The following fictional account is intended solely for readers of legal adult age and in such communities where extremely graphic material of a sexual nature is permitted. Should you not qualify, or prefer topics other than extreme non-consensual acts of torture, please read no further. 

If you decide to continue, keep in mind that your readership is valued and that constructive criticism valued.

Faibhar

(F,nc, tort, humiliation) 

                                                                          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.
	
	Yells 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 nor was there any point to fretting over bad hair.
	
	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 and he was sad to see such fine stock led away.


	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. His aim shot true. He tightly grinned 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.
