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Crucifixion of a Weather Girl

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CruxGirl

Assistant executioner
Anyway how much of the Gender P... Gap is due to discrimination and how much is just the consequence of individual preferences ?!!

Tune in to Channel 4 where we'll have Catty Spewman interviewing Dr. Boring P. Jettison on the topic, The Gender Pain Gap and the patriarchy!!!
It depends how you define the 'gender pain gap'.
 

carloscruz

Governor
Looking forward to the next chapter of this erotic and well written story Cruxgirl!
And expecting perhaps interesting things from the relationship between Cassandra and Mercy?
Thanks!
 

carloscruz

Governor
“I … I could get into trouble …”, says Cassandra, “get arrested, my husband ....”

“You might be stripped naked and flogged, gang raped, even executed as a traitor,” says Mercy. “Wouldn’t we look beautiful - the two of us - two lovely English roses - crucified side by side?”

What an incredibly alluring idea!
And probably Cassandra herself agrees!


“…There is a sheen of perspiration on Cassandra’s forehead as she shifts her wide-eyed gaze between Mercy and the Sister. She folds her arms over her gray pullover, hugging her pert breasts. With an elegant swish of nylon she crosses her legs, squeezing her slim thighs tightly together, making her knee-length skirt ride slightly upwards…”

“…Keeping her thighs crossed, Cassandra stretches out her legs, jamming her ankles together, twisting her cute, stiletto-heeled booties hard against one another in a posture of neurotic contortion.”

Perhaps the next time her husband sees her, she will be carrying her patibulum, on her way to Crucifixion park.

Perhaps she will continue supporting Marcy, completing her therap,y from her own cross!

Who knows?

Many interesting and exciting possibilities!


“…She can smell Cassandra’s fear. She can even taste on the air the musky wetness of Cassandra’s cunt. Cassandra’s beauty is enhanced rather than diminished by the wretchedness of her predicament.”

Waiting for the next chapter!
 

CruxGirl

Assistant executioner
Part 8

“Yes. I had a very constructive meeting with the Prime Minister just this morning”, says Verity Gritt breathlessly, “and he’s promised to remedy the situation before the end of the day. I presented him with a very thorough statistical analysis of the list of people sentenced to be executed today. And I told him that it was a complete and utter disgrace!”

“And, what was your problem with it?”

“I found that fifty-five point five percent of those hanged this morning were female, whereas only forty-four point five percent of them were male ...”

“... Okay and why do you see that as a problem?”

“... Well ... if you'll let me finish my point … On the other hand - as I was just about to say - when it comes to those sentenced to be crucified, I find that sixty-five point six percent are male, and only thirty-four point four percent are female.”

“Ok, so why is it a problem for you, as a feminist, that twice as many men as women are going to be crucified?”

“Because it is patronising in the extreme! It panders to ancient sexist stereotypes! Why do we need to perpetuate this ridiculous narrative that women are the weaker sex? That … that we are less capable than men of dealing with pain and embarrassment. The Romans hardly ever crucified women, and for exactly the same patronising reason! They thought that women were too delicate to be publicly tortured and humiliated in that way. Surely we’ve moved on from Roman times! From Roman conceptions of femininity? And yet, our judiciary clearly takes the view that only the very worst female offenders should endure crucifixion. That is shameful!”

“Oh-my-god! She’s about to squirt!”, says Emma.

“But Verity”, says the blonde, “you campaigned against the re-introduction of capital punishment in last year’s referendum.”

“Y-yes, I did. I - erm. That’s quite right. But, circumstances have changed. I’m a democrat and I believe that the sovereign will of the English people must always prevail.”

“So, now you’re in favor of the death penalty?”

“Y-yes. As long as it’s administered without gender bias. We must do away with this iniquitous gender pain gap.”

“And I understand that you drew the Prime Minister’s attention to one case in particular. That of Cordelia Boundwell, the - if I might say this without being sexist - very curvaceous and attractive treasury civil servant who was sentenced to be hanged this morning.”

“That’s correct. The Prime Minister acted very promptly - and just in the nick of time - to have her sentence commuted to crucifixion.”

“Perhaps I should remind our viewers that Mrs Boundwell and her husband, the journalist Harry Boundwell, were both convicted of exactly the same crime. That of talking down the English economy.”

“Yes, that’s right. And the wife was sentenced to hang, while the husband was sentenced to be crucified. That just wasn’t right. And now they’re both going to be crucified.”

