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I Found the Help I Need

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This is my first story. It is about a man who needs to take his life and wants to go out in a more personally meaningful way than a physician could prescribe. He has an intense curiosity about experiencing a real crucifixion. He tried to explore it through second hand accounts of people who have been whipped short of permanent disability or who have hung by ropes from a cross. He visited a dominatrix once to get a severe whipping, but safety concerns stopped the scene before the feelings got sufficiently intense. He read plenty of fiction and watched plenty of videos. He never contributed to the community.

The man realized at some point that to have the ultimate BDSM experience, one can only really submit to the whip and the cross once. He saw in his early death an opportunity to realize his dream by volunteering to be crucified and offering himself up for the benefit of crux enthusiasts everywhere. Now he just needs to find someone to help.

If you have read the excellent work on voluntary crucifixions by Nicole, Blue, Cycle, Jessica Gentry, Onthecross and others on CF, as well as the amazing Polly Plummer, you know that this basic plot is not new. I hope you enjoy the perspective of a pragmatic middle aged male who needs a job done a certain way.



Part 1

I can’t believe this hurts so much! I now understand why excruciating is not a mere synonym of painful. Everything hurts. My spiked wrists. My shattered ankles. My shredded back. My cramping limbs. Even the bug bites that I cannot scratch.

But I have no regrets. It is Saturday afternoon and I have been hanging on a cross for almost 30 hours. I was worried about getting through the chill of the night without a shred of clothing. It was indeed unpleasant, but when the sun came up and warmed my skin, I found myself very proud of my accomplishments the previous day. I achieved a lifelong dream of experiencing what a real crucifixion feels like.

Mostly I am grateful that my suicide assistants have honored every wish. It could have been much worse. Instead of helping me to die the way I desired, they could easily have taken advantage of me in a vulnerable situation of my own creation.

You are probably wondering how I got here. I’m Todd. I’m a 55 year old male from the USA. I have a terminal illness. I am doomed to die like my grandfather, who declined for many years, gradually lost his dignity, and burdened his loved ones. Like many people, I want to expire before I lose control over my destiny.

I have had a good life, even though my wife is gone and my family is estranged. I have also had a lifelong interest in understanding the limits of how much pain a person can experience. I was raised in a deeply Catholic family and spent much of my formative years in church looking at images of someone dying on a cross. Priests kept saying that it was the most horrible way anyone ever died. More than inspiring devotion, I wanted to know just how bad could it really be. What is like to be severely whipped? How does it feel to have spikes driven through your bones? How agonizing is hanging on those spikes?

When the internet became popular in the 1990s, I was amazed to find online communities exploring their interests at the intersection of the human condition and physical pain. I came to appreciate the motivations of dominants and sadists, but also learned that I am at heart a masochist and a submissive. I have consumed BDSM content enthusiastically ever since, but I have never contributed to the community. Now I feel that my early death allows me to do right by those from whom I have taken all these years. I want to die by crucifixion, like so many before me. I hope some in the community benefit from my suffering.

Since I cannot do this alone, I began to seek out partners who could nail me to a cross and dispose of my body. It was important to get this right. I did not want to die after a botched execution that caused me great suffering but left me without the experience of a real crucifixion. I needed people with relevant experience whom I could trust.

I corresponded for a long time with a doctor who performs assisted suicides under Uruguay’s permissive law. He has a brother who is an undertaker and they have a large family farm outside Montevideo. It seemed perfect, but when we began discussing details about nailing, I became concerned that important concepts would not penetrate the language barrier. For example, they thought that Philippine passion plays represented the modern way to crucify someone, with thin nails through the palms and the tops of your feet.

It turned out that the right people were closer to home. I found a few fellow travelers with an interest in crucifixion who happened to have a large tract of land in the North Woods. They were willing to overlook that I’m not a twenty-something female. They have a small trusted group of experienced players in the scene. They have a secluded location with the privacy needed for an outdoor crucifixion. They have the technical know-how to construct a stipes and patibulum. They knew that nails go through the small bones of the wrist, arms should be spread at about sixty degrees, and a mortise and tenon makes the best joint for a low T-cross.



We corresponded for months via encrypted email. Although we never signed a contract because it would not be enforceable anyway, we agreed on a “script” describing the crucifixion process I desired. Even though we debated different ways to nail my feet, they accepted my desire to be nailed through the ankle bones with no footrest because it would be a more painful agony, although perhaps shorter. They seemed to be genuinely interested in whipping the skin off of a real back, pounding spikes through real limbs, and leaving me alone to suffer as their weekend entertainment. During our correspondence, I learned that they had previously escaped detection by the authorities after a torture weekend went badly for someone in their circle. I knew that they could help me.
 
Part 2

I went about making preparations with a surprising zeal. I made my own nails from railroad spikes at a local foundry. I ordered two signal whips from someone in Australia who uses kangaroo hide to make beautiful plaited leather work. I bought a burner phone and a train ticket to a station about two hours from their property.

I left letters on my kitchen table for the few family members who still talked to me. The letters explained my decision to seek active voluntary euthanasia, that I could not disclose the location or parties involved because our laws had not evolved to allow people to die on their own terms in the manner that they choose, and that I loved them. I packed a backpack with four spikes, two whips, and a printout of the train ticket. It also contained a wallet, the powered-off phone, and a change of clothes in case something went wrong and I needed to get back home.

We planned to meet at noon on a summer Thursday in the parking lot of an abandoned shopping center about a mile from the train station. They would be driving a nondescript white van.

I saw a van with three men inside circle a few times, probably trying to make sure I was not being watched or followed. When they pulled up, the passenger side window rolled down. A bearded man about my age asked, “Are you ready? This is your last chance to back out.”

I hesitated for a moment, and for some reason thought about the nails in my backpack. I remembered removing them red hot from the forge, hammering them into consistent tapers, and grinding the ends to sharp points. I have come this far, I reminded myself. I’ve got this, I told myself. “Yes, I’m ready,” I told the man and got in the van.

The guy in the back seat patted me down and said, “He’s clean.” As we were driving away, the bearded man in front turned around and handed me four leather restraints and told me to put them on my wrists and ankles. He then searched through my bag, removed my wallet and tossed it into a pond along the road. He did the same with the phone.

