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Crucifixion of a Weather Girl

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Part 18

Ophelia is lying over the nailer’s chest, prostrate and out of breath, her outstretched arms laboring under the weight of her patibulum, her firm breasts squashed against the tearful kitschy face of his cruxgirl tattoo.

“Why didn’t you kill us?” she pants, as Emma and Sophie take hold of the crossbeam and pull her upwards.

“We – we, don’t have the authority …” says Sophie hesitantly.

“Oh, we wouldn’t dream of having you miss out on the excitement of your crucifixion”, the Sister pipes up from a few yards away, where she is standing with the Doctor, examining Destiny’s savagely beaten face.

Destiny is gradually regaining consciousness as the Sister dabs tentatively at her cheek with a piece of gauze.

“We can’t possibly send her out looking like this!” she says, staring at the Doctor with grave concern.

“I quite agree”, he says, “the international human rights organizations will have a field day. We’ll never hear the end of it. We'll be lectured till kingdom come by sanctimonious diplomats – telling us that we beat up our prisoners in custody … There’ll be trade sanctions … We’ll be banned from sporting events! … England will be a pariah!”

“That’s so unfair! … Is there anything you can do, Doctor?”

“H’m … let me see …” He puts his fingers on either side of Destiny’s lower jaw and runs his thumbs along her high, perfectly sculpted cheekbones. “Yes, that’s good … no fractures… It’s all quite superficial really. Yes … I suppose I … could …”

Before he can complete his sentence, the doors burst open and five armed men in MEGA-Squad uniforms storm the ward, shouting frantically:

“Everybody freeze! Nobody move!”

A bearded man in a dark blue suit saunters in behind them with a bag of peanuts in his hand. He puts a handful in his mouth and licks his fingers as he looks around. Mercy realizes how very hungry she is, not having eaten since last night.

“Everything under control?” asks the man, strolling up to the Doctor and the Sister. He pulls a face when he sees the dark-haired nailer sitting doubled-up on the edge of a bed, blood dripping onto the floor from his chewed-up penis.

“And hello to you too, Chief Inspector!” says the Sister sarcastically. “Yes. Order has been restored. There was a spot of trouble earlier, after I discharged two of our crux ladies into the care of your officers. But my staff have since taken back control, and there’s really no need to be pointing those guns at us.”

He raises his hand. “At ease, men! Lower your weapons!”

“Thank you. Now perhaps you’ll allow the Emergency Room team to attend to the wounded?”

“Eriksson! Let the medics in.”

A big surly-looking officer opens the door and waves in a team of six light-footed emergency medics dressed in sky blue tunics.

The dark-haired nailer winces as they swab down his penis with antiseptic.

“What the fuck were you thinking, Strawson!” the Chief Inspector shouts at him. “Putting your fucking dicks in those bitches’ mouths!? Didn’t we teach you anything? Fucking idiots!”

“Sorry, Chief. But they told us at Interrogation the bitches ‘ad been, like, neutralized and … you know, … tamed and that … and they said they, like, loved giving ‘ead,” he says sheepishly.

“Chief!” A ginger-haired officer comes running up. “You’d better take a look at Stallion! Sh-she’s b-bitten it clean off!”

Stuffing his peanuts in his pocket, he strides over.

“Stallion! Oh – my – god!” he exclaims as the medics attempt to staunch the tattooed nailer’s bleeding by tying a tourniquet around his little stump.

“Did you do this?” He turns to confront Ophelia with a blaze of fury in his eyes.

She smiles at him seductively, exposing her crimson teeth.

“Have you come for another blowjob, Chief Inspector?” She pushes up her bloodstained upper lip with the tip of her crimson tongue. “Remember your little visits to the Interrogation Center? How you loved the feel of my perfect cocksucker lips around your thick juicy manhood? Mmmmh ... You were always so hard, Chief Inspector. What was it you used to call me? Queen Cocksucker? On account of my ultra-stimulating tongue action …”

She giggles coquettishly.

He brings up his clenched fists as if to punch her.

She giggles again. “Go on then! Kill me!” She runs her tongue along her upper teeth and, finding a loose tooth, pushes it out and spits it at the Chief Inspector.

He steps towards her extending his hands as if to strangle her.

“Have a care, Chief Inspector!” the Sister calls out. “The cruxgirls must be preserved unblemished until their time comes. We are a civilized country. We respect the rule of law.”

“You don’t have to tell me my job, woman!” he snarls back at her, dropping his hands. Mercy hears him muttering under his breath to his colleagues: “Fucking sanctimonious bitch!”

He grabs Ophelia by the hair, brings back her head and spits directly onto her closed lips.

"You're a fucking animal!" the ginger-haired officer squawks at her.

“I’ll get my chance with this cunt after she’s been whipped,” the Chief Inspector growls. “I will personally push a skewer through those perky little tits.”

By now the two grimacing and groaning nailers have been lifted onto trolley beds. Both have huge bandages, like diapers, between their legs. Stallion has a bandage around his concussed head, while a plasma bag hanging from a pole infuses his depleted blood vessels.

“Okay, let’s go!” says one of the medics. “We’ll have you in ER in two shakes.”

