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Crucifixion of a Weather Girl

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andy01

Magistrate
Part 3

The man pushes his trolley to the middle of the floor, swings it around with a flourish and says:

“Good morning, ladies. So … who do we have here?”

He takes a clipboard out of a plastic bucket hanging at the end of his trolley and begins to read from a list of names.

“Destiny Drednail?”

“The lady in this bed here”, says the Sister, pointing at the dark-skinned woman who is lying curled up on her side, two beds away from Mercy. She is fully alert and following the man’s every movement.

The man lifts a thick greying piece of wood from the stack on his trolley, carries it over and leaves it leaning against Miss Drednail’s bedside cabinet. He returns to his trolley, dips his hand further into the bucket and takes out what appears to be a metal posy. He presents it respectfully to her. And when she gives no reaction, he places it on her cabinet.

He checkmarks his list and then calls out, “Mercy Skreemings?”

“The lady over there, with the gag”, says the Sister, pointing at Mercy.

“Oh dear!” he says laying his piece of wood vertical next to Mercy’s bed. “Been a blabbermouth, have we?”

“Miss Skreemings is saving her voice for the big event”, says the Sister.

Mercy holds her breath as the sour odor of the man’s sweat wafts over her nostrils. She stares at the rough grey splintery beam. It looks so out of place in the white, sterile environment of the hospital. Bizarre, surreal - even obscene. She can see large dark red stains at each end of it, and the head of a bent nail, and several holes. At the center of one side is a deep rectangular hole, clearly gouged out as a slot for another piece of wood.

As the man returns Mercy hears a jingling noise. She jumps when he slams down - hard on her bedside cabinet - a bunch of four shiny spikes, held together by a red rubber band. The spikes are almost the length of her forearms.

“And these are your nails, my lovely. Alright?”

Eyes locked on the man in pure terror, Mercy nods, as if grateful to him for supplying the implements of her death. She even mumbles an instinctive “thank you” into her gag and despises herself for having done so.

Last on his list is Ophelia Coxwell, who has been taken over to x-ray, leaving her bed empty.

“They’ll be getting their placards just before they leave the hospital”, says the man. “We’ll be giving them out at the main entrance.”

“Yes, I was about to ask”, says the Sister. “Why aren’t they ready now?”

“It’s taking longer than they thought for the paint to dry on them.”

With an impatient harumph, the Sister strides over to take a closer look at Mercy’s crossbeam. She passes a finger over one of its stains and then scrutinizes it. “H’m, They’re recycling last month’s timber. They might have made an effort to scrub the blood away. This sort of thing spreads infection.”

“Yes, well I wouldn’t know about that”, says the man, pushing his trolley towards the door, “all I’m supposed to do is hand out everyone’s kit”.

He pauses to allow a slim thirty-something woman to come through the door. As she passes he turns to ogle her legs and bottom. She has medium-length chestnut hair tied back in an elegant ponytail, and is preppily dressed in a grey pullover, a plaid knee-length skirt, and booties.

“Hello, Cassandra”, says the Sister, “thank you so much for coming.”

“Not at all, Sister”, says the woman. “Is it one of the crux ladies?”

“Yes. Miss Skreemings, over there, has had a slight anxiety attack. She’s a lot calmer now but I’ve left her gag in as a precaution.”

“Hello”, says the woman, picking up Mercy’s chart. “I’m Cassandra, I work in the Psychiatric Ward. I understand you’ve been experiencing a bit of anxiety? So I’ve come to have a little talk with you? To see if we can get to the bottom of what’s bothering you? And maybe, together, we’ll be able to work out a solution.”

The woman has clear blue eyes and a kind face. Her warm, sympathetic manner brings tears to Mercy’s eyes.

“I don’t know anything about you”, she continues, “except that you’ve been sentenced to be crucified around midday. So I’ll need to have a quick read through your notes before we start”, she holds up Mercy’s file. “Is that okay?”

Mercy nods her head.

“Emma”, says the Sister, “I think this would be an opportune moment to take Miss Skreemings over to x-ray. While Cassandra looks over her notes.”

“Of course, Sister”, says the African-Caribbean nurse obligingly.

“I think, perhaps, the gag can come off now?”, says Cassandra. “You’re not going to scream anymore, are you?

Mercy shakes her head. She catches a subtle hint of expensive perfume as Cassandra leans over her and carefully undoes the tight straps. She feels immense relief as Cassandra takes the rubber ball out of her mouth.

“Your jaw’s probably a bit stiff. Try opening and closing it to loosen up the muscles”, says Cassandra.

“Sister”, says Emma, “Could I have the keys to undo her hands and feet?”

“Certainly”, says the Sister, taking a bunch of keys out of her pocket and holding up one of them for Emma, “we can’t have her going over to x-ray looking like a common criminal. She’ll frighten the other patients. If you try and run away, Miss Skreemings, your ankle tag will tell security where you are, and bring you down with a powerful electric shock. So there’s no point in even thinking about it.”

As Mercy walks unsteadily down the hospital’s busy main corridor, in her short nightie and carpet slippers, with Emma’s protective arm over her shoulder, she is suddenly overwhelmed by the sights and sounds and smells of everyday life and the real world. The corridor is bustling with people: patients attending clinics, visitors, doctors and nurses, porters and cleaners. How she yearns to be one of them. Free to walk out the door - free to leave England - to fly to Europe or America - and never come back.

A few people recognize Mercy and stare at her. Many look away as if embarrassed or uncomfortable. But most people don’t seem to know her at all. For them she is just a frail and pretty young patient on her way for treatment. Perhaps memories of the Crucible Weather Girl are starting to fade. She wonders how many of these people will be thronging the streets towards the end of the morning to watch her being whipped and made to walk with her crossbeam on her shoulders to the execution park.

As they sit in the waiting area outside the x-ray rooms, Mercy gets to know Emma a little better.

“Did Sister tell you that my boyfriend, Spike, is going to be doing your nails?” she asks.

“No”, says Mercy, suddenly feeling extremely weak, having had nothing to eat or drink since the previous day.

“Yeah, he’s been picked for the Crux Team, and he’s, like, really excited about it. He’s thinks it’s gonna be his big break. He’s nearly finished his apprenticeship as a carpenter in the Hospital’s Maintenance Department. But what he really wants to do is find a job in one of the new Detention Centers. You know? Working with executions and torture, and that? Personally, I get a bit squeamish when he talks about it … But the money’s a lot better. And the prospects and that. And there’s loads of opportunities coming with the Government’s new Justice Program. And me and Spike, we wanna get married next year, and start a family. We’re saving up to buy an apartment. Nothing too posh ...”

“That’s lovely”, says Mercy, not able to think of anything else to say.

“Yeah. So, Spike, he’s been spending all his spare time in the gym, working out. And he’s been eating loads of beef steaks, and drinking those high protein drinks. You know? Cos he wanted to get himself all toned up and muscly. Ready for today. He wants to get himself noticed. You know? By the TV people and the Justice people. And last night - right? - he was posing for me in his jockstrap. Cos that’s what he’s gonna be wearing today, when he does the executions. You know? Just a jockstrap, and sandals, and a belt to hold his hammer, and some spare nails …”

At the mention of a hammer a look of anguish clouds Mercy’s face and she winces at Emma.

