Monday, May 8, 2017

Pirates

The sun was sweltering hot in Barbados. Mira was wearing the standard European outfit, the heavy long dress with petticoats and other impractical layers, and as a result was sweating profusely. She jealously eyed the sparsely clad women that were going about their business in Bridgetown, wishing she could adopt the thinner, lighter clothing style.

But her father insisted that she dress properly. Mira had led a sheltered life in Paris, and that had not changed during their brief stay in the Caribbean. She was 19 years old and had only had one suitor back in Pairs; she was still a virgin and her father was determined to make sure she stayed that way until she married.

They reached the docks and saw their ship. Trunks were being loaded up, including those belonging to Mira and her father. The ship would leave in an hour, and Mira was excited to finally be leaving the raw, unsophisticated atmosphere of the wild Caribbean islands.

Suddenly Mira stopped and stared at a completely unfamiliar sight. A number of women, naked and chained with collars, stood on the dock next to another sailing vessel. The hot sun shown on their naked flesh, the sweat making it slightly shiny.

All the women were young, perhaps Mira's age. They stood with downcast eyes, waiting for something. They were chained together, and were completely naked, something that Mira had never seen before; the only completely nude body she had ever seen was her own.

"Father... father... what... what is that?"

Mira's father looked, and then turned away. "Don't look at it, Mira. Those are slave girls. There is an active slave trade in these islands, and... well, girls like that sometimes appear and are sold in the slave markets."

Mira couldn't help but stare, though. The women looked... strangely sensual, in spite of their circumstances. She couldn't help but be fascinated.

A sailor from the other ship came and dragged one of the slave girls to the side, at the end of the docks. Mira watched as the girl was forced to her knees in front of the sailor, who then dropped his pants. Mira's mouth also dropped, for she had never seen a male member before, and then suddenly, there is was. Standing out, hard and full and straight. She had no idea they were so large... She gasped as the girl took the man's cock into her mouth and began sucking.

Hearing her gasp, Mira's father turned, saw, and rapidly moved Mira away, onto the ship. "You should not be looking at things like that, Mira!"

But Mira could not get the image of the women's nakedness out of her head, or of the way the man shoved his large member into the woman's mouth. She had taken so much of it... down... deeply. Into her throat.

Mira tried it one day on the ship. Remembering what the slave girl had done, she took a sausage and tried sliding it into her throat. She gagged and immediately pulled it out. She couldn't imaging doing that.

Though... she lay in her bunk every night, thinking about it, and touching herself between her legs, in her special place. Only women were given their own cabin on board ship, and Mira made use of the privacy. She thought about the chained girls and what might happen to them; what was being done to them right that moment.

She didn't understand it, but she wanted it. She fantasized about being naked on the dock, chained, then taken aside and used. The embarrassment of her thoughts made her flush, but it also stimulated her imagination even more.

The image of naked women and the thought of men taking them, using them... it filled her mind. She watched the men on board ship as they sailed north. She observed the bulge in their pants, and noticed that sometimes, when the sailors looked at her, their bulge became larger.

She knew now what the bulge was, and what could be done with it. And she wanted it. She fantasized about being taken as she masturbated each night, and then one night... she did it.

It was the second mate, by far the most handsome of the crew. A strapping young man. Quietly, discreetly, Mira seduced the young sailor. It didn't take a lot of effort. She was the only young woman on board, and the second mate was like most sailors-- constantly horny. Mira showed him some cleavage, brushed against him a few times, and finally asked him down to her cabin to look at a broken latch.

She lost her virginity that night, fucking the man in her small cabin. They began by kissing, at first tentatively and then passionately. Once the second mate realized this woman was willing and even eager his hands found their way under her dress, his fingers going to her hardened nipples and eventually to her pussy. When he discovered her wet and her thighs parted, the mate pushed her dress up and his pants down.

At the first contact between his cock and her pussy, she gasped and begged for it.

The first time he entered her they were still mostly clothed. The second time they had managed to get most of their clothing off, and were sweating naked in the heat of the lower cabin as their bodies rubbed against each other.

It was different than she thought, the feeling of having another person pushing up inside of her. But she also had the wonderful, full body, shaking waves of orgasmic pleasure... and then another.

The next day everything changed. Mira had lost her virginity and wanted more. She was already wanting the second mate to slip into her bedroom and between her legs again that night. Alas, it was not to be.

Instead, they were boarded by pirates.

The pirate ship overtook them about noon, and everyone was terrified. Her father sent her below decks, and told her to hide. Mira did as she was told, but was curious... what would happen to her if the pirates knew of her existence? Would she end up on some dock, naked and chained? Used by men how they pleased? It was the stuff of her fantasies, though the reality of it now made her afraid. She did not actually want to be a slave. Taking a young first mate in her bedroom was one thing. Chained and forced to take any man... that was another.

The pirates boarded their ship and rounded up everyone except Mira, who was hiding. They demanded money. What little money they had was turned over. The ship was hauling passengers and had little booty to satisfy the pirates. In anger, they took one of the passengers and threw him overboard, demanding more treasure, more items of value. When nothing came they threw another passenger overboard.

When it came to Mira's father, they demanded more money... and he had none. They dragged him to the railing and he cried out for them to stop. He had treasure... of a kind.

He gave up Mira. Told the pirates where she was hidden. Said they could have her if they let him be. The rough men stormed below, found the cowering girl, and dragged her up to the main deck triumphantly. Mira was truly a catch; a beautiful woman, young, supple, nubile.

Mira was dragged to the pirate's ship, screaming, begging for mercy, ranting against her father, struggling every foot of the way.

Chains were quickly applied to Mira to keep her from charging back across to the other ship.

Mira's fantasy, the one she had masturbated to for the last several nights, had come horribly true.

The first night aboard ship she was given to the pirate captain. His was the right of first use, and he was thrilled to make use of Mira.

He didn't bother stripping her naked. He simply yanked her dress up, tore her top apart, and mounted her in his bed.

Mira lay on the bed, feeling the massive cock enter her, fill her, spread her wide. It felt similar to what she had experienced the night before, but this cock was much bigger and the pirate captain was so much rougher. He hammered into her cunt, jamming himself so deeply she thought he was impaling her.

Even though the rape hurt, it was still close enough to her fantasy that she felt a swelling of pleasure. She moaned, grunted and even hooked her legs up around the captain's hips. Her own hips rocked in rhythm with his thrusts, pushing his cock deeper inside her, rubbing it with her inner flesh.

Mira no longer had to imagine the fantasy of being a sex slave; she was in the pirate captains quarters, legs spread, taking him inside her. She shuddered with increasing pleasure.

But the rape did hurt. Mira's legs were wide apart, and he pushed them wider, stretching muscles that were not that limber. Her cunt was bruised from his hips banging into her. His breath stank, and he insisted on keeping his face close to hers so he could see this young girl's beauty as he banged her.

The next morning she woke in the captain's bed, sore and whimpering. She was bleeding slightly, but at least she was being cared for by the captain, if she was also being used by him. She was the captain's woman, the captain's slave, and it made her feel good to know this.

At noon that day the captain came back into the room where Mira was chained. She waited for him to take her; a mixture of fear and desire swirling inside her.

He ripped the remaining clothes off her, leaving her completely nude. Her clothes were now in shreds, no longer wearable, so he took everything and threw them outside to be used as rags.

He mounted her from behind. Forcing her on all fours on the deck, her ass up in the air, legs spread, he took her from behind.

Mira held her place as best she could, taking the pounding as she had before. It actually felt... good. Not as good as with the second mate, but she was living her fantasy, once again being the captain's whore. The thrusts were so deep, so rough, that Mira felt the air being expelled from her lungs with each thrust. The result was an involuntary grunting noise.

"Uhhg... Ugggh... uuHH... Uhhh... ueehhh.. uihhh..." over and over again the air was pushed from her chest by his cock pounding deep.

As had happened the night before, the captain released a huge load of sperm with a loud grunting.

He left her naked on the floor, pulled up his pants and returned to his ship's duties.

Mira lay on the floor, confused, hurt, bruised, bleeding. This was her fantasy, and she was enjoying it in some ways, but it was rougher and more painful than she had imagined. She also worried about whether the captain would keep her. She had to satisfy him, make him want to come back. She plotted how she would make herself seem sexier, more alluring, and give him greater pleasure. To survive.

It didn't work. It just wasn't enough.

Oh, Mira was ready to seduce and pleasure the captain that evening, but instead she was given to the first and second mates to use as they pleased.

And so she was introduced to the art of the threesome. Taking a cock in her mouth as she had seen the slave do, and spreading her legs to allow the first mate to drive inside her cunt, she did her best. She was a beginner; it was only two days after losing her virginity, but the desire to survive and live is a powerful motivator.

When the two men had finished with her she lay bruised, shaking, bleeding. She had done her duty, but whatever pleasure she had experienced with the captain had fled. She just hurt now, hoping it had been enough to keep her alive.

She was naked and in chains, just as the slave girl's she had seen on the dock. She was servicing men as their pleasure, just like the slave girls on the dock.

She awoke the next day to the pirate ship's first mate shaking her and dragging her nude body out of the cabin and onto the main deck. The pirate ship had entered a small cove on an island and was anchored in relatively peaceful waters.

"Ah, whore... time to let the men have their turn. It's been weeks for some of them."

The crew had some free time and it was their turn to take Mira. All twenty five of them. They weren't nearly as gentle as the captain or his mates.

A dozen men surrounded Mira, grabbing her body and pulling her arms and legs apart. She struggled, straining against the force of these men taking her but it was useless. Rough hands felt her body, sliding across every surface of her flesh, probing every hole. Suddenly a cock was inside her cunt, and someone was thrusting; she couldn't see who.

Mira cried out, begging for mercy. There was none. When one man was finished another took his place, pushing into her cunt.

At least after the first two men her insides were so full of men's body fluid that she was slippery; cocks slid inside her without resistance.

The pirate sailors threw Mira around as a plaything, forcing themselves into her cunt, into her ass, and into her mouth. Some of them put their cocks into her hands, demanding that she stroke. She did her best, but it was overwhelming. She couldn't stroke with both hands while taking a cock into her ass, into her cunt, into her mouth.

Some of the sailors tired of her, but there was a never ending supply of new sailors, and the longer it went the rougher they became. The ones that were last were the least senior of the sailors, the ones others had pushed aside. These junior sailors were the dregs, the dirtiest, foulest of the lot.

Mira had no idea how long this lasted; it seemed to go on forever. It got dark, the evening descending, and it was still going on. At one point Mira recognized that the man with his cock in her mouth had been in her cunt some time before... he had come back for seconds.

In despair, Mira screamed out, begging once again for mercy from the continuous, hour's long rape. As another cock slid into her mouth she screamed, and bit down.

The sailor screamed and struck her across the face. Her head was ringing the world spinning. Another cock entered her mouth. She no longer had control and her jaw was loose. The banging of cocks in her ass and cunt meant her jaw flopped around... and she bit the man's cock again.