When I had secured the restraints, the man in front introduced himself as the leader of my execution team. “Call me chief,” he said and then told me to lie face down in the back of the van. “We put some carpet down for you because it is a long ride,” he added. The guy in the back seat then attached a hogtie chain and put a hood over my head. I was impressed with the quality of the bondage gear. That’s a good sign, I thought to myself.

I was getting pretty uncomfortable by the time the van stopped. We were in a clearing in the woods, maybe a few acres in size. There was an old farmhouse and a barn with a stone foundation. They helped me out of the van. The driver and the guy from the back seat were younger than Chief, maybe in their mid-thirties. They also looked strong, like stereotypical North Woods lumberjacks.

Chief then started to explain the rules. “Now that you have seen us and our retreat in the woods, you cannot leave. People with interests like ours need to be careful. We don’t need anyone identifying us.” Then he paused. I was expecting the worst.

He continued, “Regardless of what happens over the next few days, you story ends on Sunday at sundown when we light a bonfire under your body. Your decisions will determine whether you are hanging on a cross or still quite alive. If you stay on script, we will stay on script. If you try to escape or do not cooperate, we will enjoy torturing you until we burn you at the stake.”

This was my biggest concern with finding a helper. They might kill me, but deprive me of the crucifixion that I wanted so much to experience.

Chief added, “My wife has a ballcrusher and has always wanted to castrate a man with it. We never let her get close to us with it, but you will be an easy target.”

I always planned to be as compliant as someone being led to a long and painful death can be, but now I knew that I really needed to make their jobs as easy as possible.

He ended with, “I know how much you want this, but just in case, you will wear these leg irons until the party starts tomorrow morning. These guys also will be carrying tasers to subdue you if you try to run.” Despite the precautions, neither of the guys wanted to give me their names.
 
Part 3

With the ground rules established, we spent a few hours touring the property. They had erected the cross in a smaller clearing a short walk from the house. I was impressed with their carpentry skills and workmanship. The stipes was made from raw 8x8 lumber like you would use to build a timber frame building. There was a tenon on top about one third of the thickness of the upright.

The patibulum was tapered to about four inches thick at the outer edges, plenty of wood to hold a nail while reducing weight. It had a carefully made mortise in the middle. I suggested chamfering the tenon to make it easier to place tomorrow. They agreed and we worked on it together.

To avoid problems during my nailing, we also marked where my wrists should be attached to the crossbeam. We measured the distance from my wrists through my shoulders to the center of my body near my sternum when my arms were extended at about 30 degrees from vertical. To make the measurement more accurate, they temporarily placed the crossbeam on the upright and had me stand on a short stool while my wrist restraints were tied to the beam. Because I wanted to hang with my arms in an equilateral triangle, the length of my arms was to be the distance between my nails. They made two marks centered on the mortise and notched the crossbeam a few inches on each side.

Behind the house, they had also made a sturdy whipping frame from 8x8 lumber that looked like it had gotten plenty of use on previous weekends. There were blood stains soaked into the rough wood where one of the uprights had been used as a whipping post.

We discussed the difference in technique between the types of lashes that they would apply to my body the next day. In a cutting lash, the tip of the whip is cracked just as it hits the skin. In a wrapping lash, the thong hits the skin first and leaves a red mark or welt.

I had probably given this part too much thought after all those years watching whipping videos. So, it was important to explain the “crack the back, wrap the rest” approach that I wanted them to use on me.

Thinking it would be a good balance of pain and blood loss that would not excessively shorten my time on the cross, I wanted my whipping to remove an area of skin from my back about the same size as a letter sheet of paper.

I also wanted to experience lashes on my buttocks, thighs, chest, and crotch that would hurt, but not cause damage that could threaten my crucifixion. The two guys will alternate volleys of a dozen lashes, six from each side. They will start on my back with cutting lashes. After twelve, they will wrap the next twelve lashes randomly around my body. Then repeat. When the Chief decides that enough skin has been torn free from my back or hangs in ribbons, he will direct them to stop.

We practiced cracking and wrapping lashes on a punching bag strung up between the posts until early evening. Coincidentally, one of the guys was left-handed and the other’s whip hand was on the right. I was pleased because this would help their precision the next day as they took turns on each side of me. I started calling them Left and Right.

The guys and I were having a good time and getting to know each other, despite the awkwardness of knowing that they would kill me the next day.

Chief interrupted us with a reminder that we needed to make a video before dinner.
 
Part 4

One of the things we discussed during our correspondence was the idea of helping the community outside their trusted circle in the North Woods to experience a real crucifixion. The Chief also wanted evidence that I consented to be crucified as a defense in a future trial if things ever came to that. Neither of us expected it to make much difference in court. At least it would provide a good intro to a documentary for others interested in crucifixion.

We went inside the farmhouse to a home office where the Chief does business. His wife got behind a camera. He interviewed me for about twenty minutes about my interest in crucifixion, my illness, my debt to the community, and my desires for how the whipping, nailing, and hanging would be carried out. We ended with a close up shot of me asking him to assist me with “suicide by crucifixion”.

His wife turned out to be much more charming than one would expect of someone who wants to crush a man’s balls to pulp. She will be the documentary filmmaker. She explained how she plans to spend the next year editing the video to remove faces except mine, any recognizable features in the background, and software identifiers in the final data files that could lead authorities to them. I was delighted to have someone so smart and professional working on my legacy. She was delighted when I began calling her Director.

While we were talking, Left and Right were outside grilling steaks and welcoming guests who would stay through the weekend. Several other couples were still driving in from out of state and would arrive in the morning.

Everyone gathered in the dining room for a welcome banquet. The old farmhouse had a big stone fireplace and a heavy dining table made of oak. The only clue about its owners’ passions were the eye hooks placed at regular intervals around the sides of the table and on its sturdy wooden legs.

As the food was brought out, Director gave me a smoothie. “I know you would probably prefer something else for your last meal, but you are on a liquid diet from now on. We want to keep the mess to a minimum.”

The conversation over dinner was pleasant. They wanted to know more about how I found myself as their guest, what experiences I had with BDSM in the past, and my preferences about tortures while hanging on the cross.

