Sunday, January 18, 2009


He was just a carpenter. It wasn’t easy making a living, in this day in age. Business was down, and that new carpenter on the other side of the creek seemed to be getting all the new business from the Romans.

The Romans had taken over in just the last 10 years. After defeating the central garrison, they moved in and started shaking things up. All in all, a good move. They had imposed order and kept the thievery down. Construction was up, especially on the roads, though the carpenter didn’t see much of the business.

So, when the Roman Centurion came in to his workshop, the capenter was a little surprised. He felt a twinge of fear, accompanied by hope. He was either going to be arrested or questioned about something he would rather not talk about, or get some new business.

It turned out to be new business, though not the kind he expected.

"So, carpenter. I need something. You know that we crucify the worst criminals, runaway slaves and the like?”

The carpenter gulped. He had seen the men and even women hanging from the wooden crosses on a hill outside of town. He had even gone to watch a few times, with mixed feelings. It was clearly a horrible way to die. But it had also kept crime down lower than ever, and there was that one time they had crucified that girl slave… naked…

“Ah! I see you know. How could you not. Well, carpenter, I have a problem. You see, the purpose of crucifixion is a slow, agonizing death. We have had some pretty agonizing deaths recently, but the governor thinks they aren’t slow enough. We have tried some things, but basically we are kind of stuck.”

The carpenter started really worrying. What could he have to do with this?

“What I need from you… well, I need you to think of something. Some change… to the cross, to the way it is constructed, its angle, whatever. I need something that will make the process of dying slower. The problem is, it can’t make it easier. Thats where we run in to a problem. We can’t stop flogging them before hand. We can’t take them down and give them a rest. I need some idea…”

The centurion has risen and was walking, handling the carpentry tools. In some cases he wielded them like weapons, or tested a sharp edge on his own flesh.

“So… think about this. I will be back in two days. We are crucifying a woman, and if you have anything, any ideas at all - let us know. If they are good, we might use it. See how it works. If not… well…” the centurion shrugged his shoulders, smiled a rather unpleasant smile, and then left.

The carpenter sat, looking at his feet. Wondering how fast he could run from the town… and if he could be caught. The idea of getting extra business, that was good. But he didn’t have any ideas, and was terrified what would happen if he failed. He sat on the ledge of his workbench, contemplating the problem, wondering why this problem had been dropped in his lap.

He sat and contemplated so long, worrying, that suddenly he got up because the edge of his ass hurt so badly. It was half numb. He had been sitting on it for about and hour, and…. oh…

He had an idea.

When the Centurion came two days later, the carpenter was ready. It was a simple device, but then the cross was simple. That was the whole idea, to simply use a person’s own weight to slowly kill them with as little effort as possible. On the part of the executioner, that is.

It was a block of wood, designed to be nailed to the upright of the cross. Sticking out about a foot, it would server as a small hard ledge on which the crucified could sit, resting for a bit to recover from the strain of being suspended.

The best part was the long, pointed spike which extended up from the block. In this way, the suffering victim would not only find their agony on the cross prolonged by having a seat on which to rest, it was guaranteed that the resting would be extremely painful. Of course, the victim could choose to thrust their hips forward, extending beyond the reach of the sedile, but in so doing it would increase the pressure on their back, arms and wrists.

The delightful and painful complication this small simple device would present to the victim made the Centurion smile.

The next day, the carpenter went to the hill outside of town. They were just nailing the poor girl down. She started to scream just as he arrived. Three soldiers were holding her down, and the spike was going in to her left wrist. With each blow of the heavy mallet, the spike went deeper, and the woman jerked with pain. When one side was completed, they addressed the other wrist, with the same screaming and writhing on the wooden frame laying on the ground.

The carpenter observed the nearly naked woman, and had to admit she was quite a lovely site, stretched out as she was. He felt the stirrings of arousal in his loins, which he hid with embarrassment.

The cross was lifted by the three soldiers, until it slid in to the hole in the ground with a thunk. The girl’s body slid down, scraping splinters and flesh as it did, until it jerked to a stop, suspended by the nails in her wrists. That brought renewed screaming, though the strain on her chest showed and the screaming quickly degenerated into a gurgle of sorts.