"She's biting cocks!" Shouted one of the pirates in anger. "I'll teach her to fight back!"

With amazing speed, one of the sailors tied her wrists together and hoisted her up so she was dangling from a rope pulling her arms over her head. The rape had stopped, though one of the men had his fist up inside her pussy. It ached horribly. Her body was slick with sperm and blood.

Mira hung by her wrists, the pain in her shoulders nothing; her entire body hurt, especially her jaw, stomach, cunt and ass. She knew her flesh had been torn, split by the constant penetration. But for now, she was simply grateful to be hanging unmolested.

The pirates backed away and the second mate whipped her.

Mira had never felt such pain in her life. The whip was ten feet long, a supple braided leather that wrapped around her body and stripped flesh like a knife. She screamed, jerked and writhed, but there was nowhere to go. No way to protect herself. The last struck her white flesh again and again, leaving red long, deep red stripes where it kissed her skin.

Blood streamed down her flesh from these new wounds, mixing with the semen, saliva and blood from earlier wounds. Her flesh was shiny, as if she had been doused with water. Each stroke of the whip sent splatters of fluid flying.

After a while she fainted.

When she woke she was still hanging from her wrists. She could no longer feel her hands; they were completely numb. She could not move her fingers. The captain was staring at her.

"Too bad they handled you so rough. You might have brought a pretty penny in Port-au-Prince. Aecchh... they deserved it. It's been long since they've had a woman."

He turned his back on her and walked away.

"What shall we do with her boys? She's used up!" cried the first mate.

Several men shouted, "Overboard!" "Fish food!" "Leave her hanging there!"

The second mate cried out, "Nail her to the bow! She'll be our figurehead!"

"Aye! Aye! Make her our figurehead!" Shouted the crew.

Mira was only half aware of what was happening, but she knew it wasn't good. She tried to beg for mercy, a croaking plea escaping her split and bloody lips. It had no effect.

She was brought down and laid on the deck. A board was obtained from below and put beneath her head. Strong arms grabbed her arms and stretched them out, tying her wrists to the wooden beam.

She tried to struggle but it was completely useless. Weakness from the day's abuse had taken her.

"Nail her, else she come loose!" Shouted someone.

Horrified, Mira watched as two long spikes were brought to her and placed next to her wrists. "Aye, that's it!" shouted the navigator. "Secure her fast!"

A spike was placed against her left wrist. Tears were streaming down her face as she watched a sailor raise a mallet and then strike the spike a sure blow.

The pain was worse than anything she had experienced. Her entire arm seemed to explode in searing agony and she screamed, loud and long. Staring at the blue sky and clouds above her, she kept screaming until blows had secured her left wrist to the board.

The process was repeated on her right wrist and her screamed continued until she lost the strength to scream.

They hauled her up then, brought her to a standing position, though several hands had to hold her there. She was unable to stand on her own. She was dragged, feet sliding limply over the deck. The weight of her body pulled on the nails, creating new waves of pain that made her cry and scream and sob. She no longer talked, she no longer had the ability to talk. The rapes, the abuse... it was all behind her now. All she could think of was the horrible throbbing her her arms and shoulders.

Ropes were tied to her ankles and she discovered she was being lowered over the bow of the boat, past the bowsprit, hanging down over the water. The sound of nails being hammered... the board was being fixed to the wooden hull, facing forward.

Mira hung there, looking forward to sea, away from the boat, in agony.

When the beam was secured the ropes on her ankles were pulled back and up, causing her body to be pulled back against the slope of the ship's prow. Her legs spread, one on each side of the ship. They pulled hard, pushing her ass up against the point of the bow, her spine pressing against the ridge as well.

Then she was alone.

The pain was actually slowly spreading, but was not as intense. Her wrists and hands were reduced to a dull throbbing pain, but the pain now spread through her arms into her back and down to her hips. Mira tentatively tried to move, and screamed from the sudden onslaught of agony. Any movement was hell.

So she hung here.

Behind her she could hear the men going about their business; the ship was getting ready to make way.

Below her she saw an occasional drip... drip...  It came from her. It was blood mixed with semen. The liquid remains of a full day of being raped. She hung her head, unable to keep it up any more.

She remained there during the night, hanging in place, listening to the men get drunk on rum, and then finally silence as they all passed out.

She passed out as well, unable to stay conscious. It wasn't really sleep, as the pain was too great to allow her to sleep. The aching cramps had extended all the way down to her thighs now. No, she simply slipped out of consciousness.

She was awakened by sharp pains in her wrists and arms, and in her back. Opening her eyes and squinting in the morning glare, she realize the pain was coming because the ship was moving. They were out of the bay and moving into the open ocean. Waves came rolling toward her and the bow of the ship would descend into the gully between the waves and then hit the next wave with a shuddering splash. This jerked Mira against her nails, causing massive waves of pain as they road the wave up.

The ship would crest, then sink into the next gully, only to strike the next wave, repeating the agony.

She was being jerked violently, the nails actually smashing and eating their way through her muscles and tendons.

Mira was also soaked. Every wave brought spray that covered her, filled her mouth and nose. She couldn't breathe. She struggled to get the salt water out of her head and just as she succeeded the next wave would shoot up compressed water, splashing with force directly up into her nose.

Breathing became a constant ritual of timing, watching the waves, trying to make sure she was ready for the next blast of water.

Screaming from pain was not an option; it just filled her mouth with water and would kill her.

Why was she trying? Mira thought. I am going to die here... but she had to try. Her body would not let her simply give up.

And so she rode the front of the ship, gasping for air, shuddering from cold water mixed with scalding hot sun. Pain from being suspended from nails, pulled back against the hull.

Mira's breasts pointed forward at all times. They guided the ship as it moved across the ocean.

She survived two, three days and nights. The first day she defecated and urinated, the ocean spray immediately cleaning her off.

Halfway through the first day someone lowered a bottle of water on a rope for her. She drank desperately, getting the bottle between her teeth and holding it until she drained it. Apparently they didn't want her to die, at least not yet.

Mira wanted to die, though. Her body had become one large bundle of agony, never ceasing. The constant motion of the ship, jerking and thrashing her about, tore into her body. The nails had destroyed all the soft tissue in her wrists and were now grinding against the bone of her ulna and radius. Eventually the nails would tear holes in her wrists large enough they would no longer hold her and she would slip out... except she was still tied to the board.

The combination of nails and rope made her situation permanent. There was no way she would ever come loose.

On the third day they came into port. Mira's body still hung from the ship's bow. Port-au-Prince was friendly to pirates and the slave trade, so the ship's crew saw no reason to take Mira's body down.

On the dock stood a man. Mira's father. He recognized the pirate ship, and looked at the poor, sunburned and dehydrated rag of a girl's naked body tied to the prow. She appeared dead, hanging there as a sign, a warning to others.

He thought for a moment that it might be his Mira; but quickly dismissed that thought. It couldn't be.

Could it?

Mira was not dead yet. She looked up, saw her father. She had no water left in her body for tears. She croaked something indiscernible.

Her father cautiously approached.

She croaked again. "Please.... kill.... me...."

Thursday, February 2, 2017

One Last Act of Perversion

Marcella had asked for it. Literally.

She had asked to be crucified. Surreptitiously, carefully, she had asked around to find a group, an organization, an individual that would hang her from a wood cross and leave her there.

Marcella was a masochist. Her experimentation with bondage and submission had gone on for a long time, in private. It started as a young teen, exploded as she grew through high school, and now that she was in her early 20s, some of her darkest, deepest desires were finally coming to the surface.

Over the years she had found various sadists that had tortured her, tied her and chained her, hit her with whips and canes, pierced her flesh with needles. She had always begged for more, all the while screaming.

Several times, one guy strung her up hanging from her wrists while he whipped her and stapled her breasts. She had cried, begged for him to stop, screamed when the whip had cut her flesh. When he finally let her down she asked him to do it again, harder.

But no one had crucified her. She'd been tied to a St. Andrew's cross for whippings and floggings, even spent some time upside down on one. But she'd not been crucified, not the real thing on a cross, outside, hanging naked by her arms for hours, perhaps even days.

She was sick, yes. She knew this, at least intellectually. She was perverted well beyond normalcy. If a psychiatrist had gotten a hold of her they might even commit her as a danger to herself. After all, no sane person actually wants to be strung up naked in the hot sun and left to die in humiliating agony. Sick or not it had been a slowly growing interest, passion, and finally obsession of hers.

Now she was 27 years old and her search had gone to the underworld of some of the most extreme BDSM and kink communities. There were people who castrated others for kicks. Men who would arrange a fantasy rape that lasted an entire weekend. Women who begged to be hung upside down and have their clothes nailed to their flesh, only to be ripped off. People into scarification and other permanent modifications and forms of torture.

Yes, these people exist. There aren't many of them, but more than one might think.

So it was that Marcella heard rumors that her desire might actually be fulfilled. Originally she had sought someone that was known, reliable, and knew how to do it. Someone that was experienced and would not make mistakes. A job like this could be botched so easily.

Marcella had obsessed for a long time and done research on what it meant to be crucified, and how to do it properly. She had laid in her bed many evenings, legs spread, hand working her clit, fingers sliding into her cunt, thinking about the nails and the strain on the arms, the humiliation and exposure... the agony...

It was a common misunderstanding that to crucify someone you simply had to nail them to a cross. The reality was far different.

The nails had to be placed in exactly the right spot. If you nailed the victim through the hands, there was a good chance their weight would pull and eventually shred the tissue and bone and they would fall from the cross.

No, nails needed to be placed in the wrist. There were two ways to do it. One, simply run the nail through the arm, slightly above the wrist. Between the arm bones, the radius and ulna. Those bones would not break, and the nerves ran right there. Marcella shuddered thinking about it.

The other place was through the palm of the hand, almost directly at the wrist. Angling the nail properly put it through the wrist bones themselves, and not only did it mangle the nerves causing tremendous pain, but it smashed the wrist and hand bones. With the proper nail angle, the victim would not tear or slide off, regardless of their struggles.

No, crucifixion wasn't easy. Not true crucifixion, and not the fantasy kind. Fantasy crucifixions took proper planning and positioning as well. An example-- the knees. Proper placement of the body (her body, she reminded herself as she lay in bed rubbing her clit), so that the knees were bent was important. It exposed the sex, a critical part of the humiliation factor. It also made it difficult to support one's self using the legs (her legs, she reminded herself as two fingers slipped inside her cunt), thus relieving stress and cramping in the arms and shoulders (her arms and shoulders, she reminded herself as she shuddered and pinched her nipples with one hand, the other rubbing her cunt faster and faster).

 It was incredibly hard to find someone to do it properly, and so she had loosened her restrictions, and eventually simply asked for someone... anyone... to crucify her.

