. Aside from his
relative kindness, the mill master was concerned for
the injury of one of his best.
	Frustrated by the old miller's recalcitrance, the
sheriff looked around. He proclaimed that a new house
would be awarded to any who succeeded in forcing the
female to make one revolution of the wheel. Real
estate was currency these serfs could understand, he
sensed, yet no one volunteered. That is until a young
shout was raised. 
        The miller's assistant came into view. Looking
down at the lad, the sheriff promised the grant, and
then nodded to a soldier to hand the young man a long,
black whip, the kind herders used for beating animals.
	

        Digging in her bare feet, Zenobia gasped as
the first lash tore through the skimpy covering of her
back. The developed upper body and powerful legs
pressed harder. More lashes sounded. To save her very
skin, she strained.
        Gradually, the wheel began to move. Heavy
timbers creaked. Leather from the whip smacked against
the exerting body. Excited murmurs filled the
spectators. The sheriff's horse whinnied. More lashes
reported. Grunts from the female could be heard as she
further bent to the task.
        Cheers erupted as the wheel moved further. At
last the revolution was completed.
	Cheers for both the young man and especially the
female erupted. Wildly they applauded. Spent, the
exhausted woman fell to her knees, arms upraised by
wrists still chained, oblivious of the approbation.
        Quickly, the young assistant was granted his
reward and sent away. Soldiers freed Zenobia. They
yanked her to her feet. On the orders of the sheriff,
the guards ripped away the tattered remnants to reveal
the female body in all its shining definition.
	Adding heavier chains to her manacled wrists,
Zenobia's feet were then hobbled by more iron and she
was led past the throng to follow their lead to the
arena. 
	As her heart and breathing slowed back to somewhat
normal, she shook matted hair from her face so that
her eyes could see. The rabble may have been excited
by her nudity, but she proudly walked, knowing full
well that they had never seen such form. The lashes on
her back were already practically a distant memory.
Scars would remain, but Zenobia knew that now she had
far more to worry about than mere complexion woes. As
for her hair, well, Bad Hair Days were nothing new.
	The old mill master quietly wept as he saw his best
worker led away. He knew that he would never see the
likes of her any time soon..


	Standing in chains with feet slightly spread, Zenobia
looked down at the young handmaidens sent to join her
in the large circle. She patiently allowed them to
wash her body, dab ointments over her wounds and even
sipped from a chalice some cool water as it was
offered. They hurried about their work, and as soon as
they finished, the girls took their gear and ran away,
leaving Zenobia standing alone, her feet planted in
the burning sand. Instinct told her that there was no
use searching around for the nearest exit sign. .
	Two soldiers came out. They did not seem to be bad
looking to Zenobia. She saw that one of them carried a
large metal helmet. The helmet, it turned out was for
her and unlike most, it had only solid metal where
normally eyeholes would be. It weighed heavily and
made her tilt her head slightly forward. She could
feel the men tightening straps from the helmet around
her neck. A wide flare was supposed to leave room free
for the nose and mouth, but since the size was so
large, all Zenobia could see was the golden sand at
her feet. Fresh air wafted only across her lower chin.
Small holes near her ears allowed her to thickly
listen as the men secured the helmet. It muffled
sounds. Her wrists were being unchained and then she
felt her ankles released from the shackles. As they
departed, Zenobia once more felt herself standing
alone.
	Somewhere, the sheriff was announcing the beginning
of the games. Applause from what sounded like a
growing crowd seemed to surround her. Zenobia felt
fresh sweat begining to trickle down her exposed
throat. She strained to listen as the crowd became
quieter.
	The sheriff was saying something about archers. They
would be shooting "non-lethal" darts from cross-bows
and she, the now blinded Zenobia, would have to guess
where the next shot would come from. One at a time,
the archers were to shoot, and stealthily they would
run around the circle she was in. Zenobia arched back
her aching neck, trying to see from under the helmet
but all she could make out was more sand. 
The crowd roared again, just as she thought she heard
the sheriff say for the games to commence.
	Muffled shouts seemed everywhere. She twisted and
felt something whistle past her calf, then land into
the sand near her feet with a "fffft!" Instinctively,
Zenobia covered her breasts with her long arms. She
turned and pivoted and tried to hear where the archers
where over the noise.
	Fire exploded near the base of her spine. Zenobia
cried out. Reflexively, her arm dropped and her
fingers felt until they found the offending metal
shaft. Gritting her teeth, she yanked and felt the
dart come free.
	Seeing his advantage, one of the four Ninja-clad
archers took aim. This time, his shot hit. He grinned
tightly as he saw the single-braided hair swing wildly
from behind the helmet she wore. He acknowledged the
cheers, but his eyes narrowed at the shiny metal
sticking out from the side of her large breast.
	Zenobia stumbled backwards with the new pain.
Turning, she blindly ran, only to be stopped by a
third dart hitting the top of her left thigh. She
doubled in pain. Her foot tripped. Legs entwined.
Awkwardly, Zenobia fell to the arena floor. On hands
and knees, she fought to get back up. Disoriented, the
simple, but necessary move of just standing back up
proved difficult.
	Another dart sailed forth, this time striking and
sinking into the flesh of the female's rear thigh. The
sheriff leered as he watched the formerly strong enemy
thrash on the sand below. More slimy blood flew. The
female slave thought so strong got back to her feet
though this time limped considerably and no longer
seemed so strong. No longer was any defensive attempt
made to cover her chest. The archers quickly made easy
sport of their wounded prey.
	More darts sailed and more cheers erupted. The strong
mill slave pleased the gathered with her show of
stamina but at last,  the beauty fell. Zenobia
sprawled across the pit and lay panting. Sticking out
of were the numerous shafts. Blood traced the sweaty
muscles. Other shafts had imbedded and bent under her
as she had fallen. 
	The archers slowly walked to where she lay. One by
one, they removed the dark cloths covering their
heads. One of them bent down and removed the dull
helmet from the fallen queen. To the encouragement of
the throng, all then exposed their male members. Gobs
of semen shot down and soon the former queen of
Palmyria was covered in a physical and emotional shame
no royal could ever forget.
	His lustful appetite for humiliation yet to be sated,
the sheriff called out. He demanded that the queen
crawl to him and lick his boot. The archers lifted the
weakened slave to her hands and feet. One of them
kicked as Zenobia's body was lifted. His blow landed
in the side of her wounded and wobbling breast. The
slave fell over onto her side. Picking her up, again,
they prodded Zenobia to crawl across the sand.
	Finally seeing the dark, matted hair and the
persecuted body below him, the sheriff sadistically
extended one boot. Amused, he watched as the former
queen and nemesis slowly began to lick the toe.
 	The rest of the footwear, he proclaimed, had too
much sole. And besides, he was no heel, correct? The
entertained populace had no choice but to agree.


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-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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