The Easter Passion Play – Part 3 by Iphigenia-at-Aulis
It was a few months after the end of filming. Tonight I would see the finished product. Will picked me up at my room and we walked a couple of kilometers to the place Nick shared with his longtime girl friend. (Karl, who was married, with children, had no wish to show a film like this in his own house.)
Besides the three guys, a number of other people were there, including several of the minor characters in the cast, the couple who did the camera work, and a few others I had not seen before. We crowded around his television, and they started the video.
It is a strange and rather mixed emotional experience to see yourself exposed so immodestly on film. I have no wish to measure my self worth in terms of physical attractiveness. Nevertheless, I can’t deny that I want people to think well of me. Consequently, if my body must be revealed to all, I can’t help wanting them to like what they see.
I knew of course that Will was enraptured with my body, and that Nick and Karl considered me to be well put together. Nevertheless, from the range of adult web sites that I will admit to have come across, it would seem that there must be nearly as wide a range of body-type preferences as there are body types. No one person can expect to be pleasing to everyone.
Seeing myself undergoing such distressing punishment also yielded ambivalent feelings. The others in the room could only imagine what the heroine was experiencing. I knew what she was experiencing. For much of the showing I unconsciously wrapped my arms across my body and pressed close to Will. But I won’t deny the eroticism of seeing myself in such peril and torment.
After this introduction, the action really begins in that round-roofed sheet metal building, the Quonset hut. I had been seized by what seem to be two paramilitary militiamen and brought to their so called ‘bunker’. Flanked by Will, as ‘Private’, and Nick, as ‘Corporal’, I was brought before the ‘Commander’, played by Karl.
The nature of their paramilitary orientation was not obvious, whether left or right. Or perhaps they would be placed on some non-political axis orthogonal to any conventional political scale. There were no signs of weapons anywhere.
They were wearing dark grey pants and shirts. The Corporal was also wearing a beret. On all their shirt pockets was an insignia of horizontal lines, somewhat like a pair of trigrams of the type seen in the I Ching or Book of Changes.
I was wearing a simple white blouse of Indian cotton, a very short, floral-patterned green cotton skirt, which rode a little below the waist, and Birkenstock sandals. My wrists were bound behind me. I was slightly disheveled from struggling with the militiamen. The top and bottom buttons of my blouse were open, and there were a half a dozen muted whip marks on my legs, left by a short whip that the Corporal continued to brandish.
“Ah. So this is she. Hmm. What a graceful specimen! Most excellent,” said the Commander, rising from his chair, and stepping forward to examine me. He slowly circumambulated me, eyeing my body up and down. While making occasional wary glances at him, mostly I kept my eyes ahead and down, as if trying to ignore his presence, but without complete success.
Arriving in front of me again, he said, “You may address me as the ‘Commander’.” After placing his finger on my breast bone, he slowly ran it down the front of my body. I displayed little acknowledgment of him, but I recoiled slightly when his finger arrived in my belly button.
“I like what I see. I must see more.” He unbuttoned my blouse, but held it only partly opened, not enough to reveal my breasts. “Ah. No bra. You must be a liberated woman. I like liberated women.”
I gave him a quizzical look but said nothing. I looked down at his hands holding my blouse. As he opened my blouse to reveal my breasts, I shut my eyes and inhaled sharply. I scarcely dared to breathe as he slipped it back off my shoulders and part way down my arms, still bound behind me.
“Yes! Yes! Yes! Such pretty breasts. …But please open your eyes, look at your tits. They are so exquisite. How can you pass up such a sight?”
I opened my eyes. All three guys were gazing at my breasts. I glanced down at them quickly. “Well, actually, I’ve seen them before – pretty often in fact,” I said.
“So what,” he answered. “I never get tired of looking at a pretty girl’s tits.”
Then with the other two guys grasping my arms to prevent me from retreating, the commander pressed his hands firmly against my chest, and began kneading my breasts against my ribs.
“Ah. I love the softness. Soft breasts and firm ribs. You know, if I were you… if those were my tits, I’d never take my hands off them. I’d always be feeling myself up.”
I looked slightly mystified by the disarming absurdity of his statement.
Then he prodded and rubbed gently at the nipples, running little circles around them with his finger. “Stiff nipples. How I love stiff nipples.”
Although I tried to keep my eyes straight ahead, it was hard to keep still. It was a strong sensation from my nipples.