It took a long time. Several years. But, she found someone. They were anonymous which worried her a bit, but over the course of several weeks she got to know them, and they understood all the nuances of the art of hanging someone from the cross. He clearly knew what he were doing.

This person understood the need for a Y angle of the arms; so as to put more pressure on the chest, making it more difficult to breathe. They knew about the placement of feet, the proper angle and bend of the legs, so as to cause exposure of the genitals and also allow for an up and down motion as the victim attempted to find some relief. They understood the reason why a foot rest was necessary if you wished to prolong agony; it allowed the condemned to rise and lock their knees, allowing longer periods of standing. Feet tied or nailed directly to the stipes were at too severe an angle and attempts to stand or rise on the cross were impossible, as the victim could not rise far enough to lock their knees.

He understood the process. He understood which rope to use, rope that would secure wrists but would not cut and damage nerves permanently. Her understood where supports should be in order to prevent inadvertent suffocation. He knew how to monitor dehydration and not let it go too far.

She gave him her name, her address. Her work schedule. When she moved from one place to another, when she would be least likely to have people around her.

When she could be taken.

She would not know when or how, but she knew eventually she would find herself suddenly taken from her peaceful, oh-so-normal life and discover she was hung on a cross, suffering horribly.

It made her wet just thinking about it. Her heart beat with anticipation each time she left from work, each time she went to the store, knowing she could be taken at any time. Each day she woke, knowing that in the evening she might be watching the sun going down from her position hanging from the cross in some remote location, unable to do anything but suffer.

She thought about what might happen. Would they knock her out, or would she be awake? Would she be whipped before being hung? How badly? Would the wooden cross have splinters that would dig and tear at her back, her buttocks? Would there be people there to watch her, and thus make her agony greater? Or would she be alone, utterly alone in her pain? How long would she be there? Would she remain overnight before they took her down? Would they use the proper ropes in order to assure her hands and wrists were not damaged... at least not permanently? Would she be given water to prolong her stay? Would there be a sedile, to help her survive longer before she was finally released?

She had decided and told them there was to be no safe word. She wanted to know she was helpless. Completely helpless. At their mercy. At their whim. She wanted to hang, not knowing when it would end.

After two weeks, she became disillusioned. They were just another set of big talking, no-action pervs. It made her angry to think of some men out there, getting off on her need for this kind of extreme play, but unable to actually participate. Some guy sitting home masturbating while thinking about her on the cross, but unable to actually put her on one.

When it came, it was a complete surprise. At a gas station, as she filled her tires with air. Strong hands suddenly grabbed her from behind and she made a "whhuuuuuppp!" noise as her chest was squeezed hard and she was dragged backwards. She naturally kicked and tried to scream, but a bag was placed over her head quickly and she felt herself being dragged into a van.

The door to the van slid shut with a slam and it started moving. Marcella struggled to get free, but felt her strength slowly fading. The inside of the hood had been soaked in some sort of anesthetic... ether or something... and the world was fading away...

Marcella woke to a splash of cold water on her head from a hose. She struggled to get up and crawl away from it but discovered she couldn't. Her arms were tied tightly behind her back, and her ankles were tied together and then to a rope that was wrapped around her neck, causing her to remain in a fetal position on the ground.

She was on the ground, too. On grass. The water continued to splash her for a while as she yelled and tried to struggle away, but was completely unsuccessful. Eventually she just lay there and took it, sobbing a little as the cold water shocked her into consciousness and washed away the last cobwebs of the drug that had knocked her out.

Only then did the water stream stop and Marcella gained her composure. She realized. It was beginning. The men she had contacted were actually following through, she had been kidnapped and this was it.

A pang of fear and excitement, melded together. This was it! She was on her way to the cross!

Quickly taking stock of her situation she saw she was laying on her side, bound tightly, in the middle of a grassy area that was close to some forest. She had no idea where it was. Marcella was naked, completely. Even her rings and jewelry had been stripped off her.

Panic struck Marcella. She had asked for this, yes, but the reality of it happening made it so real. She was miserably cold laying outdoors, soaking wet. Being bound in a crab tie like this was painful, too. Yes, she knew it was a crab tie, she had been in it before. Cramps were starting in her arms and thighs, and if she struggled to try and fight the ropes the cramps just got worse.

But mixed with the panic was the constant excitement, the desire, the feeling of passion fulfilled. She craved the pain, wanted the humiliation and exposure. Laying in the grass she felt helpless, the pain in her body was slowly spreading, and it was what she truly wanted.

Finally, the men came. Two of them. The didn't speak. Trudging over to her across the grass she caught sight of their heavy boots as they approached. They lifted her roughly by the arms and legs and dragged her over to a new section of ground. They dumped her there, and began cutting the ropes that bound her.

When Marcella's legs were cut free from her neck she felt the relief of being able to stretch them out. Her arms were cut free from behind her back, and she was able to move them, relieving cramps in her shoulders. If felt wonderful.

It didn't last. The men dragged her a few feet to the cross. She didn't even really get a good look at it, she was on top of it before she could see it. She kicked and struggled, knowing it was useless and that she actually wanted this; but her body struggled anyway and frankly, the struggle was part of the pleasure. Losing control in spite of your best efforts. Having your freedom taken from you, forcefully.

Marcella's wrists and ankles were tied to the wood beams quickly. The wood beneath her back felt like standard contractor's beams, cut smooth but still with splinters galore. She already felt the spikes of wood digging into her naked flesh.

She struggled briefly against the ropes that tied her to the beams, but it was clear they were expertly tied. She wouldn't get loose.

So, after an episode of frantic struggling and activity, Marcella lay on her cross and had time to think and observe.

The two men she had never seen before, but made no attempt to hide their faces. Both were rather ugly, but this didn't matter. She wasn't there to breed with them. She tended toward women for sexual satisfaction, anyway. They worked silently and efficiently. Either they had practiced and planned what they would do, or they had done it before.

A wet stickiness alerted her to the fact she was already bleeding from her struggles. Her leg had some blood on it. She was also cold. It was late afternoon in the early fall, and the evening were getting cooler. She shivered slightly, wondering if she could get something... and then realizing that being strung up for the elements to wreak havoc on her body was part of the experience.  She was supposed to be cold.

She was thirsty, too. Already. Thirst was a new experience; before her masochistic experiences had been planned and she was well watered before they started, at least. This had happened suddenly, and she wanted water. Again, she wasn't going to get water. Being deprived of water was a basic part of the crucifixion.

And lastly, she needed to pee.

Marcella knew she would pee, too. When she was finally hanging up on the cross in a vertical position, she would release it. There would be no choice.

She was tied to the wooden beams and already the experience was awful, worse than she had thought and different than she had imagined.

That was when something unexpected happen. Marcella was watching the two men, licking her lips in thirst but not bothering to beg for water she knew she would not get. The first hint she got that something wasn't quite right was when she saw one of the men with a very large, heavy mallet.

What would they need a mallet for if she was just to be tied up? Perhaps... just to scare her. Make the experience more real?

It was working. Her heart was pounding, adrenaline rushing, fear sweeping her and she began to struggle again. Exactly what a real victim of crucifixion would experience. She embraced the feelings of fear. Fuck, this is exciting, she thought.

The other man had some nails. No, not nails. Spikes. Nasty ones that were wide at the head and tapered to a very sharp point. Another shot of fear and adrenaline went through her and she started to cry. Shit was getting real.

She spoke for the first time. "No, please..."

The two men ignored her and approached her right arm where it was tied to the crossbeam. (Patibulum she thought. Marcella had gone over the process of crucifixion in great detail and knew all about it.)

The nail approached her wrist. "God... no! Please, no!" She couldn't help it. This was getting too real. She started struggling for real, as hard as she could, the fear coursing through her veins. They weren't going to nail her, of course, they couldn't get away with that. She repeated that to herself, trying to make herself believe it but her confidence was waning. The nails were approaching...

Marcella felt the very sharp point of the spike press against her wrist. Exactly the right location. Good angle, too, she couldn't help thinking as she screamed out, "God! NOOO! You can't, please don't! Anything, please I will give anything, don't nail me!"

The reality of this was getting too much for Marcella to bear. She had never felt fear like this. Not even when she had been standing on the chair with a noose around her neck that one time, with Danny the Undertaker. He had been scary. He had made her think he might actually kick the chair out from under her. She had hyperventilated and actually wondered what it would feel like to have the noose jerk her to a stop if he did.

The nail pressed in hard finding the soft spot between her arm bones and just below the palm. Practically on the wrist. It was cutting in a bit. Marcella screamed again, breathing frantically, her breasts heaving up and down. She could think of nothing but her wrist and the spike pressed on it.

The other man raised the mallet and Marcella thought, "he won't actually bring it down, he won't actually bring it down, he won't actually--"

The mallet swung down with a massive force and Marcella felt the sharpened point of the spike pierce her skin, separate muscles, tendons, and spread bones apart. It embedded itself deep into her wrist with a sickening, squishy thunk.

The shock was huge. The pain was immediate. Worse than anything she had ever experienced. Her entire arm exploded in pain. She jerked, pulling her arm back toward her as best she could as her screamed turned from one of fear and panic to the shrill mindless scream of agony, but her arm wouldn't move. It was nailed to the wood.

She wasn't crying any more, just screaming and begging in unintelligible English. When she had pulled her arm back, reacting to the penetration, it hadn't budged. The spike had actually gone all the way through to the wood underneath and she was already pinned to the cross.

The mallet was descending again. It struck the protruding spike head with tremendous force. Marcella's arm screamed in pain once again, for the spike was getting wider as it drove deeper through her wrist and into the wood. The bones were cracking now, her wrist bones.

The fact that these men were actually nailing her to the cross drifted in the back of her consciousness, in a rational part of her brain that was observing the rest of her body shake and writhe and shiver as her right arm was nailed down.

It was only four impacts of the mallet and the spike was driven all the way in.

Time for Marcella's left arm. She found her voice again now that the initial shock of pain from the nailing was behind her.

"Please, no, it isn't supposed to be this way, I didn't want to actually be nailed! This is going to destroy me, pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease ohgodohgodohgod nonono please no don't nail me again--"

And then another scream as the mallet descended and the spike rammed through her left wrist. The same explosion of agony, her body screaming at her to save it. But she couldn't. She was tied down, nailed down, unable to move or stop this terrible thing from happening.

When the second nail had been pounded into place the ropes tying her wrists were removed. They weren't needed any more; the nails would keep her in place.

The realization that her body had been nailed to some wood like a piece of paper or other object flooded her. She was stuck to the wood, permanently affixed there.

Marcella lay with her head on the patibulum, knowing she was going through the true agony of a roman crucifixion. She rocked her head back and forth, looking at her hands and observing that the fingers were curled up. This was a sign of the nerve and bone damage, she knew. Her hands were permanently curled into clawed positions now. She had read about that.

What reading could never do is convey just how badly it hurt.