Two soldiers took the girl’s feet and crossed them in front of the upright beam, bending her knees. A third spike was placed against her feet, and the mallet swung. The carpenter watched as the spike split the flesh, and quickly drove through the softness of the top foot and through the foot underneath. When the spike contacted the wood, several more good whacks assure proper penetration, and then the crucifixion was complete.

There was remarkably little blood. Some trickled from the wounds in the wrists, and there was some from lash marks across her ribs and bare breasts. Her flesh was shiny from sweat, and stretched as she was, suspended by her arms, her ribs were clearly visible.

She was having trouble breathing, rasping and grating. Suddenly, she pushed hard with her feet against the nail that held them, but failed to raise herself. She feel back down, crying out in agony as her weight once again pulled hard on her wrist nails.

A few minutes later, she was up again, this time raising up until she stood on the single nail holding her feet tightly to the wood beneath. Her face was raised to the heavens, revealing a beautiful long neck above her heaving breasts. After a while the pain from her feet was too great and she sank back down.

One could see that she would not last long. After a couple of hours, she was having trouble raising herself up, and did not stay up for long. Her head hung motionless, hair descending about her face. She had urinated after about an hour, and involuntary reaction to an internal need. It soaked the loincloth which was her only clothing.

It was time. The centurion came forward with the sedile, and the carpenter took out some nails. The next time the girl raised herself up, the carpenter stepped forward, and positioned the sedile in place. The centurion grabbed her crotch, holding her up while the carpenter nailed the sedile firmly to the cross. The close proximity to the girl, hearing her breathing, seeing her sweat dripping down, seeing her crotch, this all gave the carpenter an amazing sense of the misery the girl was in, the pain that coursed through her body, and just how humiliating it must be.

His hand brushed her thigh. He felt the smooth flesh. Her thighs were shaking with strain, trying to stay up.

He finished quickly, and the centurion let go. She slipped down the cross and was impaled by the straight, pointed cornu. She cried out in surprise, but being too weak to raise herself again she wiggled some and managed to get the thick rod to sink deep within her. Not that it gave her much comfort, for the base of the cornu was wide, so wide it was spreading the lips of her womanhood taught.

But as humiliating and painful as the sedile was, it also was supporting her weight. Most of it at least. Her arms were still stretched taught, but her chest was no longer compressed. She breathed a little more freely, which also meant she was able to cry out more loudly. Which she did, and the carpenter moved back, to watch from a few yards away.

The girl’s misery was not worse, in fact it was probably better. But being in a better way, she was also stronger to express her agony. Instead of hanging her head and letting her long dark hair fall over her breasts, she raised her face and looked out over the people watching her struggle. She looked at her wrists briefly, and wailed loudly when she shifted her weight.

Through it all, she sat on the sedile, impaled deeply by the pointed cornu shaped by the carpenter’s hands. He knew exactly how deep it had gone in to her body, knew how wide it was at the base. He could almost feel the sharp point as it dug in to her cervix.

After an hour or so the centurion came over to the carpenter, slapped him on the back, and said, “You did it, she will last the night I am sure. Who knows how much longer. The governor himself will come to observe at sunset. You should be proud.”

He wasn’t proud, exactly, he wasn’t sure what he felt. To have contributed to the agony of this girl… watching her writhe on his handiwork. He had a mixture of pride, embarrassment, desire, arousal… and a little guilt. He shook his head, clearing his thoughts, and turned away from the seen of pain. Returning to his shop, he packed up some things, ate his dinner and fell asleep.

The rising sun woke him. His thoughts focused on the hill, and the misery that continued there. Dressing quickly, he went to see what was happening there.

The girl was still on the cross, distended out with her back arched slightly and hips thrust forward a little. The sedile still supported her, but the cornu was inserted in to her anus, deep inside. Blood had seeped out and down her legs. She was still breathing but not moving much otherwise. Then as he watched, with a sudden heave she pushed up once again as he had seen her do the day before, and raised herself up off the sedile.

