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When to strip??

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...but Tree doubts Roman soldiers would have guarded the crosses. It would have been mercenaries working for a few gold coin...

No, Ulrika, I do not hire illegal immigrants... This is a union shop....

Tree
ramon worked always with mercanaries.............................cheaper
 
This inspires a story.

A judge sentenced a hot, 28-year old raven-haired female reporter to jail for contempt of court for refusing to reveal her sources. Since the jails were already overcrowded and he was under orders from the state and county to use them sparingly, he sent her to an alternative detention facility. The reporter, being a witness and not a defendant, did not have the advice of counsel and did not know to object.

She was held in the court's holding cell until midnight, at which point, she was handcuffed, taken outside and put in the rear of a windowless paddy wagon, safely and tightly secured in her seat.

The drive seemed to take hours and it involved so many turns that the reporter lost all sense of direction.

It was pitch black when the paddy wagon stopped. The rear doors open and bright floodlights blinded the reporter. She felt herself being unstrapped and led out of the paddy wagon, still handcuffed, and rushed forward by two strong hands on her arms. Before she knew it, she was stepping inside a building where the light was not as harsh as the floodlights outside. Her eyes adjusted and she saw that two strong female guards had her arms in a vice-like grip while another strong female guard stood before her, an old-fashioned paper shopping bag next to her. Her handcuffs were undone.

"Remove your jacket" ordered the guard in the front. The guard's voice was not loud, but it was firm and authoritative.

The reporter removed her suit jacket.

"Put it in the bag. Now remove your shoes."

Trembling at the imminent strip search, the reporter complied, putting her shoes in the bag without having to be prompted.

"Lift your arms above your head."

The reporter complied. She felt the two guards at her side pat her down. The guards avoided her breasts, pussy and ass, which was a surprise.

"Now put your hands behind your back."

The reporter was handcuffed anew. The guards at her side resumed their vice-like grip on her arms and force-marched her down another corridor. Though her feet were still clad in her pantyhose, the reporter felt the cold of the stone floor radiate through them to her entire body.

The guards stopped before a door, unlocked it and manipulated the reporter in. Then they shut the door. A slot at eye level and a slot at mid-calve level remained open.

"Turn around, kneel down and stick your hands through the lower slot."

The reporter did as ordered. She was uncuffed. But that brought little comfort to her. The cell was narrow--barely the size of a closet. It was brightly lit. The only amenities were a smelly blanket and a bucket. The reporter, frightened, curled the blanket around her and sat. She tried to sleep, but the brightness of the light seeped through her shut eyes, making sleep impossible. Soon after she had been uncuffed, both slots on the door were slammed shut.

Several hours later, the reporter nearly jumped out of her skin at a sudden metallic slamming. She looked around her. Something was different.

"Sleep well, my dear?"

The voice came from the upper slot in the door. It belonged to the prosecutor, a hot, shapely, forty year-old blonde who had lost her husband to an adultress who looked a lot like the reporter.

"N-no..."

"Naw, I guess not...I can help that a bit...just tell me who your source is and I'll have you moved to a more comfortable cell for the rest of the day."

"I can't do that...the First Amendment--"

"Yeah, yeah, you said that all at the trial. Tell you what, though. This cell is cold. I am not heartless,. I will have you moved to a warmer cell in a bit."

With that, the top slot slammed shut. About half an hour latter, another metallic noise jarred the reporter as lower slot on the door was opened.

"Get up, turn around, kneel down and stick your hands through here.

The reporter complied and was cuffed again.

"Now crawl on your knees away from the door."

The reporter complied. The door opened and she felt the two hands of the two female guards grab her arms in a vice-like grip again. She was lifted to her feet, turned around and marched out the cell.

The trio walked for what seemed to be a long time to another cell at a very distant end of the very long corridor. The reporter was surprised to see that, unlike her previous cell, the door of this cell seemed to be made of solid oak instead of iron. Before she had time to appreciate the door any further, one guard opened it, the other guard uncuffed her and pushed her in, and the door closed behind her.

The reporter was bewildered by the unexpectedness of it all. This cell was all wood. The floor was warm to her feet and there were minute but visible separations in the planks of wood that comprised the floor. Across one side of the cell was a long, body-length bench.

Above all, the cell was warm.

The reporter lay down on the wooden bench, and began to drift off to sleep. Then, suddenly, she began to feel hot, too hot to sleep. She removed her blouse, her skirt and her pantyhouse and lay them at the foot of the bench. Then she laid back down and drifted ever so softly into a deep and much needed sleep.

Something woke her some time later. She did not know what it was. She sat up...and saw that her blouse, skirt and pantyhouse were now gone from the foot of her bench...