The men gave Marcella a bit of a rest, allowing her to lay on her cross, just feeling the new found desperation and panic that came with the overwhelming pain in her wrists and hands. It stank there, as well. The pungent smell of urine cut through the air. Marcella knew she would end up losing bladder control at some point in the process, she just had not realized it would happen so early. She wasn't even raised up and hanging, but during the shock and pain of having the nails driven through her wrists she had released an entire bladder full of urine.

It was so early in the crucifixion process, and she had already lost control of her body functions.

Then it was time to nail her feet. She had forgotten about those until the two men moved down and grabbed her ankles. They pressed one foot against a small wood stand. Marcella realized they were going to nail her feet to support as was sometimes done to allow victims to push themselves further up so they didn't have to hang by their arms the entire time. The irony was that while this seemed a kindness, it was actually designed to extend the life and thus the agony of the condemned.

The pain in Marcella's arms didn't stop her from thinking about what was happening, and what it meant. It meant she would not die quickly. They intended to make her suffer.

Marcella felt the nail pressed against her ankle. What was this? No, the point should go through the foot, not the ankle. She began to protest when the mallet struck and her ankle bone shattered. Then all reason left her and she screamed, over and over again.

The second nail drove through her other ankle, and she never stopped screaming.

Her screams seemed empty, hollow, out in the countryside like this. The sound went out and dissipated in the air. There was no one to hear her pain except for the two men who were efficiently, silently nailing her down.

Finally, she stopped screaming and simply sobbed. This was what she had asked for. What she had always truly wanted. To be nailed and hung. It was done now.

Except it wasn't, not really. She still had to be lifted up. The men went to the top of the cross (grabbing the stipes, Marcella thought). and lifted. It felt odd to feel the cross under her slowly rising into the air. Her body ascended, and Marcella slowly was able to clearly see the environment around her for the first time.

She was just noticing that she was in a grassy field on a slight hill, surrounded by trees, when her body weight started sliding down the cross. The result was more and more weight being placed on her arms, her wrists, and the nails that held her there. The pain once more moved from throbbing agony to screaming, piercing horror.

Marcella must have fainted briefly, for the next thing she knew she was all the way vertical and the cross was firmly implanted in the ground. Her naked body sagged from the nails in her wrists, nails also holding her ankles to the cross forcing her knees to be bent in the traditional position of the crucified.

The horror and agony that she had just endured when her wrists and ankles were nailed had just been the beginning. The entry-way into the hell that was now Marcella's remaining life.

She panted on the cross, her chest heaving up and down. It wasn't terribly hot out but she was bathed in sweat from the pain and the straining and effort she exerted just to keep her current position. Her legs were bent slightly outward, allowing the two men before her to see her genitalia.

Good job, Marcella thought. They did not screw this up. I am firmly up here, and can feel the agony of the spikes and steadfast firmness of the position. I am not going anywhere. I am going to die here, no other options.

Then the reality of her situation suddenly struck home. She was nailed to the cross. That wasn't any temporary game, like the bdsm situations she had gotten herself into before. This was committed. The nails were permanent. She was going to die here.

"Please..." she begged one last time. "I didn't want this for real. I don't want to die..." But she already knew the answer. Nails were permanent. The damage to her body could not be undone. Her fantasy was her final one.

Her life was over, except for this one last act of perversion that she had begged for.

It hurt. Really hurt badly. She embraced the pain, knowing that it was all that was left of her life. The pain she had sought. The agony she had desired. It was hers now, and it was all there was.

She would never again see anything other than this one spot. This small clearing on a hill. She would die in the position she was in now. Arms up and slightly behind her as she sagged forward, legs bent, fingers bent into claws, feet resting on the small wooden step.

The damage the spikes had done to Marcella's wrists and ankles was throbbing, but no longer mind-bending torture. It just hurt, really bad. But her mind was with her. She had counted on this, it was part of the experience. She was going to feel the horror of every moment on the cross, aware of everything that happened to her.

Including the sweat that was now trickling down her naked body, everywhere. It itched. Tickled. Beads of sweat formed on her nose. And the flies had found her and her sweat. Not a lot, but enough to itch, to tickle. She wanted to bat them away, but she couldn't. Her arms were nailed in place.

The sun beat down on her naked body and the pain slowly morphed. It didn't get any easier or go away. It changed from the sharp grating agony to a spreading aching throb that covered more and more of her body. The pain of mangled nerves in her wrists extended and joined with cramping in her arms and shoulders. This in turn eventually spread to her back and down to her hips.

The pain from the nailed and shattered ankles was sharp and piercing, like lightning strikes rising up her legs. Marcella remembered that crucifixion victims would try to stand or get upright in order to breathe. She didn't want to rise to breathe, she wanted to rise to stretch the muscles that had tightened into rock hard cramps.

So she tried. She pushed down on her legs. The feedback was immediate and horrifying. The pain in her wrists and arms was nothing compared to the agony of trying to push her 130 pounds of body weight down on shattered ankle bones. She rose no more than two inches before falling back down into place with a scream and gurgling cry of anguish.

Interestingly, she noticed that the only part of her body that didn't throb with some sort of pain was her breasts.

That was soon remedied. One of the men who had nailed her had a whip that suddenly swished through the air and struck her breasts. She screamed, not so much because of the pain of the whip but because it had surprised her and she had jerked, pulling on the spikes that held her wrists fastened to the wood patibulum.

The whipping hurt, though at first it wasn't nearly as bad as having her wrists and ankle bones shattered and crushed. But slowly the repeated strikes of leather cut through the flesh of her breasts, leaving them with open, bleeding wounds. Marcella began to cry after a while. Her breasts were slowly turning to a pulp from the whipping.

It finally stopped and Marcella just hung there for a while, unable to move.

The act of being on the cross does not allow the condemned the luxury of simply hanging there. The body demands relief from the stresses and pain, and though the mind knows there will be no relief the body demands that it try.

Once again Marcella attempted to rise, making it further this time. Her ankles had gone numb, and while the pain shot through her like fire, she managed to make it into an upright, more or less standing position. Her arms were still stretched out to either side, but her weight was on her ankles now. Exchanging one pain for another.

She was too weak and the pain too great for her to manage that for long. She sank down, splinters from the wood beam behind her scraping and shredding the flesh on her back.

It's pretty here, thought Marcella as she looked over the grassy green meadow before her, and the trees swaying in a light breeze beyond that. Her mind wasn't entirely rational, but she was aware of her surroundings. Somewhere... in upstate New Jersey, she thought.

Slowly she thrust her hips out, pushing her body out into a curve away from the stipes. Her wrists and ankles were fixed in place, but the rest of her body could move, though it was agony to do so. But it was a change, a different agony, and something her body craved. She gave in and bowed her back, her hips thrust far out and away from the cross that held her.

No one was there to see her suffer. Marcella was being crucified alone. She had wanted humiliation. She wanted someone to see her pain, to observe her agony, to make fun of the strange positions into which she contorted herself in attempts to get relief. She wanted to be touched and probed by strangers when she could do nothing about it because her wrists were tied above her.

The masochistic pain was sensual to her and she wanted sexual fulfillment.

"At least masturbate me. Give me an orgasm with the pain," Marcella rasped, yelping at her captors. They weren't within her field of vision but she was sure they were there. "If there is no one to watch me die, at least humiliate me yourselves."

The sun had begun to set when they obliged her. One of the men stood before her and placed one hand between her legs, probing between her thighs. There was nothing she could do to prevent this of course, though she had no desire to prevent it. She spread her thighs slightly, as much as she could without fainting from the agony, and the man spread her cunt lips, found her clit and began rubbing.

At first the rubbing did nothing. The pain coursing through Marcella's body was overwhelming. But Marcella was a true masochist, and the pain began to meld with the physical pleasure of her clit being massaged slowly but surely. Her breath was coming in sobs and gasps, so no change could be seen in her behavior as she hung helplessly, but inside her she was reacting more and more to the masturbation.

The one sign of her arousal came from her nipples which hardened and pointed outward as she hung, her pussy slowly being massaged by the torturer.

The process of being masturbated, of being manually stimulated and forced to react sexually while in great agony from torture, is the height of humiliation. There is no body control. She simply hung there, the pain and the pleasure becoming indistinguishable.

When her orgasm approached she writhed, just very slightly. Too much movement caused the nails in her wrists to scrape the bone, pushing and separating the splinters and tearing more nerves. But she was in the throws of an orgasm, some body response was inevitable. Her hips thrust out, legs spread slightly, and she threw her head back as she moaned in pleasure... mixed with pain.

She had never guessed that she could have such pleasure mixed with such intense pain. Truly, she was a masochist.

They left her then, walking away from her in the field. The two men had not uttered one word in her presence. As they trudged across the field and disappeared into the trees, Marcella found herself utterly alone.

Originally, Marcella had requested that the humiliation of the cross be doled out. She wanted to be scorned, laughed at. She wanted her pain to be the amusement of others. It would have enhanced the experience tremendously. Hanging there alone as the sun began to descend in the sky, she was not humiliated, there was no one to observe and enjoy her pain.

Being crucified in isolation had a completely different effect. It enhanced the feeling of abandonment. It created a sense of complete despair. The pain that course through her body was hers alone, and there were no distractions from it. She hung, simply marinating in horror.

Marcella became aware of her body in minute detail. She could tell her left wrist had shattered worse than her right, and the bone shards were causing more pain. The cramps that ran down her arms and across her back were like a muscle map. She could tell were each muscle group was, and which muscle was currently contracting into a painful, agonizing knot.

Her heart beat, strong and fast. It pounded in her chest. A chest that was covered and shiny with sweat and drool. Yes, Marcella realized she had been drooling. Snot also dangled from her nose. She desperately wanted to wipe it away, but she couldn't. Her arms were nailed far out to each side.

The trickling sweat gathered and slid down her body, causing itches she could not scratch. The flies continued to land on her and feed from the salty liquid sheen on her flesh.

Inside her stomach her bowels made a loud, rattling, farting noise. The trauma to her system had caused cramps and diarrhea. It was a matter of time before she would shit herself, and then the flies would really feast on her.

Her body struggled on the cross. Impossible to stay in one position, though no position held relief. She thrust her hips out, arched her back, and then cried out in renewed agony. When she fell back in place, she cried out in renewed agony as well. She twisted to the side, moving her ass to one side or the other of the stipes, but no movement helped.

No matter what she did, the pain just got worse.

Except simply hanging there. Her head sunk down and eyes closed as she felt strength draining from her.

With an incredibly loud flapping, gaseous farting noise she released her bowels without realizing it was coming. Diarrhea splattered over the cross behind her ass, covered the inside and back of her thighs, then trickled down.

As flies seemed to come from nowhere and cake her feces and body with crawling fly flesh, she wondered that the only body fluid she had not expelled had been vomit.