It was all she could do, and a strangled groan came from her throat as she lifted up and off the point, now convered with blood. Her muscles strained, hands forming the characteristic claw shape of the crucified, legs pushing in spite of searing pain. As she reached a full standing position she took a deep breath and lowered herself once again, this time her vagina slowly surrounding and wrapping the cornu as it penetrated deeply. Once her weight was again resting on the sedile, she uttered a cry of pure frustration and agony.

She was pleading, crying out to die.

Apparently the suffering had been sufficient to satisfy the governor. At noon, as the heat drained the suffering girl of her body fluids in the form of sweat, the sedile was removed. She sank down, all her weight stretching against her arms, compressing her chest, distending her stomach.

It took about an hour for her to suffocate to death.

The carpenter got the extra business he craved. The sedile was used again, as needed. His design was modified and used elsewhere.

He dreamed of the girl, hanging from the cross, dying slowly, his cornu penetrating her deeply. His sleep was not always restful.

Monday, January 5, 2009


I am an exhibitionist.

I didn’t quite realize it, until recently.

It is a little unusual for a woman to admit to being an exhibitionist, I suppose. Many women are, but they have ways of expressing it which are approved by society. I just like it a little more than most.

It isn’t that I like exposing myself to others, walking down the street with my boobs or ass hanging out. I don’t think I would ever want to strip for a living. I certainly would not want to expose myself to unsuspecting and unwilling strangers.

On the other hand, I have discovered that exposing myself in a way that makes me vulnerable, both physically and mentally, is incredibly arousing for me. Being forced to reveal myself, not just my body, but to make myself vulnerable to pain, arousal, delight, suffering and to do it all at the whim and in the view of others… it makes me wet just thinking and writing about it now.

I am no newbie - I have played and done bondage modeling for some time. I never quite understood why I enjoyed it so much, but I knew I did. And I always had a fantasy, unspoken, that one day I could be crucified.

I began talking to friends in the bondage scene. One friend finally told me of a special group, a club of sorts, that might be able to stage a crucifixion scene for me. It made me nervous to think about, but it also excited me more than anything else had. I followed through, met with three of the members of the group (two guys and a girl). After some preliminaries, it was agreed.

Two weeks later, I arrived at the club. It was booked for a private party, our private party, and I was to be the central entertainment. I was so nervous I could hardly stand it. Dressed in my best leather skirt and tight black top, I arrived at about 9pm and requested admittance to the club near LAX, alone.

About 25 people were there, all dressed in fetish outfits of some sort; everything from simple leather skirts to latex catsuits, to studded leather slave harnesses. There was an open bar with beer and wine and snacks. Two of the club members met me at the door, put a collar on me with a chain and then led me in, to where the party had started.

There was scattered applause as I entered, led by my slave collar and chain. Positioned in the middle of the room, the chain was latched to a hook above me, and lifted until my neck was tight, and I was standing on my toes. While I was n0t gasping for air, I definitely was straining to relieve the pressure. My hands grabbed the collar to relieve the pressure and life myself slightly to help me keep on my toes.

When the word was given, the members of the group undressed me.

I had never felt that many hands on my body at once. My clothing was being tugged and pulled by dozens of hands, and there was absolutely nothing I could do. Resistance I put up was met with five or six pairs of strong hands holding me in place, forcing me to cooperate. Besides, most of my own efforts were absorbed by keeping on my toes and relieving pressure on my neck.

In moments, I was naked, my clothes long gone someplace unknown.

The hands continued to roam my body for a while, but before long I was unhooked and dragged to the corner of the room. There, for the first time, I saw the cross. I had a moment to examine it, and realize what it was. It was such as simple device, and yet struck fear in my heart. I knew I would be hanging from this thing very soon, and had no idea what it would feel like, other than it would be quite painful.

Several hands pushed me down, and forced me to kiss the base of the cross. In obedience, I did, kissing and fondling the instrument of my torture. It felt surreal, graveling naked before this device, watched by a crowd of at least partially dressed party goers. In the past, my bondage scenes had always involved one, or at most two other people. I felt the most exposed I had ever felt.

