The nails are hard and unforgiving. They part your flesh, they grind against bone and rub the nerves and sinews of your wrists and feet. Baracus swings slow and deliberately, each blow well aimed, each blow driving the iron further through your body, and deep into the wood behind. Flesh, iron and wood are now wed, Eva, you are fixed unyielding to the cross.
Rufuss watches as we raise you, carefully, your body sagging against the nails as you rise, pain upon pain as gravity takes hold. A final jerk as the cross slides into its post hole, a muffled scream as you arch forward, gravity meets the nails and your tortured body is trapped between the two.
Now you hang, sweaty, shocked, you look around at the watching crowd. You see Rufuss, opposite you, covered by a brief loincloth. You do not have even that small dignity, your most intimate feminine parts are uncovered and visible to all. You feel shame, but pain is the greater force, you twist and turn looking for relief from the nails, from the cramps that are already taking hold of you. Your thighs open, your back arches, your breasts sway as you dance the desperate dance of the crucified. You ignore the crowd, your eyes fixed on Rufuss, your partner in this ordeal, his body twists like your own, his muscles cramp, his chest hair matted with sweat. You twist, moaning in agony, knowing that he is watching your suffering just as keenly as you are his.
And the men and women in the crowd watch you both, as you suffer for their entertainment.