The mere thought of that did the trick. Nausea flooded over her and she found her stomach contracting. The pain was what actually triggered it, the pain had caused nausea and was causing her to expel the contents of her stomach.

When she was done the front of her body, over her breasts, stomach and legs, was covered by a shiny liquid sputum. The chunkier parts had fallen on the ground below her, but her flesh was shiny from the slimy remains of her stomach contents.

The smell was awful, she knew it. Urine, sweat, feces, vomit. Signs that she was dying. But... not dead yet. The sun had gone down and the dark was descending. Marcella was still alone on the cross with no one to see, no one to observe. She simply felt her agony.

She could also feel the insides of her body going bad. After she vomited she had been overwhelmed by thirst, but no water was to be had. She even cried out, "Water! Please... just a little water...!"

No one answered her raspy, unrecognizable voice.

Was the pain better now, or was it that she was getting used to it? Marcella couldn't tell. It was still awful, but nowhere near as bad as when the spikes had first rammed home in her arms. Her entire body hurt, and she was so thirsty should would have done anything-- anything for a cup of water.

But her fate was decided now. Sealed. She was dying, and she would die here. Hanging here.

How long?

Animals came during the night, sniffing around. A skunk came, smelling terrible, but not as terrible as Marcella. None of them stayed long. The coyotes that dropped by yipped a little, but were unable to reach her on her cross; she was a few feet off the ground, too high for them.

She wanted to cum again. The pain wasn't enough. She was a true masochist but she wanted the sexual stimulation. There was none. Another thing she was deprived of, just like water.

Just like air. It was becoming harder to breathe. She knew this was a symptom that would occur, eventually. Her chest heaved up and down, breasts bobbling a little as she pulled in and pushed out air. Pushing up on her crushed ankles, screaming at the pain, she rose up and took a deep, deep breath. Oh, it felt good, but the pain in her ankles was just too much and she sank back down, resuming her labored and forced breathing.

Agony rippled through her body, though it seemed to be less than before. It was no longer the sharp searing pain that was so bad her mind overloaded and she fainted, unable to deal withe all her pain neurons firing at once. No, now it was a dull, throbbing cramp that enveloped her whole body, even her insides.

As the dawn came and the sun slowly gained height in the sky Marcella knew she was not to die soon, but that her body was in fact beginning the process of shutting down. The thirst was a constant burning demand that inspired panic in her mind. She became so frustrated at the inability to drink she thrust her head back and cried out, screaming for water.

Her organs ached inside. Her heart was beating erratically, sometimes thudding quickly, sometimes skipping beats and slowing down. Once or twice she gasped and thought that her heart had stopped, that she was going to lose consciousness and die right then, but it always started again. Her bowls cramped, and there was a little bit more diarrhea, though not very much. Just enough to refresh the awful smell.

The gagged on vomit once or twice, but only a small amount of sputum arouse. Enough to slobber over her naked chest and breasts.

Her lungs burned, the muscles in her chest ached and burned from the constant strain of trying to breathe.  She tried not to breath once, staring down from the cross at the grass below her twisted feet. If she could just... not breathe... she would die and this would be over.

But her body insisted. It wouldn't give up, regardless of what the mind wanted.

At was after the sun had reached it's height that the two men came back. She knew it was the two that had crucified her, she recognized them. There was a third person with them. A woman. She looked familiar.

Who was she? The group of three stood together observing her. She spit out a series of foul words, but her mouth and throat were so dry it was probably hard to understand them.

Suddenly she recognized the woman. Her name was Ester, and she was the ex-girlfriend of her last boyfriend. She had stolen the boy from her, used him and then discarded him. They had only met once, and Ester had said very little at the time. She had slapped Marcella, hard, and then left.

Was all this just revenge? Yes.... Ester was holding hands with one of the men, and they kissed. Ester had a new boyfriend. The new boyfriend had acted as one of Marcella's executioners. So this wasn't just a random BDSM scene gone awry! These men, this woman, they had planned it! Anger coursed through Marcella's strained, elongated and naked body.

More foul language croaked from Marcella's dry throat. She screamed then, in frustration and pain. She wanted to get down from the cross, to wrap her clawed hands around this woman's throat.

But she couldn't. She was, instead, hanging from the cross, unable to move, unable to do anything but suffer for these people.

Suddenly, Marcella realized she was experiencing exactly what the roman victims of crucifixion would have suffered. The anger of the injustice, the recognition of their captors and torturers standing and gloating, enjoying the spectacle of their slow death.

It was truly the most disgusting, painful, humiliating and disgraceful way to die. And she was experiencing it in all it's masochistic glory.  She almost had an orgasm right then, in the realization of just how low she had sunk in her last act of perversion.

She twisted on the cross, her body trying to find another position, and as had happened every time before, the new position simply brought new pain. Ester watched with fascination at the visible, palpable pain that shuddered through Marcella's limbs and torso.

When the sun began to sink again, the three observers left, turning their backs on the naked woman that hung from the cross. She was well into her second day hanging.

That second night Marcella slipped in and out of consciousness. She knew from her studies that women would die on the cross after anywhere from a few hours to three or four days. From the way her insides felt, the difficulty breathing, her erratic heart, the way the thirst was fading away... she wasn't going to last much longer.

She wondered if she would see the next sunrise.


She did. And with the sunrise came the birds. Big, black ravens. Crows. They settled on the patibulum and cawed. They sensed it would not be long. Marcella was slowly turning into bird food, a slab of once beautiful, shapely meat.

Shouting at them didn't work. The first time she tried, her croaking gasp made a couple of the birds to fly away, but they came right back. After that they ignored her.

Then the worst thing in the world happened. Well, the worst thing in Marcella's world, which had shrunk to an area about one foot away from her body, encompassing her pain, the cross that held her in place, and the birds that began to peck at her flesh.

They didn't wait for her to die before they began to eat her. Their sharp beaks poked and pulled at her hands. She didn't feel it; she hadn't felt any sensation in her hands since the first couple of hours suspended from the cross. It made sense the birds would eat her fingers, actually, they were probably already dead.

Marcella watched for a little while as her fingers were torn apart and then her head sagged down. She no longer had strength to keep it up.

Her hands may have been numb, but Marcella felt the first crow that attempted to eat some of her ear.  It was her right ear and there was a sharp pecking at it. She raised her head, unable to shake it, and stared at the massive crow. It came back in and pecked again. She moved her head again.

This went on for about an hour, but finally Marcella no longer had the strength to raise her head and the birds began to tear her ears off.

At one time Marcella had been a remarkably beautiful woman. Men had sought her out. She had her choice of men, though she had chosen ones that were dominant, abusive, and willing to tie her up and hurt her.  She was no longer beautiful. Her ragged body showed the signs of having once been desirable, her face had the general shape of fine bones and full lips.

Now Marcella was a mass of cracked and bleeding sores, some created by dehydration and weather, some the result of the birds tearing at her flesh.

When the birds started tearing at her eyes she had no strength to resist. They pecked and pecked and before long Marcella was vaguely aware that her eyelids were gone. She went blind as a large crow pecked and grabbed an eyeball, pulling it out of it's socket and slowly pulling bits of tissue off.



The stench of the crucifixion wafted over the countryside for almost half a mile. It drew the attention of a couple of backpackers that were hiking through the area. They diverted to see what carrion had attracted so many birds that circled in the sky.  What they found when they reached the clearing was shocking.

A woman hung from a wooden cross, and the stench was concentrated around her. Remarkably little blood streaked her body from where the carrion birds had ripped her flesh. The feet and hands of the body had been eaten down to the bone, and the face was torn up and bloody.

Carefully the two backpackers approached the woman's body, holding their noses. When they reached the foot of the cross the birds suddenly spooked and flew away, leaving the emaciated body of the naked woman there to see clearly.

Her eyes were gone, her lips and ears torn away; a large purplish tongue protruded from a face that must have once been beautiful. Certainly the body was good, even sexy; the girl had been in her mid twenties and in good shape. The crusted, dried shit, urine and vomit indicated that the woman had been on the cross for some time.

The two stared at the woman hanging from the wooden cross, unable to understand what they were seeing. The woman had clearly died here, hanging nailed to the cross, after much pain and suffering. Even though the hair was matted and wind-blown, the face torn and half eaten, the remains of a beautiful young woman hung before them.

Who could have done such a thing? Why had it happened?

One of the backpackers reached out a hand to touch the woman's genitals, drawn by the nakedness exposed before him. The instant his fingers touched the soft folds of flesh, a croaking groan came from the crucified girl's mouth, barely escaping around her swollen tongue.

The two backpackers screamed in horror, and ran.


Tuesday, August 16, 2016

Two Weeks On The Cross

Jolene lay in the cell staring at the ceiling.

She had been in naked isolation for six months, never leaving this concrete, barren 8x10 cell. There was no privacy. She had no clothes and no sheets or other cloth with which to cover herself. On either end of the cell was a heavy glass observation portal with half-mirrored glass so that she could be observed at any time.

When she first arrived in the cell, it had been difficult using the toilet because she knew there were people watching her. Now she didn't care. The male guards had made many comments that showed they watched her all the time, there was no privacy.

Jolene was an especially pretty young girl with long brown hair and a fine body, and had always drawn the attention of men, whether she wanted it or not. It was no different now.

The food was slop, but nourishing. She was in good health, though her mind was beginning to crack from being locked in the cell for so long.

Her lawyer had been in and out that week, talking about the final appeals. He had tried to be hopeful, but she was incarcerated in Richland Prison. No one ever left Richland. She was surprised her lawyer was even allowed to visit her. The last time he visited he just shook his head.

Jolene was scheduled for execution. She knew this. She had broken the social justice laws, offending several protected groups including "Gingers", "Economically Disadvantaged", and "Tasmanians". Several of the times she didn't even know she had been offending anyone, and in fact still didn't know who the Tasmanian was that had been offended.

It didn't matter. Social Justice laws were strict, with no tolerance. Her execution was scheduled for Saturday at noon, in two days. The method was Crucifixion.

It was still unreal to her. That a civilized society would use such a horrible form of torture as punishment, and that she was going to be subjected to it.

On the other side of the mirror on one end of Jolene's cell stood two men and a woman. The woman and one man wore business suits, the other man wore the uniform of a prison guard, jet black.

"So warden, her appeals are up and we can proceed on Saturday. Noon," said the woman.

"Yes, Doctor Sykes. She is in excellent health, a perfect candidate for the experiment," answered the man in the suit.

The warden turned to the uniformed guard. "As prison executioner, you are to conduct the experiment. Do you understand the purposes? Have you read the brief?"

The executioner nodded. "As I understand it, the purpose is to see how long a crucified victim can be made to suffer the maximum amount, and yet be kept alive for the maximum time. The protocols are designed to balance the need for a slow, agonizing death, with the actions necessary to keep the victim alive."