They were a little disappointed to learn that I mainly hoped to hang in agony after the initial shock of being nailed and raised. I explained that I hoped they enjoyed the show, because watching the condemned decline under the unrelenting torture of having no good options to relieve their suffering on the cross has captivated onlookers for centuries.

Chief lightened the mood a little when he proposed that we start with a formal sentencing. Role play had always been part of their torture weekends. Everyone agreed.

Chief retrieved a gavel from his home office, donned a robe, and returned as judge to preside over the proceedings.

He began, “You have confessed to lurking on BDSM websites for decades. As an individual with a creative mind and a healthy body, you had so much to offer to the community. But you withheld while you satisfied your own selfish urges. You could have made so many others happy, but you refused. We have taken your flawed character into account as we decide your fate. Because your crimes have gone on for so long without any attempt to make amends, you deserve the strongest possible punishment.”

The dinner guests cheered him on. “Crucify him! Crucify him!”

He said to me, “You see where this is going, right?” and smiled. “Do you have any statement to make to the court?”

I replied, “I acknowledge the harm I have done to the community and accept the harshest punishment that the court determines to be appropriate.”

“Is that all?” he asked. I nodded, regretting that perhaps I was expected to play along a little more.

Then he continued, “You are sentenced to be nailed to a cross until dead. Tomorrow morning, you will be stripped of your clothes, tied to a whipping frame, and lashed until the skin of your back has been flayed from your body. You will then carry your crossbeam to the site of your crucifixion. You will do all of this without protest under the terms of this jurisdiction.” I assumed that the terms meant being tortured for a few days before the mercy of being burned alive.

“Square metal spikes will be hammered through your wrists before you are raised. After you are hanging from the cross, similar spikes will be hammered through your ankles. No other support will be provided for your comfort while you die on the cross. The raising shall be completed before noon.” Chief banged the gavel.

Even though the sentence was exactly what we had discussed over months of correspondence and as we had talked about in very matter-of-fact terms while walking around the property earlier in the day, listening to the dispassionate description of my imminent ordeal triggered a shock of anxiety. It also triggered a spasm in my crotch.

Both were interrupted when the Chief continued, “The standard procedure of this court in capital cases is to mark the condemned for execution. You will be branded on the front and back of your body with a cross to indicate to all who witness your punishment that this sentence has been handed down to you and not someone else.”

Left returned with a bucket of warm coals from the grill and proceeded to stoke the fire until it was burning brightly in the fireplace. Right went to the barn and came back with a long iron that had an end in the shape of a cross about three inches high.

I wondered if they had planned this all along and made it especially for me. It was off script, but consistent with the initiation rituals of new subs that they had described previously in our correspondence.

While the iron was heating in the fire, they cleared the table and made me bend over the end. They pulled my shirt off and tied my wrist restraints to the hooks in the table.

Chief pulled the iron from the fire and showed me that it was glowing reddish orange. The guests cheered him on. “Brand him! Brand him!”

Without hesitation, he smashed the iron into my lower back, just above my waist and to the left of my spine. This would be an area not disturbed by the whipping. I screamed.

He said, “I was worried that you would be too much of a novice to withstand with dignity the tortures you requested. You are going to need to do better.”

They then turned me over and refastened the restraints. When the iron had heated up again, the Chief returned. “This time you get to watch.”

He held the brand over my right breast and slowly lowered it while I struggled. The mark was burned into my chest mid-way between my nipple and collar bone. Some of the lashes the next day would certainly aggravate the wound, I thought to myself.

I screamed again. The guests cheered. Director had been recording the whole ceremony.
 
Part 5

As the guests began to retire, Chief asked Left and Right to take me to get some rest before we continued in the morning.

They gave me my shirt back and led me to a small room with stone walls in the barn. It had a cot, a sink, and a toilet. The floor had some straw, probably tracked in from the pens where animals once fed. It also had bars on the windows, a heavy wooden door, metal hooks in the ceiling and walls, and a wooden bench that looked like a Spanish horse. I imagined that the cell had been used by the victims of many torture weekends before.

As Left and Right were about to leave, I looked each of them in the eye. I wanted them to know that I really appreciated what they were doing for me. I also wanted them to know that I needed them to stay on script.

I said, “Thank you for helping me through this. I did not want to die meaninglessly from a cocktail of euthanasia drugs or a self-inflicted gunshot. You are giving me just what I have wanted for a long time, but could not do for myself.”

They turned away from the door and came back into the cell.

“No matter how much I plead for mercy tomorrow, I need you to remember that I want to experience the pain. I do not want to feel like I missed out on any of the experience of being severely whipped and crucified. Please do not hold back.”

They nodded.

“I’m sure that this will seem a little disingenuous because I can’t really stop you. I have a virgin ass. If you would like to fuck me, I would consider giving you the pleasure to be a small token of my appreciation.” I saw their expressions change.

It did not take long before Right had attached me to the bench and pulled my pants down. Right jammed his erection into my ass while Left hardened in my mouth.

When they zipped back up and locked the door, I had two loads in my gaping ass and two loads in my stomach.

I was never into ass to mouth and found the taste in my mouth more disgusting than any blowjob I had ever given. I chewed on some straw to try to make it better.

They kept the chain on my ankles, but the cot was comfortable and there was a blanket so I did not get too cold in the damp cell. I slept better than I expected, despite my painful burns and sore ass.
 
Part 6

At sunrise, Director brought me coffee and another smoothie. “I want you to be alert and have plenty of energy today. I gave you extra protein and sugar in your breakfast.” I thanked her.

She continued, “Some of our guests will not arrive until about 8:00 am, so you have a couple of hours before we come for you.” I told her that is good news because I would enjoy a little time to collect my thoughts.

She asked if I would like to be interviewed before the stripping and whipping. I suggested that maybe she should return about an hour later.

When Director came back with the camera, she asked me to tell the audience how I was feeling and what I was thinking about.

I looked at the camera and said, “My helpers have treated me very well. I had a good night’s sleep. Even though I am anxious, I have kept my breakfast down. Even though we have discussed the process of my crucifixion in great detail, I am still not sure what to expect. Watching porn does not give much information about tortures that are not safe, sane, and consensual. I do not know what it is like to be whipped until bloody. I certainly have no idea how I will react to being nailed and raised. I’m just thankful that I found people who could help me.”