“... I know, that’s exactly what I thought”, says Emma, “Tacky. I thought he looked ridiculous and really tacky, and I couldn’t stop laughing. And that really pissed him off. But he said that it’s Dr. Painjoy who wants them to dress like that, cos that’s what the Crux Teams wore in Ancient Rome. And the crowds will really go for that. Cos - Spike and his co-workers on the Crux Team - they’re gonna be just like Roman Gladiators. And there’s no denying it, Spike does look really really sexy in his jockstrap. Even if it is tacky. Cos he’s a total hunk. I mean, he is drop dead gorgeous. You know? But I would say that, wouldn’t I?” She shoots a mischievous look at Mercy. “And people say that me and Spike are, like, really well-matched - you know? - looks-wise and all that. So, anyway, he wants me to oil him up before he goes out, so his muscles are all shiny and …”

“Mercy Skreemings?” says the radiographer.

“In we go”, says Emma, helping Mercy to get up. “You’ll feel a lot stronger when you go out on the street later on, cos Dr. Painjoy will inject you with a little pick-me-up.”

The radiographer asks Mercy to lie on the table with her feet and ankles in various positions. Feet flat on the x-ray plate, knees up - feet sideways, one on top of the other, thighs wide open - feet sideways, sole pressed against sole, thighs even wider. And finally, he asks her to place her hands and wrists on the plate, palms upwards.

As they enter the Ladies’ Ward once more Mercy sees Cassandra, the counselor, coming towards her with a phone pressed against her ear.

“Yes! … she’s just coming through the door now. Here she is!”, says Cassandra excitedly. “Mercy! It’s your lawyer. He says he’s got good news! About your appeal?”

Mercy’s soul begins to expand within her. She feels a sudden wave of energy animating her weak legs as she moves towards Cassandra, and takes the phone from her.

“Hello?” she says timidly. “Tristram? Is that you?”


If I am told a book or story is a “must read”, the “greatest ever” etc I can never bring myself to read it. So I’ve been reluctant to say what I think about Weather Girl for fear I may arouse scepticism.
But I want to thank you for this. It is quite extraordinary. I’ve never read anything like it.
And it floats like a red balloon.
I do wish you well with it.
 

CruxGirl

Guard
If I am told a book or story is a “must read”, the “greatest ever” etc I can never bring myself to read it. So I’ve been reluctant to say what I think about Weather Girl for fear I may arouse scepticism.
But I want to thank you for this. It is quite extraordinary. I’ve never read anything like it.
And it floats like a red balloon.
I do wish you well with it.

Thank you very much indeed andy01 for your very generous encouragement. I have said elsewhere on CF that your story, "A Crucifixion in Arelate", is one of two works of fiction that opened my eyes to the strange power of crux erotica.
 

Jollyrei

Angelus Mortis
Staff member
This is splendid work, CruxGirl! You build such a surreal scene in the hospital, the nurses worrying about infection, while their patients are going to be beyond that shortly. The scene with the almost oblivious psychologist who was worrying about Mercy's anxiety and its possible cause was beautiful, as Mercy was left to battle her terror. It's a real "Twilight Zone" scenario. I'm very much looking forward to future sections.
:beer::popcorn::popcorn:
 

Mark Kee

Magistrate
Nice use of language. It is terse, but spicy and compelling. You drive the story pretty well with minimal descriptions, a few bits of dialogue and the promise of something interesting to come. You are good at building suspense. Keep at it!
 

CruxGirl

Guard
Part 4

“Hello, Mercy, how are you bearing up?” Her lawyer, Tristram, seems to be talking from a room full of chattering people, his plummy, expensively educated voice competing with myriad other voices around him. “Are they treating you tolerably well? Has the doctor marked you up yet?”

Mercy’s heart is thumping against her ribcage.

“Tristram!” she says breathlessly, “what did the appeal judges say? Is it a stay of execution?”

“Okay, let’s calm down a bit, Mercy. We mustn’t leap ahead of ourselves.”

“Tristram! Just tell me what’s happened!” Mercy’s voice is halfway between a shriek and a sob.

“Yes, erm, … bear with me a moment, Mercy. I just need to, er ... sort something out.”

As she waits for Tristram to reply she can hear him talking to someone else, his voice slightly muffled as if his hand is over the mouthpiece:

“Yes, this bench please, Albert. That’s it. Bend her over so she gets a good view of the stage. And with her tits hanging over the edge, so I can have a good grope. I shall want Helen to pull the stools away when I raise my hand, like this.”

“Very good, Sir Tristram. Whenever you're ready.”

Mercy hears a distinct rhythmic grunting: “Uh … Uh … Uh … Uh …”, gradually changing into a repressed moaning, panting sound, “Ugh-mm … Ugh-mmm … Ugh-mmmm!”

“Tristram! What the fuck are you doing?” Asks Mercy in an angry whisper.

“Oh … er, yes, Mercy …”, says Tristram breathlessly. “Just … bear with me … a few more seconds. I … I need to, er, complete some … business … another client … Mmhh! … Mmhh! … Mmhh! …”

Mercy hears Tristram putting his phone down on a hard surface, then more grunting and a wet rhythmical slapping. Then, she hears a scraping and clattering, like furniture being moved.

A collective roar from the other voices in the room, dissipates into a chorus of excited comments:

“Bravo!”

“I’ve got fifty pounds on the blonde!”

“Gedda load of the redhead!”

“She’s dancing the can-can!”


Mercy sobs quietly into the phone as she waits for her lawyer to finish with his other client.

“Right, Cordelia.” Mercy can hear Tristram’s voice again. “I think you rather enjoyed that, didn’t you? Well, I’m afraid they’re going to put you back up on the stool again now. And, er … this really will be, it. It’s not possible to be called down for a fucking more than three times. So, goodbye, and, all the best! It’s been a pleasure to represent you. And, I shall certainly be filing a complaint against the nurse who stole your brassiere. I’ll make sure she gets punished. A public whipping, I think.”

"Thank you, Sir Tristram" says a forlorn female voice.

“Tristram?”, says Mercy, in a pleading and tearful tone, “where the fuck are you?”

She hears Tristram picking up his phone from the bench.

“Ah, yes, now then, Mercy. Awfully sorry about that.” He raises his voice again to make himself heard against the clamor. “As you may have gathered, I’m actually here, at the hospital. Unfortunately I’ve had to attend the hangings. Dreadful affair. One of my clients. Cordelia Boundwell. A government economist. Her forecasts were deemed too pessimistic. Sentenced to death for ‘talking England down’ - poor thing. Very pretty lady too. Stupendous breasts. Natural E-cups. Very firm. Anyway, she was supposed to swing over half an hour ago. Twice over, they had her standing on the stool, with the noose around her lovely neck. And twice, someone called her down for a quickie. Bent her over a table and took her from behind, while she watched the next lady in line take her place on the stool. It must have been the breasts. And the lovely buttocks. Simply irresistible. So, anyway, when she was up on the stool for the third time, I thought, I might as well have her myself. You know? At least I’d treat her like a lady. As you know, Mercy, I can give pleasure to a woman as well as take it. And I thought, if you are going to have sex just before being executed, it might as well be with your very good-looking, charming and well-hung lawyer. And, of course, I shall be donating two hundred and fifty pounds to the hospital for the pleasure ...”

