lember
Magistrate
My body's protest, that it no longer wants to step further on the steep incline, pushing itself upward while staying in one place, becomes too loud behind my closed eyelids. She`s too foolish to understand that yielding to the pull of the abyss is in vain: Even if the rope on my wrists let go, the one on my ankle would prevent me from reaching the table in front of me, not mention the ground, too far below me. But I don`t care, let her feel the muscle-shattering tension of the hanging, which the hands fixed to the far side will insidiously distribute throughout her upper part.
Still with closed eyes I starts slowly to slip down along the cast iron crossbeam. The thick enamel paint makes it slippery. As I move forward, I feel my wrist turning in the soft wool cloth that is placed under the rope so that it wouldn't cut into my flesh too much. It`s very professional job. The breast-shaped bulge, which I was trying to support my bare buttocks on, blocks my path. I want the false sense of security of touching the iron column, so I try to go around it to the left with my hip. It`s a mistake. Just a few minutes ago - albeit very long minutes- I`m hanging here, and I can't grasp how unreliable those three points that anchors me to the stable world accross the cross I`m attached to. The Relentless laws of physics takes away the sensation of adhesion between the skin on my back and the cast iron. My sense of balance sounds an uncertain alarm, flooding my body with adrenaline for no apparent reason. My mouth releases a small, but too big "whoa". My closed eyes opens wide. My breasts sways as my tensed muscles halts my movement, utilizing precious reserves. Exactly in the same time I realize again the terrace of the canteen where I`m crucified and the lack of support of my breasts. I don`t really like their size, and the men who like this kind of boobs. I have no chance to close out anything before I can close my eyes again: their lustful eyes. The courtyard where I have lunch every day. The rows of tables, at the end of one of which stands the relentless instrument of my punishment. They tied me up just before lunch break, more and more people are sitting down in front of me with their trays, brought from the canteen, loaded with a mediocre meal, the smell of which brakes through the wall of my pain and daydreams, and I will definitely miss out on it, even though my poor body needs the calories more than ever. And I realize the big space in every direction, especially below me. I always had some agoraphobia, and It bring again the vertigo to punish me for coming up so high. The ground is not so far below, but I couldn`t reach it with my feet even if it wasn`t be tied to the column somewhere below the bulge, just to make me choose between straighten my legs or gain weak and slippery support from the thing below my buttock that pokes my lower back now as I hang from my arms. My stomach wants to empty everything to make my body easier to help my muscles escape from the uncomfortable situation. She doesn`t know that I do, that I won`t go anywhere until the canteen closes. My lung wants to hyperventilate.
Long seconds passes until I can stabilize my captured body, and retreat behind the protection of my eyelids to figure out what to do with what gotten through it: How many people are around, and how many are at the tables in front of me? How many men? I`m courious if they are still looking at me, or cares more about their food and daily chat. After a while I decide to open my eyes again for an imperceptible moment to find out. I assess the men and women sitting in small groups and pairs. Some doesn't turn toward me, a few turns their heads away to avoid eye contact with the crucified girl, and a couple of them still wanders persistently my naked body. They are from other offices, I don`t notice any colleagues of mine, and I don`t want to look around all the court to look for them yet. I look at the sky again. It`s hard because of my neck, I try it as much with my eyes as possible. There are dark, electrified clouds coming from South. I want to know if they came closer since I checked it last time. I see no difference, but very little time must have passed since I've been hanging here, even if it look long for me. Only a downpour is missing now from the set of troubles that torture me. The canteen is so closed to me, but I would never reach it, just can follow from up here how the people would leave their places and retreat to the roofed area.