I ended with “I hope you get as much out of this as I do.” Director turned off the camera and left the cell.

Even though she locked the door behind her, it was probably not necessary. I felt surprisingly calm. Maybe I was not really thinking about what was coming next.

Left and Right came to the door. Left said, “It is time to face your punishment.” They bound my wrists behind my back with a locking ring.

Still in my leg irons, we walked slowly to the area near the whipping frame. A group of about fifteen people had gathered. There was a table with coffee, fruit, and pastries near the house. Everyone stopped talking as the three of us arrived.

Chief had his robe on from the previous evening and began the proceedings with a welcome.

“Thank you, trusted friends, for visiting this weekend. As you know, we have a rare opportunity to watch a real crucifixion.” Chief gestured toward me.

“This man is seeking help with an assisted suicide and does not want to go by normal, more humane means. He also does not want to leave a big mess by killing himself with a gun or jumping from a building. His Catholic upbringing had the unintended consequence of creating a deep interest in what Jesus felt as he suffered on the cross. He approached us wanting help to experience death by crucifixion, nails and all. I applaud his courage. I also applaud his consideration for those who will dispose of his remains.” The crowd applauded.

Chief paused and asked those gathered if they had any questions. One who was not there the night before asked me if suffering such a horrible death was really my wish. I nodded.

Chief continued, “He has sought wisdom about reactions to pain from the BDSM community for decades, but he found mainstream porn sites lacking. Only now has he let his interests seep into his real life. For his selfish decision not to contribute to the community despite clearly having a deep passion for the topic, we agree that the harshest punishment is warranted. Over the next few days, you will witness the slow destruction of this man. We will begin with a severe whipping. This will be bloodier than you have experienced here in the past because we do not need to concern ourselves with avoiding permanent injury. Our lictors will not stop until we have removed this much skin from his back.”

He held up our script printed on a letter size sheet of paper. The crowd cheered, “Whip him! Whip him! Make him bleed!”

Chief concluded, “I hope you enjoy the journey. There are refreshments at the table by the house.” He looked at me and then asked Left and Right to remove the ring between my wrists and the chain between my ankles.

After giving me a moment to run, and probably quietly hoping I would, Chief announced, “Your punishment is intended to be both painful and humiliating. Please remove your clothes.”

I complied. I was not surprised by my erection, but I was also not pleased to show it to the crowd. The jeering has already begun.

Left and Right marched me to the whipping frame. They attached my wrist restraints to ropes hanging from the overhead beam. They asked me to spread my legs and attached my ankle restraints to ropes secured to metal rings in the dirt below. I was in the same place as the punching bag the day before.

Director had placed three cameras around the whipping area, one capturing my front, one focused on my back, and one on my face. She had a handheld too that she was using for closeups. Such a pro!

Chief instructed Left and Right to begin with twelve lashes to the back, alternating sides. The first lash wrapped more than cracked. It still hurt as it slapped my side and grazed my nipple. The second lash was not much better. They were still calibrating.

The third lash cracked perfectly. I felt the searing pain of my skin being cut open. I felt a little blood run down my skin before the next lash hit. I did not scream, just let out a grunt. The next few lashes were just as accurate. I began to react more loudly as the eleventh and twelfth lashes hit.

Chief said, “Now please move around and apply the next dozen to other parts of the body.” They applied a few lashes to my buttocks and thighs before moving to the other side of the frame.

It was terrifying to watch the whip coming at my chest. While most of the strokes just wrapped, hurting terribly, there were a few places where blood was drawn. The worst was the one that left a bright red gash across my still-tender brand.

The next dozen were on my back. Left and Right were getting very consistent at crossing their lashes so that each pair would destroy some part of my skin. I could feel blood running freely. I think I even felt it dripping from my testicles. I could definitely see red spots appearing on the ground between my feet.

Having your skin removed this way was indeed very painful. It was also very slow. They were taking their time between strokes to let the blood ooze, let the pain soak in, and let me anticipate the next pair of lashes.

They gave me no reason to think that they were holding back. In fact, they seemed to be enjoying themselves. I was the latest victim in a long series of torture weekends for them.

For the next dozen, they focused mainly on my buttocks and thighs. Some of the wraps pricked holes in my hips and legs. A few reached my penis and balls. My erection had subsided.

The wrapping lashes were much less painful than those to my back, but I could see my skin reddening and raised welts developing all over my front side.

The next dozen continued to tear at my back. The drops of blood at my feet were forming into small pools soaking into the dirt. There were even scraps of flesh on the ground around me. I was not really screaming much anymore. My throat was hoarse. Unconsciously, I seemed to have decided that yelling was just using energy and not making a difference. The lashes continued to fall.

The next dozen were all aimed at my chest and genitalia. Left and Right were now practiced enough to hit my nipples at will. They left them abraded and bleeding slightly before shifting their attention downward.

That same precision was very effective at lacerating my penis and balls. I looked down and did not see much blood, but the feeling of the whip hitting my testicles was sharper than any kick I had ever experienced.

Before the next volley, Chief said, “After 36 well-placed lashes to the back, you have nearly completed the objective. Let’s stop at the traditional 39. Please make the last three count.” Left applied the final lash to my back.

Chief said, “We are done with this side. I have heard accounts of skin hanging in ribbons after a proper whipping, but I never expected to see it. Great work, gentlemen. Please make the last three count on the front too.”

As you can probably expect, my penis got redder and my balls ached more after being slapped around by the last few throws of the whips.

Chief then picked up the bucket that contained the hot coals from the previous evening. It had been filled with water. He splashed it on my shredded back. I realized immediately that the water was a strong brine. The salt burned terribly. I screamed loudly. The crowd applauded.

Chief removed my bonds and let me recover crouching on the ground while Left and Right retrieved my patibulum. Chief asked me to take off the leather cuffs, adding “We have other ways of restraining your wrists and ankles that are more effective, but probably quite a bit more painful.” I complied. Sitting in the grass, I could feel the sun drying my skin. It was strange feeling the breeze on the exposed flesh of my back. The wetness was giving way to loose scabs. Seeing the sun high in the sky now, I also became concerned that my fair complexion would not be an asset as the day went on.

