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It’s a gross violation of my privacy and dignity and I’m burning with shame. It’s like they’re watching me act out a masturbatory fantasy

That's the point, Marcella. A violation of your privacy, your dignity, and forcing you to endure this while undergoing the pain of crucifixion. All these people looking at you and enjoying you. So humiliating!
But you have a safe word, right? And yet you haven't used it . . . . . . . . . you shameless slut :D

Nice story so far, and some familiar figures making an appearance too.
 
Well, except for saying my safe word and ending this.)

Indeed! Still not used the safe word!:confused:
“Because,” he says with a deadly chill in his voice, “you’re just a crucified bitch now, that’s why.”

Even not yet here!:confused::devil:

Good chapter, exploring the conflict between sense of modesty and the excitement of exposure.and humiliation:)
 
That's the point, Marcella. A violation of your privacy, your dignity, and forcing you to endure this while undergoing the pain of crucifixion. All these people looking at you and enjoying you. So humiliating!
But you have a safe word, right? And yet you haven't used it . . . . . . . . . you shameless slut :D

Nice story so far, and some familiar figures making an appearance too.
Indeed! Still not used the safe word!:confused:


Even not yet here!:confused::devil:

Good chapter, exploring the conflict between sense of modesty and the excitement of exposure.and humiliation:)
"Good point, Phlebas; she is a slut" I say as I get my camera.

She damn near panics when she sees it. She squeezed her thighs together to hide cunt.
MAR 001.jpg
She begging "Don't take pictures. Please don't take pictures!"

I am not too good at listening and she is too tired to hold her knees together.
MAR 002.jpg

'CLICK'

"Not only is she a slut but she is a horny sweaty slut" I note.

She looks over to Alex and pleads "Make him stop! Who is he?"

crux pose 079.jpg

Alex says "Marcella quit bitching. If you don't want you picture taken stop him yourself!"

We all laugh... except Marcella.

Tree
 
Enduring . . .

Rafi’s words slice through me like a knife in the gut. To my own brother I’m nothing more than a bitch who deserves what she got! Alex and the others all call me a bitch too. I can hear them talking about me. I’m always “the bitch.” Maybe I am. Just a worthless, condemned bitch. I deserve this!

Will I ever get off this cross and go about my life again? All I have to do is say the word. That one single word . . . no more. Are people taking bets on when I will say it? Giving odds on how long I can stand staying crucified? I’m in my second hour now. Never thought I’d do more than thirty minutes, at best.

Alex’s behavior this day has made my crucifixion seem terrifyingly real. He has bound me to the cross is a way that I cannot possibly get off by myself. Yes, he changed the fucking rules when he tied my feet to the foot rest! When I think about being bound to this cross in a manner that is totally out of my control, it is very easy to feel like a woman actually condemned to a gruesome death. Oh shit! My heart races just thinking of the possible consequences. I shudder and squirm in fear. My breathing becomes rapid as the horrifying thought that I might never get off of this cross washes over me. I need Alex or someone else to save me. If abandoned I will die a slow, excruciating death. Thinking of that possibility adds so much to the physical and psychological stress I’m under. Saying my safe word is supposed to mean I want off the cross—immediately. But given the arrival of these strangers, and Alex’s open hostility and apparent lack of empathy for my suffering, I’m not sure I wasn’t meant to actually die! Or at least hang until Alex takes me down. I may have lost all control of my fate today, and that is terrifying. Yet, I continue to hang. Not knowing for certain my fate is an incredible excitement as well as a terrible anxiety. How can the two feelings exist in me? Regardless, they do, and I must embrace them both. After all, I am a crucified bitch!

The day’s events have humiliated me as well as terrified me. It started with Alex fucking me on the cross. It was not part of the plan and though I didn’t resist in any way (how could I?) it was still done without any pretense of sexual play meant to satisfy me. Alex behaved as a rapist would; he fucked me for his own pleasure and cared not a whit about me—not my feelings or my dignity as a person or his wife. It was humiliating to have been treated so harshly by him. It left me feeling genuinely abused and assaulted--and ashamed, as only a raped woman can feel. I suppose I should be glad he didn’t fuck me after these strangers arrived. That would have been supremely humiliating! At least none of these strangers have touched me; nor has Rafi. (My god! My brother has seen me naked. He’s seen my exposed pussy! My brother who took secret nude pictures of me! How can I ever look at him again?) I see boner bulges aplenty on the guys, but they’ve kept their distance. Just knowing the display of my naked body is inducing boners in strange men, and that women as well as men are scrutinizing me as I hang on my cross, is humiliation enough.

And life goes on around me. Well, I’m not crucified in a public space, at least, but everyone here seems to be having a good time as I suffer terribly mere feet from them. This is what it must be life for the victim of a genuine crucifixion: to have to publicly suffer so horribly as everyone else goes about their lives. I am so close yet cut off from normal life. Here, on this patio, there’s a party going on. Music is playing and people are relaxing in chairs and drinking beers.

nude-women-in-swimming-pool.jpg The women have all discarded their clothes and are skinny dipping in the soaking pool. I can't see them as the pool is behind me, but I can hear the fun they are having, oblivious to my suffering. Would I be with them if I weren't crucified? Oh yes, I would! Rafi has also discarded his clothes and joined them in the pool. He stripped in front of me. Ugh! I didn’t need to see that! He's so hairy! And his cock is huge! (Who knew?)