“Indeed. And Harry Boundwell was nailed up about half an hour ago, right behind us here. Let’s see how he’s getting on ...”

The two women turn their heads and the camera pans and zooms in on a naked blond man in his early thirties hanging by his nailed wrists from a T-shaped crux. His arms are taut and fully stretched, and his knees are flexed in a kneeling position, obscuring his nailed feet. His head is bent downwards, chin resting on his chest. His lovely blond bangs are glinting golden in the late morning sun. And his penis is fully erect, twitching defiantly to the rhythm of his still-steady heartbeat.

The nurses standing in front of Mercy begin to titter, and then break into shrieks of laughter. To Mercy their laughter doesn’t sound natural. There is a forced and nervous quality to it.

“I expect that’s Dr Painjoy’s doing”, chortles the Sister. “He had all the condemned men injected with Erexacute to help them put on a good show. I quite fancy giving my husband a shot of that.”

“Perhaps Cordelia will be given the opportunity to fellate her husband one last time on her way to the Park,” says a strikingly pretty flaxen-haired nurse, blushing as she speaks.

“ Sophie! You’ve got such a romantic imagination. You soppy little thing!”, says Emma. “But he only deserves a ruined orgasm.”

“Quite right!” snaps the Sister. “Don’t forget that he’s an enemy of the English people. He’s not there to enjoy himself.”

Mercy feels as if she is about to faint. This is her first glimpse of a real life crucifixion. Her head is swimming and she is breaking out in a sweat. The bed on which she lies seems to have come unfixed and the room begins to spin. Yet she keeps her eyes firmly fixed on the TV screen and on the image of the crucified man. And gradually she regains her equilibrium.

Cassandra smiles at her and winks, eyes brimming with empathy.

As the camera moves up and down Harry Boundwell’s beautiful but horribly wracked and flogged body, the blonde TV presenter continues to interview Verity Gritt.

“He looks as if he’ll last at least a couple of days”, she says. “So, tell me Verity, how is the Prime Minister going to deal with this ‘gender pain gap’ before the end of today?”

“Very simple. He’s going to make up the numbers by ensuring that an extra twenty-seven women are crucified.”

“And how will they be tried and given due process? The courts couldn’t possibly deal with that many extra cases within half a day.”

“It’s all going to be done under the new emergency powers voted through by Parliament last week. These powers allow for the suspension of jury trials and the summary execution of all enemies of the English people, so long as there is sufficient evidence to satisfy the Home Secretary.”

“And, presumably, the police already have a list of suspects.”

“Indeed. The MEGA-Squad is closing in on the chief female suspects even as we speak. And of course, priority will be given to the most physically attractive traitors. The Prime Minister firmly believes that, in addition to serving the interests of justice, public executions should be a spectacle - entertainment for the great English public. And naturally there’s a lot of money in selling the TV rights around the world.”

“I’m guessing”, says the Sister portentously, “that this is all part of the Prime Minister’s program to purge the top echelons of our civil service of liberals and traitors. We’ll probably be required to process around seven of the new cases. All in a day’s work girls.”

“Before we go over to the studio for the news bulletin,” says the blonde, “I’d like to raise one other topic with you. And that’s the announcement made this morning by the Business Secretary that convicted women whose meat has been graded as prime will be auctioned off prior to crucifixion. They’ll be taken down after just seven hours on their crosses to be spitted and live-roasted within the Execution Park. What’s your response to that?”

“Well, of course today’s meat auction”, says Verity Gritt, “is intended for the international super rich. These people are prepared to pay up to a million dollars for a top quality live-roasted English meat girl. I mean … I’m no gourmet, but I’ve been informed that the process of crucifixion - the humiliation, the flogging, and the suspension on nails for seven hours - well, apparently, it all heightens the flavor of the meat. And of course selling the meat to foreign oligarchs will bring in some very much needed hard currency to the exchequer.”

“Yes, we had top girlmeat chef, Dean Swift, founder of The Modest Proposal restaurant chain, on the show earlier on. He’s been given the contract for roasting today’s meat and he’s just opened a splendid new restaurant right next to the cruxes within the Execution Park. And he was explaining to us that girlmeat loses its flavor very rapidly after snuffing, and that to ensure maximum flavor and tenderness, the meat should always be live-spitted and live-roasted.”