When they returned, they helped me to my feet and placed the flat surface of the tapered crossbeam across my shoulders. I was relieved that it did not overlap the wounds on my back, at least at first.

Chief explained to the guests that we were making one concession to modernity with what was otherwise going to be a very traditional crucifixion. “You know how much we have enjoyed using cattle prods on our subs in the past. I think they will be very effective for urging the condemned toward his place of death.” Left and Right brandished their weapons menacingly.

We began to walk into the forest and the guests followed. I felt stones, pine cones, and other uncomfortable objects under my feet.

I was pleased that the crossbeam was not too heavy. The tapering was a great idea.

Even though they threatened to prod me, they never had to. I walked steadily up a gently sloping path to the next clearing.

Director recorded my “via crucis” on her handheld camera.
 
This is most excellent. Keep it going. I can't wait to read about him being nailed to the crossbeam. This story is very much one of my fantasies. Obviously I have a few variations to your story, but your story has me dreaming about being the man described above, at this point, waiting to be attached to his cross.
 
Thank you, Lovessex247 and havaianas. Here‘s the next part, including nailing. I hope you enjoy it.
 
Part 7

The next clearing is about half the size of the one with the house and barn. The stipes stands along the north edge, far enough from the trees that it can serve as a part of a funeral pyre. Several stepladders and stools remained from the day before. There is a stone fire circle in the middle of the clearing, where many of the guests have no doubt relaxed in the past after a hard day of torturing or being tortured.

Two of the couples who arrived the day before had set up camp in the shade along the south and west edges. On the east edge, there is a tent with screened sides and a big table of food inside. There are coolers with refreshments and a keg of beer. They are well prepared for a long weekend of watching me writhe on the cross.

Left and Right guided me to set down the crossbeam at the base of the upright. It had torn open the wounds on my back while I walked, so I was glad to put it down. I stood around, aware of my nudity and beginning to feel my penis grow again, as the crowd arrived and I looked around at my place of death.

Chief approached me and told me to lie down on the ground so that my head was near the mortise. I quickly complied, happy that sitting down hid my erection somewhat. It calmed down a little more when my shredded back rubbed across the grass.

He pulled the spikes out of my backpack and lightly touched their sharp points as he showed them to me. They clanged a bit as he set them on the ground next to my head.

Left and Right appeared with some rope and asked me to position my wrists near the marks we made after our carpentry project the day before. We thought the rope would help to make sure that the nails affixed my wrists in the right spot in the center of the beam near the marks.

They wound the rope around the crossbeam through the outer notch over where my palm meets my thumb and tied it off. The did the same through the notch just below my wrist. They repeated on my other arm.

Chief had retrieved a heavy metal hammer. It had two flat faces and a stout head, like you would use to split wood or chisel stone. It should make quick work pushing a few tapered spikes into evergreen timber. I’m glad these guys are pros, I thought. Then I thought about whether it was harder to nail through wood or bone. We would know soon enough.

Director had finished moving the cameras and tripods from the whipping area to the smaller clearing. Two cameras were now placed off to the sides in front of the upright. A third was in the middle and would capture closeups of my face while I hang. She continued to walk around with her handheld camera, interviewing guests and getting closeups of my back. She was very good at anticipating when I might have an interesting reaction and seemed to always be at the right place at the right time. She even got Chief playing with the nails, jingling them next to my ear.

As I lay on the ground, she pointed the camera at me and asked me how I was feeling.

“The whipping was amazing. It hurt a lot. It was also much like I imagined it would be. Feeling your skin being torn open is not like anything else I have ever felt. It is so much more intense than the safe whippings you see on the internet. Feeling the blood run down your back, even drip from your body, is really intense too. Too bad others can’t experience it without making it part of their final act.”

“What about now? You are about to be fixed to this wooden beam forever. How are you feeling?” Director asked.

“Honestly, I really have not given much thought to how it will feel having the spikes driven through my bones. It always just seems so terrible that I quickly try to think about something else. I suppose that many of the victims of crucifixion in the past were the same way. They were not in a position to resist what was happening to them. It just happened. One moment you were free. Shortly after, you were being held down while someone pounded metal through your limbs. You just have to take it. I’m still curious how I will take it.”

Chief asked the crowd to gather around. “The next part of his punishment is to be nailed to this crossbeam, which the Romans called a patibulum. Unlike the crucifixions you may have seen before, this is permanent. He will be united with this piece of wood for the rest of his life.” He continued, “To give you a sense of how much he wants this, he made these nails himself. We have a pretty good metalworker here.” He passed the nails around for everyone to touch and admire. “Does anyone have any questions?” he asked the crowd.

One man asked me, “You have had a pretty tough time so far today. Do you have any desire to stop this torture now?”

I responded, “No. Christians venerate their god’s suffering on the cross as the most selfless thing he could do for mankind. Imagining the pain he felt is a big part of the devotion. I have always wanted to know how bad it could really be. I’m not suggesting that it was a pleasant experience for him, but I’m kind of a skeptic at heart. I want to feel it for myself. Please enjoy yourselves.”

Chief agreed, “Let’s do this!” The crowd cheered, “Crucify him! Crucify him!”

Left moved into position and sat on my left arm. Right straddled my chest. He also placed a towel over my penis. I think it was for catching my urine if I lost control during the nailing, but I appreciated the modesty it allowed.

Chief grabbed the hammer and one of the spikes. He showed it to me again before kneeling on the ground near my right hand. He placed the nail in the hollow of my wrist at the base of my palm. It was vertical to the wood. I felt the sharp point. Then he remembered to angle it slightly so that it would exit between my radius and ulna. He pushed it into my skin a little deeper. I grunted. He looked at me again. I nodded.

He raised the hammer and hit the nail hard. I’m not sure if it penetrated all the way though my wrist on the first blow because the pain was blinding. I screamed. The crowd cheered.

The second blow definitely hit wood. I screamed again. More cheering.

I could feel my bones spreading or breaking as the third blow fell. I have never broken a bone, so I did not know whether this was it.

By the fourth blow, it did not matter. As I struggled, I was involuntarily pulling my arm toward me. My hand was no longer moving.

