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.
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.
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.
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 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 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.