Then he took hold of each nipple and started to squeeze with gradually increasing pressure, while looking into my eyes, watching my response. As the pressure increased, I squinched shut my eyes and opened my mouth in a silent cry, holding my breath. This was not acting. This was real.
Finally I gasped, “You’re really hurting me.” Immediately he eased his grip. Sensing my opportunity, I jerked away from him, freeing my nipples, and in the process jiggling my breasts for the camera. I stood panting, eyeing him warily.
“Ah,” he said, “such spirit. Tells us what she’s feeling, but won’t beg.”
“Why are you doing this to me? What is it you want?”
“I am the one who will ask the questions. And you will answer. …But since I like to talk, perhaps all your questions will be answered in the course of our parley, without you even having to ask. …Now let us begin this interrogation. I have heard tell that you are the daughter of god. Is that true? …But wait! Don’t answer that yet. I have a little… shall we say ‘truth serum’ to give you first.”
He pulled a pair of clothes pins out of his pocket. “Do you know what these are?”
“Clothes pins,” I answered innocently.
“Yes. So they are,” he said. “Was that a silly question?”
Apparently this was not a rhetorical question; he was waiting for my answer. “Well,” I replied, “I don’t know. In retrospect, maybe. But I wasn’t trying to give you a silly answer.”
“Hey. You’re a cute girl. I like you.” He reached out and patted my cheek. “Yes, they’re clothes pins. Do you know what they’re for?”
“Yes. They’re for hanging clothes outdoors,” I answered.
He laughed. “You are a dear. …But this is what I will use them for now.” He reached out and quickly clamped one to my left nipple.
“Oh! Oh! Ohhhh!” As I tried to squirm away, he clamped the other one to my right nipple. “Ooooh! My nipples!” I gasped, squirming, as the two militiamen held me by the arms.
“Now, for my first question. Is it true that you are the daughter of god?”
The sensation from my nipples was so intense it was like an electric current running through them. I just stood panting, barely understanding his question, and incapable of forming an answer. The commander grew impatient. “Refuse to cooperate, eh?” He began twisting the clothes pins, ergo my nipples.
“Oh! Oh! My nipples! …Daughter of god? Maybe… Whatever… I’m not trying to be uncooperative. Really.”
The commander bobbed the clothes pins back and forth. But my nipples were beginning to numb to the sensation. “They look so good on you, I hate to take them off. But perhaps that’s enough for now.” He released them. I gasped anew, but the sensation began to subside. It was such a relief to have them off. My breathing gradually calmed.
Stroking my breasts gently, the commander said, “You know, I like your nipples bare, unadorned, just as well, too. …But let’s get down to business. I found your answer less than satisfactory. Corporal, three, on the legs.”
“Affirmative.” The Corporal lashed the whip across my legs three times. I gasped with each stroke, but did not cry out.
“Do you deny being the daughter of god?” asked the Commander.
“No, I don’t deny it. But what does it matter who my father is?”
“Corporal, three more.” And again it was three whip strokes across the legs. “What is the nature of your mission here?”
“What mission? I don’t know anything about a mission here.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know anything about your mission.” He nodded to the Corporal, who gave me another three strokes across the legs.
“Ow…ooh… I mean I don’t know anything about any mission. I don’t have any more of a mission than anyone else. Why do you have to whip me for every question? I’m not hiding anything.”
“Shall I put the clothes pins to the nipples instead?” he said, holding the clothes pins before me.
“Well, it’s just that if you’re going to ask me a lot of questions, then its going to add up to a lot of lashes.”
The Commander took hold of each breast in turn and clipped a clothes pin onto the nipple. I gasped, “I’ll take the whip instead. Please just whip me.”
The Private then raised my skirt and tucked it up in back in order to keep me exposed, and pulled the seat of my panties up and into my crack. Then the Corporal proceeded to give me about twenty lashes across the ass and back of the thighs. They didn’t even bother holding me. I just stood there gasping and panting, taking it all. Finally they stopped whipping me, and the Commander released my nipples from the clothes pins.
After pausing to let me compose myself, he asked, “If you’re not on a mission, then why are you here?”
I answered, “I don’t know. My father kicked me out of heaven. He was angry. I’m not sure why. Unambiguous communication has never been his long suit.”
“Do you expect me to believe that?” He then nodded to the Corporal, who gave me three more strokes across the rear.