The head of the spike was almost on my wrist. Chief stopped hammering.

I looked down my arm. My fingers were already in a claw shape. This telltale sign of nerve damage confirmed for me that this was real. There is no going back now, I thought.

When I forged the railroad spikes into the objects of my torture and death, I also enlarged the heads so that they would prevent me from pulling free. The Romans used wooden washers. My spikes were about two inches in diameter on top. I was pleased to see how well the spike covered the wound through my wrist.

As I struggled, I had also involuntarily pulled my left arm toward me. Left had to reposition the ropes before we could place the second nail. Note to future crucifixion teams: Tie one arm at a time.

Chief moved to my left. Left sat on my right arm, even though it was not going anywhere. I think he liked feeling me strain against my bonds while being nailed.

Chief picked up another nail and showed it to me again. He really is a sadist. He pricked my wrist again. It looked like he forgot to angle it. Despite the shooting pain in my other arm otherwise overwhelming me, I said, “Please remember to angle the spike.” He quickly corrected his mistake and let the hammer fall.

This time he did not hit as hard. The spike went less than an inch into my wrist. I howled in agony. He wanted to take it slow and let me suffer.

It took nine blows before the head of the spike was just above the skin of my wrist. I was crying. The crowd was cheering. The Director was in my face recording.
 
Part 8

They left me lying in the grass for a while as the guests went to the tent for refreshments. I kept testing how much I could move my arms. Each time I was rewarded with intense shooting pains down the damaged nerves. Hanging on these spikes was not going to be pleasant, I thought.

People filing by kept asking me how I felt. I was still sobbing, but I tried to answer as factually as possible. “It really hurts. I can’t feel my hands. But that does not make it any better. I have shooting pains from my wrists to my shoulders. Especially if I try to move. I can’t imagine what it will be like to hang from these nails.” Director recorded that too.

Because it was a short cross, they planned to raise me by helping me get to my feet, then Left and Right would stand on short stools as they placed the crossbeam on the tenon. My feet would be less than a foot off the ground when my legs were fully extended and I was hanging by my arms.

Chief assembled the crowd for the next step in my crucifixion. “Now we will raise him onto the cross. If you thought the nailing was entertaining, you will not want to miss this.”

Left and Right were standing at the ends of my crossbeam. The reached down and began to lift it. Lightning shot down my arms. First I sat up. They pulled the crossbeam higher. I struggled to get my feet under me. They paused when I was on my knees. The crossbeam was perched on their shoulders.

Chief asked the crowd, “If you have read any crucifixion erotica, you know that fucking the condemned usually happens about now. Would anyone enjoy the oral attention of our volunteer today? I know I would.” He turned and approached me, pulling up his robe to show me his stiffening penis. This was off script too.

I rolled my eyes. Left jerked the beam a bit to remind me that he could control my pain level. Chief said to me, “Don’t bite. That would be off-script.” I opened my mouth. It was pretty dry because I had not drunk anything since before the whipping. Someone offered me his beer. I took a few quick gulps and wrapped my lips around Chief’s dick.

He was probably not very impressed with my blowjob skills because he started jerking himself after only a few minutes. He came in my mouth. I showed him the cum on my tongue and swallowed.

Five other guys took advantage of the opportunity. The next two came in my mouth. With my work ethic waning, the last three preferred to make a mess on my face. There was no way I was going to be able to wipe it away and no one offered to help me.

One woman also wanted me to lick her, but by this time Left and Right were getting tired of holding the beam and pulled me to my feet. I screamed as lightning struck again. Someone’s cum dripped from my chin.

Left and Right climbed onto their stools, jostling the beam again and making me cry out. The crowd began cheering, “Raise him! Raise him!”

“On three, lift!” said Right. “One. Two. Three.” They lifted the beam above the tenon and let it drop onto the upright. I howled again. Every camera surely captured it.

Now I was hanging by my arms. The spikes were holding. They were also splitting my bones farther apart. It was killing me, literally. I began to cry again.

Chief climbed a short ladder and began pounding a steel wedge between the tenon and the side of the mortise on one side of the beam. This was to keep the cross stable while I struggled. It also had the effect of shaking the cross and making my arms hurt more. He probably hit the wedge a few more times than necessary because watching my reaction was so such fun.

Now I had a new problem. Hanging by my arms was making it hard to breathe. It also made my shoulders strain to hold my weight. I could feel the muscles and tendons stretching. I hoped that they would not dislocate. So far so good.
 
Part 9

They did not let me hang long before giving me a way to support myself.

Chief grabbed his hammer and a spike off the ground. He held it up before the crowd and said, “The punishment is not yet complete. If we let him hang like this he will expire quickly. So this step is very important. We will nail his feet to the cross, allowing him to take the strain off of his arms. Not only will this prolong his agony, however, it will also add to it.” He gave me a devious look.

“Our volunteer asked to be nailed through the ankles, not the feet like we see in religious paintings. I am sure both hurt, but with the ankles larger bones are disturbed. Some say that you can raise yourself better with the ankles affixed to the sides of the cross than you can standing on a nail between the bones of the upper foot. If true, that is an advantage because he will last longer. But nailing through the ankles does two other things for us. It will probably shatter the bone where the leg meets the foot, making any attempt to raise himself that much more painful. It also spreads his legs to the sides of the cross, so that we can better enjoy his manhood as he suffers.”

“Chief, you are quite the professor,” I said. The crowd laughed. He probably decided to make it up to me.

Left lifted my foot so that is was about two feet below my butt and held it along the side of the upright. Right wound a rope around my lower leg and foot to limit my movement. Chief placed the tip of the spike just below the bulge of my ankle. He felt around to find an indentation in the bone and pressed the sharp point into my flesh. I winced. He struck. I screamed. The crowd cheered.

There is a lot more bone to go through in the ankles than the wrists. Even though he swung the hammer pretty hard, it barely penetrated my body. He paused for a moment to let me take it in.

I was hyperventilating between panicked screams. Nothing up to this point in the crucifixion process prepared me for this. The bone was partly broken and it hurt much more than when my wrists were nailed. I thought that perhaps I had made it through the first part without breaking any bones, because this was much worse.

Chief playfully wiggled the nail around in my wound while I pleaded for him to stop. “Just hit it, please!” I begged.