“... Tristram, will you be please tell me what is going on with my appeal.” A new cold and steely determination in Mercy’s voice takes Tristram by surprise.

“Yes. Well. Now then. You see, Mercy, being granted an appeal hearing at this late stage is quite an achievement in itself. And there really is, some …”, he swallows hard, “... good news …”

“... Is it a reprieve, Tristram? Please, please tell me it’s a reprieve.”

“No, Mercy. Not a reprieve. You see, the judges decided that - because your death sentence was the result of a campaign pledge made by the Prime Minister - they had no authority to overturn it. And, quite frankly I don’t blame them. The last judge to overturn a death sentence was nailed up on the high street about an hour ago. An enemy of the people.”

“I see”, says Mercy in a clipped and icy tone. “So, there’s no hope for me. Is that what you’re saying?”

“Well, erm, not quite. You see, there is always the possibility that the Prime Minister himself will show clemency.”

“You mean, Augustus Oakbeam might pardon me?”

“Well, not exactly pardon you, Mercy. But, he has been known to, commute a sentence. At the last minute. He enjoys the drama of it.”

“Commute?”

“Yes. There is a, very slim chance, that you might be spared … being nailed up. That is, you might be … well … hanged, instead. Which … I’m sure you’d agree, under the circumstances, would be a far more, pleasant outcome.”

“I see”, says Mercy. “So that’s the good news, is it? Tristram? That’s why you called me? To tell me I might be hanged instead of crucified. Well that’s just great!”

“Now now, Mercy. Don’t get all passive aggressive on me. I did my best. And there is … other, good news. You see, I made a very strong case at the hearing for you to be spared the indignity of walking barefoot through the city streets.”

“Barefoot. I see.”

“Yes, I deployed my considerable oratorical skills to persuade the judges that making you walk on bare feet all the way to the Execution Park would amount to cruel and unnecessary punishment, and quite possibly even marr the beauty and, artistry, of the whole spectacle … because, let’s face it, by the end of your walk - with the weight of that patibulum over your shoulders - you would be hobbling rather painfully, and - dare I say it - in a very unladylike manner.”

As her lawyer begins to recount his triumph in court, Mercy sits on her bed swinging her smooth, bare legs over the side. Despite her total exasperation with Tristram, she begins to indulge the idea that hanging would be preferable to crucifixion. There’s no denying it. Quicker. Less painful - undoubtedly less painful. No nails. No whip. No cane. No walk of shame through city streets. Just waiting in line with other girls. Standing on a stool with a wire noose around her neck. Getting groped. Inevitably getting fucked three times. Then back on the stool to wait for it to be snatched from under her feet. Then five to ten minutes of agonizing choking and kicking, swinging on the wire. And that would be it. All over.

She looks up and sees her counselor sidling up to her. Cassandra mouths a question.

"Reprieve?"

Then she gives Mercy a questioning look with her expressive blue eyes, while giving her a double thumbs-up sign. Mercy, still holding the phone to her ear, shakes her head dejectedly and looks down wistfully at her dangling feet, her flawless, violet-polished toenails. Cassandra pulls a pained face to express empathy, gives Mercy a gentle hug, and walks away.

Tristram is still declaiming into his phone.

“... And as a climax to my submission”, he says, “I showed the judges some old Crucible TV clips of you strutting around in front of that weather map, in those sexy little stiletto pumps that you used to wear. Those icicle heels. God, Mercy, you looked so hot in them! And to drive my argument home, I asked the judges this question ...”

He pauses to clear his throat, and begins to intone in an even more portentous voice:

“... ‘My Lords and Ladies, I entreat you to consider which of these eventualities you would rather witness, in two hours time, as the Crux Team embarks upon its solemn and dreadful task of nailing my client’s feet to her stipes. Would you wish to see them hammering their spikes into the blistered, begrimed and bloodied feet of a common city waif, a mere urchin, made to walk barefoot through our dusty, dirty streets? Or, would you, perhaps, rather watch my lovely client walking elegantly on clicking heels, with undulating hips, towards her doom. And, having reached her terrifying wooden post, taking off her expensive footwear to expose a well-pampered and immaculately manicured, pair of feet. The feet of a rich, spoilt, nineteen-year-old girl: tender, delicate and exquisite in their pristine beauty. Feet that the Crux Team will take in their strong and capable hands, and hold firmly against the rough wood, in order to drive their brutal nails into her sensitive flesh, tearing bones and sinews, making her blood ooze in meandering rivulets over her smooth unblemished skin as she screams and screams for Mercy?’ And, by jove Mercy, I struck home with that one! They were mesmerized. And of course, they agreed to it! Even the prosecutor accepted it! So long as you wear four or five inch stiletto sandals, or pumps. Nothing less.”

“Oh, well. I’m glad you’ve got something to feel pleased about, Tristram. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to hang up. I'm feeling a bit sick. I’ve got things to do. And my therapist wants a word with me.”

“No, no wait, Mercy. I haven’t finished yet. The best is yet to come!”

“Is it really?”

“Yes. The long and the short of it is that you’ll be allowed to wear clothes as you leave the hospital and walk through the city. Stockings, panties and a brassiere. A skirt and blouse. In fact, whatever you like. All the crux ladies will. And it’s all thanks to me!”

In her state of bleak despair, this piece of information begins to resemble a glimmer of light to Mercy. She lifts her head, flicks back her soft strawberry-blonde bangs and stares towards the window.

“I will?”
 

hongzu117

Magistrate
Part 4

“Hello, Mercy, how are you bearing up?” Her lawyer, Tristram, seems to be talking from a room full of chattering people, his plummy, expensively educated voice competing with myriad other voices around him. “Are they treating you tolerably well? Has the doctor marked you up yet?”

Mercy’s heart is thumping against her ribcage.

“Tristram!” she says breathlessly, “what did the appeal judges say? Is it a stay of execution?”

“Okay, let’s calm down a bit, Mercy. We mustn’t leap ahead of ourselves.”

“Tristram! Just tell me what’s happened!” Mercy’s voice is halfway between a shriek and a sob.

“Yes, erm, … bear with me a moment, Mercy. I just need to, er ... sort something out.”

As she waits for Tristram to reply she can hear him talking to someone else, his voice slightly muffled as if his hand is over the mouthpiece:

“Yes, this bench please, Albert. That’s it. Bend her over so she gets a good view of the stage. And with her tits hanging over the edge, so I can have a good grope. I shall want Helen to pull the stools away when I raise my hand, like this.”

“Very good, Sir Tristram. Whenever you're ready.”

Mercy hears a distinct rhythmic grunting: “Uh … Uh … Uh … Uh …”, gradually changing into a repressed moaning, panting sound, “Ugh-mm … Ugh-mmm … Ugh-mmmm!”

“Tristram! What the fuck are you doing?” Asks Mercy in an angry whisper.

“Oh … er, yes, Mercy …”, says Tristram breathlessly. “Just … bear with me … a few more seconds. I … I need to, er, complete some … business … another client … Mmhh! … Mmhh! … Mmhh! …”

Mercy hears Tristram putting his phone down on a hard surface, then more grunting and a wet rhythmical slapping. Then, she hears a scraping and clattering, like furniture being moved.