“Oh…Ooh… It’s true. He can get really cranky, even though he’s mellowed over the millennia. You should have seen him back when he used to go around ranting ‘An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth’.”
The Corporal said, “It might be true, Chief. As crazy as it sounds, I think I believe her.”
“I have no reason to lie. And even if I did, I’m so unskillful at it that I wouldn’t dare to try.”
“Well, perhaps so,” said the Commander. “But really, it doesn’t matter whether you have a mission or not. Corporal, whip her some more.”
“Shall we bend her over the desk?” asked the Corporal.
“At your discretion,” answered the Commander.
They took me to the desk, over which I bent reluctantly. The Private raised my skirt and pulled down my panties. Taking up a thin rattan cane, the Corporal positioned himself. Looking back, I eyed him warily.
Shwoosh …thack! “Ohhhhh!” Shwoosh …thack! “Ahhhhh!” Pausing in between each, he proceeded to give me one stroke after another, first across the ass, and then gradually working his way down the thighs. I was up on tip toe, straining forward. It was impossible to keep still. To steady me, the Private clasped my body against the desk, but took the opportunity to work his hands underneath my breasts and knead them firmly.
Tears in my eyes, after about a dozen strokes, I cried out, “Ohhhhh! You’re hurting me so much!” At this they relented. As I lay across the desk panting, the Private dabbed the tears from my eyes, and gently caressed my cheek, while the Commander examined the Corporal’s handiwork of cane marks on my rear. Seeing the Commander thus occupied, the Private took the opportunity to give me a couple of quick kisses on the ear and cheek.
After my breathing calmed, they helped me to my feet, and pulled up my panties and adjusted my skirt. The Commander gazed at me in admiration. “You’re a wonderful girl. Every bit worthy of your illustrious family.”
“Then why do you whip me so? What have I done?”
To this the Commander responded by taking hold of my nipples and giving my breasts a jiggly little shaking. “Ah. I love everything about you.” He had me squirming.
Finally, he released my nipples. “You want to know why you must be whipped? Why should you deserve this? …It is simply because you are sweet, graceful, and so pretty. You are everything that I worship. …Look at your breasts.”
I glanced down at them. “Well, really they don’t look any different now than they did a few minutes ago. …And your reason for whipping me doesn’t make any sense at all.”
“Ah! How I love sassy women. I love my women to sass me before I whip them. …After too. …But where was I before you so saucily interrupted. …Oh yes. Your breasts. How I love the smooth softness of the breasts. And the hard stiffness of the nipples. Soft breasts and hard nipples, such a wonderful combination.”
He gently stroked and fondled my breasts. I wriggled slightly from the sensation. He continued, “And how I love the juxtaposition of the tenderness of the breast and the harshness of the whip. Tender breast and harsh whip. They are just made for each other, don’t you think?”
My mouth fell open in an expression of alarm. “Really I don’t know. I think that might really hurt.”
“Ah. You think. But you don’t know. And of course you wish to find out. Right? The real experience might be quite different from the thought. The real experience might have little to do with thought of any kind, don’t you think?”
“Well… I agree that the experience of the senses can be distinct from any thought-generated labeling. I guess ‘pain’ is merely a thought label, distinct from the sensation itself. …Even so, I don’t think I want to be whipped on the breasts.”
“You think too much. Too many preferences. Life is simpler without so many preferences. …Wherever you be, there you are.”
“Well… I suppose that’s true… But what about yourself? You’re the one who’s thinking up these crazy ideas about whipping my breasts.”
“You know, you never use the word ‘tits’. Is that outside your vocabulary? As you might guess, it’s one of my favorite words.”
“But you’re just crude.”
“Yes! Yes! That is so. And that too is why you must suffer. Because I am crude and you are comely. Why, consider the delicacy of your mien. Why, look at your arms. Private, release her wrists.”
Placing his beefy arm alongside mine, now freed, the Commander continued, “Compare yours with mine. Yours are lithe. How I love to admire women’s biceps and deltoids. All those times you’ve worn sleeveless tops, did you know that some men were checking you out and admiring your sleekly sculpted arms and shoulders? …You think I’m a raving madman, don’t you?”
“Well… Um…”
“Your physique is smaller and weaker than mine. That is why you must suffer. The more powerful sex punishing the weaker sex. And the weaker sex, the so-called weaker sex possessing that impossible strength to receive it all. The impossible strength to accept, to endure, and so ultimately to win. Yes, through that impossible strength, you shall be the victor, and I the vanquished. And for that I worship you!”
