vulcan
Governor
deliver me from evil im ready for the cross and i cant believe my bodys a mess from the flogging
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Cruxton Abbey, 1605
- Thread starter Wragg
- Start date
That's a very kind offer, Mr Tree, your expertise will come in extremely handy...
vulcan
Governor
i take it im guilty of all charges bought against me can i have a request to die with dignity or is that out the question
vulcan
Governor
i takecit those two henchmenvwill be crucifying me or have you got proper crucifiers since hanging today iVe Been saying all my graces and now im rrady to be crucified
Dignity, Mr Vulcan? Do you imagine that His Majesty would have found bleeding to death in the rubble of his parliament dignified?
vulcan
Governor
i take thats a no then my body might look broken but i expect i will be tortured before im crucified for your qyestion i have nothing to say
Mr Bull very helpfully turned Vulcan back to face into the dungeon, so that he was better able to observe preparations for his own crucifixion. Then he and Gunner dragged the cross into place, and removed part of a flagstone from the floor, revealing a socket into which the cross would be placed when stood erect.
“Mr Gunner,” said Wragg, “kindly present my compliments to Mr Tree and invite him to join me down here.”
“Doo wot?” replied Gunner.
Wragg rolled his eyes. “Tell Tree I want him!”
“Oh. Right.” Irritated, Wragg watched him go. Honestly. Was there anyone in Christendom with a lesser intellect than Gunner?
Vulcan wasn’t watching. He was watching Bull laying out the spikes, and fetching a hammer that looked enormous. He noted the bloodstains on the cross, evidence that it had been used before. He could not believe this was happening to him. He was utterly, utterly terrified. He retched in his terror. Many times he had thought about crucifixion, looking at the figure on a cross during Mass, wondering what it would have been like.
Now he was going to find out. The hard way.
Tree arrived, looking even more cheerful than Gunner, who trailed in after him. “You called, milord?”
“Indeed I did, Mr Tree. I would like you to attach that man to that cross using those nails and that hammer.”
Tree licked his lips with delight. “Very good, Milord!”
Vulcan attempted to protest. “You can’t do this. You cannot do this. It’s against the law. It’s blasphemous!”
Wragg exploded again. “You DARE to lecture me about blasphemy? You who plotted Regicide, you who have been quoting papist nonsense ever since you set foot here?”
Bull and Gunner went to get Vulcan down. The instant Bull released him from his shackles Vulcan began to struggle violently, but these were big men, and even though he was covered in blood and sweat, he had no chance whatsoever of escaping their grasp. Each held a leg and an arm, and they physically carried the screaming, squirming Vulcan to his cross.
They plonked him down on the cross, winding him, and then Bull came round and sat on him. That was the end of any chance of escape. One Bull is sitting on you, you’re not going anywhere.
Vulcan was unable to do anything to prevent Gunner pulling out his right hand and holding it in place, but Tree shook his head. “He’s too high, move him down about four or six inches.”
Bull reached down, hands under Vulcan’s back, and shifted him for inches down the cross. Vulcan screamed, a blood curdling howl, as his bleeding back was dragged against the rough wood of the cross.
“I ain’t started yet, sonny,” Tree told him.
Vulcan tried, with every ounce of his strength, to pull his arm out of Gunner’s grasp, but Gunner held it firm. He saw Tree move into place, felt the slight prick of the nail in his wrist, saw Tree’s hand rise, gripping the hammer, and Vulcan shut his eyes.
Tree knew exactly where to place a nail for maximum effect. The nail shot through Vulcan’s carpus, shattering his capitate bone, tearing apart the intercarpal ligaments, and severing his median nerve. A single bolt of pain shot through his right hand, after which he never felt his fingers again, but a fireball of pain from his wrist hit his brain with all the force of a stampeding carthorse. Even after all he’d been through, Vulcan could not believe such overwhelming pain was possible. He opened his mouth wide, and bellowed with the full force of his lungs. Not only pain, but panic overwhelmed Vulcan. He could not stand this, he must get off this cross at all and any cost. He tried to struggle, but the second blow from Tree’s hammer put the nail firmly into the wood, and from then on Vulcan’s right wrist was effectively part of the cross.
