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This work is copyrighted to the author © 2005.  Please
don't remove the author information or make any changes
to this story.  All rights reserved. Thank you for your 
consideration.
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Zenobia
By Faibhar (faibhar@yahoo.com)
 
***

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. (M+/f, nc, tor)

***

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.

END

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
This story was written as an adult fantasy. The author
does not condone the described behavior in real life.

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Kristen's collection - Directory 33