For an hour or so I hang in the sun as the strangers enjoy themselves. I’m given some water two times when a tin cup on a pole is held up to my lips. I also piss twice, much to the amusement of all. (How fucking embarrassing!) Otherwise there is not much to do when crucified. It can be rather boring. Only the pain to keep you company and the ever-constant humiliation of strangers who stare at your nakedness and assault you with vulgar language. For me, though, despite all my terrible anxieties about how this will all end for me, being crucified provides exceptional, unique, sensory excitements. I’m living my fantasy! I especially revel in the sensation of have my arms stretched taut to the ends of the crossbeam and the overall tautness in my body. It’s thrilling! God help me, but it is thrilling!

I’m beginning to pick up names of the strangers. The tall, gaunt, old guy is named Tree, but people also call him Jim. The dark-haired woman with the big glasses is Barbara, or Barb. The slender redhead is Erin. Another older guy is called Windar. That must be his last name or nickname? There’s a woman named Thessela and another named Eulalia. That girl with the light-brown hair and the cherry-red lips, who blew me a kiss is named . . . uh, I don’t know. I haven’t seen her since everyone arrived. Where did she go? I can’t keep track of all the guys; there are just too many of them. Which one is Wraag? And Phlebas? Madiosi? I don’t know. They keep their distance. Close enough to observe me as I struggle but far enough so they can’t touch. At least for now. Will they ever try?

Three hours have passed. Shit! This is so fucking painful! It’s . . . it’s exhausting hanging on a cross! My body requires constant re-positioning to alleviate the worst pain of the moment. My muscles are never relaxed, not for a moment. They are in constant state of contracting or being stretched to their limits. And I’ve been crucified for such a short period of time! How could anyone deal with this for days? It’s too horrible to contemplate. I try to put myself in the place of a woman condemned by a court to crucifixion. What horror would I feel being marched away knowing what awaited me! Any reasonable person would look for the first opportunity to kill herself. Perhaps by taking a running leap from a tall place, throwing herself down a long flight of stairs, or managing to open a vein and quickly bleed out. Whatever! Anything would be better than this slow, agonizing death! I guess that’s why the feet of a condemned woman are kept hobbled and her hands always tied behind her back or tied to something else.

But one unendurable pain is only replaced by another when you’re crucified. And no pain ever goes away. How can it? Hanging as I am from these beams. I twist and push and pull endlessly. Rarely am I still for long. And, if I truly am a condemned bitch, I’ve hardly begun my time on the cross.

Water. Someone’s bringing me water again. In the tin cup attached to a long stick. It floats in space in front of me. I have to stretch a bit for it. Why? Why not just put it to my lips? No, of course not. Everything must be made difficult when you’re crucified. Even getting a drink of water. I really shouldn’t drink at all. I should refuse it. It just keeps me alive longer. (What am I saying? Am I resigned to dying on this cross!) But I’m so thirsty! I drink and feel myself piss again. A cheer goes up. Someone has just won a bet, it seems!

Now in my fourth hour (I estimate) my body is enshrouded in pain. Yet I have no intention of saying my word. I don’t want this to end now, or even want to know that it won’t end. I must simply endure—for now.

Then I look down and see her. She’s standing in front of my cross looking up at me, her blue eyes sparkling. It’s the girl with the light brown hair and the cherry-red lips! I had a glimpse of her earlier when the strangers arrived but haven’t seen her since. Where has she been? She's not naked like the other women. She's wearing heels and a pretty summer dress: pale blue with a floral pattern. The colors match her eyes. Her ample breasts are billowing out of the top.

“You are Marcella? Oui?” She asks with a lovely French accent.

“Yes, I am. And you?”

“I am Messaline.”
 
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I’m beginning to pick up names of the strangers. The tall, gaunt, old guy is named Tree, but people also call him Jim. The dark-haired woman with the big glasses is Barbara, or Barb. The slender redhead is Erin. Another older guy is called Windar. That must be his last name or nickname? There’s a woman named Thessela and another named Eulalia. That girl with the light-brown hair and the cherry-red lips, who blew me a kiss is named . . . uh, I don’t know. I haven’t seen her since everyone arrived. Where did she go? I can’t keep track of all the guys; there are just too many of them. Which one is Wraag? And Phlebas? Madiosi? I don’t know. They keep their distance. Close enough to observe me as I struggle but far enough so they can’t touch. At least for now. Will they ever try?

Very good writing!:clapping::clapping::very_hot:
It looks like you have a great time on your cross, Marcella!:rolleyes::)

And your audience is a select gathering of conoisseurs!;)
 
Enduring . . .

Rafi’s words slice through me like a knife in the gut. To my own brother I’m nothing more than a bitch who deserves what she got! Alex and the others all call me a bitch too. I can hear them talking about me. I’m always “the bitch.” Maybe I am. Just a worthless, condemned bitch. I deserve this!

Will I ever get off this cross and go about my life again? All I have to do is say the word. That one single word . . . no more. Are people taking bets on when I will say it? Giving odds on how long I can stand staying crucified? I’m in my second hour now. Never thought I’d do more than thirty minutes, at best.

