Aurelie rows and rows and rows

Aurelie was too scared by the whip to protest or rebel. She was concentrating all her attention, all her strength on working the oar in rhythm with the other slaves. She ignored the pain, the fatigue, the cramps, the rawness of her brutally **** holes. Her eyes remained focused on her hands, whose whitening knuckles were clenched on the handle as she pulled and pushed on the heavy oar. Her muscles grew tired from the exhausting toil. They needed rest, she needed to breathe but she ignored it. The whipmaster and his assistants did not overlook the least mistake, the least move out of rhythm, the least wrong glare. Anything was a pretext to whip her and they made sure that no part of her body below her neck was devoid of red, bulging welts.

In no time her body was covered in sweat and filth. She stank, she looked miserable, she had peed on herself, rivulets of blood oozed down her glistening skin from the many criss-crossed marks. Her palms were now covered in blisters so that just holding the handle was painful.

The time passed so slowly. It was difficult to assess how much time passed in the confined space. Sometimes they got rest, they were given some stale water to quench their thirst and rest their cramps. When they had to start rowing again, the pain always seemed twice worse. When would the rowing end? When would the next shift come and replace them? When would she see the Captain again?