After the medics and the wounded have gone the Sister picks up a clear plastic bag lying on a metal tray. “Oh goodness me! They’ve forgotten to take this'', she says. “Emma, would you be a darling and take it over to ER? Oh, and could you fill in an incident form. Be sure to emphasize that the cruxgirls were under police supervision -- not ours -- when the incident occurred.”

“No probs, Sister”, says Emma, taking the plastic bag and examining its content with a smirk.

“Thank you so much, sweetheart. I doubt they’ll be able to do very much with it. But they might as well have the … whole man, so to speak.”

As Emma sits down at a desk and fills in the form, Mercy can only stare at her and think of her own thwarted orgasm.

Expertly using her tongue on her clit, Emma has – just a few minutes ago – brought her to the very cusp of an earth-moving tidal wave of a climax. It would have been quite probably the last orgasm Mercy would ever experience. And now she has been denied it – abandoned, left high and dry. All because of that ridiculous cock biting stunt pulled by Ophelia and Destiny.

She feels unbearably frustrated and bitter. Why did they have to screw everything up like this? They’re only delaying the inevitable.

Emma’s kindness and patience with Mercy have helped her come to terms with being sentenced to death as a traitor. And in a way, she is almost looking forward to being objectified, paraded naked through the streets.

The thought evokes a delicious humming in her pussy, like the achingly lovely tingle she used to have before going live in front of her weather map in a tight mini dress, knowing that millions of viewers would be masturbating over her tightly packed cleavage and slim, stockinged legs.

She has often wondered whether all those women who voted for Oakbeam were actually motivated by envy and spite. Did they despise Mercy because their fat lazy couch potato husbands drooled each evening over her perfect hourglass figure? Is she just a scapegoat for millions of sour women trapped in miserable marriages?

But she knows, deep down, that there is a dark and dangerous truth in what Cassandra was trying to tell her during their therapy session. There are many women out there who secretly yearn for the opportunity Mercy has been given, to be humiliated, tortured and executed naked in front of a crowd.

If Mercy were free to be a spectator in that crowd, she knows that she would be out there at this very moment, with a VIP ticket and soaking wet panties, waiting excitedly for the top-billed cruxgirls to come into view, struggling under their crossbeams in g-strings and stiletto heels. She might even have been invited to dine in the Execution Park, at the Prime Minister’s table. The thought brings a sad smile to her lips.

Since long before she knew what sex was, Mercy has secretly fantasized about being tortured and executed in public. At school she once squeezed her thighs to orgasm during an English exam as she wrote a story imagining she was Henry VIII’s wife, Catherine Howard, climbing the steps to the scaffold, kneeling at the block in front of the crowd and waiting for the executioner’s ax to fall on her slender neck. She got a high mark for the story, but performed poorly in the rest of the paper.

She was far too ashamed to mention her fantasies to anyone. And, although an outwardly attractive and very popular girl, she saw herself as profoundly different from the other girls, and probably a bit strange. She loved playing makebelieve historical or fantasy games, like cowboys and indians, in which she could allow boys or girls to capture her and tie her up. And when she discovered how to masturbate, she took these games to their furthest extreme inside her head.

One day her friend Jessica, who was studying A level English, read out a quote from a book by Nancy Mitford as they sat in the school library. In a letter to a male friend, Mitford was describing how, as a girl, she used to masturbate whenever she thought of Lady Jane Grey. And she thought about Lady Jane Grey all the time and even painted a picture of her on the scaffold.

Mercy and her friends struggled to suppress their giggles as they listened to Jessica read the passage, but inside, Mercy felt exhilarated. If a woman as clever as Nancy Mitford could admit to having such thoughts, then perhaps Mercy was’t so strange after all. Perhaps there were thousands of women just like her.

Nevertheless, she hated the pompous, pretentious way that Cassandra tried to force her own snuff fetish on her during their therapy session. She detested the way Cassandra tried to use those vulgar cartoon booklets to browbeat her into acknowledging her kinky thoughts. Mercy is still very coy about her own sexual fantasies. Like most highly sexed girls, her desires are capricious, complex and mercurial. She demands emotional intelligence of those with whom she would share them.

But now that Cassandra is naked amongst all these leering policemen; now that she has volunteered to place herself in such a mouthwateringly perilous situation, Mercy sees her in a different light. Cassandra is vulnerable and helpless. She is a deeply insecure woman who fetishizes weakness and powerlessness. Mercy can empathize with her. Just watching her moving around the ward in a feverish state of sexual excitement is making Mercy even hornier.

Cassandra is a woman in torment, a beautiful butterfly circling the flame, edging herself closer and closer, until eventually she is consumed. And when her moment of consummation comes, she will burn with an exquisitely agonizing incandescence.

Mercy clings to the hope that today is the day that Cassandra will yield herself completely to her fantasy. It thrills her to think of Cassandra walking before her, carrying her crossbeam through crowded streets, and then standing in line in front of her in the Park – her stark body covered in red welts after her whipping – waiting her turn to be cruxed …

She desperately wants to watch Cassandra lying down, assuming her position on the rough timber, stretching out her arms and succumbing to the hammering of her nails before her cross is raised. Mercy decides to seize on whatever slender opportunity comes her way to ensure that today is the day that Cassandra is crucified.