At this time Vulcan was not capable of speech. His screams, vaguely had the form of ‘Noooooooo’ but beyond that they were only communicating utter agony to those in the room. None of whom were showing much sympathy.
Least of all Tree, who competently finished driving the nail home, before crossing to the other wrist.
“STOP! PLEASE!!!! STOP!!” Vulcan managed to form words, but then another nail sent another explosion of pain through his left wrist, and he was once more reduced to incoherent screaming. This time the nail passed alongside the nerve, rather than cutting it, which, if anything, was worse, as his fingers sent mighty jolts of pain to his brain as they contracted in uncontrollable spasms.
Tree drove that nail home, and Bull got up. Vulcan was no longer at risk of escape.
Tree decided that he would nail Vulcan’s heels to the side of the cross. That was a task easier accomplished with the cross upright, otherwise you ended up chasing the cross around if you attempted to nail into it sideways. He made a motion with his arm and Bull and Gunner jumped into action, lifting the cross up to the vertical.
For a second, Vulcan didn’t realise what was happening, as he felt the cross move. How could this get worse? But it was getting worse, very much worse.
“NOOOOOOOOO!!!! WAIT!!!!! NOOOOO!!! I’M NOT READY!!!!AAAAAAAARGH!!”
The cross thumped into its socket with a sickening jolt, and, after barely ten minute’s respite, Vulcan was once again suspended by his wrists. Only this time it was two savage spikes penetrating his wrists that held him in place. He tried to get some purchase on the cross with his heels, but to no avail, all his weight was dangling from his terribly wounded wrists.
Vulcan’s world was now one blinding nightmare of agony. He could not see properly, he could not breathe properly, he could not speak, all he could do was scream. His bladder and his bowels emptied onto Gunner’s sawdust, but Gunner just shrugged and fetched more to cover the mess.
Bull used Vulcan’s clothes, still laying nearby, to wipe the shit off his lower legs, then he bent Vulcan’s knee, and held his right heel against the cross.
Vulcan looked down through mists of agony at Tree preparing the nail, and knew he could stand no more.
“Sir…..Henry…..Percy.” Almost a whisper.
Wragg waved Tree away. “What did you say?”
“My Master…..Earl…of…..Northumberland. Please……stop……hurting….me!”
“Did you hear him?” Wragg looked at the others. Tree and Bull nodded. Wragg smirked in triumph.
Gunner looked disappointed. “Does that mean we have to get him down?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Mr Gunner! He had his chance to avoid the cross. It’s too late now. Finish your work, Mr Tree!”
Disbelief and despair at Wragg’s cruelty added to pain and panic, as Vulcan felt his heel bone shatter under Tree’s nail. Dreadful realisation that nothing he could say or do will end the agony, that Wragg would probably keep on inventing new sources of pain until he died. Vulcan had nothing left to fight with as he felt his other leg pulled into place, and could barely raise a whimper as that heel, too, exploded in a white hot fireball of agony.
Vulcan hung, nude, bleeding, humiliated and powerless, from four points of indescribable agony. Now he fully knew the meaning of the phrase “excruciating pain.”
“Mr Gunner,” said Wragg, “kindly present my compliments to Mr Tree and invite him to join me down here.”
“Doo wot?” replied Gunner.
Wragg rolled his eyes. “Tell Tree I want him!”
“Oh. Right.” Irritated, Wragg watched him go. Honestly. Was there anyone in Christendom with a lesser intellect than Gunner?
Vulcan wasn’t watching. He was watching Bull laying out the spikes, and fetching a hammer that looked enormous. He noted the bloodstains on the cross, evidence that it had been used before. He could not believe this was happening to him. He was utterly, utterly terrified. He retched in his terror. Many times he had thought about crucifixion, looking at the figure on a cross during Mass, wondering what it would have been like.