He continued, “I have seen your destiny. A cult will form to worship you. And why shouldn’t there be one? It’s been more than two millennia since there’s been a really significant religious cult to worship a female heroine for her sacrifice. …Well, the Catholic church venerates their saints, but I don’t consider them to be cults. …No, not since ancient Greece have there really been heroine cults. Now what were some of them called? …The Cult of Iphigenia was one. There were others too …like for the Leo Korai maidens. And their fathers were only men. Yours is a god.”
“I think I remember hearing something about those girls at the time. But my father never got along with the Classical gods and goddesses. I was forbidden to associate with them, and so we had only occasional surreptitious contact. The truth is that there’s still bad blood between our families. I happen to know that to this day Zeus has never forgiven my father for displacing him.”
“No kidding,” interrupted the Corporal with awe. “You actually know them. I guess I forget what it means to have such an illustrious family background. You’re such a regular girl. That’s what’s so wonderful about you.”
“What good is an illustrious family background? Here I am before the three of you, half naked, completely at your mercy, and you threatening to whip me even worse than you’ve already done.”
“Yes, that is true,” answered the Commander. “And you bring up a most important point. Have we not discoursed enough? Now is the time for action. Let us go forth! Take her outside, string up her wrists, and commence her whipping!”
The Private and Corporal took hold of me by the nipples. With my hands free I clasped their hands to prevent them from yanking my breasts as they led me out the door of the bunker.
Outside a waiting crowd of a dozen people, both men and women, and a few teenagers, cheered when I appeared. The two guys lead me to the overhanging bow of a large oak tree.
I held my hands out as they placed cuffs on my wrists, and then tossing a rope over the overhanging bow, they raised my arms high enough to keep me from protecting my breasts. Then they removed my skirt and panties, to the cheers of the crowd.
Then taking up a thin, long-handled, single-thong horsewhip, the Corporal took up a position behind me. Holding a second, identical horsewhip, the Private took a position in front of me. Meanwhile, the Commander seated himself in a strategically placed director’s chair. He regarded me with an enraptured expression for a long minute, as I stood naked, helpless, waiting for the whip. The crowd fell silent in anticipation.
With a subtle nod of his head, the Commander signaled the Corporal to begin. With a long, arcing whsssssst, he brought the whip down with a loud thack across my rear. “Uh!” I let out a cry as I wrenched forward. The crowd let out a raucous cheer. The Commander leaped to his feet, halting everything. Without saying a word, but with an expression of livid ferocity, he glared intensely at each of the spectators in turn. None dared to return his gaze. The silence was absolute. Even the birds and insects had ceased to chirp.
Having made his point, he regally settled himself back in his chair. After again admiring my naked form for a long moment, then glancing once more around the crowd menacingly, he gave the subtle nod of his head. This time the Private took his turn. Whsssssst …thack! Across the stomach. “Ooooh!”
Alternating, the Corporal and Private whipped me over and over. The Corporal, from the rear, on my ass, back, thighs, and calves. The Private, on the front, across my thighs, hips, stomach, ribs, and some to the breasts.
The only sound was that of the whip, followed by my cries and gasps. Whsssssst …thack! “Oooh!” Whsssssst …thack! “Ahhh!” Whsssssst …thack! “Ohh…oh.” Whsssssst …thack! “Ahhhhh!”
The whipping continued, stroke after stroke. After a time the camera began to switch back and forth from me to the other individuals. The Private and Corporal showed no emotion; their expressions were of men focused intensely on a job that required skill and concentration. The Commander had this look of complete rapture. Among the crowd there was a range of emotions. One man was leering. Another, hand inside his pants, throated quiet groans of pleasure as he worked through an orgasm. Another man looked ambivalent, torn. One woman was smirking maliciously. Another was awe-struck at what she was witnessing. One teen-age girl watched in tears, and hands covering most of her face, as if she wished to cover her eyes but could not stop watching. The sound of the whip and my gasps and cries continued all the while.
The strangest of the spectators was one who had shuffled in late: a bearded, baldheaded old man, whose visage seemed a peculiar combination of two pictures I have seen, one of Socrates, the other of sixth century Zen or Ch’an master Bodhidharma. He stood facing me in a powerful stance, feet planted apart, eyes down, his face a mask of intense concentration. Through his penetrating mediation he appeared to be telepathically transmitting to me the mental and emotional strength to endure. The true fact of the matter is that, whether this whole thing was film-acting or not, I really could feel an unfathomable strength coming from him. It was the most extraordinary experience.