Alex’s behavior this day has made my crucifixion seem terrifyingly real. He has bound me to the cross is a way that I cannot possibly get off by myself. Yes, he changed the fucking rules when he tied my feet to the foot rest! When I think about being bound to this cross in a manner that is totally out of my control, it is very easy to feel like a woman actually condemned to a gruesome death. Oh shit! My heart races just thinking of the possible consequences. I shudder and squirm in fear. My breathing becomes rapid as the horrifying thought that I might never get off of this cross washes over me. I need Alex or someone else to save me. If abandoned I will die a slow, excruciating death. Thinking of that possibility adds so much to the physical and psychological stress I’m under. Saying my safe word is supposed to mean I want off the cross—immediately. But given the arrival of these strangers, and Alex’s open hostility and apparent lack of empathy for my suffering, I’m not sure I wasn’t meant to actually die! Or at least hang until Alex takes me down. I may have lost all control of my fate today, and that is terrifying. Yet, I continue to hang. Not knowing for certain my fate is an incredible excitement as well as a terrible anxiety. How can the two feelings exist in me? Regardless, they do, and I must embrace them both. After all, I am a crucified bitch!

The day’s events have humiliated me as well as terrified me. It started with Alex fucking me on the cross. It was not part of the plan and though I didn’t resist in any way (how could I?) it was still done without any pretense of sexual play meant to satisfy me. Alex behaved as a rapist would; he fucked me for his own pleasure and cared not a whit about me—not my feelings or my dignity as a person or his wife. It was humiliating to have been treated so harshly by him. It left me feeling genuinely abused and assaulted--and ashamed, as only a raped woman can feel. I suppose I should be glad he didn’t fuck me after these strangers arrived. That would have been supremely humiliating! At least none of these strangers have touched me; nor has Rafi. (My god! My brother has seen me naked. He’s seen my exposed pussy! My brother who took secret nude pictures of me! How can I ever look at him again?) I see boner bulges aplenty on the guys, but they’ve kept their distance. Just knowing the display of my naked body is inducing boners in strange men, and that women as well as men are scrutinizing me as I hang on my cross, is humiliation enough.

And life goes on around me. Well, I’m not crucified in a public space, at least, but everyone here seems to be having a good time as I suffer terribly mere feet from them. This is what it must be life for the victim of a genuine crucifixion: to have to publicly suffer so horribly as everyone else goes about their lives. I am so close yet cut off from normal life. Here, on this patio, there’s a party going on. Music is playing and people are relaxing in chairs and drinking beers.

View attachment 524404 The women have all discarded their clothes and are skinny dipping in the soaking pool. I can't see them as the pool is behind me, but I can hear the fun they are having, oblivious to my suffering. Would I be with them if I weren't crucified? Oh yes, I would! Rafi has also discarded his clothes and joined them in the pool. He stripped in front of me. Ugh! I didn’t need to see that! He's so hairy! And his cock is huge! (Who knew?)

For an hour or so I hang in the sun as the strangers enjoy themselves. I’m given some water two times when a tin cup on a pole is held up to my lips. I also piss twice, much to the amusement of all. (How fucking embarrassing!) Otherwise there is not much to do when crucified. It can be rather boring. Only the pain to keep you company and the ever-constant humiliation of strangers who stare at your nakedness and assault you with vulgar language. For me, though, despite all my terrible anxieties about how this will all end for me, being crucified provides exceptional, unique, sensory excitements. I’m living my fantasy! I especially revel in the sensation of have my arms stretched taut to the ends of the crossbeam and the overall tautness in my body. It’s thrilling! God help me, but it is thrilling!

I’m beginning to pick up names of the strangers. The tall, gaunt, old guy is named Tree, but people also call him Jim. The dark-haired woman with the big glasses is Barbara, or Barb. The slender redhead is Erin. Another older guy is called Windar. That must be his last name or nickname? There’s a woman named Thessela and another named Eulalia. That girl with the light-brown hair and the cherry-red lips, who blew me a kiss is named . . . uh, I don’t know. I haven’t seen her since everyone arrived. Where did she go? I can’t keep track of all the guys; there are just too many of them. Which one is Wraag? And Phlebas? Madiosi? I don’t know. They keep their distance. Close enough to observe me as I struggle but far enough so they can’t touch. At least for now. Will they ever try?

Three hours have passed. Shit! This is so fucking painful! It’s . . . it’s exhausting hanging on a cross! My body requires constant re-positioning to alleviate the worst pain of the moment. My muscles are never relaxed, not for a moment. They are in constant state of contracting or being stretched to their limits. And I’ve been crucified for such a short period of time! How could anyone deal with this for days? It’s too horrible to contemplate. I try to put myself in the place of a woman condemned by a court to crucifixion. What horror would I feel being marched away knowing what awaited me! Any reasonable person would look for the first opportunity to kill herself. Perhaps by taking a running leap from a tall place, throwing herself down a long flight of stairs, or managing to open a vein and quickly bleed out. Whatever! Anything would be better than this slow, agonizing death! I guess that’s why the feet of a condemned woman are kept hobbled and her hands always tied behind her back or tied to something else.

But one unendurable pain is only replaced by another when you’re crucified. And no pain ever goes away. How can it? Hanging as I am from these beams. I twist and push and pull endlessly. Rarely am I still for long. And, if I truly am a condemned bitch, I’ve hardly begun my time on the cross.