Now he was going to find out. The hard way.
Tree arrived, looking even more cheerful than Gunner, who trailed in after him. “You called, milord?”
“Indeed I did, Mr Tree. I would like you to attach that man to that cross using those nails and that hammer.”
Tree licked his lips with delight. “Very good, Milord!”
Vulcan attempted to protest. “You can’t do this. You cannot do this. It’s against the law. It’s blasphemous!”
Wragg exploded again. “You DARE to lecture me about blasphemy? You who plotted Regicide, you who have been quoting papist nonsense ever since you set foot here?”
Bull and Gunner went to get Vulcan down. The instant Bull released him from his shackles Vulcan began to struggle violently, but these were big men, and even though he was covered in blood and sweat, he had no chance whatsoever of escaping their grasp. Each held a leg and an arm, and they physically carried the screaming, squirming Vulcan to his cross.
They plonked him down on the cross, winding him, and then Bull came round and sat on him. That was the end of any chance of escape. One Bull is sitting on you, you’re not going anywhere.
Vulcan was unable to do anything to prevent Gunner pulling out his right hand and holding it in place, but Tree shook his head. “He’s too high, move him down about four or six inches.”
Bull reached down, hands under Vulcan’s back, and shifted him for inches down the cross. Vulcan screamed, a blood curdling howl, as his bleeding back was dragged against the rough wood of the cross.
“I ain’t started yet, sonny,” Tree told him.
Vulcan tried, with every ounce of his strength, to pull his arm out of Gunner’s grasp, but Gunner held it firm. He saw Tree move into place, felt the slight prick of the nail in his wrist, saw Tree’s hand rise, gripping the hammer, and Vulcan shut his eyes.
Tree knew exactly where to place a nail for maximum effect. The nail shot through Vulcan’s carpus, shattering his capitate bone, tearing apart the intercarpal ligaments, and severing his median nerve. A single bolt of pain shot through his right hand, after which he never felt his fingers again, but a fireball of pain from his wrist hit his brain with all the force of a stampeding carthorse. Even after all he’d been through, Vulcan could not believe such overwhelming pain was possible. He opened his mouth wide, and bellowed with the full force of his lungs. Not only pain, but panic overwhelmed Vulcan. He could not stand this, he must get off this cross at all and any cost. He tried to struggle, but the second blow from Tree’s hammer put the nail firmly into the wood, and from then on Vulcan’s right wrist was effectively part of the cross.
At this time Vulcan was not capable of speech. His screams, vaguely had the form of ‘Noooooooo’ but beyond that they were only communicating utter agony to those in the room. None of whom were showing much sympathy.
Least of all Tree, who competently finished driving the nail home, before crossing to the other wrist.
“STOP! PLEASE!!!! STOP!!” Vulcan managed to form words, but then another nail sent another explosion of pain through his left wrist, and he was once more reduced to incoherent screaming. This time the nail passed alongside the nerve, rather than cutting it, which, if anything, was worse, as his fingers sent mighty jolts of pain to his brain as they contracted in uncontrollable spasms.
Tree drove that nail home, and Bull got up. Vulcan was no longer at risk of escape.
Tree decided that he would nail Vulcan’s heels to the side of the cross. That was a task easier accomplished with the cross upright, otherwise you ended up chasing the cross around if you attempted to nail into it sideways. He made a motion with his arm and Bull and Gunner jumped into action, lifting the cross up to the vertical.
For a second, Vulcan didn’t realise what was happening, as he felt the cross move. How could this get worse? But it was getting worse, very much worse.
“NOOOOOOOOO!!!! WAIT!!!!! NOOOOO!!! I’M NOT READY!!!!AAAAAAAARGH!!”
The cross thumped into its socket with a sickening jolt, and, after barely ten minute’s respite, Vulcan was once again suspended by his wrists. Only this time it was two savage spikes penetrating his wrists that held him in place. He tried to get some purchase on the cross with his heels, but to no avail, all his weight was dangling from his terribly wounded wrists.