I realize that my eyes give protection, at least again the cowardest onlookers. I decide not to close it again. It`s a tiny protection, still less illusive than the barricade of my eyelids. I think if I would stare downward, I could still forget about the people around me. What I didn't account for is the sight of my own body. My breasts are hanging unsupported as they were created. My thighs are opened slightly by their weight. I close them and ponder how much I`m able to hide of my personal secrets. I can`t seen anything through my chest pushed forward by supporting bulge, and this partially half-seated position is unusual for me. I`m sure that many others are also looking at my loin, just from more suitable positions, so I quickly look up to find one of them to figure out what he looks exactly. I wonder about angles and axes from them to me, use his eyes as mirrors. It may be just a little hair peeking out from between my thighs, as much as it would from a too sexy low-waist jeans or bikini swimsuit. Or my feets are tied low enough and the eyes of that bearded guy goes up and down along the upper part of slit which hides the enter to my female parts, so I used to choose carefully who I show it to. I try to slip my left thigh above the right, but my ankles are tied together just as my feet. No matter how hard I try, it doesn't work. When I understand that, I try to push my buttock back toward the beam to let my pussy retreat between my thighs. I feel the lower part of my breasts leave my chest as my upper body leans forward as a result. I find it just as embarrassing as throwing the sight of my intimate parts forward, so I choose a comfortable position and only care for keeping my legs together. I wonder for a while how long I can do that, and see myself for a moment how I squirmed in my futile attmepts, completely naked, actually for the people before me. This is what this cross actually do to me. The growing fire in my lungs reminds me that soon I will push myself up anyway because that`s the only thing I can do to release my respiratory muscles, and that time I will present the full map of my girly loin. But until that I try to hang my naked body still and direct my gaze to somewhere else than people so as myself. I don`t try to look sideway to the ornamental shrubs. The slightest turn of my head manifests as pain in my neck. But
there is some table in front of me where no one can sit down. It`s marked by my spread-out clothes that I wore when I was ordered to here together with some of my female colleagues and other women from the floor, as many as there are crosses for them.
My clothes lie here as a kind of mirror of my body when I stand in the ropes wrapping around my feet or try not to slip down from the curvy bulge where I used to spend some time before I cannot resist to slip back to where I actually hang from my tortured arms: My shoes are just below my tingling feet. My socks are the next, then my dark casual jeans with legs closer. The belt is still in it`s holder, the zipper is opened and unbuttoned as I had taken it off before I was crucified. The brighter inner parts is visible at the place of my buttock. It`s a skinny piece, but now it looks so wrinkled. After lie the panties, then there`s just a grey shirt. I prepared for warm day. My bra breaks the order, it`s just threw on top of the shirt, letting the people know how I cheated them before the crucifixion crew made me show them the real shape of my breasts. I remember when this morning I double checked their comfortable distribution inside the basket, as well as the shape of my ass in the mirror before leave the flat. I didn`t know that the cleaners had complained about the cleanliness of the women's restrooms, and all the women of the 6th floor would be humiliated and tortured a bit for that today afternoon. Seeing my clothes makes me remember myself in the mirror and that I`m so nude without them. They put them here to let the people know not to sit so close, and they thought that it would prevent some accidents like when someone pissed over the table in lunchtime. I would be died of shame if I not just show them my pussy but let them see fluids dripping out of my body. Anyone can hold it for few hours. However there may be girls who just be prevented by put their own clothes to the target area. I wonder if the people in front of me heard this story, or it just be spread among crucifieds and crucifiers. Do they assume this about me too? I really want panties for my crotch. Or at least my arms to embrace my tits. I would sway my boobs for them, I writh in suffer of suspension, just the relentless completness of nudity freaks me out. When the crew told me this pissing story during they were bounding my limbs, I suggested to them that a pair of panties would solve it. They told me that I surely would slipping up and down so much, that it would slip down anyway and would be uncomfortable. The process would be the cleanest without clothes. They acted like gynecologists trying to cure the disorder of their naked patient with a somewhat uncomfortable treatment. It was strange, but the most frightening part was that I tried to believe it and play the game with them.