He struck again. I screamed like a wounded animal. How I sounded in my own head was a surprise even to me. As I calmed down, it realized that he made it through the bone, because I could feel the nail piercing the skin on the other side of my ankle.

Three more blows and the head of the spike covered the wound. I could feel blood dripping off my foot.

The team changed sides. As with my arms, Chief learned something about how spikes advance through bones and flesh and used this information to make the second side more painful. He tapped the last nail slowly through my ankle. I lost count but it was probably at least a dozen blows before he finished. I was so hoarse and out of breath that I stopped screaming before I was fully crucified.

“Good work, gentlemen. It is 11:55. We finished the raising ahead of schedule. Get yourselves a beer. You deserve it!” said the Chief to his team.

They left my backpack at the base of my cross. All it contained now were the clothes that I would never wear again. I urinated a dark stream concentrated due to trauma and dehydration. It arched well beyond the backpack and soaked into the grass.

After letting me calm down for a few minutes, Director approached me with her camera. “You made it! How does it feel to be crucified?” I replied, “I know why they gave excruciating its own word. I thought my arms hurt until they nailed my legs. My ankles definitely hurt more than my wrists. But everything hurts so much! It is really hard to describe.” I stopped and sobbed for a moment. My tears were washing some of the dried cum from my face.

“Just having my legs no longer hanging free has really reduced the strain on my arms. My chest feels full though. This talking is making me need to breathe,” I said after regaining some composure.

“I’m going to try to push up now.” From the fiction on the internet, I fully expected this to be the worst part. My body was insisting that I do something. I decided to see if I could fully straighten my legs. There was a circle of onlookers watching intently to see how far I got.

Part of why I wanted to be nailed with my ankles 18-24 inches below my butt is so that my legs would be about 45 degrees from the vertical post. My knees were at about right angles, splayed wide because my ankles were fastened about 8 inches apart on each side of the upright. I hoped that this would give me enough leverage to lift myself upward dramatically while filling my lungs.

I tensed my gluteals and hamstrings. Sharp pains scorching up my legs from my shattered ankles stopped me before I could rise more than a few inches. I collapsed to regain my senses. The crowd started cheering me on, “You can do it! Rise up! Rise up!”

I decided to push through the pain and just do it, even if it ruined my ankles to the point that I could not do it again. Thinking that I could shorten my agony by sabotaging my body went against everything I had read, but what did they know, I thought. I’m crucified, those writers were not. It turns out that they were right.

In one great lunge, I pushed up with all the strength I had. My torso arched outward almost as much as it went up. I felt it in my shoulders, but not as much as in my ankles. I was not quite able to lock my knees, but I stayed up long enough to get a good volume of air into my lungs. I noticed my penis projecting forward and liked the feeling. I was no longer ashamed of my nudity and offered the crowd everything I had. Well short of an erection, I must have oozed a bit of precum, because I felt the cool on the end of my penis as it evaporated in the sun.

The crowd cheered. The cameras rolled. I felt triumphant. “I did this!” I yelled. “I’m crucified!”

I used most of my gulp of air with that outburst. I tried to inhale again, but I could not ignore the pain in my legs. To stand, my ankles rotated on the square spikes, pushing the shattered bones farther apart. I collapsed, hurting my shoulders and wrists in the fall.

For the next few hours, I performed the dance of the crucified. I never made it as high again, but I got into a pattern of raising myself at least a few inches every few minutes. I found a middle ground that relieved the strain on my wrists, released enough stress on my chest for a few shallow breaths, and did not aggravate my ankles too much.

I was still pretty lucid, but I could feel the cross and the exposure taking its toll. My skin was getting bright red from sunburn. I kept reopening the wounds on my back as I moved around on the cross. Insects were taking notice of my sweat and seeping blood. I was getting very thirsty.

The intervals between my thrusts upward gave me time to contemplate my situation. I was very pleased that my helpers had stayed mostly on script. I enjoyed the attention of the audience. I was in great pain, but the cross had not broken me yet. I felt like I might survive until they started the pyre beneath my feet on Sunday night.
 
Part 10

The audience mostly retreated to their quarters to escape the afternoon heat. The new couples who arrived in the morning built campsites around the edge of the clearing. Chief and several others began stacking wood in the fire circle for an evening bonfire.

One couple emerged naked from their tent and spread a blanket at the base of my cross. They likely found their tent to be stuffy and were probably aroused by my occasional grunts, screams, and sobs. The female got on all fours in front of me and gave me a great show before her boyfriend plowed her from behind. A little more precum cooled my dick.

They inspired two men to trade blowjobs on the lawn while I watched. A little more cooling.

Director and two of her lady friends must have seen what was going on and came over to visit. She asked me if I was getting horny. I replied that I was enjoying myself as much as possible.

She took this as a challenge and said to her friends, “I bet I can suck him to completion.”

The blonde asked, “He might be kind of distracted right now. Are you giving yourself a time limit?”

Director answered, “Few guys can last longer than five minutes with my lips around their dick. Even under these circumstances, I’m sure I’ll have him blowing his load in ten.”

The brunette asked, “Ok, so what are you offering if you lose?”

“You can each give me a dozen strokes of the cane around the bonfire tonight,” replied Director.

“To summarize,” said the blonde, “If you cannot walk over to that camera with a load of his cum on your tongue in ten minutes, we get to beat your bare ass, right?”

“Right. And if I win, I get to go to my grave knowing that I gave a crucified man his last orgasm. Plus I get to give you each a dozen cuts with my husband’s Singapore cane. Does that sound fair?” Director replied.

“I’m in,” said the blonde, “but one more thing. If you lose, we each get ten minutes to pick up where you left off. Does that sound fair?”

“Sure. And there’s no extra penalty if you don’t have the skills to finish him off after 30 minutes. I just get to laugh at you.” teased Director.

“Let’s see who is laughing after two dozen strokes. I’m in too. Get on your knees, girl!” said the brunette.

Director knelt in front of me. She seemed to like how my backpack padded her knees better than the grass. She began to lick around the tip of my dick. It felt great and I began to stiffen. But a wave of cramps was also building in my legs. I tried pushing forward a little to encourage her to go down on my shaft and relieve the cramp in my leg. The bolt of pain from my ankles immediately reversed my growing erection.