She watches as Cassandra weaves her way towards Emma who is still sitting at her desk filling in the form. Cassandra’s naked nubile form is attracting murmurs and bewildered, goggle-eyed stares from the policemen as she swings her hips and thrusts out her breasts..

“May I see it?” she asks Emma, pointing at the plastic bag. Emma holds it up to the light while Cassandra gazes at its content with a childlike curiosity. Both girls titter infectiously as the watching policemen bristle with anger.

Mercy would desperately like to be able to walk up and mingle with the two women as an equal. She wants to convince Emma that – unlike Ophelia and Destiny – she will be totally obedient and not cause trouble when it’s her turn to suck her nailers’ cocks. She even looks forward to being fucked by Emma’s boyfriend, Spike. She hopes he's as virile and good-looking as Emma makes him out to be.

She is so sick of being kept handcuffed to a bed in this horrible hospital room with that creepy fake doctor and that pompous bitch of a Sister. She wishes she could walk around like Cassandra. She wishes something would happen to her. Even real-life torture and pain would be preferable to this emptiness and restraint.

She is sex-starved, yet her legs are raised up and wide open: an offering waiting to be claimed and fucked by some mythical half-human beast. The staff keep telling her that they are about to calibrate her smart cornu. She doesn’t know what that even means. She only hopes that it will bring her the orgasm she so badly craves.

Her eyes are burning with lust as she watches Emma getting up and walking towards the door. Everything about Emma proclaims her freedom and confidence. Her dark eyes flash mischievously, and her bobbed box braids swing in a carefree dance when she turns to smile at the policemen. Encased in her tight white miniskirt, her well-toned black booty floats and rolls as she performs her leggy catwalk strut in the direction of the exit.

Mercy feels a sharp pang of envy as Emma pulls open the door. This beautiful dark-skinned girl is at liberty to leave the ward and stroll down the corridor. Free to go home in the evening and cook a meal for her boyfriend. Such thoughts come flooding into Mercy’s mind with a force strong enough to crush her spirit.

Suspended between Emma’s ringed fingers, bouncing along to the sexy swing of her hips as she disappears through the door, is the plastic bag containing Stallion’s penis.
 
Part 19

“Okay. Pay attention. Slight change of plan,” says the Chief Inspector, addressing his men. “Stallion and Strawson are down, so the cockbiters will be crucified in the Park, by the A-list Crux Team, alongside these other sluts,” with a wave of the hand he takes in Mercy, Cordelia and Cassandra.

Cassandra opens her mouth in astonishment and looks over at the Doctor and the Sister, clearly expecting them to disabuse the Chief Inspector of the notion that she is a genuine cruxgirl. But their attention is focused on Destiny’s injuries.

“And that simplifies our work,” the Chief Inspector continues, “because now the Prime Minister can watch the whole show in one place.”

Mercy’s stomach flips as she thinks of Augustus Oakbeam watching her humiliation and agony in the Execution Park.

The Chief Inspector grabs hold again of Ophelia’s hair and twists her head to face his men.

“So I expect to see this evil little cunt all cleaned up”, he says, “ all dolled up in nice lingerie and a cute dress. I want her looking sexy as fuck. So the great and the good and the super-rich elite all fall in love with her and then get huge boners and wet panties when she starts screaming in front of them in the Park.” He grins at her. “You’ve made yourself a fucking starlet, sweetheart!” He spits on her cheek. “Only the V.I.P. cunts get crucified in the Park.”

Mercy sees a rivulet of saliva trickling down the side of Ophelia’s blood-encrusted face. Her expression is sulky, yet still defiant.

He turns and walks towards Destiny. “Okay, let’s take a look at the other cunt.”

Destiny is sitting on her bed, fully alert but with a badly swollen face. Sophie and the Sister are in the process of taking off her patibulum.

“What are you doing?” he asks. “She’s about to get cruxed!”

“Erm … not exactly,” says the Doctor. “I’ve signed her off as medically unfit.”

“You what!”

“On account of her face. We can’t take her out in this condition.”

“A couple of punches in self-defense? From one of my officers as she literally tries to chew his cock off?! And now she’s off the hook!? Are you mad?”

“The guidelines are very specific, Chief Inspector. Physical injuries which could be construed as evidence of violence or torture during incarceration are grounds for disqualification.”

“You don’t have to quote the bloody rules at me, Doctor! Look … me and my men … we’re under a lot of pressure … to deliver a good justice show. And all these health and safety rules are making it bloody impossible.”

“But she’ll be right as rain by next month's crucifixion show. I can personally guarantee that. I’ll be taking her home to my private clinic and giving her the best possible care.”

“And even if there is some residual scarring by next month”, the Sister chips in helpfully, “I’m sure Sophie can disguise it with some concealer or thick dark-skin foundation.”

“Look, I’ll level with you”, says the Chief Inspector. “We’ve only got a skeleton staff today, on account of it being Public Execution Day. Over half my men have taken the day off. And they bloody well deserve a day off because for six months we’ve been busting our balls gathering evidence, and building a case against these traitorous sluts. And we got a hundred percent conviction rate. Quite an achievement, don’t you think?”