I see Greg from my office walking past the tables and going into the cafeteria. He waves to me. I can`t wave back, so I just nod. The girl besides me moans up as if she`s thinking about the same. She`s my only neighbour. I`m the first in the row. I try to look there without turning my head so much. She forces herself into a standing position, lets out a deeper, more relieved sigh from her freed lungs. Then she attempts to sit down on the bulge, just as any of us would do when we have reached such a height. The bulge is curvy, steep, slippery and wet of sweat, she tries constantly to find the most stable position, pushing her buttock to different points of it, and vocalizes her frustration over her sense of failure. It looks on vain so obviously, but I sure I will try the same too, for the amusement of everyone who will sit here when I can`t bear the hanging anymore, and escape nowhere else than that clever trap.
I remember this girl, even if I don`t know her name. She works in the next office on the floor, she`s a kind of receptionist, used to sit in front of the door. We used to say "hi" to each other in elevator. She`s smaller than me, and younger too. Maybe a bit more slim. Her hair is short enough that she doesn't need to tie up to save her shoulders from being bothered by it while she can˙t adjust it with her outstretched hands. She has girlish breasts with small, pointed nipples. From my angle they make a triangle rather than a circle. I feel shame for assess her, while I deeply understand her exposed, vulnerable state. There are a dozen of crosses beyond her. I don`t see them, neither do I the women tied to them naked, only the clothes in front of them: black, blue and colorful trousers, squirts, tops, shirts, blouses, cardigans, bras in all the sizes. If I could keep my head turned to any side for a while without aching pain, I could guess which of my colleagues are tied to which cross, based on clothes. When the crosses besides me became occupied, and fellow women have tried to do something about the situation I was in a few minutes ago, I just minded my own business: I desperately clung to what I had imagined about what I have just gotten into: That I wouldn't feel embarrassed about the nakedness forced upon me by others. That appointed time would simply pass.
To make another try on these aims I try to observe the clothes of the moainng neighboour for a while. I find them so similar to mine. Her jeans show what I cannot see from my unchangable point of view, that she must have wider hips. She chose darker color and big metal beltbucket to break visually her big, flat loin. Probably backpockets are smaller and put higher. I know these techniques too. I hate to be comparable. I hate that the people coming out from the canteen choose where to sit on the row. And I hate that she still haven`t stop whining.
Still with closed eyes I starts slowly to slip down along the cast iron crossbeam. The thick enamel paint makes it slippery. As I move forward, I feel my wrist turning in the soft wool cloth that is placed under the rope so that it wouldn't cut into my flesh too much. It`s very professional job. The breast-shaped bulge, which I was trying to support my bare buttocks on, blocks my path. I want the false sense of security of touching the iron column, so I try to go around it to the left with my hip. It`s a mistake. Just a few minutes ago - albeit very long minutes- I`m hanging here, and I can't grasp how unreliable those three points that anchors me to the stable world accross the cross I`m attached to. The Relentless laws of physics takes away the sensation of adhesion between the skin on my back and the cast iron. My sense of balance sounds an uncertain alarm, flooding my body with adrenaline for no apparent reason. My mouth releases a small, but too big "whoa". My closed eyes opens wide. My breasts sways as my tensed muscles halts my movement, utilizing precious reserves. Exactly in the same time I realize again the terrace of the canteen where I`m crucified and the lack of support of my breasts. I don`t really like their size, and the men who like this kind of boobs. I have no chance to close out anything before I can close my eyes again: their lustful eyes. The courtyard where I have lunch every day. The rows of tables, at the end of one of which stands the relentless instrument of my punishment. They tied me up just before lunch break, more and more people are sitting down in front of me with their trays, brought from the canteen, loaded with a mediocre meal, the smell of which brakes through the wall of my pain and daydreams, and I will definitely miss out on it, even though my poor body needs the calories more than ever. And I realize the big space in every direction, especially below me. I always had some agoraphobia, and It bring again the vertigo to punish me for coming up so high. The ground is not so far below, but I couldn`t reach it with my feet even if it wasn`t be tied to the column somewhere below the bulge, just to make me choose between straighten my legs or gain weak and slippery support from the thing below my buttock that pokes my lower back now as I hang from my arms. My stomach wants to empty everything to make my body easier to help my muscles escape from the uncomfortable situation. She doesn`t know that I do, that I won`t go anywhere until the canteen closes. My lung wants to hyperventilate.
