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Crucifixion of a Weather Girl
Doragon
Tribune
Thank you for continuing this inspiring story.
CruxGirl
Magistrate
And then two come along at once ...
CruxGirl
Magistrate
Part 13
The Sister struts over to the bed next to Mercy.
“Sophie,” she says, smiling at the pretty little blonde nurse, “I think Mrs Boundwell should come over here, to the bed next to Miss Skreemings, so that they can get to know one another.”
As Sophie leads her by her leash to her new bed, Cordelia gives Mercy another sad smile.
“Hello, Mercy”, she says with forced cheeriness, “I’m Cordelia. It seems we’re going to be bed-neighbors. I’ve always wanted to meet you … But – not in these circumstances – obviously. I – I loved your forecasts. I actually saw you once – in the studio – when I came to do an interview with Ophelia. I thought you were the most stunningly pretty girl I’d ever seen. My husband had a huge crush on you. I suppose most men do … and – to be honest … I had an even bigger crush on you. You’re just …such a … beautiful beautiful girl!” Her voice cracks, and tears well up in her eyes. “Why are people so fucking … evil! … This is all so – fucking – wrong! …” She starts sobbing. “There … now I’ve – gone and – embarrassed myself – and probably embarrassed – you too!”
Sophie takes a tissue from a box on the bedside cabinet. “There, there”, she says dabbing at Cordelia’s eyes. “You don’t want to ruin your lovely makeup before you start on your walk of shame, now do you?”
“It’s – so strange”, says Cordelia trying to control her sobs. “I didn’t – cry – at all, when they … raped me, and put me on a stool, ready to … hang me …”
“Don’t worry”, says Sophie, “it’s good to have a little cry now and again … If I was in your situation I’d probably cry as well … Anyway … you’re totally right! Mercy totally is a really nice girl … You two will get on like a house on fire …”
There are tears in Mercy’s eyes too. But – trussed up and gagged – all she can do is blink at Cordelia and delicately wiggle her fingers to express appreciation of her words.
Throughout this little exchange Mercy has been aware of an ominous, resentful, disapproving presence lurking in her peripheral vision. Cassandra has stepped away from her two patients – Destiny and Ophelia – and is scrutinizing Cordelia with an intensity bordering on malice. Her whole demeanor oozes envy and spite.
“Sophie”, says the Sister, “would you mind removing Miss Skreeming’s gag so that she can have a two-way conversation with her fellow-condemned? And give her some water, just as the Doctor ordered. I think Mrs Boundwell’s dog-leash can come off as well.”
The Sister smiles icily at Cassandra. “Any luck with your new patients, sweetheart?”
“Oh – Not really”, she says distractedly. “They’d been neglected for far too long before I even started on them … To be honest, Sister, I think they’re beyond caring –”
The Doctor, who by now is engrossed in Ophelia and Destiny’s x-rays, raises his head and calls out:
“No one is beyond caring about being scourged and crucified, Cassandra! And these two ladies are certainly not beyond the power of my pharmacology. Allow me to give you a demonstration of how I can jump-start the sympathetic nervous system of a condemned woman with a shot in the buttock. Sister, I’d like to have them bent over, ready for a cocktail of intramuscular Anxiogenitine and Algesipam, followed by intravenous Epinephrine!”
“Certainly, Doctor! Emma, would you give me a hand with Mrs Treadmill and Miss Coxwell? We’d best get them wearing their crossbeams now, while they’re still docile. They’ll be difficult to handle once the Doctor plunges his needles in!”
The removal of the gag brings immense relief to Mercy. And when Sophie gives her water, she gulps it down, swirling it around her dry mouth and savoring its coolness in her parched throat. She drinks so quickly that she begins to cough and splutter.”
“Careful!” says Sophie. “One sip at a time.”
The door flies open and two men wearing policemen's uniforms walk in. Mercy jumps and gasps, spilling cold water onto her breasts.
The men are in their thirties. One is dark haired, and the other, who is taller, is a dirty blond. Their short-sleeved shirts reveal muscular arms heavily tattooed with MEGA Party insignia. And each man has a large silver hammer and a leather scourge tucked into his belt.
“It’s okay, Mercy, calm down!”, says Sophie, with a little laugh. “It’s only the B-list Crux Team. They haven't come for you. They’re here for Destiny and Ophelia. I’d better help get their panties and shoes on, ready for their walk of shame.”
“Excellent timing, gentlemen!” says the Doctor, holding up a hypodermic syringe to the light. “I’m afraid that both your patients are presently unresponsive. Catatonic! The MEGA-squad rather overdid the old rape and torture routine. I think they’ve literally fucked their brains out! Consequently, they’re suffering from PTSD. But, not to worry – I’m just about to bounce them out of it – by inducing an acute state of drug-induced hypersensitivity disorder, together with anxiety and panic.”
“I’m very glad to hear it!”, says the blond man, speaking in a coarse Romcaster accent.
“Yeah! We was – like – hoping for a quick fuck, before we took them out for their scourging –”, says the other.
“And it’s no fucking fun fucking someone with fucked-out brains, or trauma-fucking-induced catatonia, or whatever the fuck you call it, now is it?”