Whsssssst …thack! “Ohhh!” Whsssssst …thack! “Ooooooh!” Whsssssst …thack! “Ahhhhh!” The Private was now focusing mostly on my breasts, the Corporal mostly on my ass and thighs. With each stroke I jerked reflexively, jiggling my breasts.
Finally, the Commander signaled a pause. I slumped my head forward, breathing heavily. The Commander approached me saying, “You’re so wonderful. How are you feeling? You look great.”
I roused myself, and looked at him with complete disbelief. “Are you serious? How do you think I feel? Are you expecting me to say ‘thanks for the invigorating massage’?”
Looking a little taken aback, the Commander replied, “Well, I thought you’d have some appreciation for such things. As a matter of fact, I think you ought to thank my men for giving you such a good whipping.”
“Really, we were doing our best,” added the Private.
“Great. Are you expecting me to ask for more?”
“No need to ask. We’re going to give you more anyway,” replied the Commander. Then he carefully examined my whip marks, first on my ass, then on my breasts. “Your nipples look none the worse for wear. How about if we finish with a flourish to your tits and pussy?”
“Oh, no. Do you have to do it there?”
Taking up the multi-thong suede flogger and lifting my knee to the side, the Corporal proceeded to lash me repeatedly on the pussy. “Ooooh! …Ahhhhh! …Ahhhhh! …Ooh! If you could know what that feels like.”
“If you could know how good you are. You’re so good,” he crooned.
I replied only with gasps and cries. After about twenty lashes he stopped.
The Private then took up the short, single-thong whip, and proceeded to whip me on the nipples. Swish…thack! “Ohhhh!” Swish…thack! “Ahhhh!” Swish…thack! “Ooh, my nipples!”
Suddenly that teen-aged girl ran forward, thrusting herself between me and the Private. “Stop! Please stop! You’ve whipped her so much. On the pussy, now on the tits,” she cried, as she shielded my breasts.
The Commander rose from his seat, saying, “Girl, we must complete this whipping. You don’t understand the importance of what we are doing here.” The Corporal then attempted to gently lead her away. She resisted.
“Whip me instead,” she demanded. Then facing the Private and his whip, she lifted her tee-shirt, exposing her breasts. “I’ll take the rest of her lashes.”
“No!” I cried. “Don’t whip her. She doesn’t know what she’s asking.” And to her I said, “Please don’t have them whip you on the breasts. Why should you have to undergo this? They’ve already welted me so, just let them finish on me.”
But the girl would not be moved. The Private and Corporal looked to the Commander. The Commander, seeming somewhat perplexed, finally said, “All right, we’ll let you take some strokes for the daughter of god. Take off your tee-shirt and put your hands behind your head.”
She stripped off her tee-shirt, and hands behind head, presented her breasts to the Private for a whipping.
“No!” I cried. “You mustn’t whip her like that.”
Swish…thack! He hit her right across the nipples. No warm-ups. No restraints. How could she just stand there and take it? …She couldn’t, it turned out. She dropped to her knees, clasping her breasts in her hands, gasping.
The Private then turned to me and lashed the whip across my nipples. Three strokes. But then the girl recovered herself, and getting to her feet, interposed herself between me and the whip, putting her hands behind her head and thrusting her chest out for another one. Swish…thack. “Owww..ow..ow!” she cried, doubling over clasping her breasts again.
“Please don’t whip her anymore,” I cried. “Just whip me and get it over with. Why should her breasts be punished?” Stretching my rope as far as it would go, I placed myself in front of her. The Private managed to get in three more lashes on my breasts before the girl was up and trying to push me out of the way. I pushed back as best I could. The Private continued swinging the whip, not caring whose breasts he caught with it. He was clearly delighted to have two crazy women fighting it out to receive his not-so-tender attention.
But with all the action, it was hard for him to aim properly. Few of his strokes landed on the nipples; many missed the breasts entirely, landing only on the ribs.
At one point the girl, in her zeal to push me out of the way, suddenly leaned her shoulder into my side, head down, and in so doing only narrowly missed catching the whip on the side of her face. The Private let out a startled “Ooh!” and dropped the whip.