Water. Someone’s bringing me water again. In the tin cup attached to a long stick. It floats in space in front of me. I have to stretch a bit for it. Why? Why not just put it to my lips? No, of course not. Everything must be made difficult when you’re crucified. Even getting a drink of water. I really shouldn’t drink at all. I should refuse it. It just keeps me alive longer. (What am I saying? Am I resigned to dying on this cross!) But I’m so thirsty! I drink and feel myself piss again. A cheer goes up. Someone has just won a bet, it seems!

Now in my fourth hour (I estimate) my body is enshrouded in pain. Yet I have no intention of saying my word. I don’t want this to end now, or even want to know that it won’t end. I must simply endure—for now.

Then I look down and see her. She’s standing in front of my cross looking up at me, her blue eyes sparkling. It’s the girl with the light brown hair and the cherry-red lips! I had a glimpse of her earlier when the strangers arrived but haven’t seen her since. Where has she been? She's not naked like the other women. She's wearing heels and a pretty summer dress: pale blue with a floral pattern. The colors match her eyes. Her ample breasts are billowing out of the top.

“You are Marcella? Oui?” She asks with a lovely French accent.

“Yes, I am. And you?”

“I am Messaline.”
Nicely done, you fucking crux-slut...

Love,
Tree
 
"Hi, Messa, what do you think of this crux cunt" I ask.

Must you be so crude, Tree" Messa asks.

"What; she whines about how bad it hurts but the fucking slut has a safe word and won't use it. The bitch is loving the cross."

"Tree, Marcella can hear you!"

"Like I give a shit" I say. I shout to Marcella "Hey bitch, next time let's match your time crucified here with nails!"

Messa looks at the video recorder behind us as Marcella writhes on her cross and says "Be patient with Tree. He is not drunk yet!"

marcella 003.jpg

It won't change my mind when I am. She acts embarrassed but she is reveling in the attention...

She's a horny crux bitch...


Tree
 
Oh dear! Am I becoming that?:eek:

Or, have I always been one?:eek:;)

Yes.

Nice story, very nice. I like the tension rising from her uncertainty, the way she enters her fantasy, even starts resigning herself to death. Very nice living the moment fully.

Someone’s bringing me water again. In the tin cup attached to a long stick. It floats in space in front of me. I have to stretch a bit for it. Why? Why not just put it to my lips? No, of course not. Everything must be made difficult when you’re crucified

Lovely touch, yes, everything must be an effort. We want to see you stretch, work for that water. We want to see how much you want it.

Which one is Wraag? And Phlebas?

I'm the distinguished looking gentleman watching your every movement with intense interest and a discerning eye, dear Marcella.

Dante_Gabriel_Phlebas.jpg

And always, always there is that safe word, on the tip of your tongue. Not yet, feel the agony, more, more!

Now Messa is here, and does she bring release with her? She knows your need for pleasure, she knows what you are going through. Deep desire.
 
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Yes.

I'm the distinguished looking gentleman watching your every movement with intense interest and a discerning eye, dear Marcella.

Now Messa is here, and does she bring release with her? She knows your need for pleasure, she knows what you are going through. Deep desire.

And Wragg would be?

Deep desire or a wretched slut?
 
Messaline . . .

I never saw Messaline approach. It must have been while I was pushed up on the cross as I tried to relieve the burning, knotted pain in my shoulders and arms. She was just standing there when I opened my eyes after relaxing my legs and lowering myself against the upright.

f5a9697853d4e1bdb97bbb3a96ad0a51.jpg I didn’t know what to make of her at first. She’s very different from the other women here. For one thing, she’s not naked and frolicking in the pool. Her delightful French accent along with her sexy floral dress, strappy high-heeled sandals, and a floppy summer hat all make her seem very sophisticated to me—a jeans-and-tee-shirt sort of girl who grew up in the American heartland.

“Oh, ma chère,” she says in a slightly husky, low voice as she looks me over hanging in front of her, “you are so very beautiful. Such a lean, strong, feminine body. I just love your long, slender legs! So sexy! And your beautiful breasts, they are perfection! Oh, and what a delectably sweet pussy—exquise!

As Messaline expresses admiration for my lady bits she reaches out her hand and touches my belly, under my navel, with the tips of her fingers. They trace a path down to my mons where they play in my curly, damp pubic hair. She turns her hand up and slides it between my thighs to run her fingers lightly over my vulva. It’s a delightful sensation but I flinch and shout “No, don’t!” I instinctively squeeze my legs closed as though I’m a teenage girl getting felt-up in the back seat of a car. My face burns with embarrassment.

My blushing must be obvious. “Have I embarrassed you, my dear?” Messaline asks so sweetly after withdrawing her hand. “I did not mean to.” Before I can answer she goes on to say: “Oh, but of course I have.” She looks at me with wide open eyes and her mouth slightly open, as though she’s shocked at her own behavior.

“No . . . well . . . yes.” I stammer, searching for the correct answer. For some time now I’ve been virtually ignored as I hang on my cross. Now, to suddenly have someone standing so close and examining me is disconcerting. I’m in relentless pain and utterly helpless stretched out on my cross. Other than touching me Messaline has done nothing threatening, yet I feel as scared and vulnerable right now as any crucified woman would.