Vulcan’s world was now one blinding nightmare of agony. He could not see properly, he could not breathe properly, he could not speak, all he could do was scream. His bladder and his bowels emptied onto Gunner’s sawdust, but Gunner just shrugged and fetched more to cover the mess.
Bull used Vulcan’s clothes, still laying nearby, to wipe the shit off his lower legs, then he bent Vulcan’s knee, and held his right heel against the cross.
Vulcan looked down through mists of agony at Tree preparing the nail, and knew he could stand no more.
“Sir…..Henry…..Percy.” Almost a whisper.
Wragg waved Tree away. “What did you say?”
“My Master…..Earl…of…..Northumberland. Please……stop……hurting….me!”
“Did you hear him?” Wragg looked at the others. Tree and Bull nodded. Wragg smirked in triumph.
Gunner looked disappointed. “Does that mean we have to get him down?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Mr Gunner! He had his chance to avoid the cross. It’s too late now. Finish your work, Mr Tree!”
Disbelief and despair at Wragg’s cruelty added to pain and panic, as Vulcan felt his heel bone shatter under Tree’s nail. Dreadful realisation that nothing he could say or do will end the agony, that Wragg would probably keep on inventing new sources of pain until he died. Vulcan had nothing left to fight with as he felt his other leg pulled into place, and could barely raise a whimper as that heel, too, exploded in a white hot fireball of agony.
Vulcan hung, nude, bleeding, humiliated and powerless, from four points of indescribable agony. Now he fully knew the meaning of the phrase “excruciating pain.”
vulcan
Governor
thats it then im done fir now oh god im going to be here a kong time so father forgive them for they know not what they do
vulcan
Governor
its a pity no one could have,drawn what i would look like in the chamber chained up then hung on the cross im dreading what happens next should be more agony aghhh my back ive just slipped a bit [="Wragg134, post: 139461, member: 6338"]Drat, Tree, we forgot a crown of thorns 
Still, we do have other irons in the fire
[/QUOTE]
Still, we do have other irons in the fire
[/QUOTE]
vulcan
Governor
[/QUOTE]its a pity no one could have,drawn what i would look like in the chamber chained up then hung on the cross im dreading what happens next should be more agony aghhh my back ive just slipped a bit [="Wragg134, post: 139461, member: 6338"]Drat, Tree, we forgot a crown of thorns
Still, we do have other irons in the fire
i take it you caught no others yet and what else is going to happen to me i thirst
Sir Eustace Wragg was completely satisfied with Tree’s work, and made a mental note to slip him a bonus. He looked at Vulcan, struggling to find a position that was less agonising than any other, and concluded that, as crucifixions go, that one had been handled expertly. He regretted slightly that he’d been so hard on Vulcan with the whip, which might reduce his time alive on the cross, but other than that..good job well done. Plus Vulcan had confessed who his master was.
Excellent, excellent, excellent. All this for the price of a shilling and four nails. It was rare for Wragg to be in a good mood, all in the room, with the exception of Vulcan, were happy to enjoy it while it lasted.
Wragg considered the hot irons in the fire; should he try and extract any more information out of Vulcan? Well, maybe, but there was no rush. Vulcan would cease squirming in a hour or so and then perhaps he could liven things up with some hot irons.
Vulcan tried taking some weight on his heels, and his piercing screams and curses echoed around the dungeon as he pushed himself upward to take a draught of the foetid air in there. He wasted some of that preciously-won air on cursing Wragg and all his descendants, before collapsing back onto his outstretched arms with another drawn-out, blood curdling howl. He hung again, taking short gasps.
The sanitised, saintly, silver crucifixes that he had worshipped all his life had by no means prepared Vulcan for the awful reality of crucifixion. His whole body was ablaze with pain, not just at the nail sites, but all his limbs shook and jolted with the trauma that they were experiencing. Cramps that could not be relieved shook his calves and his upper arms. His mouth and throat were parched – that mug of mead in the Cruxton Arms seemed half a century ago. There was no escape from this unending torture, all he had to look forward to was death.