The Commander leaped forward. “Hold! Cease! Avast! …This must leave off before someone gets hurt.” Apparently ‘feeling pain’ and ‘getting hurt’ meant something quite different in his mind. But I understood his distinction. …Everything was okay however. The whip stroke had caught my breast, not her face.
They released my wrists from their bonds. I picked up my skirt and since no one said ‘no’, put it on. In the commotion my panties had disappeared. Apparently some fetish-obsessed person had made off with them. I cradled my well-whipped breasts in my hands.
After carefully examining the whip marks on my breasts, they lead me to the barn. Inside, raised on concrete blocks, was a wooden cross. “This is what we’ll hang you on,” said the Commander.
I stared at him aghast. “Crucify me?! You can’t do that. …That’s murder!”
The Commander was taken aback. “Murder? My god, what do you take us for? You don’t actually think we’d put nails through you? Hey, it’s true we’re into whips and stuff, but we’d never really harm you.”
“Oh… Sorry. I guess I have a little paranoid hang-up about being crucified. But you can understand that. You know my family background.”
“Oh, yeah. I guess I can see why you’d overreact. …But really, it’s a great way to spend an afternoon. Are you ready?”
“Well. If it’s my fate to be crucified, then I’ll have to be crucified. …Perhaps it’s for the best. For the last two millennia I guess I’ve really envied my brother. My father has had nothing but praise for him. He feels that it was my brother’s sacrifice that spread my family’s renown through different parts of the world. …But it really hurts when your father so strongly favors your sibling. It always felt like he could do no wrong, and I could do no right. My father has this thing about being worshiped by people on earth. And I wasn’t worshiped by anyone. …You rave about my ‘illustrious family background’. It wasn’t quite the way I think you imagine it. I have no complaint about being kicked out.”
“But fate has decreed that all that will change. That is why we are here today. Your willingly acceptance of pain will not be forgotten. Shall we proceed? …If only we can keep your new friend from interfering.”
“Oh please don’t be hard on her. She’s only trying to help.”
“Well, try picking up that end of the cross. You’re supposed to get this thing to a meadow a couple hundred meters up the hill – by your own power, if possible.”
I slowly lifted one end. “This is really heavy. I can’t move it that far by myself.” I looked at him distraught as I let it back down.
“We’ll provide you with …uh, shall we say, encouragement. Also, we can recruit your young friend to help. Corporal, let’s go get her now.” With that they left the barn.
“Oh, please don’t whip her,” I said to the Private.
“Hey, we don’t need to whip her. We only need to whip you to get her to put forth her best effort. Right? …By the way, her name is Vicki.”
The Private then assisted me in putting a leather harness about my shoulders. Then having me fold my arms behind me, he bound my forearms together. When the teenager Vicki appeared, still topless, the Corporal placed a harness on her, while the Private, after checking that the Commander was nowhere in sight, took the opportunity to lift my skirt and play with my pussy, fingering my clit, prodding and rubbing. I just stood there squirming.
With both of us then harnessed and bound, they fastened each side of the crossbar of the cross to the backs of our harnesses, our folded arms resting on it behind us. After tucking up the back of my skirt to expose my ass, the Corporal then gave me a swat on the rear with the riding crop and said “Let’s move out.”
We pulled forward, dragging the far end (the base end) of the cross on the ground, out of the barn and up a vehicle path through the pines in the direction of the meadow. It was difficult going. The Corporal gave me steady encouragement with swats on the rear with the riding crop. The Private used the short whip on my breasts, often hitting me right across the nipples. I was gasping both with the effort of pulling the cross, and with the pain of the whipping they were giving me.
Vicki was getting progressively more upset at their treatment of me. But instead of channeling her emotions into helping me pull, she channeled them into reviling the militiamen, and demanding that she be whipped in my stead. Growing weary of her protests, the Private took out a red handkerchief and tied it across her mouth as a gag. In response, she stopped entirely, effectively preventing any further forward movement. The Corporal and Private lit into me with renewed energy. I continued to try to pull, crying out with every whip stroke, but could make little progress with her holding back.
“Please, Vicki! Please pull. Before he whips my nipples right off my chest.”
Apparently concerned that he was not making enough impression for me to mention specifically what he was inflicting on my rear, the Corporal switched from the riding crop to the rattan cane. I cried out even louder, begging Vicki to help pull.