Messaline crosses her arms under her breasts, gently pushing them up slightly out of the top of her dress. She tightens her lips and shakes her head, as if showing disapproval. “Ah, my poor Marcella.” She sighs. “What a terrible shame that you’ve been crucified.”

She speaks as if she knows something of my fate that I do not. As if she knows I’ll not be coming off this cross. I try to say that I can end this at any time, but before I can she asks, rather bluntly, “Why did your master have you crucified?”

“My master?” I snap back her, groaning in pain as I tense my legs and twist my ass to one side of the upright against the fresh pain building in my shoulders. “I’m no slave!”

“Oh! A criminal then? Or a rebel, perhaps? What did you do to deserve this?”

My head rolls from side to side as I answer in a voice that starts out low but rises in vehemence as my pain escalates. “No . . . not a criminal either, or a rebel. I’m an innocent woman!”

“Oh, and how is that possible? An innocent woman crucified? Impossible!” Messaline looks at me with disbelief in her eyes as her hands playfully swish the hem of her dress as though music was playing on her head.

I gather my thoughts to answer as she touches my leg, just above the knee, and then runs her hand up between my thighs, all the way to my crotch. The tip of a finger pushes into my cleft, separating my labia. She brushes her finger against my clit. The unexpected intimacy thrills me and this time I do not flinch or squeeze my legs together. I suck in my breath and tense my whole body, waiting for more. But, teasingly, she drops her hand back down. Shit! Why the fuck did she stop?

“I . . . I don’t know what I could have done, honestly! I’ve been good . . . I’m not bad!” My words are breathy as I now clench my thighs together trying to preserve the feeling of her finger on me.

“Please, do not lie to me, Marcella,” Messaline says softy but with a serious undertone, as if she’s my interrogator, “there is no need now.” She begins to walk slowly around my cross, talking as she goes.

“You must be guilty of something. Why else are you here, crucified, and suffering so terribly?”

Again, I protest my innocence. “But I’ve done nothing to deserve this!”

“Ah ha,” Messaline replies accusingly, her face turning up towards mine as she comes back around to the front of my cross, “I have it! You were crucified by your lover whom you betrayed. Yes! That’s it, is it not?”

“No!” I insisted. “I betrayed no one! Certainly not my husband, my lover. How many times must I tell you that I’ve done nothing wrong!”

“Stop protesting your innocence, girl! What have you done? Think! Confession would be good thing right now. It would free you to admit that you are responsible for your crucifixion. It would justify your suffering this day.” Messaline makes several more circuits around my cross. Each time her hands brush against my legs as she circles. I hear the measured tapping of her heels on the patio bricks.

I respond, my voice rising. “Please! I have nothing to confess! I am innocent!”

Do I really believe that? I ask myself

Messaline continues. “Then why do you not say your safe word and get taken down. You have the power to end this suffering. Why do you choose to remain on this cross?”

Why, indeed? I ask myself. This was never supposed to last so long. Did I let Alex crucify me for real? If I say my safe word and everyone just laughs, then I will know. But if I say it and I’m immediately taken down, then my crucifixion will be over. I’m living my fantasy, in a way more real than I ever could have imagined. But what if it was real? Would I accept it? Or go insane as I screamed my life away in agony? I guess I remain on the cross because I simply want to. Though terribly painful and humiliating, it just feels so damn . . . sensual! The pain gives such pleasure, and the pleasure is paid for in pain. But I don’t want it to end . . . for now.

I start to reply to Messaline’s question but her voice coming from behind my cross cuts me off. “Oh, Marcella! Your beautiful ass is full of splinters. Alex should have used a better grade of wood. This cross is far too rough for you!”

I feel her hand on my ass and between my ass cheeks. “Mon Dieu,” she gasps. Oh, these splinters are so big and buried so deep in your flesh. They must hurt you terribly! Non?”

I had gotten used to the pain of the splinters until Messaline began to pull one out. It must have been fairly deep because I squealed with pain as it was withdrawn. She walks around and shows it to me.

“See? A very large splinter. Yes?” The sliver appears several inches long and red with my blood. Messaline makes a look as though she’s holding something unpleasant, then lets the splinter drop to the bricks. She then runs her hands up and down my right thigh, gently squeezing my flesh. “Oh, my dear, I can feel such tension in you. Your muscles are as taut as twisted ropes.” I tense at her touch.

What is she up to? I wonder as I feel the side of her hand pushing firmly into my vulva. Damn, she’s getting me very stimulated—very wet! She reaches up and brushes my nipple with her hand. The sensation sends an impulse of pure, yearning pleasure through me. I gasp. She squeezes my boob and rolls the nipple between thumb and forefinger. I begin to groan in pleasure. My body shudders as she continues. “Oh, please,” I beg, breathing deeply, “don’t tease me and then stop. Don’t leave me like he did!”

I hear voices from the others. “Look at the bitch spread her legs!” One of the men shouts. I think it’s Tree. “See, she wants to be fucked! She’s asking for it!” Another shouts out, Wragg, I think it is. The women now join the men, dripping wet from the pool and standing naked in front of my cross. They cheer and hoot with the men. I blush with renewed embarrassment. How can my own sex treat me so badly? Yet, I’m not upset with Messaline. Why not? I never gave her permission to touch me; she just did it! It was an assault upon my dignity! I was violated! She’s no different than the others. She’s only assaulting me in different ways. Still, to me, she isn’t one of them. She’s different, so very, very different from them!