“That’s a remarkable achievement!” says the Doctor, nodding with enthusiasm.

“So, anyway, the lads deserve a day off to watch the show and, like, enjoy the fruits of their labor. Just to see all the sluts – and the men too – getting their just deserts, and all that. But half way through this morning we get an order from the top – from the Prime Minister, no less – saying we need to find another twenty-seven guilty women, get them processed under the Emergency Powers and ready for crucifixion by this afternoon. And not just any old women. Oh no! They have to be fit and hot and sexy. And all of this on account of that whining bitch of an MP – Verity Gritt – having a word in Oakbeam’s ear about some ridiculous gender pain gap, and systemic sexism or whatnot inside our justice system … Gender bloody pain gap, my arse! It's just bonkers!”

“Oh, dear me, you have my full sympathy”, says the Doctor. “All this enthusiasm for social justice and inclusivity can be rather a pain. Though … I’m sure it achieves a lot of positive things as well.”

“Anyway, so far, we’ve managed to scrape twenty women together. And that’s scraping the bloody barrel if you ask me. We've even got Verity Gritt herself on the nailing list.”

“Bravo! I could never abide that woman! Very nice breasts though.”

“Yeah. That rancid, virtue-signaling cow has had it coming for a while! But, like you say, not a bad looking woman. And those tits ought to glow in the dark after a good flogging.” He chortles.

“So … Do you have a … strong case against these women?”

“Bloody hell no! You see, Doctor, the problem is that most of our genuine suspects, the really dangerous ones, are old, fat and ugly – ugly as a bag of chisels. So we can hardly use them, can we?”

“Good heavens no.”

“But now that we’re in a state of emergency, well, … all we need is evidence of a minor misdemeanor plus the Home Secretary’s signature, and Bob's your uncle. If the Home Office likes the look of them – basically, if they’ve got a decent pair of tits and a nice arse – then they’re on the fast track to the pillory and the nails. It’s more of a beauty contest than a security operation if you ask me.”

They both laugh.

“Splendid,” says the Doctor. “Well, these new Emergency Powers have certainly made things much simpler.”

“You can say that again! … So – anyway, most of the new girls have been allocated to other wards. But the best looking ones will be coming here – to Ward 2 – of course – for the V.I.P. show in the Park. And so far we’ve got two women on the way over: a very attractive mother and daughter pairing, caught trespassing and thieving on government property. Mother and daughter acts always go down well with the public …”

“Oh absolutely!” says the Sister. “I love the tear jerking intensity of a mother-daughter show. Always puts me through the emotional wringer. I’ll be crying like a baby by the end. Just you wait.”

“Yes, and deciding which one to nail first is always rather a delicate call!” says the Doctor. “How old is the daughter?”

“I think she’s just turned eighteen. And the mum’s about forty. Both are very hot.”

“Oh, I say, that’s excellent news, Chief Inspector!”

“But the thing is, Doctor – we’re under orders to find another seven equally sexy women for Execution 2. And therein lies the problem. Like I said, we’re seriously short on manpower. And now – to cap it all – you’re telling me we’re one down on what I thought we had in the first place, because this cunt – this fucking cockbiting weasel – excuse my language, Sister – has been declared medically unfit to be crucified.”

Destiny looks at him and smiles. There is a sardonic glint in her dark and enigmatic eyes. Her perfect teeth are still coated with a film of watery blood.

“I mean …” the Chief Inspector continues, looking distinctly discombobulated, “this job is stressful enough as it is. With a woman like this – and the other one – I believe we’re dealing with pure evil, Doctor. And I’m under huge pressure as it is. The Prime Minister is a hard man to please … He expects immediate results. So, having two of my men losing their cocks like that, in the line of duty …”

His voice cracks, his face becomes flushed and his lower lip wobbles and dips.

“... Well, it’s not exactly going to help with my insomnia, Doctor! In fact I’ll probably get PTSD after this morning. I’m already getting tingling sensations in my hands and feet.”

Mercy can see his eyes welling up with tears of self-pity.

“O dear, you really ought not to drive yourself so hard, Chief Inspector. Try taking things easy. Allow me to prescribe you some anti-depressants.”

“You know … sometimes, I feel like chucking the whole thing in, and … taking a job as a simple hangman, like Albert in the Gallows Room. I just … don’t think anyone appreciates all the hard work I put in, and the long hours …”

“There,there, take a seat, Chief Inspector,” says the Sister, putting a kindly arm around him. She beckons Sophie over. “Here. Let Sophie check your blood-pressure.”

He gazes morosely into the plunging ravine of Sophie's cleavage as she bends down to wrap a cuff around his arm.

The cuff inflates and the machine bleeps. “Two hundred over a hundred and ten,” says Sophie.

“H’m, that is a bit on the high side,” says the Sister. “Oh dear, this is clearly a terribly anxious and traumatic time for you, Chief Inspector. Here, let me take your pulse.”

She sits on the chair next to him. Smiling saucily and crossing her shapely legs, she takes his wrist between finger and thumb. Mercy sees him watching her short hem riding up her stockinged thighs.