With my cries becoming ever more desperate, the Private, apparently realizing that Vicki was more interested in sharing in the pain than sparing me pain, pulled a couple of clothes pins out his pocket, and unceremoniously clamped them onto her nipples. She let out a muffled scream into her gag, stood paralyzed for a moment, and then started to pull forward vigorously.
For the next few minutes the militiamen laid off of me, and we made steady progress up the path, finally reaching the meadow just beyond the crest of the hill. I looked around. Here was the place where I was to be crucified. The immediate area had been freshly mowed. I could see where the narrow post hole had been dug.
They had us bring the cross around so that the base was positioned at the post hole, such that when raised, with me on it, I would be facing out toward the expanse of the meadow, downhill. It was a good spot.
They unfastened the cross from us, and carefully laid it on the ground. The Corporal began to unbind my forearms from behind me. The Private, noting that the Commander had not yet arrived, took the opportunity to play with my breasts, squeezing them, and prodding and pinching my nipples. He was having a good time. I was squirming. Vicki, meanwhile, arms still bound, was trying to force herself on him, thrusting her breasts at him, still with clipped nipples, and incessantly jabbering into her gag.
Finally, my arms now freed from behind, I could protect my breasts. The Private left off of me and turned his attention to vigorously jerking Vicki’s clothes pins back and forth before pushing her on her way. This nevertheless seemed to satisfy her, and she wandered off into the arriving crowd, still harnessed, bound, gagged, and nipple-clipped.
The Commander having now arrived, they settled down to the business of preparing me to be hung on the cross. After removing the harness from my shoulders, and then slipping off my skirt, they tied a rope, two lines together snugly around my hips, and one line under the crotch, effectively providing me with rope panties of a sort. I gasped as they yanked the crotch line into my slit. They looped it around the rope lines in the back, but did not yet secure it. Rather, it would be secured to the cross. Then as I held my hands out before me, they secured to each wrist a massive padded cuff fastened to a short piece of rope.
With the Private and Corporal holding each arm, the Commander then lifted me by the thighs and placed me down on the cross. They spoke little, but handled me forcefully – not roughly, but forcefully impelling my compliant body – in order to convey the far greater combined physical strength of three guys versus one girl.
They stretched my arms out on the cross bar, and pulled tight. I winced as I watched them pound spikes through the rope loops.
The Commander then pulled out this peculiar chrome tubular object, smoothly rounded at each end. Taking a tube of lubricant jelly, with one massive squeeze of his fist, he emptied the gooey stuff onto the chrome object. With the Private and Corporal holding my knees apart, he slipped the dripping thing past my crotch rope and stuffed it all the way up my tunnel. I gasped loudly.
With the Private and Corporal still holding my knees apart, the Commander took up the riding crop and gave me a hard swat on the pussy. Whoosh …whap! “Ohhhhh!” Then another, whoosh …whap! “Oooooh!” And a third, whoosh …whap! “Ahhhhhh! Oh…oh!”
They then secured my feet to the cross with a wide leather band, the ends of which they nailed to the post. Finally they yanked the crotch rope tight and secured it in some manner to the cross.
As I lay there before them helplessly secured to the cross, the three militiamen admired their handiwork. Taking up the crop, the Private said, “She looks so good. Shouldn’t we give her a few more quick ones before we raise her up, Chief?”
The Commander nodded approval, and Private gave me three hard strokes in quick succession on each nipple. Whoosh …whap! …whap! …whap! “Ow! …Ohh! …Ooooooh!” Whoosh …whap! …whap! …whap! “Ooh! …Ahh! …Ohhhhhhh!”
Then with the assistance of several from the assembled crowd, they began to raise the cross. With one person guiding the base into the post hole, and the rest pushing from the back, it looked for all the world like some perverted version of the Iwo Jima Memorial statue – the one of those World War II soldiers struggling to raise that flag. Up I went, to the soundtrack music of Aaron Copland’s Fanfare for the Common Man.
The base of the cross slid into its hole. My body shook as the base hit bottom. I winced. Everyone else joined in a spontaneous, joyous cheer. Before their eyes, the daughter of god was up on the cross.
I hung there, arms taut about twenty degrees below the cross bar, knees somewhat bent, but with hip and crotch rope bearing a significant portion of my weight.
