He may be a little uncouth, but he does seem to be on first-person speaking terms with His Eminence ... he should learn how to properly address his superiors, though.
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The Competition
- Thread starter Barbaria1
- Start date
He may be a little uncouth, but he does seem to be on first-person speaking terms with His Eminence ... he should learn how to properly address his superiors, though.
out of the question...................I ThinkHe may be a little uncouth, but he does seem to be on first-person speaking terms with His Eminence ... he should learn how to properly address his superiors, though.
If you knew 'Father' Tree his ego does not allow him to recognize 'superiors' unless you are talking tits and asses and right now he sees 5 nice pair shaking like jelly as the crazy nuns wait to be raised...He may be a little uncouth, but he does seem to be on first-person speaking terms with His Eminence ... he should learn how to properly address his superiors, though.
Tree
RacingRodent
Consul
It helps that a certain rodent may have, inadvertently I am sure, penned a letter to the Cardinal alerting him that the Pope had a secret nuncio incognito as an 'uncouth priest of boorish manner and claiming origin in the colonies of the New World" at his competition.
But has anyone ever heard of a squirrel that could write?
Amazing what they keep squirreled away in the Vatican .... someone really ought to investigate that place!
Thessela
Beloved slavegirl
Yes, Thessala , we do be suffering ......... like HIM ........
Awful, and wonderful!
And we are suffering together dear sister!
Apologies to Jedakk for flagrant plagiarism, plangent flagellism, and many other sins 
So now the real competition begins. I’m feeling proud of myself, grateful to Cruxslave for her tip on tactics for the cross-carrying course. But now I must focus on a different discipline, Crucifixion itself. A trembling in my loins, I know my pale cheeks are belying my cocky stance.
The young monks approach, I give them as a convincing a smile as I can summon up, flick back my blood-clotted forelock and tuck it under my crown of thorns. Best to ingratiate them, I know they can always make things worse for me, though a girl has to be canny – if I make myself too sexy, I’ll just get their peckers up and they’ll be all the more sadistic.
“Are you ready, Eulalia?”
“Yes, Brother,” I bow my head humbly, a blood-drip trickles over my lowered eyelashes.
“Will you position yourself, or must we do it?”
“Please let me, Brother, I know how.”
Indeed I know how. I’ve had the honour of being trained by Sister Lucilla, Novice-Mistress at Crosshageul, former Scottish National Champion Crucifixa, she still holds the amazing record, she’s been crucified eleven times! She makes sure all us young novice-nuns get plenty of experience of hanging on crosses, tall ones, short ones, T, X and Y ones, upside-down ones, we’ve dangled from them all.
I turn at look for a moment at my X-cross lying ready to receive me, its limbs stretched like mine are destined to be, the valley where the beams meet proclaiming how my young girlhood will soon be remorselessly spread wide. I silence a sob, lift my breasts in pride, this is my country’s cross, my nation’s pride!
I straighten my whip-sore back and walk resolutely, not glancing at Messaline and Thessela, who are stuggling and moaning either side of my destined place. There’s a murmur of approval from the congregation, the churchmen look with favour on a virgin martyr who walks calmly to her cross without a struggle.
I sit myself down on the cross and position my body as Sister Lucilla taught me. Straddling the centre-post, I carefully ease my bare bottom down onto the timber near the place where the beams intersect, taking care to avoid any splinters. I spread my legs - there’s murmur of male approval from the cloister walk, silenced by the Cardinal’s frown. I feel no embarrassment, I’ve prepared myself for this humiliation with rigorous penance and ascetic self-denial.
Next I locate my feet, one at a time, on the beams in the places where they must go when I’m crucified. I lean back, and using my arms I lift my hips and slide my buttocks down a bit further, fitting myself to the X-shape.
When I’ve set myself in place as I know I have to, I sit there for a moment with my eyes closed, breathing deeply, offering up a final prayer for strength to face what I know I must endure - or maybe I’m just playing for time, putting off the beginning of my torture a little longer? Who knows what’s really going on in a situation like this, even in her own mind? In any case, I know, once I lie back on the cross and submit to my Executioners, I’ll be helpless, and the slow Torture of the Cross will begin.
But I can’t put it off for long. The two monks are poised with their ropes, ready to tie my wrists. Even though they’re professed monks, I know their patience won’t last long. After a moment, I give up a sigh, lie back, and stretch out my arms along the upper beams of the cross, palms up, curling my fingers into fists. I don’t have to wait at all.
I sigh as the coils of rope draw my wrists down tightly against the timber. The ritual of Crucifixion has begun, and there’s nothing I can do to put it off any longer. I don’t resist, only watch as the monks kneeling either side of me methodically rope my wrists securely in place, making sure I won’t be able to work them, free no matter how desperate my struggles become during the coming hours, even days.
They leave my feet feet loose. I realise I’m going to be hanging by my wrists when they raise my cross – Sister Lucilla told us they sometimes do it that way, it’s especially cruel.
Now the two monks move to opposite sides of the X, and prepare to lift. The crossbeams that form the X have been mounted on a single post at their intersection. As the monks lift, the old sexton uses a shovel as a brace against the base of the post, so it will pivot and slide into its hole.
As I feel the cross beginning to move, I moan, I can’t help it, knowing that the long, drawn-out agony I’ve prepared myself for, so many times over, during my rigorous training, is now about to begin for real...