“So I’ve been told, although, personally, I’ve never tasted girlmeat. Many of my male friends are quite adamant that there is a strong correlation between the physical beauty of the girl and the quality of her meat. But I’m rather skeptical about that, and I suspect that there might be some wishful thinking, and indeed, some sexist stereotyping at play in that assumption.”

“‘Girls are made of sugar and spice, and all things nice’, and all that … But do you have an ethical objection to the live-roasting of girls?”

“None at all. As one who has campaigned for years for an end to livestock farming and its gratuitously cruel treatment of animals, I welcome this new development. And let’s not forget that our traditional farming industry has been brought to its knees by European dirty tricks. No, I think it’s time we woke up to the fact that English organic free-range girlmeat is a fantastic natural resource. The emerging international market in girlmeat holds out tremendously exciting possibilities for us as a nation. I honestly believe that England’s future lies in its girlmeat. We could be a major player in the market.”

“And, of the girls on offer today, is there any one in particular that you’d like to eat?”

Verity Gritt giggles nervously. “What a great question! Of course we’ll have to wait and see what we get with the new batch of twenty-seven girls. But, let me think … I … I always thought that Mercy Skreemings looked good enough to eat when she was a weather girl. She was just totally scrumptious! But of course, I couldn’t possibly afford her. Alas, an MP’s salary doesn’t stretch to bidding for high-end gourmet girlmeat. So I guess that - like most ordinary English people - I’ll have to settle for cheap and cheerful low-welfare, chlorine-washed, hormone-injected girls from America.”

“Once we get that trade deal signed on the other side of the pond.”

“Absolutely!”

“And those hormone-injected girls do have phenomenally big breasts!”

Both women giggle..

“Verity Gritt, always a treat to have you on the show.”

“My pleasure.”


As Cassandra, the Sister and the nurses all turn to look at Mercy to gauge her response, she retches violently. Sophie moves swiftly towards her and thrusts a cardboard vomit pan under her chin.

“Take a big deep breath,” says the Sister, laying a gentle hand on Mercy’s shoulder. “I expect it’s quite a shock to learn that you’re going to be roasted alive and eaten. And you thought we were only going to crucify you! You poor thing. How are the mighty fallen, Miss Skreemings! From meteorologist to … plain meat. Eh?”

The nurses laugh appreciatively at the Sister’s little witticism.

“I heard a rumor”, says Cassandra conspiratorially, “that the Prime Minister himself will be dining at The Modest Proposal in the Park tonight.”

“That’s correct”, says the Sister, “he’ll be entertaining the King of Asspankia and the President of Gangbangia, both of whom are connoisseurs of fine girlmeat. And there's every chance there might be lucrative trade deals in the offing.”

Mercy retches again.

“You won’t be sick, Miss Skreemings, because you haven’t had anything to eat or drink since yesterday. So just take deep breaths, in and out.”

Hardly are the words out when Mercy leans forward and vomits the entire contents of her stomach - which consists only of Cassandra’s mineral water - into the pan.

Emma and the other nurses all gasp in unison.

Cassandra raises her hands to her face, eyes wide with horror.

The Sister stares in silence at the contents of the vomit pan, then casts around with blowtorch eyes.

“WHO. GAVE. HER. WATER?” she bellows.
 

carloscruz

Governor
Part 8

“Yes. I had a very constructive meeting with the Prime Minister just this morning”, says Verity Gritt breathlessly, “and he’s promised to remedy the situation before the end of the day. I presented him with a very thorough statistical analysis of the list of people sentenced to be executed today. And I told him that it was a complete and utter disgrace!”

“And, what was your problem with it?”

“I found that fifty-five point five percent of those hanged this morning were female, whereas only forty-four point five percent of them were male ...”

“... Okay and why do you see that as a problem?”

“... Well ... if you'll let me finish my point … On the other hand - as I was just about to say - when it comes to those sentenced to be crucified, I find that sixty-five point six percent are male, and only thirty-four point four percent are female.”

“Ok, so why is it a problem for you, as a feminist, that twice as many men as women are going to be crucified?”

“Because it is patronising in the extreme! It panders to ancient sexist stereotypes! Why do we need to perpetuate this ridiculous narrative that women are the weaker sex? That … that we are less capable than men of dealing with pain and embarrassment. The Romans hardly ever crucified women, and for exactly the same patronising reason! They thought that women were too delicate to be publicly tortured and humiliated in that way. Surely we’ve moved on from Roman times! From Roman conceptions of femininity? And yet, our judiciary clearly takes the view that only the very worst female offenders should endure crucifixion. That is shameful!”