The spectators were crowding about, showering adulation upon me, ecstatically kissing my legs, fingering my pussy. One tall guy was exuberantly reaching up to poke my nipples and jiggle my breasts. It was hard for the militiamen to maintain control of the situation.
Nevertheless, they did finally restore a semblance of order. No more than one or two at a time were permitted to touch or kiss my legs or feet, and none were permitted to touch my more private areas. At first they considered my ass to be off limits, but later relented and allowed the grateful people to feel the welts.
The Commander was cordially mingling with the blissful crowd, while the Corporal and Private stood guard beneath me. While remaining aloof in the background, even that strange and extraordinary old man had an expression of benign satisfaction.
After a while a couple of women returned with food and drink for all, thereby adding to the already festive atmosphere. One teenage guy with bad skin was wandering around wearing a peculiar sort of a hat. Closer examination revealed that it was my panties he had slipped over his head and was now wearing at a rakish angle.
At one point Nick asked, “How are you doing up there? Can we do anything for you?”
“It would feel really good to be down off this thing, but I know fate cannot permit that. …This crotch rope is really biting into my slit. My arms are aching. …I guess it’s not yet so bad as to be termed ‘excruciating’, but now I understand the origin of that word.”
The Private asked, “Can I get you something to drink. It’s been an arduous afternoon for you.”
“Please, anything.”
He then rested a ladder against the crossbar beside me and climbing up, brought me a small bottle of spring water and placed it to my mouth. When that was finished, he brought up a glass of wine. He glanced around. Seeing that the Commander’s attention was occupied in conversation with the old man, the Private pressed his lips into mine. It was a long luscious kiss. He caressed my breasts. I arched outward, receptive.
He alternated giving me sips of wine and long sensuous kisses. As this went on it began to create a stir among the crowd. Many began to press around me, wanting to touch or kiss any part of me they could reach. The Corporal made no attempt to prevent them, but only tried to keep them from upsetting the ladder.
The Commander finally took notice. He watched intrigued for several minutes. Finally he approached and said, “Now that you’ve got her aroused, receptive, it seems the ideal time to move on to the last phase of today’s proceedings.”
Pulling some sort of remote control device out of his pocket, he aimed it at me, and depressed his thumb. That chrome tubular object that he had previously shoved into my pussy now sprang to life, pulsating, vibrating. I voiced a loud gasp. The Private silenced me by pressed his lips firmly into mine.
“We will force her to cum until she swoons,” announced the Commander.
That thing was thrumming, quavering inside my pussy. The crotch rope was pressing onto my clit. I couldn’t help grinding my hips, further rubbing on the rope. The Private was stroking, prodding my nipples, while pressing his moist lips into mine.
Gradually increasing the strength of the limited gyrations that my crucified pose could allow, after a time I burst forth into apparent climax, moaning with pleasure. But they would not let up on me, the stimulation forced me on and on. Gasping, panting, moaning, crying out, the orgasm would not release me.
Beyond the film-acting, it actually was both stimulating physically, with the sensations from my lips, nipples, and pussy, as well as stimulating emotionally, crucified by the militiamen before all these worshipful people. My arousal genuinely was hovering on the brink.
I have no problem with acting the part of cumming off in public. Although it makes no logical sense, and although events have forced it upon me before, I’m still rather uncomfortable emotionally with actually undergoing something so intimate as an orgasm in front of a crowd of people. Nevertheless, my arousal was such that I could no longer hold back. The glow in my womanhood burst into a climactic conflagration across my entire being. As I hung naked on the cross, I felt that I was consuming an entire throbbing universe into my incandescent body.
As the climax swept into ashes, I let my body go limp, as though having fallen unconscious – or dead. The Private descended and removed the ladder. The crowd stood silent, gazing up at me. Nothing moved. Nothing except a breeze lightly touching my hair, head slumped forward. No sound except that of the wind. Long minutes past.
Finally the three militiamen stirred. The Private replaced the ladder next to me, and climbing, cut my bonds, as the other two supported me from below. The three of them slowly and carefully let down my limp body. They carried me to the edge of the meadow, beneath a large tree, and gently placed me on a white cotton blanket. I lay as if dead. No one spoke.
The Commander clasped my hand. The Corporal gently touched my cheek, then caressed my neck and shoulder. There was no sign of life. …The Private gently kissed my lips. …I slowly opened my eyes, gave a little smile, and reached out my other hand. The scene faded to black. The credits rolled to the music of Rachmaninov.
The End
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