Long seconds passes until I can stabilize my captured body, and retreat behind the protection of my eyelids to figure out what to do with what gotten through it: How many people are around, and how many are at the tables in front of me? How many men? I`m courious if they are still looking at me, or cares more about their food and daily chat. After a while I decide to open my eyes again for an imperceptible moment to find out. I assess the men and women sitting in small groups and pairs. Some doesn't turn toward me, a few turns their heads away to avoid eye contact with the crucified girl, and a couple of them still wanders persistently my naked body. They are from other offices, I don`t notice any colleagues of mine, and I don`t want to look around all the court to look for them yet. I look at the sky again. It`s hard because of my neck, I try it as much with my eyes as possible. There are dark, electrified clouds coming from South. I want to know if they came closer since I checked it last time. I see no difference, but very little time must have passed since I've been hanging here, even if it look long for me. Only a downpour is missing now from the set of troubles that torture me. The canteen is so closed to me, but I would never reach it, just can follow from up here how the people would leave their places and retreat to the roofed area.
I realize that my eyes give protection, at least again the cowardest onlookers. I decide not to close it again. It`s a tiny protection, still less illusive than the barricade of my eyelids. I think if I would stare downward, I could still forget about the people around me. What I didn't account for is the sight of my own body. My breasts are hanging unsupported as they were created. My thighs are opened slightly by their weight. I close them and ponder how much I`m able to hide of my personal secrets. I can`t seen anything through my chest pushed forward by supporting bulge, and this partially half-seated position is unusual for me. I`m sure that many others are also looking at my loin, just from more suitable positions, so I quickly look up to find one of them to figure out what he looks exactly. I wonder about angles and axes from them to me, use his eyes as mirrors. It may be just a little hair peeking out from between my thighs, as much as it would from a too sexy low-waist jeans or bikini swimsuit. Or my feets are tied low enough and the eyes of that bearded guy goes up and down along the upper part of slit which hides the enter to my female parts, so I used to choose carefully who I show it to. I try to slip my left thigh above the right, but my ankles are tied together just as my feet. No matter how hard I try, it doesn't work. When I understand that, I try to push my buttock back toward the beam to let my pussy retreat between my thighs. I feel the lower part of my breasts leave my chest as my upper body leans forward as a result. I find it just as embarrassing as throwing the sight of my intimate parts forward, so I choose a comfortable position and only care for keeping my legs together. I wonder for a while how long I can do that, and see myself for a moment how I squirmed in my futile attmepts, completely naked, actually for the people before me. This is what this cross actually do to me. The growing fire in my lungs reminds me that soon I will push myself up anyway because that`s the only thing I can do to release my respiratory muscles, and that time I will present the full map of my girly loin. But until that I try to hang my naked body still and direct my gaze to somewhere else than people so as myself. I don`t try to look sideway to the ornamental shrubs. The slightest turn of my head manifests as pain in my neck. But
there is some table in front of me where no one can sit down. It`s marked by my spread-out clothes that I wore when I was ordered to here together with some of my female colleagues and other women from the floor, as many as there are crosses for them.