As the cross begins to tilt upward, I pull my feet up, flexing my legs, planting the soles flat against the post.
A hush falls over the crowd, everyone watching knows as well as I do what’s coming. When the cross is angled steeply enough, it will fall into the hole, and I shall fall with it - and when it hits the bottom, even though my hands are only bound with ropes, it’s going to hurt. I know there’s nothing I can do that will really help, yet instinctively I try to brace myself against the wood in readiness for the jolt.
Everything seems to be happening in slow motion, even though it all happens in a few beats of my pounding heart. I stare down at the socket, as the cross slips into it a little at a time, sliding and stopping repeatedly as it approaches the vertical.
The monk-executioners continue to lift my cross, angling it down into its hole. I press my feet firmer, anticipating the sudden jolt I know is coming, but as the cross nears vertical, it becomes harder and harder to do. At first I manage to support my weight against the small, sudden drops. But as the cross rises higher, my soles begin to lose their purchase on the slippery, splintery wood, I feel my arms straighten and stretch more and more.
Unable to support myself with my legs, each jolt sends my body sliding farther down the wood. Each slip downward draws a whimper of fear, as I anticipate the final drop and the pain of the impact. And now my arms are stretched tight against the ropes that are biting into my wrists.
I ball up my fists and struggle to hold myself up. When the cross reaches its highest point, it suddenly tips forward and plunges the final two feet into the hole. My whimpering turns into a scream of panic as I feel myself falling, then there’s the solid deep thump and rattle of the cross as the heavy timber hits bottom.
The impact jerks my arms, shoulders and chest taut - like a blow to my stomach, it drives the air ot of my lungs, so that my scream’s interrupted by something like a loud yelp before being cut off completely. My shoulders feel like they’ve being torn out of their sockets. If my wrists had been nailed instead of tied, I’d surely have fainted from the white-hot pain.
My cross has dropped into its hole, but it continues travelling forward under its own momentum, slowly rocking forward past the vertical, until it slams into the forward edge of the hole and jerks to a stop. But my body, now hanging only by my bound wrists, keeps moving. I’m swinging forward and back, feet flailing in the air, shuddering and groaning in pain.
When my bum hits the still shaking wood at the crossing-point, I squeal - Sister Lucilla said it wouldn't hurt much, but it does. Perhaps when she experienced it, her hurdies hadn't taken laldie from Abbess Ailsa's tawse!
All the onlookers are watching in silent fascination, I’m so helpless, my naked body so utterly exposed to their eyes, drinking in their pleasure in watching me as I begin to suffer the endless, unrelenting Torture of the Cross.
So now the real competition begins. I’m feeling proud of myself, grateful to Cruxslave for her tip on tactics for the cross-carrying course. But now I must focus on a different discipline, Crucifixion itself. A trembling in my loins, I know my pale cheeks are belying my cocky stance.
The young monks approach, I give them as a convincing a smile as I can summon up, flick back my blood-clotted forelock and tuck it under my crown of thorns. Best to ingratiate them, I know they can always make things worse for me, though a girl has to be canny – if I make myself too sexy, I’ll just get their peckers up and they’ll be all the more sadistic.
“Are you ready, Eulalia?”
“Yes, Brother,” I bow my head humbly, a blood-drip trickles over my lowered eyelashes.
“Will you position yourself, or must we do it?”
“Please let me, Brother, I know how.”
Indeed I know how. I’ve had the honour of being trained by Sister Lucilla, Novice-Mistress at Crosshageul, former Scottish National Champion Crucifixa, she still holds the amazing record, she’s been crucified eleven times! She makes sure all us young novice-nuns get plenty of experience of hanging on crosses, tall ones, short ones, T, X and Y ones, upside-down ones, we’ve dangled from them all.
I turn at look for a moment at my X-cross lying ready to receive me, its limbs stretched like mine are destined to be, the valley where the beams meet proclaiming how my young girlhood will soon be remorselessly spread wide. I silence a sob, lift my breasts in pride, this is my country’s cross, my nation’s pride!
I straighten my whip-sore back and walk resolutely, not glancing at Messaline and Thessela, who are stuggling and moaning either side of my destined place. There’s a murmur of approval from the congregation, the churchmen look with favour on a virgin martyr who walks calmly to her cross without a struggle.
I sit myself down on the cross and position my body as Sister Lucilla taught me. Straddling the centre-post, I carefully ease my bare bottom down onto the timber near the place where the beams intersect, taking care to avoid any splinters. I spread my legs - there’s murmur of male approval from the cloister walk, silenced by the Cardinal’s frown. I feel no embarrassment, I’ve prepared myself for this humiliation with rigorous penance and ascetic self-denial.
Next I locate my feet, one at a time, on the beams in the places where they must go when I’m crucified. I lean back, and using my arms I lift my hips and slide my buttocks down a bit further, fitting myself to the X-shape.
When I’ve set myself in place as I know I have to, I sit there for a moment with my eyes closed, breathing deeply, offering up a final prayer for strength to face what I know I must endure - or maybe I’m just playing for time, putting off the beginning of my torture a little longer? Who knows what’s really going on in a situation like this, even in her own mind? In any case, I know, once I lie back on the cross and submit to my Executioners, I’ll be helpless, and the slow Torture of the Cross will begin.