He takes a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket and offers one to his colleague, who accepts with a smile.
“Indeed! Indeed! But fuck them you shall!” says the Doctor, with slightly contrived chirpiness. “I can guarantee a wild ride for you, gentlemen, once my drugs have kicked in … I must say, I’m rather tempted myself. These two ladies are seriously fit. Especially the lady of color. But I think I’ll save myself for Cordelia Boundwell over there. Those tits are simply divine –”
“I’m afraid, Dr. Painjoy”, says the Sister, “that Mrs Boundwell’s face will have to be off-limits for the time being. If that’s alright with you? I don’t want any ejaculate ruining Helen’s excellent hair and makeup job.”
“Your word is my command, Sister! Perish the thought of ejaculating on Mrs Boundwell’s lovely face.”
“It doesn't pay to be a naughty boy on this ward! Eh, Doctor?” says the blond man with a cackle. “Or you’ll get spanked by the Sister! Eh?” He leers at him. “And they say women don’t have no power anymore in this country!”
The man grins, flashing his yellow teeth, and flicking his ash on the floor.
“My only desire is to serve the nation”, says the Sister with equanimity. “To oil the wheels of justice, and to deliver entertainment of the highest quality to the people of England.”
“And my word, how you succeed, Sister!” says the Doctor, looking increasingly uncomfortable with the two men’s disrespectful banter.
“Okay!” says the Sister in a business-like tone, clapping her hands together, and attempting to take control of the situation. “Time to get these ladies into position for their ‘fucking’.”
Destiny Treadmill and Ophelia Coxwell are sitting on the edges of their beds, looking vacant and hollow eyed. Emma negotiates a gray splintery patibulum into position over Ophelia’s narrow shoulder blades as the Sister straps it along her arms. She is barely five feet tall, and Mercy wonders how her delicate frame can possibly bear such a brutally heavy object.
Meanwhile Sophie, kneeling on the floor, pulls a G-string – a mere wisp of lace, attached to a tiny pink triangle – up over Destiny’s long slim ebony legs and curvy thighs. A pair of black, four-and-a-half inch stiletto pumps completes the former studio floor manager’s humiliating execution attire. Finally, Sophie gathers her straight black hair into a sleek pony-tail.
Emma and the Sister move over to attach her patibulum, forcing her shoulders back so that her perky, dark-nippled breasts are pushed forwards and upwards.
Sophie crouches next to Ophelia and pulls a pair of pathetically skimpy cream panties over the former political correspondent's lithe smooth legs. Then she eases a pair of tarty red stiletto sandals onto her pretty little feet.
“Gentlemen! How would you like to penetrate your patients?” asks the Sister. “Would you like to use the stocks?”
“You bet! We’ll fuck ‘em from behind, like we always do”, says the dark haired nailor.
Both nailors walk over to a corner of the ward where a variety of strange-looking pieces of equipment have been accumulated. Each man drags back a wooden device mounted on wheels. The devices have two upright posts, topped with U-shaped slots, at either end.
As they unzip their flies, pull out their semi-erect penises, and masturbate them to the required degree of hardness, the nurses help the two women to their feet. Supporting their crossbeams, they encourage them to walk over towards the devices and the two waiting rapists.
One at a time, they bend them over the wooden frames, guiding their crossbeams into the U-shaped slots, and locking them into position. Finally their ankles are pulled apart and secured, by metal bracelets, to the base of each contraption.
The two women are now facing in opposite directions. Mercy can see Ophelia’s cute pixie face, framed by her rich brown hair. She looks totally bewildered, hanging downwards from her crossbeam, her pert breasts swaying enticingly over the floor, and the fleshy globes of her bubble butt rising up behind her.
Emma and Sophie peel down the women’s panties as far as their knees. Mercy can see the bright pink crease of Destiny’s sex, between the dark ebony folds of her thick labia.
“Splendid!” says Dr. Painjoy, his voice sounding thick with excitement.
With a needle in one hand, he runs his other hand libidinously over the fleshy globes of Destiny’s buttocks. Then he plunges in his needle and squeezes the syringe.
He walks around and does likewise to Ophelia, who winces as she feels the needle penetrate her cute bubble-butt.
“And now for the Epinephrine!” he says, picking up another syringe.
He takes hold of Destiny’s thick black hair and twists her neck sideways.
Then Carefully, and with great deliberation, he pushes his needle into her jugular vein.
The Sister struts over to the bed next to Mercy.
“Sophie,” she says, smiling at the pretty little blonde nurse, “I think Mrs Boundwell should come over here, to the bed next to Miss Skreemings, so that they can get to know one another.”
As Sophie leads her by her leash to her new bed, Cordelia gives Mercy another sad smile.