Vulcan longed for death….he believed the legion of martyrs would welcome him as one of their own, and bear him up to heaven…but how many hours of this must he endure first?
There came a timid knock on the door. Bull unlocked, and opened it. In walked the boy, Henry Duke.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, Sire, but…..ohhhh!” he recoiled in horror at the sight of the bleeding, crucified Vulcan. “Ohhhh!” he repeated, “Mr Vulcan, I never knew he’d do this…ohhh My God!!”
Vulcan raised his head and fixed Henry with a look of reproach that Henry would remember to the last day of his life.
“Never mind that, boy! What do you want?” Wragg was, once again, irritated.
“I have a visitor for you, Sire…. Sir Robert Cecil!”
Wragg was about to make his way upstairs to greet his visitor when the door burst open and in walked Sir Robert, flanked by two of his minions. “Sir Eustace, good morning, I understand from this boy that…” like Henry before him, he stopped, overcome by the sights, smells, and sounds of that dungeon. Sir Robert Cecil was entirely used to the methods and devices of the torture chamber, but even he had never seen anything like this.
“Wragg, what….what…..what in God’s name have you done to that man?”
Wragg bowed, formally. “Good morning, Sir Robert. This is Robert Vulcan, implicated in the gunpowder plot, and he has confessed to me within the last ten minutes that his master is the Earl of Northumberland!” Wragg stood smiling, awaiting congratulations.
“He…confessed…what?” Sir Robert still hadn’t entirely regained control of himself.
“That his master is Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland!” repeated Wragg.
Sir Robert looked at Tree. “Are those his clothes?”
“Yes, your Lordship.”
Cecil went over, and carefully picked up Vulcan’s coat. He reached inside a pocket, and withdrew a card. He glanced at it briefly, then passed it to Wragg.
Wragg looked at it.
ROBERT VULCAN, Esq
London agent for
His Grace the Earl of Northumberland.
“So,” said Cecil. “Let me see if I have this correctly. You have thrashed this man within an inch of his life, and subjected him to all the torture of crucifixion, in the process having completely ruined any opportunity to extract a meaningful confession from him, and all you have to show for it is information you could have discovered by searching his pockets? Information which, in any case, is a matter of public record?”
“I…I….I” Wragg’s mouth opened and closed, but nothing meaningful came out.
“You are an imbecile, Sir! You have allowed your base instincts to completely ruin any chance of proving who the mastermind is behind this plot!”
“But…but… we can still extract more from him! See! We have hot irons! We have a rack!”
“The first lesson of torture, Wragg is to build it up slowly! To use fear, and psychology, as much or more than violence! Anything we do to him now will be a HOLIDAY after your brutality!!!”
“Let me try, Sir Robert, let me try!”
Cecil administered the coup de grace. “I would remind you, Sir Eustace, that we require a written confession to stand up in court!” He pointed out Vulcan’s useless right hand, hanging limply from its nail, the nerve severed. “Do you imagine that he will sign his confession with a flourish? Given what you’ve done to his hands?” Cecil paused, for effect. “His Majesty with receive a full report of your…your…. treachery!”
“I beg your pardon, Sir Robert? All I have done has been on behalf of his Majesty! How dare you accuse me of treason!”
“Are you a Papist, Sir Eustace?” Cecil asked, dangerously.
“WITHDRAW THAT REMARK, SIR!” Wragg’s unstable temper overboiled.
“I am a reasonable man, Sir Eustace, and a reasonable man might well consider that you have done this, deliberately, in order to foil a proper investigation into a Papist plot! Arrest this man! We’ll continue this conversation in the Tower of London!”
Excellent, excellent, excellent. All this for the price of a shilling and four nails. It was rare for Wragg to be in a good mood, all in the room, with the exception of Vulcan, were happy to enjoy it while it lasted.