Doctor Sykes nodded. "Right. Of course, we could probably keep someone alive on the cross indefinitely, if we were to feed, hydrate, and medicate them continuously. But this is an execution after all. So we are not trying to simply keep the victim alive, we are attempting to kill her slowly and with as much pain as possible. We wish to determine the best, most optimal method of causing an agonizing, prolonged death."

The executioner nodded.

The warden looked into the cell at Jolene. "She's masturbating."

The executioner acknowledged what the warden observed. "She does that at times. The cell is boring, stripped bare. I am surprised she is sane in any sense of the word. Masturbation is one of the few activities left to her."

Doctor Sykes looked on curiously as Jolene thrust her hips up, rubbing herself quickly, reaching orgasm.

"Saturday then," the warden said. "We meet in my office at 10:00 AM, and the execution will proceed at noon. The audience tickets are sold out, and the video feed is in place for all major networks."

---------------

That night the warden came to Jolene's cell. Now that her execution had been set and her appeals run out, she was no more than meat. She had no more rights. Her only real purpose was to die a slow, agonizing death on the cross, and as long as no one interfered with that, anything could happen.

Jolene saw the older gentleman enter her cell and wondered what was happening. She had never seen this man before.

"What... who are you?"

The warden said nothing. Jolene instantly knew what was happening and why the man was there when he unzipped and dropped his pants. She crawled back on the mattress, making a feeble attempt to avoid the inevitable.

It didn't help. The warden was on her, forcing her to the mattress. His hardened cock found its way between her legs and pushed, hard, forcing its way inside her. She screamed, though it would do no good. She knew no one would help her.

The warden raped Jolene, thrusting is throbbing cock deep inside her flesh pushing her body up against the wall with each thrust. His cock filled her, sliding in and out as he grunted and moaned until he shuddered in orgasm and withdrew, leaving her full of white, sticky semen. When he had finished, he stood up and commented, "It is a shame. You are a beautiful woman. A week from now you will be a rotting corpse."

Jolene rolled over and sobbed, knowing her death sentence had already begun.

Now that her fate had been set and her execution was certain, Jolene was fair game within the prison. Her rights as a human being had been stripped from her. The guards began to take her for their own pleasure. The next morning two more entered her cell and used her body.

The first, a gruff jail guard that had always been kind to Jolene, delivered her breakfast but before she could eat it, threw her on the bed and climbed on top of her. Removing his clothes his huge cock was exposed. Jolene gasped in pain when he forced it between her legs and into her body. He lay on top of her, his full, sweaty body pressing down on her light, thin body from above as his cock slid in and out of her cunt.

Before he was done another guard, a tall, mean black man, entered to join the party. His cock was even larger when exposed.

Jolene sobbed, crying out as the black guard tried to find a hole in her body into which he would fit.

Finally, the first guard rolled Jolene on top of him to ride his cock, and bending her over, the black guard managed to shove his cock into her ass from behind.

In that way, both guards took Jolene, satisfying their lust, pounding away in her distended and torn holes, leaving large amounts of white sticky semen inside her body to drool out after they left her. When those two guards left, it was barely five minutes before another prison official in a suit arrived to use the poor woman's body.

For the next two days, Jolene barely had a moment alone. A constant stream of guards and prison officials were pushing their way inside her at all hours of the day. Some visited her more than once. The smell of semen and sweat pervaded her cell. She was covered with crusty, dried cum. Her stomach was sick from having swallowed so much semen. Her cunt and ass constantly drained the white body fluid.

No sooner did she think she had a moment to rest and clean up than another rapist would show up to use her and deposit more semen on or inside her. She was exhausted, laying with her cunt and ass bleeding from the constant banging, her mouth sour and throat sore from the never ending visits of men abusing and using her body.

It all ended Friday evening. Suddenly she was left alone, and she fell asleep, and exhausted, used piece of meat. Every hole had been filled almost non-stop since Wednesday. For two full days she had been the prison's fuck toy.  Now she was being allowed to rest, to regain her strength for the execution ordeal ahead.

Saturday morning she was awakened by the noise of her cell door opening. She instantly crawled away from the man and woman entering, fearing yet another round of bodily sexual abuse. This time, though, it was Dr. Sykes and a strong, lean man in a uniform.

"Good morning, Jolene. Today is the day your execution will begin. I say begin because it will, in fact, take some time for you to die. This gentleman is your executioner, the person who will coordinate all the activities which will result, eventually, in your heart stopping."

Jolene looked in horror at the man. He had a kindly face, and smiled. Short cropped hair, a crisp uniform all gave the impression of a businesslike, efficient professional.

Dr. Sykes pulled out a couple of syringes. "Let's have your arm."

As she was injecting Jolene she explained.  "These are antibiotics. Fairly strong ones. They are designed to fight off infections you might get while up on the cross. This will prolong your life, of course. Unfortunately, your extra hours of life will be spent hanging from the cross."

Jolene was crying, tears rolling down her cheeks. "Please... don't do this. Kill me quickly. Give me a knife... let me do it. Just... don't leave me hanging there."

Dr. Sykes shook her head. "Good heavens no! You are to be the subject of an important experiment in capital punishment. The first time we are actually going to try and keep you alive as long as possible. Everything about you will be monitored and controlled to try and make your time up on the cross as long as possible."

The executioner chimed in. "We will, of course, not be unnaturally extending your life. Death by crucifixion usually comes about due to a number of different causes, or combination of them. Dehydration, or death by thirst, is very common. Internal infections or internal bleeding can also lead to death, sometimes due to the beating the crucified receive before being hung from the cross. For outdoor crucifixions, death can result from hypothermia, or hyperthermia; basically damage to the metabolism and organs due to exposure to cold or heat. Heat stroke or freezing to death."

The executioner kept talking while he made Jolene stand and started measuring her carefully. He measured her height, and then the length of her arms from her spine to her wrists, the length of her legs to her ankles, and to her knees.

The executioner actually seemed rather happy and excited while he explained how death might occur, and how his measurements were designed to assure they nailed her in place in exactly the right position to allow for maximum stress on the muscles and mobility that would allow Jolene to move about without truly being able to relieve the pain of her position on the cross.

Jolene sat back down on the bed, receiving her third shot, staring at the man, envisioning what it would be like to die from these causes, what it would be like to simply hang from a wooden cross for the last days of her life.  The man droned on for a while, but finally Dr. Sykes grew impatient.

"Jolene, dear. It is time to begin. We are keeping to the basic process of crucifixion, which some minor changes. We need to begin your beating."

Two guards were motioned in and Jolene struggled against them as she was dragged out of the cell. She was taken to a room that had a number of people sitting in chairs. She recognized her high school math teacher, as well as her ex-boyfriend. In fact, a number of old acquaintances were there. The were on the other side of a wire fence, separating her from the audience.

"These are some of your witnesses, those that chose to view your whipping. There will, of course, be a large number of witnesses to your suffering on the cross," explained the executioner.

Jolene's wrists were cuffed and locked above her head onto the wire fence facing the audience. Many of the people she was looking at appeared sympathetic. A few cringed at seeing her forced against the fence naked. One or two seemed excited.

Jolene's legs were forced apart to spread them. She was to stand naked, legs apart, covered with dried semen, in front of her friends and neighbors. Because she was strapped to a wire fence, the audience could observe the poor girl's full frontal nudity a she was whipped. The humiliation was overwhelming, but there was absolutely nothing Jolene could do.

It seemed like forever that she simply stood there, arms and legs spread wide before the audience. Her family was there, watching her. Some of her friends from school were also watching. They whispered and stared, pointing. Many were pointing between her legs and she felt the reason why. Semen was slowly dribbling down from her exposed cunt. It was humiliating for her family to see her like this. She closed her eyes.

Suddenly there was a hissing noise that warned her by a split second of the coming pain.  A whip sliced across her back, cutting into the flesh. It felt like fire, as if someone had pressed a hot poker across her back. Jolene screamed and temporarily sagged down against the fence. "Aaaaahhhh!!! NOOOooooO!!!!"

The audience reacted to Jolene's torment, many jumping at her scream, others turning away, cringing, averting their eyes. A few, the ones that were excited, opened their mouths in a silent "ohhhh" and stared.

As Jolene pulled herself back up into a standing position the whip lashed out again, striking her buttocks this time. Fire erupted on her ass, and she cried out, sobbing. As the whip struck her again, and then again, her body jerked and writhed, and she began to beg. She begged for mercy as she stared directly at the audience that was watching her agony. "Please... have mercy... I beg you...!"

How long this went on, she couldn't tell. It seemed like forever. Hours. But finally, as she sagged against the fencing and hung from her wrists, the whip fell silent. Some in the audience that watched her were sobbing. A couple of them were masturbating, secretly.

The executioner stood up and explained to the audience that the whipping Jolene had received was significantly milder than that normally dished out to the condemned. Her flesh, while red with welts, and not been cut. There was no loss of blood. Unspoken in was the reason. "So that she will live and suffer longer on the cross."

The next stage of the execution process now began. Jolene found her wrists and ankles unshackled. She dropped to her knees, temporarily unable to stand because of the pain from the whipping. Her face was wet from tears as well as the embarrassment of being exposed and her suffering examined by a group of friends and family at such a short distance.

She was lifted up to her feet by the guards, and dragged out of the building to an outdoor area. It was a sort of hill with gentle slopes. At the top of the hill lay a simple, wood cross. Jolene saw it and her breath caught for a moment. Such a simple device. A couple of wood beams. The instrument of her torture and death. She looked away.

The guards dragged her over to where the cross lay and threw her to the ground, but not before she saw the audience from her whipping slowly filing out of the prison building to surround her.

Panic overcame Jolene and she used all her strength to rise and try to run away. She made it barely three feet before strong arms grasped her, sliding along her naked wet skin but finally getting a firm hold of her by digging deep into her muscles. They pulled her back down, shoving her onto the cross. The beam crunched against her back, scraping the red, painful welts. She cried out again.

The reality of what was happening came home to her. She started to struggle and cried out continuously, but several of the prison guards held her down. Her right arm was stretched out and held in place.

The executioner had previously marked the exactly location on the cross where the spikes would drive through her wrist with a large X in black tape. The guards held her precisely in place and one of them produced a large metal spike with a wide head. It was wickedly sharp and when he pressed the tip against her flesh it poked a small hole and hurt. Jolene cried out and the guard laughed.

"Get used to it, bitch. It just gets worse from here." The guard was cruel.

The executioner had a heavy mallet. The guard held the spike precisely as the executioner directed, and then the first blow was dealt. The sharp spike sliced through Jolene's flesh like a hot knife through butter, penetrating and separating her flesh easily.

The spike was designed to be thin but strong. As it went in through Jolene's arm, next to her wrist, the metal point tore and shredded tissue and nerves, causing horrible, searing pain. But as the spike went through the arm, it did not break the bone. It simply pressed against the radius and ulna, pushing them aside and scraping against them.