"Had a nice sleep?"

The prosecutor's voice interrupted the reporter before she could conclude that someone had come in and taken away the items of clothing she had removed while she was sleeping.

"Yes...what are you--"

"Good! I knew this cell would be more comfy. Now that I met you half way, are you going to tell me the name of your source?"

The reporter was stunned at first, stunned at the fact that this seeming gesture of kindness on the part of the prosecutor had actually been a ruse to make her feel more vulnerable by taking away another layer of her clothing...with her unwitting cooperation.

"The First Amendment--"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah! You're sticking to that story after I tried to accomodate you? OK, hardball it is, then."

The slot slammed shut, wood on wood. Moments later, the door opened and the guards walked in and grabbed the reporter. The reporter had not eaten in hours. The heat had made her weak and dulled her resistance, so she could not resist.

The guards grabbed her arms, handcuffed her and marched her out of the cell. The sudden rush of cool air from outside the cell gave the reporter goosebumps, clad as she was only in her bra and panties. The shock of the cold disoriented her for a moment. Then she saw she was being marched to another cell, albeit this one not far away.

One guard held her arm tight while the other guard unlocked this cell's door. The guards then shoved her in and uncuffed her. But this time, they did not leave and shut the door right away.

"Take off your panties and bra."

"Wha--"

"DO IT! NOW!"

The weakened reporter complied, trembling as she removed the last vestiges of her dignity. Before she had time to sob, the guards grabbed her arms and handcuffed her. Then, they fastened a leather collar around her neck. Then, the reporter felt her handcuffed wrists, and by extension, her forearms and arms, being yanked up. Then she felt the collar tighten. Then the collar tightened some more as the reporter felt herself being lifted by harsh pulling on her collar until she was standing on her tippee-toes. Before she could regain her balance, she felt leather cuffs fastened around her ankles, which had been forced apart. Then the guards' hands left her body. Seconds later, all went black as the lights were turned off. The reporter heard the door slammed shut.

Now the reporter was in agony. The lactic acid in her arms, forearms, feet and toes built up, causing her to lower them--only to feel the collar tighten and choke her. Up again she went, fighting off the agony of the lactic acid, going down again until she could not breathe--and the cycle continued forever.

Suddenly the door clanged open and the lights blazed on, temporarily blinding the reporter, but not deafening her.

"So!" the prosecutor's voice was harsh and without empathy this time. "The name of your source?"

"You...are...violating...my Eighth...Amendment--"

"Again with that defense! No, actually I am not. The 8th only specifies cruel and unusual i]punishments[/i]. You have not been convicted of anything, so you are not being punished. And since you are being a wise-ass, I am going to proceed to the next step."

The reporter was soon bound wrist and ankle to an upright Saint Andrew's Cross, the pain in her crotch indescribable. The prosecutor was still there. Despite the agony in her crotch, the reporter's only response to the prosecutor's request for the name of her source was serial "FUCK YOU!"s. Then, she orgasmed so powerfully that she lost consciousness.

She regained consciousness. She was no longer on the Saint Andrew's Cross. She was on soft satin, still naked, but not alone either in company or in nakedness.

"Hello, darling!"

The prosecutor had a smile on her face.

"Wha-what-did you do to me?"

"I got the name of your source."

"I never told you--"

"You don't remember it, but you did. You see, the orgasm a woman gets from being crucified on a Saint Andrew's Cross is the most powerful orgasm on the planet. It's like the crack or meth of orgasms, which is why I get myself crucified like other women used their vibrators. Once you first orgasmed, you passed out. When you came to, you were delirious, but your body craved another orgasm so badly that all it took was a little cunnilingus and tribbing on my part to get you to say the name before your passed out into nirvana again."

"You BITCH!"

"You can thank me later. In the meantime, you will be released. I am going to leave you a card with the deets of an S&M club that specializes in Saint Andrew's Cross crucifixions. You will need it."
 
the orgasm a woman gets from being crucified on a Saint Andrew's Cross is the most powerful orgasm on the planet.
when I orgasm, my instinct is to close my thighs, press them together
(against my Master of course if he's fucking me) -
if I can't, as I can't on an X-cross, it's a strangely delicious torture,
my whole body is wanting to force it to a climax,
but often it seems to take ages of 'so near and yet so far'
before it happens, and when it does, yes, it's volcanic!
 
when I orgasm, my instinct is to close my thighs, press them together
(against my Master of course if he's fucking me) -
if I can't, as I can't on an X-cross, it's a strangely delicious torture,
my whole body is wanting to force it to a climax,
but often it seems to take ages of 'so near and yet so far'
before it happens, and when it does, yes, it's volcanic!
I like the X cross because every inch of the body is exposed and the victum is helpless.
 