Disappointed, but unfazed, she kept working. She pulled me into her mouth and began bobbing up and down, effortlessly accepting me deep into her throat like a champ. After a few precious minutes, there were encouraging signs as I began to respond again. She worked more vigorously.

The blonde gleefully announced, “This is your two minute warning. Make something happen, blowjob queen.” I really wanted her to win. But my muscles had other ideas. Another wave of cramps had been building in my foot. Without thinking, I flexed my ankle. The incredible pain as it rotated around the spike short-circuited my excitement and I went limp again.

Director looked up at me. I looked down at her. She saw the disappointment in my eyes and knew she had lost.

With time left on the clock, the brunette almost squealed with pleasure. “I can’t wait to cane your ass tonight, blowjob queen. Let’s make sure we get it on video.” As soon as Director got to her feet, the brunette moved into position.

Although the brunette seemed to be a talented fellatrix as well, the jostling from her movements made the spikes hurt more. I was also very dehydrated, sunburnt, and sore. This was not going anywhere.

The blonde took over after the brunette gave up. She decided to try a handjob instead. Director protested, but everyone agreed that it was legal in the bonus round. Her vigorous massage only made the jostling worse. As she gave up, she apologized to me and said to Director, “At least we get to beat your bare butt soon!”

Note to future erotica writers: A middle-aged man nailed to a cross is unlikely to have an orgasm.

Evening was approaching. Left and Right set up grills near the tent and began cooking burgers and brats.

I had probably been on the cross for about eight hours. My muscles were cramping more and more from the strain and dehydration. I was in a lot of pain even when trying not to move. I was only rising up to breathe a few times each hour. My energy level was clearly declining. The cross was winning, just as it always has for centuries before.
 
Part 11

At sundown, they lit the bonfire. It was too far away for me to feel any of its heat. But when the breeze shifted and the smoke came my way, it interrupted the work of the swarm of mosquitos devouring my body.

Under clear skies, the temperature was dropping. I was shivering, which aggravated the delicate equilibrium I had reached with the spikes. My wrists and ankles always hurt, but they were usually just a dull pain when I could limit my movement. Now the lightning struck more frequently. I was not expecting to get any sleep.

The cold was also causing my cramps to get worse. I found myself shifting left to right, backward and forward, and up and down in attempts to stretch out my muscles. This too made me dread the long night ahead.

My despair was broken by the rapid swish and sharp crack of a cane connecting with Director’s shapely ass. She screamed every time. Chief must have a wicked cane, I thought.

As the strokes were slowly applied, I felt my erection growing. I looked down and could see it reach full staff in the distant firelight. I wished that Director could see it now. I mostly wished that someone would try sucking it again.

Eventually, the fire died down and everyone went to bed. The cameras continued rolling in the moonlight.

I was moving more slowly as the night wore on, but my senses were surprisingly keen. I could hear animals rustling in the forest. I could hear couples enjoying each other’s company in the nearby tents.

I began feeling very lonely and isolated. No one had checked on me since the bonfire party was winding down. I thought that this is probably how many of the condemned before me felt. Tortured and humiliated by day, abandoned at night except maybe for a guard to ensure no one escaped their execution, with nothing to look forward to but more pain and exposure the next day. I did not even have a guard.

I probably drifted off to sleep a few times because I noticed the spikes firing their lightning bolts each time I startled awake.

The sun was starting to rise. I was not sure whether to be happy or sad. The pain remained constant, but it was always changing in subtle ways. Sometimes I mostly felt the cramps. Sometimes I struggled for a breath. I had not tried to stand on my ankles for a while. Maybe I’ll try again soon, I thought, but I should try to wait until someone is around to enjoy it.

Chief got up early. As he approached the cross, I made my best attempt at a lunge like the day before. I only rose about six inches, but he was glad to see me still so vigorous. “Good morning, sunshine!” he said, “Do you have big plans today?”

My throat now quite dry, I croaked out, “I’m probably not going to make it to your bonfire.”

He said, “You still look very strong to me. The warmth of the new day will probably give you more energy. More energy to suffer. Godspeed, my friend.” He walked away to prepare the table for breakfast.

As they woke up, most of the guests visited. Some tugged on my dick and balls, which were emerging from the relative protection of my body as the sun warmed me.

Several people asked if I had any regrets. I replied, “No. Surprisingly not. I am in more pain that I ever could have imagined. There is no chance anything will get better today. But I wanted to feel how so many before me had suffered on their crosses. And now I know.”

I continued, “You all have been great. I really appreciate how you have helped me through this. I hope you remember me for a long time.”

As the day wore on, my energy level did not improve. By midday, the sun was scorching my already sunburnt skin. I was so thirsty that I was getting delirious.

In fact, recounting my story for you is leaving me feeling weaker. I seem to be drifting in and out of consciousness. I hope I am picking up the story from where I left off each time.

Since I will probably will not be able to continue much longer, let me share what may be one of my final thoughts: Will they keep this cross for the next volunteer?
 
Epilogue

I’m Kathy Kruz (not my real name). I’m the director of a new film entitled

“He Found the Help He Needed: The Journey of a Man from Church to Crucifixion.”

We filmed it over a year ago at a remote location in northern North America. It is about a man who volunteered to be crucified and offered himself up for the benefit of BDSM enthusiasts everywhere.

We have had so many comments about how real the special effects seem. The blurred faces of the execution team and the onlookers only add to the sense of realism.

So many people have connected with our lead actor’s suffering that it has over a million views on the internet. While some are repulsed by the graphic imagery, many more seem to be motivated to try new things in their lifestyles.

It is hard to keep track of everything in the media, but I can point to at least a dozen examples of people dying on crosses since we released the film. Before, we only heard about nailing in the context of passion plays or terrorists. Now, people seem to be assisting others with “suicide by crucifixion” all over the place. Some are not even trying to keep it out of sight of the authorities.

There is clearly more interest in crucifixion than I ever imagined. We hope to make a sequel sometime soon.
 
Nice story. Only the cameralady forgot to castrate him. Sorry it is fiction because I can dream of being crucified with nails until Death. So an adress could have been nice.
 
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