I was incredibly aroused.

Rather than raising me up and hanging me immediately, a metal brace designed to hold the wrists out in front of my neck was applied. The neck piece hinged, and closed around my neck and then my wrists. The whole device was fastened with a short chain to a ring on the wall. I was immobilized, kneeling on the floor in front of the cross, as the crowd began to mingle. Beer and wine flowed, and for a short time I was ignored as they party goers occupied themselves with other activities, some of them well worth watching.

After a half hour, a gong sounded loudly, and attention turned my way, once again. Several men approached and released me from my metal bonds. All eyes were on me once again, and I felt like a hog on display at a county fair. It was marvelous.

Ropes were attached to my wrists, separately. Several loops of rope, securely tied on each wrist. My arms were then spread wide by the ropes, and I felt a sudden rush of excitement. I was being spread, my naked body on display, and I was truly helpless as the ropes were flung over the top of the cross and my arms were pulled higher and wider apart.

The strain came when the ropes pulled me off the floor. I was able to stand tip-toe for a moment, but the ropes continued to stretch my arms and body up until my feet swung free, bumping against the upright beam of the cross. An appreciative murmur from the crowd rose and echoed in the large space.

The first pain of my body’s new position hit me.

As my arms were yanked higher, my shoulders felt like they would be torn out of their sockets. I screamed for just a moment with the sharp pain, which settled in to a constant burning that began extending from my shoulders up my arms and down across my back. I recognized the feeling of muscles being stretched and twisted.

Finally, my wrists were against the cross and tied in place, and I was fully dangling from the cross. I was breathing hard, my chest heaving up and down, and my head sagged as I concentrated on dealing with the pain in my shoulders. Were they going to let me hang here?

The answer came as my ankles were forced together, one over the other, and rope roughly wrapped around them. My legs were then forced up, my knees momentarily spread wide before I realized I was exposing myself shamelessly. I pulled my knees together, as they tied my ankles up a way on the cross, with my knees bent.

Strangely, my tied ankles provided almost no relief to my arms. I realized they had been tied high enough to bend my knees, but low enough that all my weight was still suspended on my arms.

I knew what I had to do.

With some effort, I pushed down with my legs on my bound feet and lifted myself up. I had heard of the agony this might cause in an actual crucifixion, but with the secure ropes used it was just painful for me. I lifted myself up and felt blessed relief flood my arms, shoulders and chest.

An appreciative cheer rose from the crowd in the party. I realized in a flash what they were seeing. I had risen for the first part of the crux dance, arched my back, thrusting out my breasts and stomach, stretching myself and then spread my legs as I lifted. The sight of my body straining, twisting and heaving itself up was exactly what they wanted, and I had just given it to them.

I had no choice, really. I had to stand and relieve the pain. The feeling of helplessness descended over me and I flung my head back to look at the ceiling. At just that moment, the lights were turned on.

Well, some were turned on, and some off. A ring of hot stage lights shone directly on my naked form and in my face. I squinted and then closed my eyes in the direct light. Further out, over the party floor, the lights had been turned off, or at least dimmed. I could no longer see any of the party goers, except for those closest to me.

The lights were hot, too. I felt myself beginning to sweat, and my ankles hurt more and more from the ropes digging in to them. I lowered myself slowly in to place, descending carefully.

Another appreciative noise from the crowd. My torso was stretching taught as I hung once again from my arms. My breasts were pulled up and pronounced, my ribs showed, my stomach caved in slightly. The muscles in my shoulders and arms showed clearly. I knew all this, though I did not see it. I could feel it, feel the stretching and twisting that made my exposed body the object of this crowd’s lust.

It was fantastic.

I was humiliated, in pain, struggling and frustrated, but I was also exhilarated and aroused. I couldn’t tell if it was sweat, or if I was wet between my legs. Either way, I felt like I was being fucked by the entire group of 25 people all at once. In a way, I was.