Just found this discussion, which includes some references to historical precedent. As for the correct way of doing things, the ancient executioners were masters of variation, so pretty much anything goes. Meanwhile, the loin cloth is a device invented by Christian Renaissance artists to disguise the fact that Jesus was a circumcised Jew. On crucifixion of virgins, at least one Roman playwright did it, but I'll have to go away and look up the reference since I cannot recall who. Women facing the cross is a theory derived from Roman concessions to the indigenous population of Judaea. It gets complicated but a Jewish law stated that females should be hung with their faces to the stake because it was particularly shameful for a woman to be executed. Perhaps somebody can correct me, but this law seems to derive from the Mishnah, which I think actually antedates the Roman occupation (I said it was complicated...) Judaea was the only province in which the Romans did not impose their own religion because they were confronted by a whole nation prepared to die for their God. In tolerating Jewish religious law, the assumption is that the Romans granted the 'facing the stake' concession to females during crucifixion, but this was only a concession in Judaea. Hope this might be of passing interest? b
 
This inspires a story.

A judge sentenced a hot, 28-year old raven-haired female reporter to jail for contempt of court for refusing to reveal her sources. Since the jails were already overcrowded and he was under orders from the state and county to use them sparingly, he sent her to an alternative detention facility. The reporter, being a witness and not a defendant, did not have the advice of counsel and did not know to object.

She was held in the court's holding cell until midnight, at which point, she was handcuffed, taken outside and put in the rear of a windowless paddy wagon, safely and tightly secured in her seat.

The drive seemed to take hours and it involved so many turns that the reporter lost all sense of direction.

It was pitch black when the paddy wagon stopped. The rear doors open and bright floodlights blinded the reporter. She felt herself being unstrapped and led out of the paddy wagon, still handcuffed, and rushed forward by two strong hands on her arms. Before she knew it, she was stepping inside a building where the light was not as harsh as the floodlights outside. Her eyes adjusted and she saw that two strong female guards had her arms in a vice-like grip while another strong female guard stood before her, an old-fashioned paper shopping bag next to her. Her handcuffs were undone.

"Remove your jacket" ordered the guard in the front. The guard's voice was not loud, but it was firm and authoritative.

The reporter removed her suit jacket.

"Put it in the bag. Now remove your shoes."

Trembling at the imminent strip search, the reporter complied, putting her shoes in the bag without having to be prompted.

"Lift your arms above your head."

The reporter complied. She felt the two guards at her side pat her down. The guards avoided her breasts, pussy and ass, which was a surprise.

"Now put your hands behind your back."

The reporter was handcuffed anew. The guards at her side resumed their vice-like grip on her arms and force-marched her down another corridor. Though her feet were still clad in her pantyhose, the reporter felt the cold of the stone floor radiate through them to her entire body.

The guards stopped before a door, unlocked it and manipulated the reporter in. Then they shut the door. A slot at eye level and a slot at mid-calve level remained open.

"Turn around, kneel down and stick your hands through the lower slot."

The reporter did as ordered. She was uncuffed. But that brought little comfort to her. The cell was narrow--barely the size of a closet. It was brightly lit. The only amenities were a smelly blanket and a bucket. The reporter, frightened, curled the blanket around her and sat. She tried to sleep, but the brightness of the light seeped through her shut eyes, making sleep impossible. Soon after she had been uncuffed, both slots on the door were slammed shut.

Several hours later, the reporter nearly jumped out of her skin at a sudden metallic slamming. She looked around her. Something was different.

"Sleep well, my dear?"

The voice came from the upper slot in the door. It belonged to the prosecutor, a hot, shapely, forty year-old blonde who had lost her husband to an adultress who looked a lot like the reporter.

"N-no..."

"Naw, I guess not...I can help that a bit...just tell me who your source is and I'll have you moved to a more comfortable cell for the rest of the day."

"I can't do that...the First Amendment--"

"Yeah, yeah, you said that all at the trial. Tell you what, though. This cell is cold. I am not heartless,. I will have you moved to a warmer cell in a bit."

With that, the top slot slammed shut. About half an hour latter, another metallic noise jarred the reporter as lower slot on the door was opened.

"Get up, turn around, kneel down and stick your hands through here.

The reporter complied and was cuffed again.

"Now crawl on your knees away from the door."

The reporter complied. The door opened and she felt the two hands of the two female guards grab her arms in a vice-like grip again. She was lifted to her feet, turned around and marched out the cell.

The trio walked for what seemed to be a long time to another cell at a very distant end of the very long corridor. The reporter was surprised to see that, unlike her previous cell, the door of this cell seemed to be made of solid oak instead of iron. Before she had time to appreciate the door any further, one guard opened it, the other guard uncuffed her and pushed her in, and the door closed behind her.