I look down. Indeed, I am holding my legs further apart than they ever were before Messaline approached. Am I inviting her in, so to speak? Do I even have to say anything? Am I asking for her to violate me by opening my legs? Yes, I am! Dammit! I want her to touch me! My face grows even hotter as I try to ignore the vile, indecent taunts of the people on my patio. I’m just a shameless cunt, practically begging this beautiful woman to violate me further!

Messaline walks around my cross again, brushing my tensed, burning thighs with her fingers as she goes. Her touch is so soft, so sensual! My heart starts beating faster as a gentle warmth grows in my pussy and begins to spread outward. She stops in front of me and looks up, placing her hand between my thighs and running it slowly up to my crotch where her fingers slip into my cleft and separate my pussy lips. I shudder as she pushes her fingers deep into my vagina. I moan as the heat builds in me. My back arches and my breasts thrust forward, their nipples tumescent. They ache to be touched, to be fondled, to be kissed!

“Oh, you poor girl.” Messaline says softy and with degree of concern in her voice. “Some man has treated you badly, I can tell.” She withdraws her fingers; they glisten. She holds them up for me to see. “See? Your labia are swollen, and you are full of cum. So much cum! Merde! This could not have been just one man! It is running out of you!”

“Yes, I see.” I answer breathlessly as my arousal increases. “No, it was just one man.” I was so humiliated earlier feeling Alex’s sticky cum on my thighs whenever I pressed my legs together. Everyone knew I had been fucked. But now I don’t care! Breathing heavily, I say: “It’s my juices, too. Your touch, it is so, so wonderful . . . ”

Before I can say more Messaline almost dismissively wipes her fingers on my thigh, then looks up at me. “Did he pleasure you too, or just have his way with you?”

“No, he raped me.” I blurted the words out, but as soon as I said it I took them back. Alex may have fucked me hard, without any affection and concern for me, but it was not rape. “No, no, it wasn’t rape.” I gasped, “He just fucked me, very hard, very . . . very hard. I wasn’t ready. I didn’t want him . . .”

Before I can finish Messaline raises her hand. “It does not matter, my poor, dear girl. A man pleasured himself with your body just to satisfy his lust, then left you unsatisfied. Yes?”

“Yes, he did. He cared nothing about me. I was just a piece of meat, to him.” The words pained me to say them, but it was true. The sticky mess between my thighs and my pent-up sexual tension is the evidence!

“Perhaps, as a condemned woman, he saw you as worthless, not deserving of respectable treatment?” N'est-ce pas?

“Yes, of course. Why should a crucified woman expect anything else?”

“But you deserve better Marcella! Condemned or not.”

“It’s too late. I can only hang now. There is nothing else for me . . .”

“Oh? Perhaps not.” Messaline looks at me mischievously.

“Please, don’t tease me further. You would be no different from him.”

Keeping her mischievous smile Messaline pulls the straps of her dress off her shoulders and lets the silky fabric drop to her feet. She steps out of the dress, kicks it aside. Her full breasts bobble and sway on her chest as she wriggles out of her panties. She removes her hat and tosses it across the patio, then bends to undo her sandals. She straightens up, now completely naked, and steps into me. I feel her lips and tongue on my belly, just below my navel. Her tongue now traces a wet path down to my mons. She rubs her face in my pubic hair as I feel her fingers pushing deeply into me. I look down at the top of her head. She looks up at me. Her red lipstick is smeared. Her hand reaches for my breast.

“I never start anything I do not mean to end, ma chère. Trust me.”

*
 
Messaline . . .

I never saw Messaline approach. It must have been while I was pushed up on the cross as I tried to relieve the burning, knotted pain in my shoulders and arms. She was just standing there when I opened my eyes after relaxing my legs and lowering myself against the upright.

View attachment 524688 I didn’t know what to make of her at first. She’s very different from the other women here. For one thing, she’s not naked and frolicking in the pool. Her delightful French accent along with her sexy floral dress, strappy high-heeled sandals, and a floppy summer hat all make her seem very sophisticated to me—a jeans-and-tee-shirt sort of girl who grew up in the American heartland.

“Oh, ma chère,” she says in a slightly husky, low voice as she looks me over hanging in front of her, “you are so very beautiful. Such a lean, strong, feminine body. I just love your long, slender legs! So sexy! And your beautiful breasts, they are perfection! Oh, and what a delectably sweet pussy—exquise!

As Messaline expresses admiration for my lady bits she reaches out her hand and touches my belly, under my navel, with the tips of her fingers. They trace a path down to my mons where they play in my curly, damp pubic hair. She turns her hand up and slides it between my thighs to run her fingers lightly over my vulva. It’s a delightful sensation but I flinch and shout “No, don’t!” I instinctively squeeze my legs closed as though I’m a teenage girl getting felt-up in the back seat of a car. My face burns with embarrassment.

My blushing must be obvious. “Have I embarrassed you, my dear?” Messaline asks so sweetly after withdrawing her hand. “I did not mean to.” Before I can answer she goes on to say: “Oh, but of course I have.” She looks at me with wide open eyes and her mouth slightly open, as though she’s shocked at her own behavior.