Wragg considered the hot irons in the fire; should he try and extract any more information out of Vulcan? Well, maybe, but there was no rush. Vulcan would cease squirming in a hour or so and then perhaps he could liven things up with some hot irons.
Vulcan tried taking some weight on his heels, and his piercing screams and curses echoed around the dungeon as he pushed himself upward to take a draught of the foetid air in there. He wasted some of that preciously-won air on cursing Wragg and all his descendants, before collapsing back onto his outstretched arms with another drawn-out, blood curdling howl. He hung again, taking short gasps.
The sanitised, saintly, silver crucifixes that he had worshipped all his life had by no means prepared Vulcan for the awful reality of crucifixion. His whole body was ablaze with pain, not just at the nail sites, but all his limbs shook and jolted with the trauma that they were experiencing. Cramps that could not be relieved shook his calves and his upper arms. His mouth and throat were parched – that mug of mead in the Cruxton Arms seemed half a century ago. There was no escape from this unending torture, all he had to look forward to was death.
Vulcan longed for death….he believed the legion of martyrs would welcome him as one of their own, and bear him up to heaven…but how many hours of this must he endure first?
There came a timid knock on the door. Bull unlocked, and opened it. In walked the boy, Henry Duke.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, Sire, but…..ohhhh!” he recoiled in horror at the sight of the bleeding, crucified Vulcan. “Ohhhh!” he repeated, “Mr Vulcan, I never knew he’d do this…ohhh My God!!”
Vulcan raised his head and fixed Henry with a look of reproach that Henry would remember to the last day of his life.
“Never mind that, boy! What do you want?” Wragg was, once again, irritated.
“I have a visitor for you, Sire…. Sir Robert Cecil!”
Wragg was about to make his way upstairs to greet his visitor when the door burst open and in walked Sir Robert, flanked by two of his minions. “Sir Eustace, good morning, I understand from this boy that…” like Henry before him, he stopped, overcome by the sights, smells, and sounds of that dungeon. Sir Robert Cecil was entirely used to the methods and devices of the torture chamber, but even he had never seen anything like this.
“Wragg, what….what…..what in God’s name have you done to that man?”
Wragg bowed, formally. “Good morning, Sir Robert. This is Robert Vulcan, implicated in the gunpowder plot, and he has confessed to me within the last ten minutes that his master is the Earl of Northumberland!” Wragg stood smiling, awaiting congratulations.
“He…confessed…what?” Sir Robert still hadn’t entirely regained control of himself.
“That his master is Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland!” repeated Wragg.
Sir Robert looked at Tree. “Are those his clothes?”
“Yes, your Lordship.”
Cecil went over, and carefully picked up Vulcan’s coat. He reached inside a pocket, and withdrew a card. He glanced at it briefly, then passed it to Wragg.
Wragg looked at it.
ROBERT VULCAN, Esq
London agent for
His Grace the Earl of Northumberland.
“So,” said Cecil. “Let me see if I have this correctly. You have thrashed this man within an inch of his life, and subjected him to all the torture of crucifixion, in the process having completely ruined any opportunity to extract a meaningful confession from him, and all you have to show for it is information you could have discovered by searching his pockets? Information which, in any case, is a matter of public record?”
“I…I….I” Wragg’s mouth opened and closed, but nothing meaningful came out.
“You are an imbecile, Sir! You have allowed your base instincts to completely ruin any chance of proving who the mastermind is behind this plot!”
“But…but… we can still extract more from him! See! We have hot irons! We have a rack!”
“The first lesson of torture, Wragg is to build it up slowly! To use fear, and psychology, as much or more than violence! Anything we do to him now will be a HOLIDAY after your brutality!!!”
“Let me try, Sir Robert, let me try!”
Cecil administered the coup de grace. “I would remind you, Sir Eustace, that we require a written confession to stand up in court!” He pointed out Vulcan’s useless right hand, hanging limply from its nail, the nerve severed. “Do you imagine that he will sign his confession with a flourish? Given what you’ve done to his hands?” Cecil paused, for effect. “His Majesty with receive a full report of your…your…. treachery!”