My clothes lie here as a kind of mirror of my body when I stand in the ropes wrapping around my feet or try not to slip down from the curvy bulge where I used to spend some time before I cannot resist to slip back to where I actually hang from my tortured arms: My shoes are just below my tingling feet. My socks are the next, then my dark casual jeans with legs closer. The belt is still in it`s holder, the zipper is opened and unbuttoned as I had taken it off before I was crucified. The brighter inner parts is visible at the place of my buttock. It`s a skinny piece, but now it looks so wrinkled. After lie the panties, then there`s just a grey shirt. I prepared for warm day. My bra breaks the order, it`s just threw on top of the shirt, letting the people know how I cheated them before the crucifixion crew made me show them the real shape of my breasts. I remember when this morning I double checked their comfortable distribution inside the basket, as well as the shape of my ass in the mirror before leave the flat. I didn`t know that the cleaners had complained about the cleanliness of the women's restrooms, and all the women of the 6th floor would be humiliated and tortured a bit for that today afternoon. Seeing my clothes makes me remember myself in the mirror and that I`m so nude without them. They put them here to let the people know not to sit so close, and they thought that it would prevent some accidents like when someone pissed over the table in lunchtime. I would be died of shame if I not just show them my pussy but let them see fluids dripping out of my body. Anyone can hold it for few hours. However there may be girls who just be prevented by put their own clothes to the target area. I wonder if the people in front of me heard this story, or it just be spread among crucifieds and crucifiers. Do they assume this about me too? I really want panties for my crotch. Or at least my arms to embrace my tits. I would sway my boobs for them, I writh in suffer of suspension, just the relentless completness of nudity freaks me out. When the crew told me this pissing story during they were bounding my limbs, I suggested to them that a pair of panties would solve it. They told me that I surely would slipping up and down so much, that it would slip down anyway and would be uncomfortable. The process would be the cleanest without clothes. They acted like gynecologists trying to cure the disorder of their naked patient with a somewhat uncomfortable treatment. It was strange, but the most frightening part was that I tried to believe it and play the game with them.
I see Greg from my office walking past the tables and going into the cafeteria. He waves to me. I can`t wave back, so I just nod. The girl besides me moans up as if she`s thinking about the same. She`s my only neighbour. I`m the first in the row. I try to look there without turning my head so much. She forces herself into a standing position, lets out a deeper, more relieved sigh from her freed lungs. Then she attempts to sit down on the bulge, just as any of us would do when we have reached such a height. The bulge is curvy, steep, slippery and wet of sweat, she tries constantly to find the most stable position, pushing her buttock to different points of it, and vocalizes her frustration over her sense of failure. It looks on vain so obviously, but I sure I will try the same too, for the amusement of everyone who will sit here when I can`t bear the hanging anymore, and escape nowhere else than that clever trap.
I remember this girl, even if I don`t know her name. She works in the next office on the floor, she`s a kind of receptionist, used to sit in front of the door. We used to say "hi" to each other in elevator. She`s smaller than me, and younger too. Maybe a bit more slim. Her hair is short enough that she doesn't need to tie up to save her shoulders from being bothered by it while she can˙t adjust it with her outstretched hands. She has girlish breasts with small, pointed nipples. From my angle they make a triangle rather than a circle. I feel shame for assess her, while I deeply understand her exposed, vulnerable state. There are a dozen of crosses beyond her. I don`t see them, neither do I the women tied to them naked, only the clothes in front of them: black, blue and colorful trousers, squirts, tops, shirts, blouses, cardigans, bras in all the sizes. If I could keep my head turned to any side for a while without aching pain, I could guess which of my colleagues are tied to which cross, based on clothes. When the crosses besides me became occupied, and fellow women have tried to do something about the situation I was in a few minutes ago, I just minded my own business: I desperately clung to what I had imagined about what I have just gotten into: That I wouldn't feel embarrassed about the nakedness forced upon me by others. That appointed time would simply pass.
To make another try on these aims I try to observe the clothes of the moainng neighboour for a while. I find them so similar to mine. Her jeans show what I cannot see from my unchangable point of view, that she must have wider hips. She chose darker color and big metal beltbucket to break visually her big, flat loin. Probably backpockets are smaller and put higher. I know these techniques too. I hate to be comparable. I hate that the people coming out from the canteen choose where to sit on the row. And I hate that she still haven`t stop whining.