But I can’t put it off for long. The two monks are poised with their ropes, ready to tie my wrists. Even though they’re professed monks, I know their patience won’t last long. After a moment, I give up a sigh, lie back, and stretch out my arms along the upper beams of the cross, palms up, curling my fingers into fists. I don’t have to wait at all.
I sigh as the coils of rope draw my wrists down tightly against the timber. The ritual of Crucifixion has begun, and there’s nothing I can do to put it off any longer. I don’t resist, only watch as the monks kneeling either side of me methodically rope my wrists securely in place, making sure I won’t be able to work them, free no matter how desperate my struggles become during the coming hours, even days.
They leave my feet feet loose. I realise I’m going to be hanging by my wrists when they raise my cross – Sister Lucilla told us they sometimes do it that way, it’s especially cruel.
Now the two monks move to opposite sides of the X, and prepare to lift. The crossbeams that form the X have been mounted on a single post at their intersection. As the monks lift, the old sexton uses a shovel as a brace against the base of the post, so it will pivot and slide into its hole.
As I feel the cross beginning to move, I moan, I can’t help it, knowing that the long, drawn-out agony I’ve prepared myself for, so many times over, during my rigorous training, is now about to begin for real...
As the cross begins to tilt upward, I pull my feet up, flexing my legs, planting the soles flat against the post.
A hush falls over the crowd, everyone watching knows as well as I do what’s coming. When the cross is angled steeply enough, it will fall into the hole, and I shall fall with it - and when it hits the bottom, even though my hands are only bound with ropes, it’s going to hurt. I know there’s nothing I can do that will really help, yet instinctively I try to brace myself against the wood in readiness for the jolt.
Everything seems to be happening in slow motion, even though it all happens in a few beats of my pounding heart. I stare down at the socket, as the cross slips into it a little at a time, sliding and stopping repeatedly as it approaches the vertical.
The monk-executioners continue to lift my cross, angling it down into its hole. I press my feet firmer, anticipating the sudden jolt I know is coming, but as the cross nears vertical, it becomes harder and harder to do. At first I manage to support my weight against the small, sudden drops. But as the cross rises higher, my soles begin to lose their purchase on the slippery, splintery wood, I feel my arms straighten and stretch more and more.
Unable to support myself with my legs, each jolt sends my body sliding farther down the wood. Each slip downward draws a whimper of fear, as I anticipate the final drop and the pain of the impact. And now my arms are stretched tight against the ropes that are biting into my wrists.
I ball up my fists and struggle to hold myself up. When the cross reaches its highest point, it suddenly tips forward and plunges the final two feet into the hole. My whimpering turns into a scream of panic as I feel myself falling, then there’s the solid deep thump and rattle of the cross as the heavy timber hits bottom.
The impact jerks my arms, shoulders and chest taut - like a blow to my stomach, it drives the air ot of my lungs, so that my scream’s interrupted by something like a loud yelp before being cut off completely. My shoulders feel like they’ve being torn out of their sockets. If my wrists had been nailed instead of tied, I’d surely have fainted from the white-hot pain.
My cross has dropped into its hole, but it continues travelling forward under its own momentum, slowly rocking forward past the vertical, until it slams into the forward edge of the hole and jerks to a stop. But my body, now hanging only by my bound wrists, keeps moving. I’m swinging forward and back, feet flailing in the air, shuddering and groaning in pain.
When my bum hits the still shaking wood at the crossing-point, I squeal - Sister Lucilla said it wouldn't hurt much, but it does. Perhaps when she experienced it, her hurdies hadn't taken laldie from Abbess Ailsa's tawse!
All the onlookers are watching in silent fascination, I’m so helpless, my naked body so utterly exposed to their eyes, drinking in their pleasure in watching me as I begin to suffer the endless, unrelenting Torture of the Cross.
Last edited:
Apologies to Jedakk for flagrant plagiarism, plangent flagellism, and man other sins
So now the real competition begins. I’m feeling proud of myself, grateful to Cruxslave for her tip on tactics for the cross-carrying course. But now I must focus on a different discipline, Crucifixion itself. A trembling in my loins, I know my pale cheeks are belying my cocky stance.
The young monks approach, I give them as a convincing a smile as I can summon up, flick back my blood-clotted forelock and tuck it under my crown of thorns. Best to ingratiate them, I know they can always make things worse for me, though a girl has to be canny – if I make myself too sexy, I’ll just get their peckers up and they’ll be all the more sadistic.
“Are you ready, Eulalia?”
“Yes, Brother,” I bow my head humbly, a blood-drip trickles over my lowered eyelashes.
“Will you position yourself, or must we do it?”
“Please let me, Brother, I know how.”
Indeed I know how. I’ve had the honour of being trained by Sister Lucilla, Novice-Mistress at Crosshageul, former Scottish National Champion Crucifixa, she still holds the amazing record, she’s been crucified eleven times! She makes sure all us young novice-nuns get plenty of experience of hanging on crosses, tall ones, short ones, T, X and Y ones, upside-down ones, we’ve dangled from them all.
I turn at look for a moment at my X-cross lying ready to receive me, its limbs stretched like mine are destined to be, the valley where the beams meet proclaiming how my young girlhood will soon be remorselessly spread wide. I silence a sob, lift my breasts in pride, this is my country’s cross, my nation’s pride!