“No . . . well . . . yes.” I stammer, searching for the correct answer. For some time now I’ve been virtually ignored as I hang on my cross. Now, to suddenly have someone standing so close and examining me is disconcerting. I’m in relentless pain and utterly helpless stretched out on my cross. Other than touching me Messaline has done nothing threatening, yet I feel as scared and vulnerable right now as any crucified woman would.

Messaline crosses her arms under her breasts, gently pushing them up slightly out of the top of her dress. She tightens her lips and shakes her head, as if showing disapproval. “Ah, my poor Marcella.” She sighs. “What a terrible shame that you’ve been crucified.”

She speaks as if she knows something of my fate that I do not. As if she knows I’ll not be coming off this cross. I try to say that I can end this at any time, but before I can she asks, rather bluntly, “Why did your master have you crucified?”

“My master?” I snap back her, groaning in pain as I tense my legs and twist my ass to one side of the upright against the fresh pain building in my shoulders. “I’m no slave!”

“Oh! A criminal then? Or a rebel, perhaps? What did you do to deserve this?”

My head rolls from side to side as I answer in a voice that starts out low but rises in vehemence as my pain escalates. “No . . . not a criminal either, or a rebel. I’m an innocent woman!”

“Oh, and how is that possible? An innocent woman crucified? Impossible!” Messaline looks at me with disbelief in her eyes as her hands playfully swish the hem of her dress as though music was playing on her head.

I gather my thoughts to answer as she touches my leg, just above the knee, and then runs her hand up between my thighs, all the way to my crotch. The tip of a finger pushes into my cleft, separating my labia. She brushes her finger against my clit. The unexpected intimacy thrills me and this time I do not flinch or squeeze my legs together. I suck in my breath and tense my whole body, waiting for more. But, teasingly, she drops her hand back down. Shit! Why the fuck did she stop?

“I . . . I don’t know what I could have done, honestly! I’ve been good . . . I’m not bad!” My words are breathy as I now clench my thighs together trying to preserve the feeling of her finger on me.

“Please, do not lie to me, Marcella,” Messaline says softy but with a serious undertone, as if she’s my interrogator, “there is no need now.” She begins to walk slowly around my cross, talking as she goes.

“You must be guilty of something. Why else are you here, crucified, and suffering so terribly?”

Again, I protest my innocence. “But I’ve done nothing to deserve this!”

“Ah ha,” Messaline replies accusingly, her face turning up towards mine as she comes back around to the front of my cross, “I have it! You were crucified by your lover whom you betrayed. Yes! That’s it, is it not?”

“No!” I insisted. “I betrayed no one! Certainly not my husband, my lover. How many times must I tell you that I’ve done nothing wrong!”

“Stop protesting your innocence, girl! What have you done? Think! Confession would be good thing right now. It would free you to admit that you are responsible for your crucifixion. It would justify your suffering this day.” Messaline makes several more circuits around my cross. Each time her hands brush against my legs as she circles. I hear the measured tapping of her heels on the patio bricks.

I respond, my voice rising. “Please! I have nothing to confess! I am innocent!”

Do I really believe that? I ask myself

Messaline continues. “Then why do you not say your safe word and get taken down. You have the power to end this suffering. Why do you choose to remain on this cross?”

Why, indeed? I ask myself. This was never supposed to last so long. Did I let Alex crucify me for real? If I say my safe word and everyone just laughs, then I will know. But if I say it and I’m immediately taken down, then my crucifixion will be over. I’m living my fantasy, in a way more real than I ever could have imagined. But what if it was real? Would I accept it? Or go insane as I screamed my life away in agony? I guess I remain on the cross because I simply want to. Though terribly painful and humiliating, it just feels so damn . . . sensual! The pain gives such pleasure, and the pleasure is paid for in pain. But I don’t want it to end . . . for now.

I start to reply to Messaline’s question but her voice coming from behind my cross cuts me off. “Oh, Marcella! Your beautiful ass is full of splinters. Alex should have used a better grade of wood. This cross is far too rough for you!”

I feel her hand on my ass and between my ass cheeks. “Mon Dieu,” she gasps. Oh, these splinters are so big and buried so deep in your flesh. They must hurt you terribly! Non?”

I had gotten used to the pain of the splinters until Messaline began to pull one out. It must have been fairly deep because I squealed with pain as it was withdrawn. She walks around and shows it to me.

“See? A very large splinter. Yes?” The sliver appears several inches long and red with my blood. Messaline makes a look as though she’s holding something unpleasant, then lets the splinter drop to the bricks. She then runs her hands up and down my right thigh, gently squeezing my flesh. “Oh, my dear, I can feel such tension in you. Your muscles are as taut as twisted ropes.” I tense at her touch.

What is she up to? I wonder as I feel the side of her hand pushing firmly into my vulva. Damn, she’s getting me very stimulated—very wet! She reaches up and brushes my nipple with her hand. The sensation sends an impulse of pure, yearning pleasure through me. I gasp. She squeezes my boob and rolls the nipple between thumb and forefinger. I begin to groan in pleasure. My body shudders as she continues. “Oh, please,” I beg, breathing deeply, “don’t tease me and then stop. Don’t leave me like he did!”