A collective roar from the other voices in the room, dissipates into a chorus of excited comments:

“Bravo!”

“I’ve got fifty pounds on the blonde!”

“Gedda load of the redhead!”

“She’s dancing the can-can!”

Mercy sobs quietly into the phone as she waits for her lawyer to finish with his other client.

“Right, Cordelia.” Mercy can hear Tristram’s voice again. “I think you rather enjoyed that, didn’t you? Well, I’m afraid they’re going to put you back up on the stool again now. And, er … this really will be, it. It’s not possible to be called down for a fucking more than three times. So, goodbye, and, all the best! It’s been a pleasure to represent you. And, I shall certainly be filing a complaint against the nurse who stole your brassiere. I’ll make sure she gets punished. A public whipping, I think.”

"Thank you, Sir Tristram" says a forlorn female voice.

“Tristram?”, says Mercy, in a pleading and tearful tone, “where the fuck are you?”

She hears Tristram picking up his phone from the bench.

“Ah, yes, now then, Mercy. Awfully sorry about that.” He raises his voice again to make himself heard against the clamor. “As you may have gathered, I’m actually here, at the hospital. Unfortunately I’ve had to attend the hangings. Dreadful affair. One of my clients. Cordelia Boundwell. A government economist. Her forecasts were deemed too pessimistic. Sentenced to death for ‘talking England down’ - poor thing. Very pretty lady too. Stupendous breasts. Natural E-cups. Very firm. Anyway, she was supposed to swing over half an hour ago. Twice over, they had her standing on the stool, with the noose around her lovely neck. And twice, someone called her down for a quickie. Bent her over a table and took her from behind, while she watched the next lady in line take her place on the stool. It must have been the breasts. And the lovely buttocks. Simply irresistible. So, anyway, when she was up on the stool for the third time, I thought, I might as well have her myself. You know? At least I’d treat her like a lady. As you know, Mercy, I can give pleasure to a woman as well as take it. And I thought, if you are going to have sex just before being executed, it might as well be with your very good-looking, charming and well-hung lawyer. And, of course, I shall be donating two hundred and fifty pounds to the hospital for the pleasure ...”

“... Tristram, will you be please tell me what is going on with my appeal.” A new cold and steely determination in Mercy’s voice takes Tristram by surprise.

“Yes. Well. Now then. You see, Mercy, being granted an appeal hearing at this late stage is quite an achievement in itself. And there really is, some …”, he swallows hard, “... good news …”

“... Is it a reprieve, Tristram? Please, please tell me it’s a reprieve.”

“No, Mercy. Not a reprieve. You see, the judges decided that - because your death sentence was the result of a campaign pledge made by the Prime Minister - they had no authority to overturn it. And, quite frankly I don’t blame them. The last judge to overturn a death sentence was nailed up on the high street about an hour ago. An enemy of the people.”

“I see”, says Mercy in a clipped and icy tone. “So, there’s no hope for me. Is that what you’re saying?”

“Well, erm, not quite. You see, there is always the possibility that the Prime Minister himself will show clemency.”

“You mean, Augustus Oakbeam might pardon me?”

“Well, not exactly pardon you, Mercy. But, he has been known to, commute a sentence. At the last minute. He enjoys the drama of it.”

“Commute?”

“Yes. There is a, very slim chance, that you might be spared … being nailed up. That is, you might be … well … hanged, instead. Which … I’m sure you’d agree, under the circumstances, would be a far more, pleasant outcome.”

“I see”, says Mercy. “So that’s the good news, is it? Tristram? That’s why you called me? To tell me I might be hanged instead of crucified. Well that’s just great!”

“Now now, Mercy. Don’t get all passive aggressive on me. I did my best. And there is … other, good news. You see, I made a very strong case at the hearing for you to be spared the indignity of walking barefoot through the city streets.”

“Barefoot. I see.”

“Yes, I deployed my considerable oratorical skills to persuade the judges that making you walk on bare feet all the way to the Execution Park would amount to cruel and unnecessary punishment, and quite possibly even marr the beauty and, artistry, of the whole spectacle … because, let’s face it, by the end of your walk - with the weight of that patibulum over your shoulders - you would be hobbling rather painfully, and - dare I say it - in a very unladylike manner.”

As her lawyer begins to recount his triumph in court, Mercy sits on her bed swinging her smooth, bare legs over the side. Despite her total exasperation with Tristram, she begins to indulge the idea that hanging would be preferable to crucifixion. There’s no denying it. Quicker. Less painful - undoubtedly less painful. No nails. No whip. No cane. No walk of shame through city streets. Just waiting in line with other girls. Standing on a stool with a wire noose around her neck. Getting groped. Inevitably getting fucked three times. Then back on the stool to wait for it to be snatched from under her feet. Then five to ten minutes of agonizing choking and kicking, swinging on the wire. And that would be it. All over.

She looks up and sees her counselor sidling up to her. Cassandra mouths a question.

"Reprieve?"

Then she gives Mercy a questioning look with her expressive blue eyes, while giving her a double thumbs-up sign. Mercy, still holding the phone to her ear, shakes her head dejectedly and looks down wistfully at her dangling feet, her flawless, violet-polished toenails. Cassandra pulls a pained face to express empathy, gives Mercy a gentle hug, and walks away.

Tristram is still declaiming into his phone.

“... And as a climax to my submission”, he says, “I showed the judges some old Crucible TV clips of you strutting around in front of that weather map, in those sexy little stiletto pumps that you used to wear. Those icicle heels. God, Mercy, you looked so hot in them! And to drive my argument home, I asked the judges this question ...”

He pauses to clear his throat, and begins to intone in an even more portentous voice:

“... ‘My Lords and Ladies, I entreat you to consider which of these eventualities you would rather witness, in two hours time, as the Crux Team embarks upon its solemn and dreadful task of nailing my client’s feet to her stipes. Would you wish to see them hammering their spikes into the blistered, begrimed and bloodied feet of a common city waif, a mere urchin, made to walk barefoot through our dusty, dirty streets? Or, would you, perhaps, rather watch my lovely client walking elegantly on clicking heels, with undulating hips, towards her doom. And, having reached her terrifying wooden post, taking off her expensive footwear to expose a well-pampered and immaculately manicured, pair of feet. The feet of a rich, spoilt, nineteen-year-old girl: tender, delicate and exquisite in their pristine beauty. Feet that the Crux Team will take in their strong and capable hands, and hold firmly against the rough wood, in order to drive their brutal nails into her sensitive flesh, tearing bones and sinews, making her blood ooze in meandering rivulets over her smooth unblemished skin as she screams and screams for Mercy?’ And, by jove Mercy, I struck home with that one! They were mesmerized. And of course, they agreed to it! Even the prosecutor accepted it! So long as you wear four or five inch stiletto sandals, or pumps. Nothing less.”

“Oh, well. I’m glad you’ve got something to feel pleased about, Tristram. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to hang up. I'm feeling a bit sick. I’ve got things to do. And my therapist wants a word with me.”

“No, no wait, Mercy. I haven’t finished yet. The best is yet to come!”

“Is it really?”