I straighten my whip-sore back and walk resolutely, not glancing at Messaline and Thessela, who are stuggling and moaning either side of my destined place. There’s a murmur of approval from the congregation, the churchmen look with favour on a virgin martyr who walks calmly to her cross without a struggle.
I sit myself down on the cross and position my body as Sister Lucilla taught me. Straddling the centre-post, I carefully ease my bare bottom down onto the timber near the place where the beams intersect, taking care to avoid any splinters. I spread my legs - there’s murmur of male approval from the cloister walk, silenced by the Cardinal’s frown. I feel no embarrassment, I’ve prepared myself for this humiliation with rigorous penance and ascetic self-denial.
Next I locate my feet, one at a time, on the beams in the places where they must go when I’m crucified. I lean back, and using my arms I lift my hips and slide my buttocks down a bit further, fitting myself to the X-shape.
When I’ve set myself in place as I know I have to, I sit there for a moment with my eyes closed, breathing deeply, offering up a final prayer for strength to face what I know I must endure - or maybe I’m just playing for time, putting off the beginning of my torture a little longer? Who knows what’s really going on in a situation like this, even in her own mind? In any case, I know, once I lie back on the cross and submit to my Executioners, I’ll be helpless, and the slow Torture of the Cross will begin.
But I can’t put it off for long. The two monks are poised with their ropes, ready to tie my wrists. Even though they’re professed monks, I know their patience won’t last long. After a moment, I give up a sigh, lie back, and stretch out my arms along the upper beams of the cross, palms up, curling my fingers into fists. I don’t have to wait at all.
I sigh as the coils of rope draw my wrists down tightly against the timber. The ritual of Crucifixion has begun, and there’s nothing I can do to put it off any longer. I don’t resist, only watch as the monks kneeling either side of me methodically rope my wrists securely in place, making sure I won’t be able to work them, free no matter how desperate my struggles become during the coming hours, even days.
They leave my feet feet loose. I realise I’m going to be hanging by my wrists when they raise my cross – Sister Lucilla told us they sometimes do it that way, it’s especially cruel.
Now the two monks move to opposite sides of the X, and prepare to lift. The crossbeams that form the X have been mounted on a single post at their intersection. As the monks lift, the old sexton uses a shovel as a brace against the base of the post, so it will pivot and slide into its hole.
As I feel the cross beginning to move, I moan, I can’t help it, knowing that the long, drawn-out agony I’ve prepared myself for, so many times over, during my rigorous training, is now about to begin for real...
As the cross begins to tilt upward, I pull my feet up, flexing my legs, planting the soles flat against the post.
A hush falls over the crowd, everyone watching knows as well as I do what’s coming. When the cross is angled steeply enough, it will fall into the hole, and I shall fall with it - and when it hits the bottom, even though my hands are only bound with ropes, it’s going to hurt. I know there’s nothing I can do that will really help, yet instinctively I try to brace myself against the wood in readiness for the jolt.
Everything seems to be happening in slow motion, even though it all happens in a few beats of my pounding heart. I stare down at the socket, as the cross slips into it a little at a time, sliding and stopping repeatedly as it approaches the vertical.
The monk-executioners continue to lift my cross, angling it down into its hole. I press my feet firmer, anticipating the sudden jolt I know is coming, but as the cross nears vertical, it becomes harder and harder to do. At first I manage to support my weight against the small, sudden drops. But as the cross rises higher, my soles begin to lose their purchase on the slippery, splintery wood, I feel my arms straighten and stretch more and more.
Unable to support myself with my legs, each jolt sends my body sliding farther down the wood. Each slip downward draws a whimper of fear, as I anticipate the final drop and the pain of the impact. And now my arms are stretched tight against the ropes that are biting into my wrists.
I ball up my fists and struggle to hold myself up. When the cross reaches its highest point, it suddenly tips forward and plunges the final two feet into the hole. My whimpering turns into a scream of panic as I feel myself falling, then there’s the solid deep thump and rattle of the cross as the heavy timber hits bottom.
The impact jerks my arms, shoulders and chest taut - like a blow to my stomach, it drives the air ot of my lungs, so that my scream’s interrupted by something like a loud yelp before being cut off completely. My shoulders feel like they’ve being torn out of their sockets. If my wrists had been nailed instead of tied, I’d surely have fainted from the white-hot pain.
My cross has dropped into its hole, but it continues travelling forward under its own momentum, slowly rocking forward past the vertical, until it slams into the forward edge of the hole and jerks to a stop. But my body, now hanging only by my bound wrists, keeps moving. I’m swinging forward and back, feet flailing in the air, shuddering and groaning in pain.
When my bum hits the still shaking wood at the crossing-point, I squeal - Sister Lucilla said it wouldn't hurt much, but it does. Perhaps when she experienced it, her hurdies hadn't taken laldie from Abbess Ailsa's tawse!
All the onlookers are watching in silent fascination, I’m so helpless, my naked body so utterly exposed to their eyes, drinking in their pleasure in watching me as I begin to suffer the endless, unrelenting Torture of the Cross.
wow.... ok, one up three to go, oh now its four!