I hear voices from the others. “Look at the bitch spread her legs!” One of the men shouts. I think it’s Tree. “See, she wants to be fucked! She’s asking for it!” Another shouts out, Wragg, I think it is. The women now join the men, dripping wet from the pool and standing naked in front of my cross. They cheer and hoot with the men. I blush with renewed embarrassment. How can my own sex treat me so badly? Yet, I’m not upset with Messaline. Why not? I never gave her permission to touch me; she just did it! It was an assault upon my dignity! I was violated! She’s no different than the others. She’s only assaulting me in different ways. Still, to me, she isn’t one of them. She’s different, so very, very different from them!

I look down. Indeed, I am holding my legs further apart than they ever were before Messaline approached. Am I inviting her in, so to speak? Do I even have to say anything? Am I asking for her to violate me by opening my legs? Yes, I am! Dammit! I want her to touch me! My face grows even hotter as I try to ignore the vile, indecent taunts of the people on my patio. I’m just a shameless cunt, practically begging this beautiful woman to violate me further!

Messaline walks around my cross again, brushing my tensed, burning thighs with her fingers as she goes. Her touch is so soft, so sensual! My heart starts beating faster as a gentle warmth grows in my pussy and begins to spread outward. She stops in front of me and looks up, placing her hand between my thighs and running it slowly up to my crotch where her fingers slip into my cleft and separate my pussy lips. I shudder as she pushes her fingers deep into my vagina. I moan as the heat builds in me. My back arches and my breasts thrust forward, their nipples tumescent. They ache to be touched, to be fondled, to be kissed!

“Oh, you poor girl.” Messaline says softy and with degree of concern in her voice. “Some man has treated you badly, I can tell.” She withdraws her fingers; they glisten. She holds them up for me to see. “See? Your labia are swollen, and you are full of cum. So much cum! Merde! This could not have been just one man! It is running out of you!”

“Yes, I see.” I answer breathlessly as my arousal increases. “No, it was just one man.” I was so humiliated earlier feeling Alex’s sticky cum on my thighs whenever I pressed my legs together. Everyone knew I had been fucked. But now I don’t care! Breathing heavily, I say: “It’s my juices, too. Your touch, it is so, so wonderful . . . ”

Before I can say more Messaline almost dismissively wipes her fingers on my thigh, then looks up at me. “Did he pleasure you too, or just have his way with you?”

“No, he raped me.” I blurted the words out, but as soon as I said it I took them back. Alex may have fucked me hard, without any affection and concern for me, but it was not rape. “No, no, it wasn’t rape.” I gasped, “He just fucked me, very hard, very . . . very hard. I wasn’t ready. I didn’t want him . . .”

Before I can finish Messaline raises her hand. “It does not matter, my poor, dear girl. A man pleasured himself with your body just to satisfy his lust, then left you unsatisfied. Yes?”

“Yes, he did. He cared nothing about me. I was just a piece of meat, to him.” The words pained me to say them, but it was true. The sticky mess between my thighs and my pent-up sexual tension is the evidence!

“Perhaps, as a condemned woman, he saw you as worthless, not deserving of respectable treatment?” N'est-ce pas?

“Yes, of course. Why should a crucified woman expect anything else?”

“But you deserve better Marcella! Condemned or not.”

“It’s too late. I can only hang now. There is nothing else for me . . .”

“Oh? Perhaps not.” Messaline looks at me mischievously.

“Please, don’t tease me further. You would be no different from him.”

Keeping her mischievous smile Messaline pulls the straps of her dress off her shoulders and lets the silky fabric drop to her feet. She steps out of the dress, kicks it aside. Her full breasts bobble and sway on her chest as she wriggles out of her panties. She removes her hat and tosses it across the patio, then bends to undo her sandals. She straightens up, now completely naked, and steps into me. I feel her lips and tongue on my belly, just below my navel. Her tongue now traces a wet path down to my mons. She rubs her face in my pubic hair as I feel her fingers pushing deeply into me. I look down at the top of her head. She looks up at me. Her red lipstick is smeared. Her hand reaches for my breast.

“I never start anything I do not mean to end, ma chère. Trust me.”

*
“I never start anything I do not mean to end, ma chère. Trust me.” -Messa

Messa learned this when she was crucified in "Messa's plans go awry"!
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"Raped? Violated? Used against your will?" Tree says as he looks up your lewdly displayed body. "I think not. You gave yourself to cross to be offered to us to taken as we see fit. You revel in the attention as you share time with your lovers Pleasure and Pain. You don't use your safe word because you have yet to be satisfied. But Marcella you are nearly insatiable. Being bound to cross will not achieve your goal. You must be nailed it, you fucking crux slut."
He flicks his cigarette butt off her belly, lights another, and shuffles off to refresh his drink. He's right of course but Marcella is not ready for that experience so she remains content to hang from the cross without saying her safe word...
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xM_10.jpg That was fantastic indeed, Marcella and you depicted me exactely like I'm !:rolleyes:
Perhaps I was, in this episode, wanting to show you what you were really searching in accepting (desiring ?) this crucifixion ... I hope that you have understood that it's a recurrent needing , deeply anchored into our mind, for us cruxgirls who, for different reasons, are always into this cross'attraction ...
Even if you tell your safety'word, you'll perhaps be delivered, but you'll soon return to your cross, believe me !;)


“I never start anything I do not mean to end, ma chère. Trust me.” -Messa

Messa learned this when she was crucified in "Messa's plans go awry"!

No, you're wrong, Tree : it's my lovely Judith who teached me ...:rolleyes:

 
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