“Oh-my-god! She’s about to squirt!”, says Emma.

“But Verity”, says the blonde, “you campaigned against the re-introduction of capital punishment in last year’s referendum.”

“Y-yes, I did. I - erm. That’s quite right. But, circumstances have changed. I’m a democrat and I believe that the sovereign will of the English people must always prevail.”

“So, now you’re in favor of the death penalty?”

“Y-yes. As long as it’s administered without gender bias. We must do away with this iniquitous gender pain gap.”

“And I understand that you drew the Prime Minister’s attention to one case in particular. That of Cordelia Boundwell, the - if I might say this without being sexist - very curvaceous and attractive treasury civil servant who was sentenced to be hanged this morning.”

“That’s correct. The Prime Minister acted very promptly - and just in the nick of time - to have her sentence commuted to crucifixion.”

“Perhaps I should remind our viewers that Mrs Boundwell and her husband, the journalist Harry Boundwell, were both convicted of exactly the same crime. That of talking down the English economy.”

“Yes, that’s right. And the wife was sentenced to hang, while the husband was sentenced to be crucified. That just wasn’t right. And now they’re both going to be crucified.”

“Indeed. And Harry Boundwell was nailed up about half an hour ago, right behind us here. Let’s see how he’s getting on ...”

The two women turn their heads and the camera pans and zooms in on a naked blond man in his early thirties hanging by his nailed wrists from a T-shaped crux. His arms are taut and fully stretched, and his knees are flexed in a kneeling position, obscuring his nailed feet. His head is bent downwards, chin resting on his chest. His lovely blond bangs are glinting golden in the late morning sun. And his penis is fully erect, twitching defiantly to the rhythm of his still-steady heartbeat.

The nurses standing in front of Mercy begin to titter, and then break into shrieks of laughter. To Mercy their laughter doesn’t sound natural. There is a forced and nervous quality to it.

“I expect that’s Dr Painjoy’s doing”, chortles the Sister. “He had all the condemned men injected with Erexacute to help them put on a good show. I quite fancy giving my husband a shot of that.”

“Perhaps Cordelia will be given the opportunity to fellate her husband one last time on her way to the Park,” says a strikingly pretty flaxen-haired nurse, blushing as she speaks.

“ Sophie! You’ve got such a romantic imagination. You soppy little thing!”, says Emma. “But he only deserves a ruined orgasm.”

“Quite right!” snaps the Sister. “Don’t forget that he’s an enemy of the English people. He’s not there to enjoy himself.”

Mercy feels as if she is about to faint. This is her first glimpse of a real life crucifixion. Her head is swimming and she is breaking out in a sweat. The bed on which she lies seems to have come unfixed and the room begins to spin. Yet she keeps her eyes firmly fixed on the TV screen and on the image of the crucified man. And gradually she regains her equilibrium.

Cassandra smiles at her and winks, eyes brimming with empathy.

As the camera moves up and down Harry Boundwell’s beautiful but horribly wracked and flogged body, the blonde TV presenter continues to interview Verity Gritt.

“He looks as if he’ll last at least a couple of days”, she says. “So, tell me Verity, how is the Prime Minister going to deal with this ‘gender pain gap’ before the end of today?”

“Very simple. He’s going to make up the numbers by ensuring that an extra twenty-seven women are crucified.”

“And how will they be tried and given due process? The courts couldn’t possibly deal with that many extra cases within half a day.”

“It’s all going to be done under the new emergency powers voted through by Parliament last week. These powers allow for the suspension of jury trials and the summary execution of all enemies of the English people, so long as there is sufficient evidence to satisfy the Home Secretary.”

“And, presumably, the police already have a list of suspects.”

“Indeed. The MEGA-Squad is closing in on the chief female suspects even as we speak. And of course, priority will be given to the most physically attractive traitors. The Prime Minister firmly believes that, in addition to serving the interests of justice, public executions should be a spectacle - entertainment for the great English public. And naturally there’s a lot of money in selling the TV rights around the world.”

“I’m guessing”, says the Sister portentously, “that this is all part of the Prime Minister’s program to purge the top echelons of our civil service of liberals and traitors. We’ll probably be required to process around seven of the new cases. All in a day’s work girls.”