“Yes. The long and the short of it is that you’ll be allowed to wear clothes as you leave the hospital and walk through the city. Stockings, panties and a brassiere. A skirt and blouse. In fact, whatever you like. All the crux ladies will. And it’s all thanks to me!”

In her state of bleak despair, this piece of information begins to resemble a glimmer of light to Mercy. She lifts her head, flicks back her soft strawberry-blonde bangs and stares towards the window.

“I will?”
Haha,this is inhuman!:lupie:
 

andy01

Magistrate
Part 3
The radiographer asks Mercy to lie on the table with her feet and ankles in various positions. Feet flat on the x-ray plate, knees up - feet sideways, one on top of the other, thighs wide open - feet sideways, sole pressed against sole, thighs even wider. And finally, he asks her to place her hands and wrists on the plate, palms upwards.
QUOTE]
What will the x-rays show, I wonder. The nails have already been dumped down on Mercy's bedside cabinet - not so much nails as railway spikes. And what will the x-rays show about her bones and what the spikes will do to them? Will it be the Sister who explains the results to her, or the doctor, or maybe Cassandra?
 

andy01

Magistrate
you’ll be allowed to wear clothes as you leave the hospital and walk through the city. Stockings, panties and a brassiere. A skirt and blouse. In fact, whatever you like.QUOTE]
I am longing, like many other readers, to see how she copes with that choice, knowing what is to happen at the execution site. Longing to find out what she chooses for that last walk, what pretties she will choose to dress herself.
 

CruxGirl

Guard
Part 5

Mercy’s terror at the thought of having those four nails - now lying on the cabinet next to her bed - hammered into her wrists and ankles, has until now eclipsed all thought of the abject humiliation of being paraded through the city streets as a traitorous slut, a mouthwatering piece of prime meat on its way to be hung up on display by the Crux Team slaughterers.

“I’ll spare you the boring details”, says Tristram, “it involved a lot of ferreting around in old parchment rolls. In essence, we discovered that the good Burghers of Medieval Romcaster decreed, in their wisdom, that female nudity is banned in all public places within the walls of the Medieval City - except for the Cathedral Square. A woman may bare her breasts in the Square in order to submit herself for public punishment. But she must get dressed again before she leaves.”

As she listens to Tristram, it strikes Mercy with a sudden ferocity that the prospect of walking out naked from the hospital - totally vulnerable and helpless - has been filling her with as much dread as the crossbeam and the nails. Her fraught mind now begins to dwell obsessively on the journey on foot that she will make through the streets of Romcaster, each step taking her closer to the upright post allocated to her in the Park.

With that ugly piece of bloodstained wood - now standing next to her bed - tied across her shoulders, she will wend her way between lines of chattering, smiling, mocking, citizens - waitresses, taxi drivers, shop assistants, police officers, students, housewives, school pupils with their teachers, smartly dressed business men and women … the whole panoply of English society, united in one purpose: to enjoy watching the abasement and degradation of Mercy and the other women, followed by their slow, lingering and indescribably painful deaths.

But supposing what Tristram is telling her is true? She would walk to her execution wearing clothes. That would definitely make it easier - at least, less mortifying. Mercy likes wearing high heels, she finds them empowering, they add four or five inches to her diminutive stature. And she has an extensive wardrobe of smart and elegant clothes. Undoubtedly wearing a skirt and heels and nice lingerie, maybe even stockings, would give her confidence.

“And the medieval laws still hold today?” she asks Tristram, tentatively.

‘They do indeed. Not even Augustus Oakbeam can overturn them without an Act of Parliament. So, I’ve asked Susannah, my secretary, to run over to your apartment and find something for you to wear. I recommend a skirt and blouse. You’ll be able to keep your skirt on while you remove the blouse and bra for the flogging.”

“And Susannah will know what to bring?”

“Yes. Nothing too slutty, I told her. You wore some very smart pencil skirts to court, so she’ll probably bring a couple of those for you to choose from. And, of course, it’s best to have a sleeveless top because your arms will be tied to the wood. She was asking what color the patibulum and nails are. And I told her that the timber is probably gray. Am I right?”

“Yes. Sort of.”

“And the nails are quite shiny? You will, of course, be wearing them as a pendant.”

“Yes,” says Mercy, willing herself hard not to glance at the ghastly implements.

“Excellent. Susannah will find something to tone with them. Actually, it’s well worth considering wearing some sexy lingerie. Skimpy panties tend to last longer. I’ve noticed that panties that aren’t revealing enough tend to get ripped off pretty quickly by the Crux Team. If they’re not sufficiently skimpy they seem to irritate them. But it’s up to you, really. ”

“Tristram, you said that I can keep my skirt on for the flogging.”

“That’s right. And your shoes and stockings.”

“But aren’t I supposed to be … like, caned, on my, bottom, and … and, w-whipped on my … I mean … you know, punished between, my legs, down there, on my … private parts, as well?”

“You are indeed. But the buttock and vaginal punishments will be performed at a later stage, probably just outside the Execution Park. By the way, I need to ask you. Do you still wax your pelvic region?”

“Erm. Yes,” she says coyly.

“Excellent. You see, the vaginal whips they use are made of fine leather which can tangle very easily in pubic hair. Sometimes the Justice Department demands compensation on the grounds that their very expensive whips have been damaged by the ladies’ pubes.”

“Oh? I see.”

“By the way, the total cost of your crucifixion will be … bear with me … £62,334, and 47 pence.”

“Gosh.”

“And considerably cheaper, of course, if you do get hanged. But you needn’t worry about the financial side. I’ll deal with it. Your estate will meet all the costs.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

“Of course, the Execution Park is a Greenbelt Development and stands well outside the boundaries of the Medieval City.”

“So … the medieval laws don’t apply there?” Mercy tries to hide her disappointment.

“No. I’m afraid not, Mercy. You can be stripped at any point once you’re outside the old medieval boundary.”

“And where is that?”

“The actual boundary is a matter of some dispute. How familiar are you with Romcaster?”

“I’ve never been here before.”

“Well, in that case, there’s no point in my trying to explain. In essence, if you find yourself deprived of your blouse, bra and skirt, you’ll know you’ve crossed the boundary. It’s usual for them to leave the panties on until you’ve actually been led up to the stipes, perhaps even nailed down. But don’t take my word for it. Crux Teams can be rather unpredictable.” He gives a wheezy chortle. “You will, of course, be completely nude, when you’re raised up. That’s a legal requirement.’

“But what if my sentence gets commuted?”, says Mercy, clutching at the only straw within her grasp.

“If that happens - believe me, Mercy - it will most certainly occur while you’re fully clothed”, says Tristram sententiously. “As the Romans discovered to their cost, it is extremely dangerous to frustrate the will of the plebs once they have feasted their eyes on a naked or even partially clothed girl on her way to be crucified. Once they start drooling over you, as you pant under the weight of your patibulum, wearing nothing but high heeled pumps and panties, your scrumptious little body all flushed and shiny with perspiration, there’ll be no turning back. That would most certainly provoke a riot. No. Take it as a rule of thumb, Mercy. If you find yourself topless and skirtless, you can abandon all hope of being strung up on a wire. It will be the nails for you. There’ll be no turning back … And … on that subject …”, he says, lowering his voice, “they’ve got Cordelia up on the stool again. She’s just peeling off her panties for the last time … give me a moment, Mercy. I need to show some respect.”

