My Good Friday - A Story
Yes, I would smile while they tortured my breasts. I'd enjoy it that much, I know, on my good Friday.
I imagine the details would be easily handled - tell the neighbors I was moving to start my new job, then fly to S. America where they do these things. No real problems, now that I've reached the 'age of majority' and can decide for myself.
I'd be introduced to the person in charge of the annual Good Friday festivities and hand her my list of desires and preferences. I was told it is traditional for women to start with the whipping of their breasts and cunt. But I wanted something special. So I decided to ask for a rod to be used that would cut me, first on my right breast, 13 strokes of course, each stroke across the nipple. Then my left breast and nipple for another 13. For my cunt I'd request a studded flogger to be used until all 39 strokes were accounted for.
I would also decide to crucify my nipples the night before, using one sewing needle vertically, one horizontally and (my secret!) one straight in completely so it couldn't be seen. That way, the rod will hurt more. And I would sleep better that night. I bring the sewing needles and thimble with me on the trip.
On a whim, I tell the woman in charge that I would love to walk to the cross in my bare feet, so long as the path was filled with broken glass. She said that this too was traditional for women, which makes me glad. I know that the tradition includes a spiked support on the cross for the sufferer, either a cornu with nails or a foot long piece of wood with nails to rest on. I choose the cornu. In addition, I ask that the wedge where my feet are to be nailed be studded with spikes - maybe the tips of nails driven through. She agrees and seems pleased by this ("Ah! You like your feet tortured as much as your breasts!" she says).
It begins early the next day, when I'm taken to the court to be sentenced. My clothes are torn off me in full view of the town's people and the scourging begins.
I see how the man who will whip me stares at the needles crucifying my nipples, and much like St. Agatha, I smile at him as my arms are tied to the pole behind my back. It's so hard to describe the feeling, but my breasts seem happy to stretch out to greet his whipping rod. They are happy to achieve their destiny, it seems.
Thirteen strokes on my right breast, then thirteen on my left, every stroke cutting perfectly across the nipple. His aim and skill is amazing, and it's almost like he's especially eager to punish my nipples the way they deserve. It hurts, of course - it hurts terribly, especially with the needle hidden in each. I am soon delirious with the pain, enjoying the spectacle as I watch from outside my own body. I can't believe how erect and long my nipples are in their suffering!
I'm removed from the pole and placed in the whipping chair, a special chair that allows the penitent to semi-recline with her legs spread comfortably as she exposes herself to the whip. It's nice. The scourge has five lashes, each embedded with cutting, metal shards to rip at an open cunt. It rips at mine, each stroke leaving thin riverlets of blood to enhance my experience. I become orgasmic the first time one of the whip's tongs succeeds in finding my clitoris. I don't know how many times I cum with that whipping.
Too soon, I am lifted from the chair and thin, barbed wire is tied perfectly around each of my breasts - not too tightly but piercingly perfect. A light cloak is placed over my shoulders and I'm led to the street for my walk. Like most girls and women who are crucified, I try to hold my head high as I am paraded. The crowds in the street pull and rip at my cloak, soon making it impossible for me to hide my proud, tortured breasts and nipples from their view. Many throw bottles at the ground in front of me, shattering them for my bare feet. As best I can, I carefully step on as many shards as possible, letting my pretty, painted toes encourage their tormenting.
I am led to my cross awaiting on the ground and led to sit gently on it with my open cunt resting at the edge of the studded cornu. My feet barely touch the wedge (also studded with nails), so I try to impale myself as much as I can on the torture-phallus. My feet can now reach the spiked wedge comfortably. I am made to lay down and one of the women grabs my ankles to pull me onto the cornu even more. I can feel its spikes as it cuts into me, deep into my womb.
As two others grab my wrists, the nailing begins. I lift my head, though, to see The first spike enter my right foot near the instep. It causes the nails in the wedge to enter and bite my pretty toes as they waggle and spread with the pain. The hammer blows come rapidly as spikes enter my wrists and my left foot too, securing me - too many blows to count.
As often as a girl thinks about being crucified, she never considers the beautiful agony of being raised up once she is nailed. She never considers how her own weight will cause her to slowly sink onto the cornu so that it's spikes cut her deeply. For me, the blunt tip is a welcome visitor deep into my body, it's spikes thrilling me with the agony they provide. I want to raise and lower myself on it slowly, again and again like a lover. I use the spikes in my feet for leverage.
I suddenly realize I am masturbating myself on the cross, whipped, feet and wrists nailed, impaled. It is the most thrilling and erotic fantasy I had ever imagined. I can only only wish for one more thing... to reach my last orgasm at the end.