“O dear, your pulse is racing away, Chief Inspector. You know … perhaps … I can take some weight off your mind … Please allow me to try and solve your little conundrum. I’ve … initiated a little criminal investigation of my own … into a possible act of treachery committed within this very ward. And … in short … I might be able to find you a replacement for Mrs Treadmill …”

The Chief Inspector perks up and looks askance at her.

“Bear with me a moment while I call Hospital Security,” she says. And smiling at Cassandra, she picks up the phone.

Cassandra moves up close, almost rubbing her bare body against the uniformed policemen, her lovely face pale and frozen in terror.

“Is this new suspect the same height as Destiny Treadmill?” the Chief Inspector asks pointedly. “And does she have a similar figure?”

“No”, says the Sister, nonplussed. “Mrs Treadmill is five foot nine. The woman I have in mind is …”, she looks again at Cassandra, “at a guess, I’d say … five four. And Mrs Treadmill’s breasts are double-D, whereas the suspect wears a C-cup bra. Why is this important, Chief Inspector?”

“Inclusivity rules. Destiny Treadmill’s replacement must be of the same height and build … otherwise I’ll get disciplined for breaching diversity rules”, says the Chief Inspector with a new urgency in his voice. “The body type composition of each month’s batch of condemned women is carefully worked out beforehand, to reflect our diverse society. Inclusivity is a priority, Sister.”

“Ah, I see …” She ruminates for a few seconds, tapping her manicured nails on the phone. Then her eyes light up with glee. “Eureka! In that case, I can still help you, Chief Inspector ...”

She dials the number. “… Hello, Rory, How are you getting on with your trawl through this morning’s video capture? … Excellent! Good boy! And you’ve filed the report on her? That’s fantastic! … One more thing, did you see anyone performing cunnylingus on Mercy Skreemings? About twenty minutes ago? … Just before our little masticatory event. You did! … And kissing her too. On the lips … Excellent! Could you file a report on her as well? … I know – I know – Emma’s a lovely girl. But the law is the law, Rory. I know you’ll do your duty … Thank you so much, Rory. Goodbye.”

She puts down the phone and smiles elatedly at the Chief Inspector. “There. I’ve delivered you two new – and very beautiful – crux ladies, one of whom is a close physical match for Mrs Treadmill.”

Mercy’s heart is pounding with excitement and astonishment. The Doctor is staring at the Sister, mouth agape.

“But her fiancé’s my chief nailer!” he exclaims.

“It’s such a terrible shame,” says the Sister, “but none of us is above the law, Dr. Painjoy. Entering into a sexual relationship with a condemned traitor is a capital offense worthy of crucifixion. That’s all there is to it.”

“Are you talking about Spike Naylor’s girlfriend, that leggy nurse who’s just taken Stallion’s cock over to the ER?” asks the Chief Inspector, a lascivious smile spreading over his face.

“I am,” says the Sister.

“Bloody hell! She’s a total stunner. She’ll do us proud. She’ll make a perfect crux cun-, I mean, lady. And the optics are great too. Makes the hospital look squeaky clean – not above investigating its own staff and all that … ”

“Indeed.”

“So who’s the other one?” He turns to look at Sophie, who – with her delicate features and flaxen hair – is probably the prettiest nurse on the ward. She flinches and steps backward to stand next to the Doctor.

“You’ll find out in due course, Chief Inspector,” says the Sister. “I have no wish to cast aspersions on anyone until we have palpable evidence against our suspect. Rory at Security is filing his report. It will need to go through the proper channels. Now, if you’ll excuse me, we have work to do … Dr. Painjoy, have you had a chance to examine Mrs Boundwell’s x-rays?”

The Sister pushes past the policemen and struts towards Cordelia’s bed, leaving Cassandra still standing among them, looking as forlorn and beleaguered as a naughty naked slave girl awaiting her punishment in a Roman orgy.

“Okay lads, pay attention” says the Chief Inspector, getting up from his chair. “We’re about to make a couple of arrests on this ward. Looks like a couple of the nurses are going to get cruxed. We’re just waiting for the evidence to come in. So … we’ve got some time to kill …”

He turns to look at Cassandra, and the other policemen follow his gaze.

She stares back at each of them with gathering panic in her eyes.

“What the fuck are you gawking at, slut?” says the ginger-haired policeman. “Don’t you fucking cunts know your place on this ward?”

“I’m not – actually a crux lady –” she begins to mumble, pushing out her breasts as she reaches up to play with her ponytail. “I’m just –”

“Why don’t I take you back to bed, sweetheart?” says a huge burly officer, with a kindly face. “Where’s your bed? Why don’t you have a nice lie down before your name gets called? You’ll need all your energy when you go out to meet the crowd.”

He turns to the Chief Inspector. “I think she’s just a bit confused, Chief. Understandable really. Must be a hell of a strain for these women … being in here for hours, waiting their turn, like …”

“No – you don’t understand – I’m – actually a psycho-th –” says Cassandra.