“I beg your pardon, Sir Robert? All I have done has been on behalf of his Majesty! How dare you accuse me of treason!”
“Are you a Papist, Sir Eustace?” Cecil asked, dangerously.
“WITHDRAW THAT REMARK, SIR!” Wragg’s unstable temper overboiled.
“I am a reasonable man, Sir Eustace, and a reasonable man might well consider that you have done this, deliberately, in order to foil a proper investigation into a Papist plot! Arrest this man! We’ll continue this conversation in the Tower of London!”
EPILOGUE
Sir Eustace Wragg was found guilty of High Treason and was hanged, drawn, and quartered at Tyburn on 16th February, 1606. Many believed that it was him who was the mastermind behind the Gunpowder Plot, a misunderstanding that suited both Sir Robert Cecil, and King James, very nicely indeed. Not to mention the Earl of Northumberland.
No evidence could be found linking either Robert Vulcan or the Earl of Northumberland with the gunpowder plot. Vulcan never completely recovered from his injuries but the Earl allowed him to live out his years in comfortable retirement in Alnwick Castle.
Sir Eustace Wragg was found guilty of High Treason and was hanged, drawn, and quartered at Tyburn on 16th February, 1606. Many believed that it was him who was the mastermind behind the Gunpowder Plot, a misunderstanding that suited both Sir Robert Cecil, and King James, very nicely indeed. Not to mention the Earl of Northumberland.
No evidence could be found linking either Robert Vulcan or the Earl of Northumberland with the gunpowder plot. Vulcan never completely recovered from his injuries but the Earl allowed him to live out his years in comfortable retirement in Alnwick Castle.
vulcan
Governor
i hope to do another storyvwith you soon involving pain and crucifixion im glad i survived and now take care
Thanks for being my victim, Vulcan, and for all the remarks along the way.
I confess I was using you as a bit of a guinea pig. All I have written so far has been around female crucifixion, and I wondered if I could write a story without female characters. There isn't one single woman in this story!
(No married ones, either )And you looked just fine, naked and outstretched upon your cross, so maybe I'm a crux bisexual
But, and I hope you don't mind me saying, nobody, male or female, will ever take the place of Barbaria, Queen of the Cross
vulcan
Governor
It
was a great piece of writing and thanks fir using me for the victim and hope we can do it againThanks for being my victim, Vulcan, and for all the remarks along the way.
I confess I was using you as a bit of a guinea pig. All I have written so far has been around female crucifixion, and I wondered if I could write a story without female characters. There isn't one single woman in this story!
And you looked just fine, naked and outstretched upon your cross, so maybe I'm a crux bisexual
But, and I hope you don't mind me saying, nobody, male or female, will ever take the place of Barbaria, Queen of the Cross
vulcan
Governor
how about me and you as two.prisoners who try to escape abd are captured and are tortured for infirmation its a pity we couldnt do this story for a film thenka again 
Yes, it was great fun, wasn't it?
I'll be sure to crucify you again
I confess I was using you as a bit of a guinea pig. All I have written so far has been around female crucifixion, and I wondered if I could write a story without female characters.
And you looked just fine, naked and outstretched upon your cross, so maybe I'm a crux bisexual
Welcome, Sir Wragg, welcome to the club of well rounded crux afficionados
No gender bias, crux for all, and pleasure for all.
You had the advantage of a very keen victim, of course.
Now, if I crucified Vulcan, he would probably not live out the rest of his days in comfort at Alnwick Castle! He would end his time on this earth nailed to that wood, its firm, organic touch a delight in contrast to the harsh pain of the iron nails. His body stretched, his energy sapped, his spirit broken with every breath. Blood flows slowly over his bare flesh, breath snatched into tightened lungs, minutes and hours pass as a continuum of agony - will the end never come?