Quiet Paul
Tribune
The wee Scots lassie shows once again how she is the one beat. The writing on this thread has been utterly brilliant throughout, but Eulalia's description of expectation, anticipation, all exceeded by the real pain that follows, is stunning.Apologies to Jedakk for flagrant plagiarism, plangent flagellism, and many other sins
So now the real competition begins. I’m feeling proud of myself, grateful to Cruxslave for her tip on tactics for the cross-carrying course. But now I must focus on a different discipline, Crucifixion itself. A trembling in my loins, I know my pale cheeks are belying my cocky stance.
The young monks approach, I give them as a convincing a smile as I can summon up, flick back my blood-clotted forelock and tuck it under my crown of thorns. Best to ingratiate them, I know they can always make things worse for me, though a girl has to be canny – if I make myself too sexy, I’ll just get their peckers up and they’ll be all the more sadistic.
“Are you ready, Eulalia?”
“Yes, Brother,” I bow my head humbly, a blood-drip trickles over my lowered eyelashes.
“Will you position yourself, or must we do it?”
“Please let me, Brother, I know how.”
Indeed I know how. I’ve had the honour of being trained by Sister Lucilla, Novice-Mistress at Crosshageul, former Scottish National Champion Crucifixa, she still holds the amazing record, she’s been crucified eleven times! She makes sure all us young novice-nuns get plenty of experience of hanging on crosses, tall ones, short ones, T, X and Y ones, upside-down ones, we’ve dangled from them all.
I turn at look for a moment at my X-cross lying ready to receive me, its limbs stretched like mine are destined to be, the valley where the beams meet proclaiming how my young girlhood will soon be remorselessly spread wide. I silence a sob, lift my breasts in pride, this is my country’s cross, my nation’s pride!
I straighten my whip-sore back and walk resolutely, not glancing at Messaline and Thessela, who are stuggling and moaning either side of my destined place. There’s a murmur of approval from the congregation, the churchmen look with favour on a virgin martyr who walks calmly to her cross without a struggle.
I sit myself down on the cross and position my body as Sister Lucilla taught me. Straddling the centre-post, I carefully ease my bare bottom down onto the timber near the place where the beams intersect, taking care to avoid any splinters. I spread my legs - there’s murmur of male approval from the cloister walk, silenced by the Cardinal’s frown. I feel no embarrassment, I’ve prepared myself for this humiliation with rigorous penance and ascetic self-denial.
Next I locate my feet, one at a time, on the beams in the places where they must go when I’m crucified. I lean back, and using my arms I lift my hips and slide my buttocks down a bit further, fitting myself to the X-shape.
When I’ve set myself in place as I know I have to, I sit there for a moment with my eyes closed, breathing deeply, offering up a final prayer for strength to face what I know I must endure - or maybe I’m just playing for time, putting off the beginning of my torture a little longer? Who knows what’s really going on in a situation like this, even in her own mind? In any case, I know, once I lie back on the cross and submit to my Executioners, I’ll be helpless, and the slow Torture of the Cross will begin.
But I can’t put it off for long. The two monks are poised with their ropes, ready to tie my wrists. Even though they’re professed monks, I know their patience won’t last long. After a moment, I give up a sigh, lie back, and stretch out my arms along the upper beams of the cross, palms up, curling my fingers into fists. I don’t have to wait at all.
I sigh as the coils of rope draw my wrists down tightly against the timber. The ritual of Crucifixion has begun, and there’s nothing I can do to put it off any longer. I don’t resist, only watch as the monks kneeling either side of me methodically rope my wrists securely in place, making sure I won’t be able to work them, free no matter how desperate my struggles become during the coming hours, even days.
They leave my feet feet loose. I realise I’m going to be hanging by my wrists when they raise my cross – Sister Lucilla told us they sometimes do it that way, it’s especially cruel.
Now the two monks move to opposite sides of the X, and prepare to lift. The crossbeams that form the X have been mounted on a single post at their intersection. As the monks lift, the old sexton uses a shovel as a brace against the base of the post, so it will pivot and slide into its hole.
As I feel the cross beginning to move, I moan, I can’t help it, knowing that the long, drawn-out agony I’ve prepared myself for, so many times over, during my rigorous training, is now about to begin for real...
As the cross begins to tilt upward, I pull my feet up, flexing my legs, planting the soles flat against the post.
A hush falls over the crowd, everyone watching knows as well as I do what’s coming. When the cross is angled steeply enough, it will fall into the hole, and I shall fall with it - and when it hits the bottom, even though my hands are only bound with ropes, it’s going to hurt. I know there’s nothing I can do that will really help, yet instinctively I try to brace myself against the wood in readiness for the jolt.
Everything seems to be happening in slow motion, even though it all happens in a few beats of my pounding heart. I stare down at the socket, as the cross slips into it a little at a time, sliding and stopping repeatedly as it approaches the vertical.
The monk-executioners continue to lift my cross, angling it down into its hole. I press my feet firmer, anticipating the sudden jolt I know is coming, but as the cross nears vertical, it becomes harder and harder to do. At first I manage to support my weight against the small, sudden drops. But as the cross rises higher, my soles begin to lose their purchase on the slippery, splintery wood, I feel my arms straighten and stretch more and more.
Unable to support myself with my legs, each jolt sends my body sliding farther down the wood. Each slip downward draws a whimper of fear, as I anticipate the final drop and the pain of the impact. And now my arms are stretched tight against the ropes that are biting into my wrists.