But her voice is drowned out by the ginger-haired officer. “Are we okay with the security situation here, Chief? I mean – this cunt is wandering around freely, poking her nose into police business like she owns the fucking joint. Krusher is correct, she does look confused. And considering what happened to Stallion and Strawson, I believe this woman represents a clear and present danger, Sir.”

Without moving her head – and struggling hard to keep her voice sounding composed – Cassandra calls out:

“Dr. Painjoy, could you please explain to these gentlemen that I’m hospital staff, and that I’m naked because …”

She shrieks as the ginger-haired officer gropes her bottom, kneading her plump soft flesh before giving it a painful slap.

The other men join in a chorus of laughter and begin slowly to close in on her.

The Doctor and the Sister seem oblivious of her predicament, choosing rather to become engrossed in Cordelia’s x-rays.

Sensing the hopelessness of her situation, Cassandra swings around to confront the ginger-haired man.

“How – dare – you touch me!” she shouts furiously. “I am not a cruxgirl … I am a sta–”

She is cut off in mid-sentence by the Chief Inspector, who has clamped his hand over her mouth, pulling her head back against his shoulder.

“Shut – the fuck – up, cunt!” he growls, leaning into her ear and pushing his nose into her chestnut hair, savoring its scent. “My men and I are in a very – fragile state of mind. You see, two of our colleagues have just suffered grievous bodily harm. And we are not in the mood for fucking insolence. Understood?”

His other hand reaches down to grab her by the pussy. Mercy feels her own pussy flooding with wetness as she sees Cassandra’s eyes flooding with horror and dread.

“Understood!?” he barks.

Cassandra nods and squeaks in the affirmative through his tightly clamped hand.

“I do believe this pussy is on-heat”, says the Chief Inspector, bringing his fingers up to his lips.

“She’s definitely fucking hot!” says Krusher, reaching for Cassandra’s breasts and feeling their heft. She begins to squirm as his huge rough fingers explore the hardness of her nipples.

“She is beautiful, Krusher. Stunningly beautiful,” says the Chief Inspector.

“I’m guessing that she’s fucking gagging for her last fuck upon this earth. Would you not concur, Chief?” says the ginger-haired officer.

“I would, Crosswood. In fact, I believe that she is the answer to our current tribulation … What we are in need of, lads, is a morale-boosting male-bonding exercise. In short, a cathartic and punitive gangbang, to release all of our pent-up anger and frustration.”

“With some bondage thrown in,” says Crosswood, winking at Cassandra.

Cassandra whimpers pitifully as the men unbuckle their belts.

As she is lifted into the air, and her legs are spread wide open, she throws a last desperate pleading look at the Doctor.

Briefly, their eyes meet. Then he hastily looks away and picks up his permanent marker to criss-cross the entry points for the nails on Cordelia’s ankles.
 
Could you file a report on her as well? … I know – I know – Emma’s a lovely girl. But the law is the law, Rory. I know you’ll do your duty … Thank you so much, Rory. Goodbye.”

She puts down the phone and smiles elatedly at the Chief Inspector. “There. I’ve delivered you two new – and very beautiful – crux ladies, one of whom is a close physical match for Mrs Treadmill.”

Mercy’s heart is pounding with excitement and astonishment. The Doctor is staring at the Sister, mouth agape.

“But her fiancé’s my chief nailer!” he exclaims.

“It’s such a terrible shame,” says the Sister, “but none of us is above the law, Dr. Painjoy. Entering into a sexual relationship with a condemned traitor is a capital offense worthy of crucifixion. That’s all there is to it.”
Now: I did not see this coming at all... cool plot twist! Looking forward to reading how Emma finds out her fate.
 
I just read again the story and I enjoyed it even more.
High quality and really intelligent prose, so full of references and humour!
And so exciting!

It would be a real shame if @CruxGirl did not complete it.
Mercy, Ophelia, Cassandra, Cordelia, Emma…even Verity! So many beautiful women and interesting characters!

Thanks a lot for the story so far.
 
Part 2

At last, finding her voice, Mercy begins to scream: “No! No-oh! … I want to go home! Please! Please don’t hurt me! Just let me go home! I’ll be good. I’ll be a good girl … I promise! … I’ll stay out of trouble! ... Pleeease! … Just let me go back to my apartment.”

And she breaks down and sobs convulsively: “Pleee-he-heez!”

The buxom Ward Sister struts towards her, glowers at her for an instant and then slaps her very hard on each cheek. Stunned into silence, Mercy stares at her, panting and shivering like a whipped dog. Then she starts sobbing again, tears burning her flushing cheeks.

“Emma”, says the Sister nonchalantly, “Be an angel and fetch me a ball gag.”

Emma - a pretty young African-Caribbean nurse with braided hair and mischievous eyes - goes to a cupboard and takes out a red rubber ball with black straps attached to it. She hands it to the Sister, and then takes hold of Mercy’s nose and chin, and forces her mouth open. The Sister, whose hands smell strongly of disinfectant, pushes the ball in between Mercy’s perfect white teeth, and secures the straps tightly at the back of her head.

“Thank you Emma, and could you call Psychiatrics and ask them to send over a counselor? Ask for Cassandra, if she’s free. Explain to them that one of our condemned ladies is having a bit of a wobbly.”