The combination of all these actions caused immediate, horrible agony and Jolene's eyes went large and she screamed. The final reality of her coming agony sank home to her brain. The pain she would endure was far beyond anything she had imagined.

Once the spike had driven through into the wood, the guards let go of Jolene. She did not need to be restrained; just that one nail effectively held her in place.  She thrashed around, her legs kicking and her left arm flopped around. She tried to get up, but with one arm nailed in place, it was impossible without breaking the bones in her arm. She tried to pull her right arm away from the cross, but it was nailed fast.

The audience watched as the young girl flopped and flailed about for a while, in pain like an injured animal that needs to be put down. There was no such kindness for Jolene, though. Eventually, the guards grabbed Jolene's left arm and held it in place, the wrist positioned over the taped X on the cross.

Crying, sobbing, Jolene begged for mercy once again. "Please, humanity, please don't do this, just kill me, don't nail me again, I can't take it, please, please, please..."

Her breathing and sobbing actually made her body rise and fall, her stomach and chest moving in and out, up and down, breasts jiggling. Many members of the audience surrounding the condemned girl enjoyed this show.

The second spike was driven in. It took only a few blows to penetrate the soft, smooth flesh of the young girl and pin her arm permanently to the wood beneath.  When it was done, Jolene lay crying on the cross with her arms outstretched.

Her arms were not stretched out as wide as they would go, they were bent at the elbows. The position of the spikes was designed specifically to allow Jolene's body to hang down, her arms to rise up above her head in a V, and perhaps even allow her to fall forward somewhat. This extra slack allowed more movement on the cross, which in turn would provide for more pain and a better show.

Now it was time for Jolene to be raised up. Her feet were not to be nailed in until she was hanging upright. This procedure was strictly aesthetic; the image of the woman hanging from the cross, feet dangling free, was one that many wanted to see.

A deep hole had been dug near the foot of the cross, and four of the guards began lifting Jolene and her cross into the air. As she rose up into the air, Jolene's weight slowly shifted downward, and the extra slack came into play. Her arms stretched out tightly as she slid down and finally her body jerked to a halt when the cross was almost upright.

As she slid down, Jolene's wrists rotated on the spikes, a process that caused untold new heights of agony. It shredded more tissue, pressed on new nerves, scraped and dislodged more bone.

The screaming was continuous, stopped only for brief moments for Jolene to suck in more air.

In those initial moments, as Jolene hung from the cross on display for all to see her torment, a wave of horror and appreciation rolled over the observers.

Jolene's body was gorgeous. It was perfect and perfectly on display. Her arms, stretched above their head as they were, showed every muscle and sinew as she strained against the pain. The hanging weight of her thin body pulled her down, accentuating her figure. The flesh of her body was stretched across her ribs and hips, and her stomach was pulled in as it pulsed back and forth with her screaming.

Even her breasts appeared perfect, pulled up as they were from her hanging position.

Far from tainting the erotic and sexual exposure of her body, the signs of her agony and torment simply added to the sensuality of the display. She gasped, screamed, drooled fluid from her mouth that began to splatter on her chest and breasts. Her stomach pumped in and out as she breathed hard, panting and screaming. Her head thrashed back and forth, the only part of her body to really move, though her legs kicked some, as they were still free to move.

The executioner left Jolene to hang like that, simply dangling from her arms. The audience watched. Jolene screamed, but eventually her screamed descended to moans. She lost the strength to scream and her voice, her throat, was hoarse and torn.

Many members of the audience were family and friends of the condemned girl. They had been forced to attend, to observe the torment of their daughter, their sister, their friend, their lover. Yes, several of the audience had been lovers of poor Jolene, had actually been inside the beautiful body that now hung on display like a museum piece.

Finally the executioner gave the order to nail the girl's feet. This would relieve some of the pressure on her arms and chest, supporting some of the dead weight of the body as it hung.

Two nails were produced. Jolene's legs were lifted up, knees bent. She tried to kick and fight against it, but she put up very little resistance. Excessive movement simply jerked and scraped the wrist nails inside her arms and caused more pain; keeping still was the best way to endure.  She was also tired, and weak.

First the left foot was pressed against the wood of the cross. As before, the placement was marked exactly by the executioner to provide optimum bending of the legs, the maximum pain.

The nail was placed on the top of Jolene's delicate, smooth skin, and with one hard impact of the hammer violated her body once again, plunging through skin, muscle, and tearing nerves and cracking bones apart. Jolene screamed once again, spittle and drool spraying from her mouth.

The second foot was placed right next to the first and was nailed quickly.

The nailing of the feet didn't actually help support Jolene's weight that much. Because her feet were twisted straight down to lay against the vertical beam of the cross, she could not push down and lift herself enough to lock her knees. This meant that while her weight could be shifted to her feet temporarily, her leg and calf muscles would quickly give out and she would sag back down into the hanging position.

Jolene's legs were spread slightly. The nails, when they went in, forced a slight angle, which caused her knees to be spread a foot or so apart. Just enough to expose her sex to the audience.  Her parents hid their faces at this sight, her ex lovers dreamed of when their cocks had entered there.

Jolene simply felt agony throughout her entire body. The humiliation of being nailed and hung naked out on display was sinking in. There was absolutely nothing she could do. She had never felt so helpless. Not even when she was in her jail cell had she been this helpless, this vulnerable.

She couldn't even brush the hair out of her face. It hung down across the sweaty flesh and clung like it was wet.

When Jolene was at the six hour mark, a guard with a long stick approached. The end of the stick had a large sponge, soaked with water.

"Drink," he said. By now, Jolene was so incredibly thirsty she would do anything for some water, and she put her head out and sucked on the sponge. The water was mixed with vinegar, which made her mouth pucker. She sucked it in though. The water helped, the vinegar made her thirstier, and she cried out, begging for regular water.

The audience had changed. The pathway to the hill had been opened to the general public after the initial crucifixion process, which was attended by family and friends. Jolene saw the last of her friends leave her sight and a new stream of people come through gates and up the hill, gawking at her naked body.

She was incredibly humiliated and felt like her brain would break. It was not that strangers were seeing her on display, observing her naked body. It was that she was in massive amounts of pain, and the strangers were here to observe that. It was her agony on display, not her nakedness.

But she was unable to do anything about it. She couldn't even scratch the itch on her face, the one on her cheek next to her nose, the one where the fly was crawling around and was eating into her mind with frustration and making her scream out because her arms were nailed up above her and she could not move.

Jolene's body was shiny with sweat from the heat of the day, and crusted from the dried semen left from the numerous rapes during the last few days.

As the sun went down, the sweat dried and made her cold. She started shaking. Her body shook, and her arms and legs wanted to contract inward so she could curl up to conserve body warmth but she couldn't. Her arms and legs were held stretched out, so her entire body was exposed to the varying temperatures.  This was part of the torment.

Faces drifted by in front of her. Some winced at her obvious pain. Others cringed at the site of nails protruding through her flesh. Some smiled and smirked. A few she could see were discreetly rubbing themselves between their legs.

She cried, tears streaming down her face and washing some of the hair away from where it stuck.

Mostly, she tried not to move. Any movement, any at all, caused massive ripples of new agony.

Thing was, she was in agony without moving. Her body demanded to move. Her body wanted to run, to escape whatever it was that had damaged her, was hurting her. And yet any attempt to move, to run, to get away, simply scraped the steel nails against the bone and nerves of her wrists and feet and made her scream out to the delight of the audience that now watched her every move.

The dark night was a long one. She did not sleep, she couldn't. The pain would not have allowed anyone to sleep. But at sunrise she was offered another sponge on a stick. She knew it would contain vinegar in addition to water, to hydrate her and yet torture her. She sucked it up anyway. Every last drop. When the sponge was dry, it was taken away.

The vinegar made her mouth shrivel up and pucker, giving her the sensation of thirst even though she had just taken in a cup of water.

She heard someone below explaining that by giving the condemned water they prolonged the suffering, as the poor girl would not die of dehydration.

That meant her. She would not die, because they were giving her water. She resolved not to drink any more. She had to die soon. She had to.

Jolene's second day on the cross. Humiliation and pain. The stream of observers was constant; at any given time there were 100 people watching her has she hung and tried to breathe, tried to struggle uselessly into a better position.

Jolene tried not to cry out because each time she screamed or moaned it caused some reaction in the audience. So many of them seemed to enjoy it, or at least be transfixed with fascination. Her suffering had become entertainment.

She peed on the ground below her once every few hours. The first time had been almost immediately after being raised up on the cross. The pain, the mind blowing agony of her stretched body was too much for her and she simply lost control. Urine sprayed out of her without her even being aware it was happening until she felt the warm liquid wash her legs and saw the audience react with horror and fascination.

The end of the second day and she realized how hungry she was. Thirsty as well, she was dying of thirst. Just dying... her body screamed for water. And the sponge of water came again.

Don't drink it, she thought. They are prolonging your suffering. She had made up her mind. But... her mind couldn't do it. She had to drink. She was sooo thirsty. When the sponge reached her lips she reached out and clamped on, bit it, sucked on it like it was her mother's teet. She pulled every bit of moisture from the sponge and needed more, more! It was not enough!

But it was just enough to keep her from dying, from dehydrating. Not enough to relieve her thirst, not enough to stop the torment. Just enough to prolong the torment.

She sagged down on the cross and sobbed. Tears still rolled down her cheeks because she still had water in her body. Urine still sprayed out from between her legs. Her flesh was still shiny with sweat in the hot sun, because she still had water in her.

Jolene lived on, continuing to suffer.

Even so, hanging on the cross was taking its toll. On the third day it became clear she was having trouble breathing. She would pant, and then stop. Then suck in a huge breath, expanding her chest, making her breasts rise erotically, and then collapse down.

Drool dripped from her mouth. Her head was hanging so far forward, her arms bent back at the shoulders so her body hung away from the cross, that the drool dripped down to a puddle on the ground below her.

The executioner came from his breakfast to observe the victim's progress on the third day. "It is time. Bring the sedile!"

Jolene did not know what was happening below her, she simply hung from the cross where she was nailed.

A sort of board was brought. It was about two feet long, a foot high, and the top part of it had been nicely carved to a thin, pointed ridge.

Just behind Jolene's cunt on the cross was a small notch. A lip on the board was designed to fit into this notch. The placement of this notch had been carefully measured based on Jolene's body dimensions.

The executioner took a heavy pole and shoved up on Jolene's pussy, lifting her slightly. Feeling this push Jolene cried out, not in pain but in surprise and further humiliation at being manipulated as she hung.

The sedile was slid into place, the lip at the end latching into the slot in the cross. When completed, the wood board stuck out between Jolene's legs. Jolene sagged back down and found there was support for her weight now.

The support between her legs came to a sharp point, not as sharp as a knife but still a very hard, pointed ridge. It settled in and jammed up against Jolene's pussy, spreading her cunt lips apart and digging into her. Jolene's ass even slid to either side of the board, and its edge pressed into her perineum.