“Before we go over to the studio for the news bulletin,” says the blonde, “I’d like to raise one other topic with you. And that’s the announcement made this morning by the Business Secretary that convicted women whose meat has been graded as prime will be auctioned off prior to crucifixion. They’ll be taken down after just seven hours on their crosses to be spitted and live-roasted within the Execution Park. What’s your response to that?”

“Well, of course today’s meat auction”, says Verity Gritt, “is intended for the international super rich. These people are prepared to pay up to a million dollars for a top quality live-roasted English meat girl. I mean … I’m no gourmet, but I’ve been informed that the process of crucifixion - the humiliation, the flogging, and the suspension on nails for seven hours - well, apparently, it all heightens the flavor of the meat. And of course selling the meat to foreign oligarchs will bring in some very much needed hard currency to the exchequer.”

“Yes, we had top girlmeat chef, Dean Swift, founder of The Modest Proposal restaurant chain, on the show earlier on. He’s been given the contract for roasting today’s meat and he’s just opened a splendid new restaurant right next to the cruxes within the Execution Park. And he was explaining to us that girlmeat loses its flavor very rapidly after snuffing, and that to ensure maximum flavor and tenderness, the meat should always be live-spitted and live-roasted.”

“So I’ve been told, although, personally, I’ve never tasted girlmeat. Many of my male friends are quite adamant that there is a strong correlation between the physical beauty of the girl and the quality of her meat. But I’m rather skeptical about that, and I suspect that there might be some wishful thinking, and indeed, some sexist stereotyping at play in that assumption.”

“‘Girls are made of sugar and spice, and all things nice’, and all that … But do you have an ethical objection to the live-roasting of girls?”

“None at all. As one who has campaigned for years for an end to livestock farming and its gratuitously cruel treatment of animals, I welcome this new development. And let’s not forget that our traditional farming industry has been brought to its knees by European dirty tricks. No, I think it’s time we woke up to the fact that English organic free-range girlmeat is a fantastic natural resource. The emerging international market in girlmeat holds out tremendously exciting possibilities for us as a nation. I honestly believe that England’s future lies in its girlmeat. We could be a major player in the market.”

“And, of the girls on offer today, is there any one in particular that you’d like to eat?”

Verity Gritt giggles nervously. “What a great question! Of course we’ll have to wait and see what we get with the new batch of twenty-seven girls. But, let me think … I … I always thought that Mercy Skreemings looked good enough to eat when she was a weather girl. She was just totally scrumptious! But of course, I couldn’t possibly afford her. Alas, an MP’s salary doesn’t stretch to bidding for high-end gourmet girlmeat. So I guess that - like most ordinary English people - I’ll have to settle for cheap and cheerful low-welfare, chlorine-washed, hormone-injected girls from America.”

“Once we get that trade deal signed on the other side of the pond.”

“Absolutely!”

“And those hormone-injected girls do have phenomenally big breasts!”

Both women giggle..

“Verity Gritt, always a treat to have you on the show.”

“My pleasure.”


As Cassandra, the Sister and the nurses all turn to look at Mercy to gauge her response, she retches violently. Sophie moves swiftly towards her and thrusts a cardboard vomit pan under her chin.

“Take a big deep breath,” says the Sister, laying a gentle hand on Mercy’s shoulder. “I expect it’s quite a shock to learn that you’re going to be roasted alive and eaten. And you thought we were only going to crucify you! You poor thing. How are the mighty fallen, Miss Skreemings! From meteorologist to … plain meat. Eh?”

The nurses laugh appreciatively at the Sister’s little witticism.

“I heard a rumor”, says Cassandra conspiratorially, “that the Prime Minister himself will be dining at The Modest Proposal in the Park tonight.”

“That’s correct”, says the Sister, “he’ll be entertaining the King of Asspankia and the President of Gangbangia, both of whom are connoisseurs of fine girlmeat. And there's every chance there might be lucrative trade deals in the offing.”

Mercy retches again.

“You won’t be sick, Miss Skreemings, because you haven’t had anything to eat or drink since yesterday. So just take deep breaths, in and out.”

Hardly are the words out when Mercy leans forward and vomits the entire contents of her stomach - which consists only of Cassandra’s mineral water - into the pan.

Emma and the other nurses all gasp in unison.

Cassandra raises her hands to her face, eyes wide with horror.

The Sister stares in silence at the contents of the vomit pan, then casts around with blowtorch eyes.

“WHO. GAVE. HER. WATER?” she bellows.
AT LAST!
Thanks a lor Cruxgirl. Please continue the story!
 
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