The reporter was bewildered by the unexpectedness of it all. This cell was all wood. The floor was warm to her feet and there were minute but visible separations in the planks of wood that comprised the floor. Across one side of the cell was a long, body-length bench.

Above all, the cell was warm.

The reporter lay down on the wooden bench, and began to drift off to sleep. Then, suddenly, she began to feel hot, too hot to sleep. She removed her blouse, her skirt and her pantyhouse and lay them at the foot of the bench. Then she laid back down and drifted ever so softly into a deep and much needed sleep.

Something woke her some time later. She did not know what it was. She sat up...and saw that her blouse, skirt and pantyhouse were now gone from the foot of her bench...

"Had a nice sleep?"

The prosecutor's voice interrupted the reporter before she could conclude that someone had come in and taken away the items of clothing she had removed while she was sleeping.

"Yes...what are you--"

"Good! I knew this cell would be more comfy. Now that I met you half way, are you going to tell me the name of your source?"

The reporter was stunned at first, stunned at the fact that this seeming gesture of kindness on the part of the prosecutor had actually been a ruse to make her feel more vulnerable by taking away another layer of her clothing...with her unwitting cooperation.

"The First Amendment--"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah! You're sticking to that story after I tried to accomodate you? OK, hardball it is, then."

The slot slammed shut, wood on wood. Moments later, the door opened and the guards walked in and grabbed the reporter. The reporter had not eaten in hours. The heat had made her weak and dulled her resistance, so she could not resist.

The guards grabbed her arms, handcuffed her and marched her out of the cell. The sudden rush of cool air from outside the cell gave the reporter goosebumps, clad as she was only in her bra and panties. The shock of the cold disoriented her for a moment. Then she saw she was being marched to another cell, albeit this one not far away.

One guard held her arm tight while the other guard unlocked this cell's door. The guards then shoved her in and uncuffed her. But this time, they did not leave and shut the door right away.

"Take off your panties and bra."

"Wha--"

"DO IT! NOW!"

The weakened reporter complied, trembling as she removed the last vestiges of her dignity. Before she had time to sob, the guards grabbed her arms and handcuffed her. Then, they fastened a leather collar around her neck. Then, the reporter felt her handcuffed wrists, and by extension, her forearms and arms, being yanked up. Then she felt the collar tighten. Then the collar tightened some more as the reporter felt herself being lifted by harsh pulling on her collar until she was standing on her tippee-toes. Before she could regain her balance, she felt leather cuffs fastened around her ankles, which had been forced apart. Then the guards' hands left her body. Seconds later, all went black as the lights were turned off. The reporter heard the door slammed shut.

Now the reporter was in agony. The lactic acid in her arms, forearms, feet and toes built up, causing her to lower them--only to feel the collar tighten and choke her. Up again she went, fighting off the agony of the lactic acid, going down again until she could not breathe--and the cycle continued forever.

Suddenly the door clanged open and the lights blazed on, temporarily blinding the reporter, but not deafening her.

"So!" the prosecutor's voice was harsh and without empathy this time. "The name of your source?"

"You...are...violating...my Eighth...Amendment--"

"Again with that defense! No, actually I am not. The 8th only specifies cruel and unusual i]punishments[/i]. You have not been convicted of anything, so you are not being punished. And since you are being a wise-ass, I am going to proceed to the next step."

The reporter was soon bound wrist and ankle to an upright Saint Andrew's Cross, the pain in her crotch indescribable. The prosecutor was still there. Despite the agony in her crotch, the reporter's only response to the prosecutor's request for the name of her source was serial "FUCK YOU!"s. Then, she orgasmed so powerfully that she lost consciousness.

She regained consciousness. She was no longer on the Saint Andrew's Cross. She was on soft satin, still naked, but not alone either in company or in nakedness.

"Hello, darling!"

The prosecutor had a smile on her face.

"Wha-what-did you do to me?"

"I got the name of your source."

"I never told you--"

"You don't remember it, but you did. You see, the orgasm a woman gets from being crucified on a Saint Andrew's Cross is the most powerful orgasm on the planet. It's like the crack or meth of orgasms, which is why I get myself crucified like other women used their vibrators. Once you first orgasmed, you passed out. When you came to, you were delirious, but your body craved another orgasm so badly that all it took was a little cunnilingus and tribbing on my part to get you to say the name before your passed out into nirvana again."

"You BITCH!"

"You can thank me later. In the meantime, you will be released. I am going to leave you a card with the deets of an S&M club that specializes in Saint Andrew's Cross crucifixions. You will need it."
KvK, i need titles!!!
 
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