Jolene cried out pitifully. While the sedile gave her support so not all her weight was hanging from her arms and shoulders and the nails in her wrists, much of it was now pushing down onto the knife blade edge of the sedile.

Small bits of blood appeared after a few minutes of struggling on the sedile ridge. It wasn't that sharp, but constant writhing on it had torn some of Jolene's sensitive cunt flesh. Her sobs were almost continuous as she moved to try and relieve this new pain.

The only way to relieve the pain of the sedile was to push up on her nailed feet, and pull on her nailed wrists.  This caused unspeakable agony and the position could not be held for more than 30 seconds or so before her shaking muscles gave way and she sagged back down onto the sedile.

The sedile bit cruelly into the poor girl's soft flesh between her legs, pressing and smashing, separating and even penetrating her somewhat.

As painful as it was, the sedile did its job, lifting and supporting Jolene and helping her breathe. As a result, she was able to cry more, sob more, give the men and women that crowded around to observe her suffering an even better show.

And so Jolene's third day on the cross came to a close, the sun went down and the temperature dropped. Jolene's naked body endured going from being sunburned and baked in direct sunlight to the cold of the night. She shivered on the cross, her muscles tighter, her skin taught.  Spotlights flooded the area, lighting Jolene up from every angle so her suffering could be observed by those who came, and recorded by cameras from every angle.

Jolene had forgotten why she was there. Her former life was fading away. Her entire present life was simple agony, muscles cramping, nerves screaming out when she moved, bones threatening to crack and separate whenever she moved. She was an agony machine, a bundle of pain.

She stank as well, the stink of death. Many who came to see her held their noses or rushed away. The stink was primarily from the body fluids Jolene had released over the several days. Urine gathered in a puddle below her, of course. The wood between her legs was stained with feces from when she had lost all bowel control. It had come splattering out on the morning of the second day.

There was also the acidic smell of vomit, which smeared and covered the front of Jolene's body. Nausea had struck during the second day on display, and Jolene had found herself pumping up the contents of her stomach onto herself.

As a result, after four days on the cross Jolene stank. Observers that came to see her were assaulted by the smell. Jolene herself was aware of the smell, but only to a small extent. She hated it, but could not get away from it. She was, after all, nailed hand and foot to a cross.

Jolene had already outlived any other crucifixion victim since crucifixion had been re-instituted as a way punishing social justice offenders. Most died two days after crucifixion, with a few lasting until the third day. One or two had made it to the beginning of the fourth day but Jolene was well past the beginning of the fourth day.

There were arguments in the social justice execution committee about whether Jolene's crucifixion was actually fair. It was, after all, an execution. It was never intended that she simply take up permanent residence on the cross, receiving food, water, medical care and the like, and never die. She was supposed to die, in agony.

Dr. Sykes simply invited the entire committee to come visit the execution scene, which they did on the fifth day.

The committee members filed through the entrance and up the hill upon which Jolene's cross stood, and there was the naked girl, sagged down, crusty from expelled body fluids, smelling like death, dried blood on the insides of her thighs, breathing but not otherwise moving. Her body hung down and out slightly from the cross so her arms were pulled behind her body.

The committee members were shocked. Jolene was alive, yes, even conscious. But her condition was not anything like what they had expected. Her hands were in the permanent shape of claws, fingers bent inwards. Her hands and wrists were black from lack of blood and damage done by the nails. Her feet were a bloody mangled mess from all the times she had tried to raise herself up. Her cunt was bruised and bloody from the sedile.

Jolene's breathing was raspy and heavy. Her breasts heaved, and skin was shiny from sweat. Slowly she looked up from the ground, opened puffy eyes and looked at the committee. She didn't know who they were, but she begged anyway.

"Please... please kill me... if you have any mercy in your souls, please just kill me..."

The committee members returned to the conference room and agreed quickly to continue the experiment. Jolene would die, either from starvation, from infections the antibiotics could not fight, from exposure to the changing heat and cold, or from simple exhaustion. It would happen soon enough.

On the seventh day the sedile was removed and Jolene sagged down so her entire weight was held by her arms. The pain was mostly in her back, chest, stomach and hips now. Her wrists, hands and feet were essentially dead and numb. The rest of her body was in remarkably good shape.

This was proven when the hose was turned on the suspended girl. A high pressure water hose sprayed her body and began washing the dried, crusted fluids off. The pressure was enough to shove Jolene to the sides, pulled and yanking on the nails. This caused new pain, new kinds of cramps, and new screaming.

Then the power wash of Jolene's body was done, she looked better than she had when first suspended on the cross. Her body was smooth, flesh glistening with the water in the sun. Muscles were stretched and could be seen easily, her ribs drawn tight and visible beneath flesh. She was significantly thinner now. She was starving to death, of course.

They continued to give her antibiotic laced water, and she continued to drink. It was only given once a day and when it came she was so thirsty she couldn't help herself. She needed water, no matter the consequences.

On the eight day she was humiliated in special ways. Her family was forced to attend, as were all acquaintances and her old co-workers. The crowed watched as their friend, sister, daughter, former lover Jolene hung from the cross for the eight day. Her body was subjected to indignities.

First, she was masturbated with a dildo. A large one. It was worked up inside her vagina from below. When Jolene first felt this she cried out, "Why, why?"

"Because you are a social criminal, and deserve to suffer as an example to others," came the response.  The dildo shoved deep inside her and then was pulled out. As it was shoved in and out of her bruised and damaged cunt, her family watched in horror. A couple of ex-boyfriends watched in interest. They took pictures for later.

Jolene was then given an enema. A huge one. Her stomach distended out in a bloated ball and she cried out once again, "Oh, god, oh god, please no, please... aaahhhhhh!" as the two gallons of water were forcibly pushed into her bowels.

When the enema was released a steady stream of water came out while Jolene sobbed. There was nothing to purge from her bowels, she had not eaten in over a week, so the water ran clear as it splattered over the wood of the cross.

Jolene had her nipples pierced. Two large rings were inserted into the holes and weights were placed there. They pulled Jolene's fine, firm breasts down, making them sag like old woman's breasts. It hurt, but what hurt her most was everyone watching as this was done to her.

A vibrator was attached to Jolene. A variation of the rabbit vibrator, it had a dildo portion that extended up into her vaginal cavity. An extension of this man phallus rose and pressed against her clit. It was designed and computer controlled to elicit orgasms from women in the most effective way possible. It was strapped in place, and turned on.

Jolene would never have believed it possible. Her entire body was in agony, her arms cramped and stretched all the way down to her shoulders. Her back cramped and ached. Her wrists and feet screamed out in pain. Her flesh was burning in the sun, and inside, her internal organs were revolting, causing nausea and internal pain. And yet, through all this, the vibrator worked its job, stimulating the pleasure center between her legs, slowly arousing her.

There was no choice. She didn't want to be on display for all these people watching her agony, and now watching her have an induced orgasm. But there was no choice. It happened, slowly, but it happened. The vibrator started slowly, then began to increase the strength of vibrations, massaging her clit. She jerked her hips, trying to dislodge the thing, but that did nothing but cause new waves of agony in her wrists and arms that almost made her pass out.

Finally she gave in, and relaxed. The vibrator continued to work on her, slowly bringing her cunt to a climax. There, hanging from the cross, Jolene's cries of agony became mixed with the cries of pleasure as her first orgasm took hold.

Yes, first orgasm. For the executioner left the vibrator in place. It sensed her climax and reduced its stimulation to a very low level. Then, after about a half hour, it began again, automatically increasing its stimulation and forcing yet another sexual climax from poor Jolene.

The audience of observers delighted in this show. The humiliation of being crucified and then forced to orgasm before the audience... for many it was the purest expression of the crucifixion agony.

Five times over six hours Jolene was forced to orgasm. It was humiliating in the extreme to have her body manipulated in this way for random strangers, and even her family and friends to observe. But her body, her life, were no longer hers. Sexual pleasure became simply another form of hideous torture for Jolene and she sobbed, her face covered with tears of pain and embarrassment.

Finally, the vibrator was removed, but the last humiliation was yet to be committed. The executioner fucked her. This final indignity was done by placing a short ladder in front of the condemned. The executioner greased his cock and mounted the ladder, and then mounted Jolene. Everyone watched as she was raped on the cross, unable to move to stop it in anyway. Jolene was as helpless and vulnerable as anyone could be.

The humiliation took its toll on the girl. On the ninth day she looked bad, as if she were near death. Somehow the rapes, the enemas, the piercings had caused a deterioration in her condition. Jolene hung without moving, her flesh grey and pulse weak.

Water was given to her, but she refused it for the first time. Her desperation to die was taking hold. She no longer wanted to exist, if existence meant hanging from this cross. She had grown very thin, and the holes in her wrists and feet had expanded. There was risk that she might come loose, because the nails had worn larger and larger holes in her flesh.

So, as a precaution, ropes were tied around her wrists to keep them in place.

She hardly knew what was happening.

The crowd of people flowing through to observe the poor girl had not slowed. The sadists, the masochists, the idly curious came to see the naked girl on humiliation display. She remained a beautiful sight.

On the eleventh day, Jolene took some water, but it was clearly because she was delirious and didn't know what she was doing. She sobbed at times, other times she spoke in a cracked, insane voice, talking about the people that stared at her below, or of some fantasy kingdom. She babbled about being Xena. At one point she begged a young man in the audience to come to her, to place his penis inside her, for she wanted his sperm. She had lost her mind, but was still on the cross, still suffering, still dying, slowly... oh, so slowly...

They stopped giving her water on the twelfth day. Everyone agreed she was close to death, though no one knew exactly what would cause it. Hunger? That usually took up to 30 days. Thirst? She had enough water to keep her alive. Infection? Perhaps, the antibiotics could not fight the impact of the dead flesh of her hands and feet.

On the 13th day the guards discovered a couple having sex behind some trees where they had a view of poor Jolene's body hanging from the cross. They were positioned so both could watch Jolene's suffering as they fucked and came to sexual climax. It was apparent this couple had been there several times over the previous week, watching the girl's suffering and using it to drive their sexual ecstasy.  The guards let the couple finish, grunting and straining to their climax, and then threw them out.

Jolene was unconscious at the beginning of the 14th day. While her body was much thinner than two weeks before, it was still a lovely sight, stretched out on display. Her face was no longer twisted in agony all the time, but held the peace of unconsciousness. Her breathing was barely discernible.

No one knew when she died, exactly. Death is not something that happens all at once. Various parts of Jolene's body stopped working, one after another, until they all were done. Her body continued to hang there, body fluids dripping out of her various holes.

Eventually she was drained of body fluids. There was no more urine, no more saliva, no more tears. Blood no longer flowed. She was dead.

Jolene's body was left on the cross for two more days as interested visitors filed past. Now she was dead, the visitors were allowed to come up to her and touch her cold body.

On the 16th day, her body was removed from the cross.