I ball up my fists and struggle to hold myself up. When the cross reaches its highest point, it suddenly tips forward and plunges the final two feet into the hole. My whimpering turns into a scream of panic as I feel myself falling, then there’s the solid deep thump and rattle of the cross as the heavy timber hits bottom.
The impact jerks my arms, shoulders and chest taut - like a blow to my stomach, it drives the air ot of my lungs, so that my scream’s interrupted by something like a loud yelp before being cut off completely. My shoulders feel like they’ve being torn out of their sockets. If my wrists had been nailed instead of tied, I’d surely have fainted from the white-hot pain.
My cross has dropped into its hole, but it continues travelling forward under its own momentum, slowly rocking forward past the vertical, until it slams into the forward edge of the hole and jerks to a stop. But my body, now hanging only by my bound wrists, keeps moving. I’m swinging forward and back, feet flailing in the air, shuddering and groaning in pain.
When my bum hits the still shaking wood at the crossing-point, I squeal - Sister Lucilla said it wouldn't hurt much, but it does. Perhaps when she experienced it, her hurdies hadn't taken laldie from Abbess Ailsa's tawse!
All the onlookers are watching in silent fascination, I’m so helpless, my naked body so utterly exposed to their eyes, drinking in their pleasure in watching me as I begin to suffer the endless, unrelenting Torture of the Cross.
D
Deleted member jedakk
Guest
Apologies to Jedakk for flagrant plagiarism, plangent flagellism, and many other sins
So now the real competition begins. I’m feeling proud of myself, grateful to Cruxslave for her tip on tactics for the cross-carrying course. But now I must focus on a different discipline, Crucifixion itself. A trembling in my loins, I know my pale cheeks are belying my cocky stance.
The young monks approach, I give them as a convincing a smile as I can summon up, flick back my blood-clotted forelock and tuck it under my crown of thorns. Best to ingratiate them, I know they can always make things worse for me, though a girl has to be canny – if I make myself too sexy, I’ll just get their peckers up and they’ll be all the more sadistic.
“Are you ready, Eulalia?”
“Yes, Brother,” I bow my head humbly, a blood-drip trickles over my lowered eyelashes.
“Will you position yourself, or must we do it?”
“Please let me, Brother, I know how.”
Indeed I know how. I’ve had the honour of being trained by Sister Lucilla, Novice-Mistress at Crosshageul, former Scottish National Champion Crucifixa, she still holds the amazing record, she’s been crucified eleven times! She makes sure all us young novice-nuns get plenty of experience of hanging on crosses, tall ones, short ones, T, X and Y ones, upside-down ones, we’ve dangled from them all.
I turn at look for a moment at my X-cross lying ready to receive me, its limbs stretched like mine are destined to be, the valley where the beams meet proclaiming how my young girlhood will soon be remorselessly spread wide. I silence a sob, lift my breasts in pride, this is my country’s cross, my nation’s pride!
I straighten my whip-sore back and walk resolutely, not glancing at Messaline and Thessela, who are stuggling and moaning either side of my destined place. There’s a murmur of approval from the congregation, the churchmen look with favour on a virgin martyr who walks calmly to her cross without a struggle.
I sit myself down on the cross and position my body as Sister Lucilla taught me. Straddling the centre-post, I carefully ease my bare bottom down onto the timber near the place where the beams intersect, taking care to avoid any splinters. I spread my legs - there’s murmur of male approval from the cloister walk, silenced by the Cardinal’s frown. I feel no embarrassment, I’ve prepared myself for this humiliation with rigorous penance and ascetic self-denial.
Next I locate my feet, one at a time, on the beams in the places where they must go when I’m crucified. I lean back, and using my arms I lift my hips and slide my buttocks down a bit further, fitting myself to the X-shape.
When I’ve set myself in place as I know I have to, I sit there for a moment with my eyes closed, breathing deeply, offering up a final prayer for strength to face what I know I must endure - or maybe I’m just playing for time, putting off the beginning of my torture a little longer? Who knows what’s really going on in a situation like this, even in her own mind? In any case, I know, once I lie back on the cross and submit to my Executioners, I’ll be helpless, and the slow Torture of the Cross will begin.
But I can’t put it off for long. The two monks are poised with their ropes, ready to tie my wrists. Even though they’re professed monks, I know their patience won’t last long. After a moment, I give up a sigh, lie back, and stretch out my arms along the upper beams of the cross, palms up, curling my fingers into fists. I don’t have to wait at all.
I sigh as the coils of rope draw my wrists down tightly against the timber. The ritual of Crucifixion has begun, and there’s nothing I can do to put it off any longer. I don’t resist, only watch as the monks kneeling either side of me methodically rope my wrists securely in place, making sure I won’t be able to work them, free no matter how desperate my struggles become during the coming hours, even days.
They leave my feet feet loose. I realise I’m going to be hanging by my wrists when they raise my cross – Sister Lucilla told us they sometimes do it that way, it’s especially cruel.
Now the two monks move to opposite sides of the X, and prepare to lift. The crossbeams that form the X have been mounted on a single post at their intersection. As the monks lift, the old sexton uses a shovel as a brace against the base of the post, so it will pivot and slide into its hole.