Mercy stifles a sob, and takes the phone away from her ear to wipe away the streams of salty tears running down her cheeks. She gazes, once more, towards the window and sees a row of faces, crowding the glass, all staring in at her.

“Goodness, these people are so impatient”, says the Sister, striding over to close the curtains. “There’s nothing to see in here!” she shouts.

Raising the phone back to her ear, Mercy can hear Tristram talking to Albert again: “I’ll have the lady on the far right, with the gorgeous lips.”

“Very good, Sir Tristram … Helen, bring down, the black lady for Sir Tristram?”

“Just a blowjob, my dear”
, says Tristram. “Kneel down. You won’t bite me, will you? If you suck well, I’ll pay fifty pounds to your family.”

Suddenly, Mercy hears a disturbance at the other end of the line, and Albert shouting: “Hold it Helen! I’ve got the Prime Minister’s Secretary on the phone. We’ve been ordered not to hang Miss Boundwell! … He’s commuted her sentence! She’s to be crucified instead.”

“Oh fuck!” says Tristram. “I’ll have to go, Mercy. It looks as if Cordelia will be coming back to the Ladies’ Ward. She’ll be joining you up on the crosses. What an absolute drama!”

As Mercy puts the phone down, Cassandra comes back and sits next to her on the bed.

“So it wasn’t good news, after all?”

“Well … he didn’t get me a reprieve. But … I might get my sentence commuted to hanging.”

“Oh there you are, there’s always something to hope for. Isn’t there?”, says Cassandra, placing a hand on Mercy’s smooth bare thigh and stroking it lightly.

“Yes, hanging wouldn’t be too bad, I suppose.”

“I heard you talking about medieval laws. What on earth was all that about?”

Mercy smiles wistfully, gazing into the loveliness of Cassandra’s forget-me-not-blue eyes. More than anything, she craves a warm, soft, protective hug from Cassandra. Having been betrayed by all who were closest to her - her boyfriend Toby, her stepfather, her producer, and all her close girlfriends - Mercy has never felt more in need of someone to talk to, to show her tenderness.

“Oh … it seems the medieval laws say we can wear clothes when we walk through Romcaster. And I can wear shoes, so long as they’re stilettos.”

“But that’s excellent news,” says Cassandra, brushing some strands of hair away from Mercy’s face and dabbing gently at her cheeks with a tissue. “Are you going to wear something pretty?”

“There’ll be someone bringing some of my things over. I’ll see what she brings.”

“And stilettos. Oh boy! You’ll look so sexy! But you’ll need to practice walking in them with that crossbeam on your shoulders. You don’t want to lose your balance and embarrass yourself.”

“No.”

“Attention everyone!” says the Sister, clapping her hands twice. “Dr. Painjoy is on his coffee break, and will be here in half an hour.”

“That gives us just enough time for our therapy talk”, says Cassandra, opening her bag and taking out some pamphlets with comic-book drawings of a busty curvy girl on the cover, “here at the hospital, we follow an approach called the Dolcett Method ...”
 

old slave

FELIS RESPICIENS

Anklebiter

Executioner
Part 4

“Hello, Mercy, how are you bearing up?” Her lawyer, Tristram, seems to be talking from a room full of chattering people, his plummy, expensively educated voice competing with myriad other voices around him. “Are they treating you tolerably well? Has the doctor marked you up yet?”

Mercy’s heart is thumping against her ribcage.

“Tristram!” she says breathlessly, “what did the appeal judges say? Is it a stay of execution?”

“Okay, let’s calm down a bit, Mercy. We mustn’t leap ahead of ourselves.”

“Tristram! Just tell me what’s happened!” Mercy’s voice is halfway between a shriek and a sob.

“Yes, erm, … bear with me a moment, Mercy. I just need to, er ... sort something out.”

As she waits for Tristram to reply she can hear him talking to someone else, his voice slightly muffled as if his hand is over the mouthpiece:

“Yes, this bench please, Albert. That’s it. Bend her over so she gets a good view of the stage. And with her tits hanging over the edge, so I can have a good grope. I shall want Helen to pull the stools away when I raise my hand, like this.”

“Very good, Sir Tristram. Whenever you're ready.”

Mercy hears a distinct rhythmic grunting: “Uh … Uh … Uh … Uh …”, gradually changing into a repressed moaning, panting sound, “Ugh-mm … Ugh-mmm … Ugh-mmmm!”

“Tristram! What the fuck are you doing?” Asks Mercy in an angry whisper.

“Oh … er, yes, Mercy …”, says Tristram breathlessly. “Just … bear with me … a few more seconds. I … I need to, er, complete some … business … another client … Mmhh! … Mmhh! … Mmhh! …”

Mercy hears Tristram putting his phone down on a hard surface, then more grunting and a wet rhythmical slapping. Then, she hears a scraping and clattering, like furniture being moved.

A collective roar from the other voices in the room, dissipates into a chorus of excited comments:

“Bravo!”

“I’ve got fifty pounds on the blonde!”

“Gedda load of the redhead!”

“She’s dancing the can-can!”

Mercy sobs quietly into the phone as she waits for her lawyer to finish with his other client.

“Right, Cordelia.” Mercy can hear Tristram’s voice again. “I think you rather enjoyed that, didn’t you? Well, I’m afraid they’re going to put you back up on the stool again now. And, er … this really will be, it. It’s not possible to be called down for a fucking more than three times. So, goodbye, and, all the best! It’s been a pleasure to represent you. And, I shall certainly be filing a complaint against the nurse who stole your brassiere. I’ll make sure she gets punished. A public whipping, I think.”

"Thank you, Sir Tristram" says a forlorn female voice.

“Tristram?”, says Mercy, in a pleading and tearful tone, “where the fuck are you?”

She hears Tristram picking up his phone from the bench.

“Ah, yes, now then, Mercy. Awfully sorry about that.” He raises his voice again to make himself heard against the clamor. “As you may have gathered, I’m actually here, at the hospital. Unfortunately I’ve had to attend the hangings. Dreadful affair. One of my clients. Cordelia Boundwell. A government economist. Her forecasts were deemed too pessimistic. Sentenced to death for ‘talking England down’ - poor thing. Very pretty lady too. Stupendous breasts. Natural E-cups. Very firm. Anyway, she was supposed to swing over half an hour ago. Twice over, they had her standing on the stool, with the noose around her lovely neck. And twice, someone called her down for a quickie. Bent her over a table and took her from behind, while she watched the next lady in line take her place on the stool. It must have been the breasts. And the lovely buttocks. Simply irresistible. So, anyway, when she was up on the stool for the third time, I thought, I might as well have her myself. You know? At least I’d treat her like a lady. As you know, Mercy, I can give pleasure to a woman as well as take it. And I thought, if you are going to have sex just before being executed, it might as well be with your very good-looking, charming and well-hung lawyer. And, of course, I shall be donating two hundred and fifty pounds to the hospital for the pleasure ...”

“... Tristram, will you be please tell me what is going on with my appeal.” A new cold and steely determination in Mercy’s voice takes Tristram by surprise.