The part really started to get going as I hung there, unable to quite see what was going on. But I could tell by the noise that there were a variety of activities, including a girl that was getting flogged, and a couple having sex, or a pretty good imitation of the sounds. Visions of the party goers flitted in and out of my field of vision, bits of bare skin, leather, cloth or latex… all just out of my reach.

I wanted to get down from that cross and participate, but instead I raised myself up once again, breathed deeply and hung my head. The lights were making me sweat profusely, and my body was shiny wet. My hair was getting stuck to my skin. Damn, I wanted to brush it out of the way and I couldn’t. And the sweat was making me itch in about 10 places… all I could do was wiggle, which accomplished nothing.

OK. It accomplished one thing. A couple came over to me, and touched my body as I lowered myself back down to hang by my wrists. They seemed fascinated by my arms, running fingers down to my armpits and back, tracing muscles as they flexed with the strain. I raised my head and looked at them.

The girl tilted her head up and kissed me.

A shock went through my body, as my pain, the pressure of being bound, the arousal of being naked on display in public, and the pleasure of that kiss all gathered together and my body tried to reach an orgasm without any direct stimulation. I wanted her to touch me so badly, tears started flowing down my cheeks. She kissed them away, and whispered in my ear “I love that you are suffering for us…”

They stroked me, running their hands down my sides, feeling my ribs, breasts and stomach. The couple kissed, and moved off in to the dark. I strained once again and rose myself up.

As the throbbing pain in my feet and ankles slowly spread higher, I though just how amazing I felt. I had never been so aroused as I was at that moment, without being touched or stimulated directly. I really felt as if I might have an orgasm if things were just right.

The sweat was trickling down my naked skin, collecting between my breasts in rivulets and descending down between my legs. It tickled, and itched, and there was nothing I could do about it. My hair was sticking to the sweat on my face, and shaking my head only served to bring more hair in front of my eyes. My head hung down, as much to keep the hair out of my face as because I was tired.

Though I was exhausted.

It was interesting, I thought as the pain in my shoulders started extending down my back and around my chest, how my frustration and agony could be enhanced by minor annoyances. My hair, straggling. Itches and tickles on my skin. My need to have someone satisfy me by bringing me to climax. The heat and lights shining in my eyes, making me blind. All were multiplying the pain of hanging there.

All increased my sense of helplessness and arousal.

As I hung with my head down, I saw that my legs were spread, knees wide apart. I no longer cared, it was just another part of my humiliation and agony.

Looking down at my shaking legs, someone’s hand appeared. It slipped fingers up my inner thigh, slowly rising higher. It was slippery wet, but as it reached the top became wet with my inner juices. A gentle stroking and I felt the climax quickly rising in my groin, flooding across my entire body in a moment. My head rose up, and turned to my arm, perhaps in an attempt to conceal my face from public view during orgasm, or perhaps to simply have something to touch as my cheek pressed against my arm.

My hips moved with the hand, quickly. In moments, the climax rose and had taken me. I came explosively, crying out, begging for something though I had no idea what. My entire body shuddered and struggled against the ropes, my hips thrust out, I flushed and nipples were rock hard. It was the most intense orgasm I had ever felt.

When it was over, the hand gone, I raised my head and looked out over the blackness. I could see some movement out there, some activity going on. Many were just watching me, though they were grouped in pairs, or threesomes, or even a foursome. They had seen me, and my pain and pleasure had inspired them.

I hung from my cross, and watched them pleasure each other as I writhed under the hot lights.

I had another orgasm on the cross, a little later, thanks to a young girl that looked a lot like me. She kissed and honored me as I had kissed and honored my cross before being hung on it.

When it was over, they took me down, and massaged me, bringing my muscles and flesh back to life. Then they made love to me. Every one of those 25 or 30 people. Some simply suckled my nipples, others gave me deep soul kisses, some taking me fully and completely. I lost track of the orgasms.

The experience was the most incredible, erotic, intense experience of my life. Afterward I realized that much of what made it so amazing was my desire to be exposed, vulnerable, manipulated, and punished in public. I am an exhibitionist. Hanging on the cross proved that, and proved to be the perfect way for me to achieve my ultimate fetish.