As I feel the cross beginning to move, I moan, I can’t help it, knowing that the long, drawn-out agony I’ve prepared myself for, so many times over, during my rigorous training, is now about to begin for real...
As the cross begins to tilt upward, I pull my feet up, flexing my legs, planting the soles flat against the post.
A hush falls over the crowd, everyone watching knows as well as I do what’s coming. When the cross is angled steeply enough, it will fall into the hole, and I shall fall with it - and when it hits the bottom, even though my hands are only bound with ropes, it’s going to hurt. I know there’s nothing I can do that will really help, yet instinctively I try to brace myself against the wood in readiness for the jolt.
Everything seems to be happening in slow motion, even though it all happens in a few beats of my pounding heart. I stare down at the socket, as the cross slips into it a little at a time, sliding and stopping repeatedly as it approaches the vertical.
The monk-executioners continue to lift my cross, angling it down into its hole. I press my feet firmer, anticipating the sudden jolt I know is coming, but as the cross nears vertical, it becomes harder and harder to do. At first I manage to support my weight against the small, sudden drops. But as the cross rises higher, my soles begin to lose their purchase on the slippery, splintery wood, I feel my arms straighten and stretch more and more.
Unable to support myself with my legs, each jolt sends my body sliding farther down the wood. Each slip downward draws a whimper of fear, as I anticipate the final drop and the pain of the impact. And now my arms are stretched tight against the ropes that are biting into my wrists.
I ball up my fists and struggle to hold myself up. When the cross reaches its highest point, it suddenly tips forward and plunges the final two feet into the hole. My whimpering turns into a scream of panic as I feel myself falling, then there’s the solid deep thump and rattle of the cross as the heavy timber hits bottom.
The impact jerks my arms, shoulders and chest taut - like a blow to my stomach, it drives the air ot of my lungs, so that my scream’s interrupted by something like a loud yelp before being cut off completely. My shoulders feel like they’ve being torn out of their sockets. If my wrists had been nailed instead of tied, I’d surely have fainted from the white-hot pain.
My cross has dropped into its hole, but it continues travelling forward under its own momentum, slowly rocking forward past the vertical, until it slams into the forward edge of the hole and jerks to a stop. But my body, now hanging only by my bound wrists, keeps moving. I’m swinging forward and back, feet flailing in the air, shuddering and groaning in pain.
When my bum hits the still shaking wood at the crossing-point, I squeal - Sister Lucilla said it wouldn't hurt much, but it does. Perhaps when she experienced it, her hurdies hadn't taken laldie from Abbess Ailsa's tawse!
All the onlookers are watching in silent fascination, I’m so helpless, my naked body so utterly exposed to their eyes, drinking in their pleasure in watching me as I begin to suffer the endless, unrelenting Torture of the Cross.
Looks like Lucilla's story really captured your imagination! All of this does seem very familiar.
The novice Thessela waits with frightened anticipation. Her world is dark as pain from the spikes seems to consume her yet she knows her agony will grow in ways she cannot imagine. She tries to take solace in that she is a novice and has no choice but her own mind mocks her telling her 'you are nailed to across. You have no choice...'
The poor girl just cannot get that haunting refrain out of her mind ... just as this deranged-looking observer remarks ... her agony is yet to grow in ways she cannot imagine ... and she "has no choice" but to endure.
23. Things began to happen quickly. The Crosshageul team moved briskly to raise Eulalia on her X-cross, and did it with a skill and panache that I doubted any of the other teams could possibly match. And although I could see the fear in her eyes, her slave-like behavior was perfectly correct and compliant. That she had trained for this was obvious; she knew exactly how the X-cross would spread her, expose her, and toss her about like a rag doll as it slowly raised, slid into its prepared hole with a rattling jolt, and shuddered and rocked crazily until finally settled in place.
Nearly everyone gathered in the cloister to witness the Competition stood transfixed, staring in rapt fascination at the first of the competing novices' brutal crucifixion.
While this was going on, two of the Cardinal's men, aided by the one who had fallen uninvited from a perch on the cloister walls, led a flogged and weakened Sister Emily from the whipping posts toward the cross awaiting her on the ground. She lurched forward, her dark-nippled breasts swaying wildly as she was roughly manhandled across the intervening space. Upon reaching the cross she was forced to sit on it, and then recline to be quickly tied down and nailed in place. Her anguished cries mingled with those of the tortured Scottish novice struggling to support herself on the X-cross and the ring of hammer on iron spike.
With Emily nailed and Eulalia raised, the Cardinal's attention turned to the remaining three novices lying naked and nailed on their crosses, waiting their turn. He wandered among the crosses, inspecting each of us as though we were his prize collection of pinned butterflies. From time to time he would pause to fondle a bare breast, or probe between spread thighs with the toe of his bright red Cardinal’s slipper. I did my best to ignore his molestations.
His observations and comments were duly being recorded by a tallish nun, who followed him around, writing everything down, capturing faithfully his every pronouncement in a red leather-bound journal. He called her Sister Madeleine.
Her facial expression as she worked was one of concentration. She seemed emotionally distant … a silent, indifferent figure about whom I had heard some in the Cardinal's entourage make disparaging remarks. They clearly disliked her business-like demeanor and lack of interest in them.