“Yes. Well. Now then. You see, Mercy, being granted an appeal hearing at this late stage is quite an achievement in itself. And there really is, some …”, he swallows hard, “... good news …”

“... Is it a reprieve, Tristram? Please, please tell me it’s a reprieve.”

“No, Mercy. Not a reprieve. You see, the judges decided that - because your death sentence was the result of a campaign pledge made by the Prime Minister - they had no authority to overturn it. And, quite frankly I don’t blame them. The last judge to overturn a death sentence was nailed up on the high street about an hour ago. An enemy of the people.”

“I see”, says Mercy in a clipped and icy tone. “So, there’s no hope for me. Is that what you’re saying?”

“Well, erm, not quite. You see, there is always the possibility that the Prime Minister himself will show clemency.”

“You mean, Augustus Oakbeam might pardon me?”

“Well, not exactly pardon you, Mercy. But, he has been known to, commute a sentence. At the last minute. He enjoys the drama of it.”

“Commute?”

“Yes. There is a, very slim chance, that you might be spared … being nailed up. That is, you might be … well … hanged, instead. Which … I’m sure you’d agree, under the circumstances, would be a far more, pleasant outcome.”

“I see”, says Mercy. “So that’s the good news, is it? Tristram? That’s why you called me? To tell me I might be hanged instead of crucified. Well that’s just great!”

“Now now, Mercy. Don’t get all passive aggressive on me. I did my best. And there is … other, good news. You see, I made a very strong case at the hearing for you to be spared the indignity of walking barefoot through the city streets.”

“Barefoot. I see.”

“Yes, I deployed my considerable oratorical skills to persuade the judges that making you walk on bare feet all the way to the Execution Park would amount to cruel and unnecessary punishment, and quite possibly even marr the beauty and, artistry, of the whole spectacle … because, let’s face it, by the end of your walk - with the weight of that patibulum over your shoulders - you would be hobbling rather painfully, and - dare I say it - in a very unladylike manner.”

As her lawyer begins to recount his triumph in court, Mercy sits on her bed swinging her smooth, bare legs over the side. Despite her total exasperation with Tristram, she begins to indulge the idea that hanging would be preferable to crucifixion. There’s no denying it. Quicker. Less painful - undoubtedly less painful. No nails. No whip. No cane. No walk of shame through city streets. Just waiting in line with other girls. Standing on a stool with a wire noose around her neck. Getting groped. Inevitably getting fucked three times. Then back on the stool to wait for it to be snatched from under her feet. Then five to ten minutes of agonizing choking and kicking, swinging on the wire. And that would be it. All over.

She looks up and sees her counselor sidling up to her. Cassandra mouths a question.

"Reprieve?"

Then she gives Mercy a questioning look with her expressive blue eyes, while giving her a double thumbs-up sign. Mercy, still holding the phone to her ear, shakes her head dejectedly and looks down wistfully at her dangling feet, her flawless, violet-polished toenails. Cassandra pulls a pained face to express empathy, gives Mercy a gentle hug, and walks away.

Tristram is still declaiming into his phone.

“... And as a climax to my submission”, he says, “I showed the judges some old Crucible TV clips of you strutting around in front of that weather map, in those sexy little stiletto pumps that you used to wear. Those icicle heels. God, Mercy, you looked so hot in them! And to drive my argument home, I asked the judges this question ...”

He pauses to clear his throat, and begins to intone in an even more portentous voice:

“... ‘My Lords and Ladies, I entreat you to consider which of these eventualities you would rather witness, in two hours time, as the Crux Team embarks upon its solemn and dreadful task of nailing my client’s feet to her stipes. Would you wish to see them hammering their spikes into the blistered, begrimed and bloodied feet of a common city waif, a mere urchin, made to walk barefoot through our dusty, dirty streets? Or, would you, perhaps, rather watch my lovely client walking elegantly on clicking heels, with undulating hips, towards her doom. And, having reached her terrifying wooden post, taking off her expensive footwear to expose a well-pampered and immaculately manicured, pair of feet. The feet of a rich, spoilt, nineteen-year-old girl: tender, delicate and exquisite in their pristine beauty. Feet that the Crux Team will take in their strong and capable hands, and hold firmly against the rough wood, in order to drive their brutal nails into her sensitive flesh, tearing bones and sinews, making her blood ooze in meandering rivulets over her smooth unblemished skin as she screams and screams for Mercy?’ And, by jove Mercy, I struck home with that one! They were mesmerized. And of course, they agreed to it! Even the prosecutor accepted it! So long as you wear four or five inch stiletto sandals, or pumps. Nothing less.”

“Oh, well. I’m glad you’ve got something to feel pleased about, Tristram. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to hang up. I'm feeling a bit sick. I’ve got things to do. And my therapist wants a word with me.”

“No, no wait, Mercy. I haven’t finished yet. The best is yet to come!”

“Is it really?”

“Yes. The long and the short of it is that you’ll be allowed to wear clothes as you leave the hospital and walk through the city. Stockings, panties and a brassiere. A skirt and blouse. In fact, whatever you like. All the crux ladies will. And it’s all thanks to me!”

In her state of bleak despair, this piece of information begins to resemble a glimmer of light to Mercy. She lifts her head, flicks back her soft strawberry-blonde bangs and stares towards the window.

“I will?”
Part 5

Mercy’s terror at the thought of having those four nails - now lying on the cabinet next to her bed - hammered into her wrists and ankles, has until now eclipsed all thought of the abject humiliation of being paraded through the city streets as a traitorous slut, a mouthwatering piece of prime meat on its way to be hung up on display by the Crux Team slaughterers.

“I’ll spare you the boring details”, says Tristram, “it involved a lot of ferreting around in old parchment rolls. In essence, we discovered that the good Burghers of Medieval Romcaster decreed, in their wisdom, that female nudity is banned in all public places within the walls of the Medieval City - except for the Cathedral Square. A woman may bare her breasts in the Square in order to submit herself for public punishment. But she must get dressed again before she leaves.”

As she listens to Tristram, it strikes Mercy with a sudden ferocity that the prospect of walking out naked from the hospital - totally vulnerable and helpless - has been filling her with as much dread as the crossbeam and the nails. Her fraught mind now begins to dwell obsessively on the journey on foot that she will make through the streets of Romcaster, each step taking her closer to the upright post allocated to her in the Park.

With that ugly piece of bloodstained wood - now standing next to her bed - tied across her shoulders, she will wend her way between lines of chattering, smiling, mocking, citizens - waitresses, taxi drivers, shop assistants, police officers, students, housewives, school pupils with their teachers, smartly dressed business men and women … the whole panoply of English society, united in one purpose: to enjoy watching the abasement and degradation of Mercy and the other women, followed by their slow, lingering and indescribably painful deaths.

But supposing what Tristram is telling her is true? She would walk to her execution wearing clothes. That would definitely make it easier - at least, less mortifying. Mercy likes wearing high heels, she finds them empowering, they add four or five inches to her diminutive stature. And she has an extensive wardrobe of smart and elegant clothes. Undoubtedly wearing a skirt and heels and nice lingerie, maybe even stockings, would give her confidence.

“And the medieval laws still hold today?” she asks Tristram, tentatively.