“No problem, Sister. Then I’ll be right back to do Miss Skreemings’ enema.”

“Excellent. You’ll feel so much better after your enema, Miss Skreemings. It’ll help you keep control of your bodily functions when you’re nailed up. And of course - as a convicted Slut - you’re going to be experiencing quite a lot of anal intercourse before you get to that point, especially during your first duty: the Gangbang Lottery. There are many, many priapic men out there who are desperately hoping you’ll be picking their numbers from the bucket. Those videos submitted at your trial - showing you indulging in triple-penetration intercourse with foreign spies and enemies of England - will no doubt have whetted their appetites.”

Mercy curls up on the bed, whimpering into the gag. Her hospital-issue pale green nightie is gaping at the neckline, allowing the Sister a clear view of her beautiful plump breasts as they quiver with each convulsive sob.

“There, there”, says the Sister, gently stroking Mercy’s hair. “You see, sweetheart, we have to be cruel to be kind. We don’t like hysterics and histrionics on the Ward. It upsets the other patients. And it doesn’t do you any good either. You need to save your energy. And you most certainly need to save your voice, for later. Once you’re out there”, she points towards the window, “you’ll be able to screech and squeal and wail to your heart’s content. It’s what the crowds will want to hear. Even now, they’re queuing up to pay good money to come and listen to you. And the TV companies will have the most sophisticated microphones in place to broadcast your screams and hysterics all over the world. Think of that! So we can’t have you losing your voice before the Crux Team gets started on you, can we?”

Mercy can feel cold saliva drooling from the corner of her gagged mouth as she looks up into the Sister’s self-satisfied, beaming face. Her own face - with the exception of the angry red finger marks on her cheeks - is as white as the pillow on which her head is resting. The Sister brushes some strands of reddish-gold hair away from her eyes.

“Goodness. You’re such a pretty little creature. A real pinup, that’s what you are. We must get the girls to help you with your makeup before we send you out. So you can look your best for the crowds and the cameras. Eh?”

She winks at Mercy and struts over to greet a middle-aged man with a clipboard, who has just entered the room accompanied by a young woman. Both are dressed in black uniforms.

“Good morning Albert, and Helen. Are you doing the hangings this morning? You’ll be wanting these two ladies here. All present and correct. These are their weights.” She hands him a piece of paper. “And their STD tests are all negative.”

“Good, good”, says the man, scribbling on his clipboard. “In that case, the punters can go bareback.”

Mercy can see that the two condemned women in the far corner of the ward are wearing nothing but lingerie: stockings, garters, lacy panties, garter belts and bras. And they are busy endeavoring - with their elbows tied together behind their backs, just above their bottoms - to slip into pointy stiletto pumps.

“If you could just sign here, Sister.” He hands her the clipboard and a pen. “Up you get ladies. Now then, before we go, do any of you need to visit the restroom?”

Both women look up and nod earnestly. “Yes please”, they say, rather timidly.

“Of course you do”, says the Sister. “We don’t want any accidents, do we? We don’t want to embarrass ourselves in front of the onlookers. But don’t be too long. Mustn’t keep the hangman waiting.”

“Helen, would you mind escorting them?” says the man.

His colleague, a fit-looking brunette in a smart black mini skirt and black tights, steps forward with an engaging smile and leads the two women towards the ladies’ room.

“Busy morning, Albert?” says the Sister.

“Yeah”, says the man. “We’ve finished the gentlemen, all twelve of them. We did ‘em in batches of four. And we’re just getting started on the ladies.”

“How many ladies are there?”

“Fifteen altogether, spread out over the wards. It’s a lot of work, collecting ‘em all. I don’t mind doing the actual ‘angings, but it’s the paperwork that gets me … It’s so boring, and there’s no end to it.”

“Tell me all about it!”, says the Sister, with a twinkle in her eye. “Health and safety regulations, political correctness, gender equality, human rights legislation, audits which account for every penny. I know all about it Albert …” They both laugh. “I heard you were working with wires now, instead of ropes.”

“That’s right. The onlookers like it better that way. ‘Cos they feel like their getting their money’s worth. You know, they ... like, jerk and kick for a good time longer. And with a zero drop obviously. Just those little three-legged stools to stand on. Otherwise we’d be slicing ‘eads off!”

“Yes”, says the Sister, pulling a face, “I wouldn’t fancy the paperwork on that! But the wires sound very exciting. If I wasn’t on duty I’d come and watch.”

“Yeah, it’s been quite a good show so far. And we’ve raised about twelve thousand pounds for the ‘ospital, when you include all the bets. You know, like, which ones are gonna last longest, and all that.”

“Jolly good! We might get a pay rise after all! D’you know, I rather fancy a flutter on one of those ladies over there,” she points towards Mercy and her two fellow-condemned. “They’re being nailed up around lunchtime. I shall have to ask Dr. Painjoy for a tip. It’s so hard to predict with females, which ones will hold out longest. Quite often they surprise you, and even outlive the males.”