As he knelt over me to poke at one of my bloody wrists, twist my crown of thorns around to cause renewed bleeding, mound and pinch my breasts, and then move around to spread my knees, something deep inside her consciousness snapped. Sister Madeleine did the unthinkable.
Impulsively and angrily, acting as though she had seen enough of his loutish coarse behavior, she slammed the red leather-bound journal shut, threw it on the ground and gave him a kick in the posterior that sent him sprawling on top of me, and then for good measure took the inkwell mounted on the writing board she carried, and flung it at him.
Two monks immediately intervened to grab her and hold her, arms pinned back.
A shocked and expectant hush fell over the cloister save for Eulalia's thrashing and moaning and Emily's whimpering as everyone turned to gape at an astonished and red-faced Cardinal struggling to his feet to face his assailant.
Scowling, he brushed himself off, stepped over me, looked Sister Madeleine up and down, and then slowly, wordlessly, raised his right arm, stubby ringed forefinger extended, to point at the whipping posts on the far side of the cloister. The monks responded by hastily bundling her off.
The Cardinal then turned toward Messaline, an expression of satisfaction turning to lust crossing his fat face as his eyes roved up and down to admire her considerable feminine charms. For a moment or two, nothing happened, then nodding in the direction of the French novice, nailed and ready on her cross, he yelled at the Mont Saint-Michel team, "Well, don’t just stand there! Get on with it! Raise her!"
TO BE CONTINUED
Credit here to Malins for suggesting the introduction of yet another victim to this ghastly display of depraved clerical insanity.
Nearly everyone gathered in the cloister to witness the Competition stood transfixed, staring in rapt fascination at the first of the competing novices' brutal crucifixion.
While this was going on, two of the Cardinal's men, aided by the one who had fallen uninvited from a perch on the cloister walls, led a flogged and weakened Sister Emily from the whipping posts toward the cross awaiting her on the ground. She lurched forward, her dark-nippled breasts swaying wildly as she was roughly manhandled across the intervening space. Upon reaching the cross she was forced to sit on it, and then recline to be quickly tied down and nailed in place. Her anguished cries mingled with those of the tortured Scottish novice struggling to support herself on the X-cross and the ring of hammer on iron spike.
With Emily nailed and Eulalia raised, the Cardinal's attention turned to the remaining three novices lying naked and nailed on their crosses, waiting their turn. He wandered among the crosses, inspecting each of us as though we were his prize collection of pinned butterflies. From time to time he would pause to fondle a bare breast, or probe between spread thighs with the toe of his bright red Cardinal’s slipper. I did my best to ignore his molestations.
His observations and comments were duly being recorded by a tallish nun, who followed him around, writing everything down, capturing faithfully his every pronouncement in a red leather-bound journal. He called her Sister Madeleine.
Her facial expression as she worked was one of concentration. She seemed emotionally distant … a silent, indifferent figure about whom I had heard some in the Cardinal's entourage make disparaging remarks. They clearly disliked her business-like demeanor and lack of interest in them.
As he knelt over me to poke at one of my bloody wrists, twist my crown of thorns around to cause renewed bleeding, mound and pinch my breasts, and then move around to spread my knees, something deep inside her consciousness snapped. Sister Madeleine did the unthinkable.
Impulsively and angrily, acting as though she had seen enough of his loutish coarse behavior, she slammed the red leather-bound journal shut, threw it on the ground and gave him a kick in the posterior that sent him sprawling on top of me, and then for good measure took the inkwell mounted on the writing board she carried, and flung it at him.
Two monks immediately intervened to grab her and hold her, arms pinned back.
A shocked and expectant hush fell over the cloister save for Eulalia's thrashing and moaning and Emily's whimpering as everyone turned to gape at an astonished and red-faced Cardinal struggling to his feet to face his assailant.
Scowling, he brushed himself off, stepped over me, looked Sister Madeleine up and down, and then slowly, wordlessly, raised his right arm, stubby ringed forefinger extended, to point at the whipping posts on the far side of the cloister. The monks responded by hastily bundling her off.
The Cardinal then turned toward Messaline, an expression of satisfaction turning to lust crossing his fat face as his eyes roved up and down to admire her considerable feminine charms. For a moment or two, nothing happened, then nodding in the direction of the French novice, nailed and ready on her cross, he yelled at the Mont Saint-Michel team, "Well, don’t just stand there! Get on with it! Raise her!"
TO BE CONTINUED
Credit here to Malins for suggesting the introduction of yet another victim to this ghastly display of depraved clerical insanity.
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montycrusto
Guest
Her punishment is to be dipped in sweet milky tea until overwhelmed with nostalgiathis Sister Madeleine, who can she be?
(does her scent bring back memories of lost time?
Quiet Paul
Tribune
It's getting very crowded in that cloister. How many more crosses can they fit in? And their gardener will be very upset at the state of the lawns......
Thessela
Beloved slavegirl
The words and picture are very haunting together, Tree.
Nailed, exposed, and waiting - my thoughts are boiling inside!
The beautiful novice Messaline waits to be raised and silently prays "Forgive me Lord for my vanity but I pray that my magnificent body is worthy to be destroyed for you..."
My God! The poor dear Cardinal!
The sheer insolence of the woman!
We must take consolation from the fact that the cardinal is a just man, and I'm sure he will devise a fitting punishment for Sister Madelaine!