‘They do indeed. Not even Augustus Oakbeam can overturn them without an Act of Parliament. So, I’ve asked Susannah, my secretary, to run over to your apartment and find something for you to wear. I recommend a skirt and blouse. You’ll be able to keep your skirt on while you remove the blouse and bra for the flogging.”

“And Susannah will know what to bring?”

“Yes. Nothing too slutty, I told her. You wore some very smart pencil skirts to court, so she’ll probably bring a couple of those for you to choose from. And, of course, it’s best to have a sleeveless top because your arms will be tied to the wood. She was asking what color the patibulum and nails are. And I told her that the timber is probably gray. Am I right?”

“Yes. Sort of.”

“And the nails are quite shiny? You will, of course, be wearing them as a pendant.”

“Yes,” says Mercy, willing herself hard not to glance at the ghastly implements.

“Excellent. Susannah will find something to tone with them. Actually, it’s well worth considering wearing some sexy lingerie. Skimpy panties tend to last longer. I’ve noticed that panties that aren’t revealing enough tend to get ripped off pretty quickly by the Crux Team. If they’re not sufficiently skimpy they seem to irritate them. But it’s up to you, really. ”

“Tristram, you said that I can keep my skirt on for the flogging.”

“That’s right. And your shoes and stockings.”

“But aren’t I supposed to be … like, caned, on my, bottom, and … and, w-whipped on my … I mean … you know, punished between, my legs, down there, on my … private parts, as well?”

“You are indeed. But the buttock and vaginal punishments will be performed at a later stage, probably just outside the Execution Park. By the way, I need to ask you. Do you still wax your pelvic region?”

“Erm. Yes,” she says coyly.

“Excellent. You see, the vaginal whips they use are made of fine leather which can tangle very easily in pubic hair. Sometimes the Justice Department demands compensation on the grounds that their very expensive whips have been damaged by the ladies’ pubes.”

“Oh? I see.”

“By the way, the total cost of your crucifixion will be … bear with me … £62,334, and 47 pence.”

“Gosh.”

“And considerably cheaper, of course, if you do get hanged. But you needn’t worry about the financial side. I’ll deal with it. Your estate will meet all the costs.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

“Of course, the Execution Park is a Greenbelt Development and stands well outside the boundaries of the Medieval City.”

“So … the medieval laws don’t apply there?” Mercy tries to hide her disappointment.

“No. I’m afraid not, Mercy. You can be stripped at any point once you’re outside the old medieval boundary.”

“And where is that?”

“The actual boundary is a matter of some dispute. How familiar are you with Romcaster?”

“I’ve never been here before.”

“Well, in that case, there’s no point in my trying to explain. In essence, if you find yourself deprived of your blouse, bra and skirt, you’ll know you’ve crossed the boundary. It’s usual for them to leave the panties on until you’ve actually been led up to the stipes, perhaps even nailed down. But don’t take my word for it. Crux Teams can be rather unpredictable.” He gives a wheezy chortle. “You will, of course, be completely nude, when you’re raised up. That’s a legal requirement.’

“But what if my sentence gets commuted?”, says Mercy, clutching at the only straw within her grasp.

“If that happens - believe me, Mercy - it will most certainly occur while you’re fully clothed”, says Tristram sententiously. “As the Romans discovered to their cost, it is extremely dangerous to frustrate the will of the plebs once they have feasted their eyes on a naked or even partially clothed girl on her way to be crucified. Once they start drooling over you, as you pant under the weight of your patibulum, wearing nothing but high heeled pumps and panties, your scrumptious little body all flushed and shiny with perspiration, there’ll be no turning back. That would most certainly provoke a riot. No. Take it as a rule of thumb, Mercy. If you find yourself topless and skirtless, you can abandon all hope of being strung up on a wire. It will be the nails for you. There’ll be no turning back … And … on that subject …”, he says, lowering his voice, “they’ve got Cordelia up on the stool again. She’s just peeling off her panties for the last time … give me a moment, Mercy. I need to show some respect.”

Mercy stifles a sob, and takes the phone away from her ear to wipe away the streams of salty tears running down her cheeks. She gazes, once more, towards the window and sees a row of faces, crowding the glass, all staring in at her.

“Goodness, these people are so impatient”, says the Sister, striding over to close the curtains. “There’s nothing to see in here!” she shouts.

Raising the phone back to her ear, Mercy can hear Tristram talking to Albert again: “I’ll have the lady on the far right, with the gorgeous lips.”

“Very good, Sir Tristram … Helen, bring down, the black lady for Sir Tristram?”

“Just a blowjob, my dear”, says Tristram. “Kneel down. You won’t bite me, will you? If you suck well, I’ll pay fifty pounds to your family.”

Suddenly, Mercy hears a disturbance at the other end of the line, and Albert shouting: “Hold it Helen! I’ve got the Prime Minister’s Secretary on the phone. We’ve been ordered not to hang Miss Boundwell! … He’s commuted her sentence! She’s to be crucified instead.”

“Oh fuck!” says Tristram. “I’ll have to go, Mercy. It looks as if Cordelia will be coming back to the Ladies’ Ward. She’ll be joining you up on the crosses. What an absolute drama!”

As Mercy puts the phone down, Cassandra comes back and sits next to her on the bed.

“So it wasn’t good news, after all?”

“Well … he didn’t get me a reprieve. But … I might get my sentence commuted to hanging.”

“Oh there you are, there’s always something to hope for. Isn’t there?”, says Cassandra, placing a hand on Mercy’s smooth bare thigh and stroking it lightly.

“Yes, hanging wouldn’t be too bad, I suppose.”

“I heard you talking about medieval laws. What on earth was all that about?”

Mercy smiles wistfully, gazing into the loveliness of Cassandra’s forget-me-not-blue eyes. More than anything, she craves a warm, soft, protective hug from Cassandra. Having been betrayed by all who were closest to her - her boyfriend Toby, her stepfather, her producer, and all her close girlfriends - Mercy has never felt more in need of someone to ...”

CruxGirl, I am really enjoying this story. Thank you for sharing it with us. I particularly like your details on her pretty bare feet . Women's feet can be so delectable and beautiful and delicate. Which makes the cruelty of the nails even more erotic. I look forward to the next chapter.
 

Feyre Archeron

Executioner
CruxGirl, I am really enjoying this story. Thank you for sharing it with us. I particularly like your details on her pretty bare feet . Women's feet can be so delectable and beautiful and delicate. Which makes the cruelty of the nails even more erotic. I look forward to the next chapter.


I agree with this. the curling and spreading of the toes in either pain or pleasure is cute. I'm a small girl myself and am told mine are pretty. I like poses in bondage or crux that show the bottoms of a girls feet/toes touching each other.
 

Wolfie1389

Magistrate
That attorney needs to be drawn and quartered for illegal betting! I'm sure some proof can be found!
 

Jollyrei

Angelus Mortis
Staff member
And it’s all thanks to me!”
You know, I can't decide who is the better attorney - this guy or Tree. At least when Tree loses a case, he shows some sort of sympathy or at least a callousness that acknowledges that it's an undesirable outcome for his client. Tristan is just oblivious.

Fantastic, surreal and appalingly comedic atmosphere. :clapping:
 
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