“Yeah, well I wouldn’t know too much about crucifixions. But that Dr. Painjoy’s a right proper joker. Came over to our ‘angings first thing ‘e did, and played some cheeky tricks. Like, ‘e gave all the gentleman a shot in the butt of that new drug. Erexecute? And when they stepped up onto their stools they all ‘ad, like, massive … you know ... boners.” He blushes slightly. “If you’ll pardon my language, Sister ...”

The Sister gives a hearty laugh. “This is the Lady’s Ward, Albert, we are perfectly at ease here talking about men's genitalia. Isn’t that so, ladies?” She casts a mischievous glance at Mercy and her two neighbors, all of whom are listening intently to the conversation.

Mercy, gives a yelp into her gag, as she feels a tube being inserted into her anus.

“Just giving you an enema”, says Emma. “Is that alright, Miss Skreemings? Just a bit of warm water and soap going up your bum. It might sting a bit at first. But most people find it quite pleasurable.”

And it does feel very pleasant. Mercy begins to feel a wave of dark sexual yearning moving through her belly.

She has been listening to the Sister’s conversation with the hangman with horror and loathing, but also wondering whether she herself might perhaps have been laughing with them, and expressing similar sentiments, had she not been caught on the wrong side of the new government’s agenda. Is this what most people are like under the skin? she thinks. Indifferent to suffering so long as they themselves, and their loved ones, are okay? No doubt, many people - perhaps most - harbor phantasies of revenge, torture, rape and murder, which once given the go-ahead by the powers that be, can be acted out with a clear conscience. Why should it surprise her?

“Anyway, as I was saying”, says Albert, “the men, they looked so embarrassed, you know, just standing there on their stools with their, like … penises, standing to attention like flagpoles. But the ladies in the audience, they all go, like, totally wild and … you know, all excited and that. Taking their knickers off and throwing them at ‘em. Three of ‘em picked out men that were standing in the queue, took ‘em to the rape tables, and rode ‘em like donkeys.”

“Heavens above!” says the Sister, cupping her hand over her mouth, eyes wide with glee. “That must have been quite a sight!”

“It was, I tell you. And then Dr. Painjoy asks four of the condemned ladies to come up, and … like, fellate the men on the stools … sucking them off and that … while they’re standing there with the nooses around their necks. And just as soon as each one, you know … blows his load, so to speak, Helen pulls their stools away, and there they are, kicking away at the air and, squirting their … thick white spunk all over the place …. bucket loads of the stuff. The Doctor gets the condemned ladies to clean it up afterwards, of course.”

“Goodness me! Dr. Painjoy is such a prankster!”

“Yeah, ‘e’s always got some trick up his sleeve. Brings a bit of light relief; that’s what I say. And there’s no ‘arm in that, I s’ppose.”

“None at all. Our hospital executions would be rather grim affairs without an injection of Dr. Painjoy’s boyish humor … Ah, here come the ladies … All set to go? Cheer up! At least you’re not being crucified. It’ll be all over in no time at all. No whips, no canes. Just some fun and games - that’s all - before they get you up on the stools.”

One of the condemned women has a pair of very voluptuous breasts, supported by a capacious and expensive-looking, dark red, designer bra. Mercy notices the Sister eying it up.

“That’s a lovely brassiere”, she says, “what size are you, darling?”

“Thirty four E”, says the woman, guardedly.

“Oooh, I thought so! My size exactly.”

“Would you like to ‘ave it, Sister?” says Albert. “Might as well take it now. She’ll ‘ave to take it off before she goes up on the stool. The onlookers will insist. And I’m pretty sure they’ll be wanting to - you know - ‘ave a good grope while she’s standing in the queue. Maybe a little bit more than a grope, if they’re willing to pay.”

“Well, in that case”, says the Sister, licking her lips. “I think I’ll treat myself. I'll take it, Albert. Provided it doesn't mean any extra paperwork for you.”

“None at all, Sister. Perks of the job. Helen, would you mind taking off the lady’s bra for the Sister? And mum's the word.”

“My husband will be so thrilled,” says the Sister, as she watches Helen unhook the bra and let it slide over the woman’s huge natural breasts. “Thank you, Albert. Thank you, Helen.”

“Our pleasure. Maybe we’ll catch you later on, at the crucifixions”, says Albert.

“Yes indeed, I shall be on the Crux Team, assisting Dr. Painjoy. Goodbye Helen. Goodbye Albert. And goodbye ladies. Goodbye, sweet ladies.”

Mercy watches them escort the two women out the door. The women walk rather shakily on their high heels, as they find their balance with their elbows bound tightly together, their shoulders pulled back, and their gently swaying breasts pushed forward.

“Well, that’s done then”, says the Sister, raising her new bra to her nostrils. She gives it a sniff, and a smile spreads over her face.

“And that’s Miss Skreemings’ enema all done too”, says Emma.

“Excellent work, Emma. Everything's on schedule so far. Now she needs to go over to x-ray. Wrists and ankles for the Doctor.”

They both turn to look at the door as a deep rumbling noise signals the entrance of a heavy trolley, pushed by a young man in a brown overall. The trolley is laden with a stack of rough-looking timber.

“Ah, here come the cross beams”, says the Sister. “No peace for the wicked, Emma!”
Excelentt
 
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