“Hello, Mercy”, she says with forced cheeriness, “I’m Cordelia. It seems we’re going to be bed-neighbors. I’ve always wanted to meet you … But – not in these circumstances – obviously. I – I loved your forecasts. I actually saw you once – in the studio – when I came to do an interview with Ophelia. I thought you were the most stunningly pretty girl I’d ever seen. My husband had a huge crush on you. I suppose most men do … and – to be honest … I had an even bigger crush on you. You’re just …such a … beautiful beautiful girl!” Her voice cracks, and tears well up in her eyes. “Why are people so fucking … evil! … This is all so – fucking – wrong! …” She starts sobbing. “There … now I’ve – gone and – embarrassed myself – and probably embarrassed – you too!”
Sophie takes a tissue from a box on the bedside cabinet. “There, there”, she says dabbing at Cordelia’s eyes. “You don’t want to ruin your lovely makeup before you start on your walk of shame, now do you?”
“It’s – so strange”, says Cordelia trying to control her sobs. “I didn’t – cry – at all, when they … raped me, and put me on a stool, ready to … hang me …”
“Don’t worry”, says Sophie, “it’s good to have a little cry now and again … If I was in your situation I’d probably cry as well … Anyway … you’re totally right! Mercy totally is a really nice girl … You two will get on like a house on fire …”
There are tears in Mercy’s eyes too. But – trussed up and gagged – all she can do is blink at Cordelia and delicately wiggle her fingers to express appreciation of her words.
Throughout this little exchange Mercy has been aware of an ominous, resentful, disapproving presence lurking in her peripheral vision. Cassandra has stepped away from her two patients – Destiny and Ophelia – and is scrutinizing Cordelia with an intensity bordering on malice. Her whole demeanor oozes envy and spite.
“Sophie”, says the Sister, “would you mind removing Miss Skreeming’s gag so that she can have a two-way conversation with her fellow-condemned? And give her some water, just as the Doctor ordered. I think Mrs Boundwell’s dog-leash can come off as well.”
The Sister smiles icily at Cassandra. “Any luck with your new patients, sweetheart?”
“Oh – Not really”, she says distractedly. “They’d been neglected for far too long before I even started on them … To be honest, Sister, I think they’re beyond caring –”
The Doctor, who by now is engrossed in Ophelia and Destiny’s x-rays, raises his head and calls out:
“No one is beyond caring about being scourged and crucified, Cassandra! And these two ladies are certainly not beyond the power of my pharmacology. Allow me to give you a demonstration of how I can jump-start the sympathetic nervous system of a condemned woman with a shot in the buttock. Sister, I’d like to have them bent over, ready for a cocktail of intramuscular Anxiogenitine and Algesipam, followed by intravenous Epinephrine!”
“Certainly, Doctor! Emma, would you give me a hand with Mrs Treadmill and Miss Coxwell? We’d best get them wearing their crossbeams now, while they’re still docile. They’ll be difficult to handle once the Doctor plunges his needles in!”
The removal of the gag brings immense relief to Mercy. And when Sophie gives her water, she gulps it down, swirling it around her dry mouth and savoring its coolness in her parched throat. She drinks so quickly that she begins to cough and splutter.”
“Careful!” says Sophie. “One sip at a time.”
The door flies open and two men wearing policemen's uniforms walk in. Mercy jumps and gasps, spilling cold water onto her breasts.
The men are in their thirties. One is dark haired, and the other, who is taller, is a dirty blond. Their short-sleeved shirts reveal muscular arms heavily tattooed with MEGA Party insignia. And each man has a large silver hammer and a leather scourge tucked into his belt.
“It’s okay, Mercy, calm down!”, says Sophie, with a little laugh. “It’s only the B-list Crux Team. They haven't come for you. They’re here for Destiny and Ophelia. I’d better help get their panties and shoes on, ready for their walk of shame.”
“Excellent timing, gentlemen!” says the Doctor, holding up a hypodermic syringe to the light. “I’m afraid that both your patients are presently unresponsive. Catatonic! The MEGA-squad rather overdid the old rape and torture routine. I think they’ve literally fucked their brains out! Consequently, they’re suffering from PTSD. But, not to worry – I’m just about to bounce them out of it – by inducing an acute state of drug-induced hypersensitivity disorder, together with anxiety and panic.”
“I’m very glad to hear it!”, says the blond man, speaking in a coarse Romcaster accent.
“Yeah! We was – like – hoping for a quick fuck, before we took them out for their scourging –”, says the other.
“And it’s no fucking fun fucking someone with fucked-out brains, or trauma-fucking-induced catatonia, or whatever the fuck you call it, now is it?”
He takes a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket and offers one to his colleague, who accepts with a smile.
“Indeed! Indeed! But fuck them you shall!” says the Doctor, with slightly contrived chirpiness. “I can guarantee a wild ride for you, gentlemen, once my drugs have kicked in … I must say, I’m rather tempted myself. These two ladies are seriously fit. Especially the lady of color. But I think I’ll save myself for Cordelia Boundwell over there. Those tits are simply divine –”
“I’m afraid, Dr. Painjoy”, says the Sister, “that Mrs Boundwell’s face will have to be off-limits for the time being. If that’s alright with you? I don’t want any ejaculate ruining Helen’s excellent hair and makeup job.”
“Your word is my command, Sister! Perish the thought of ejaculating on Mrs Boundwell’s lovely face.”
“It doesn't pay to be a naughty boy on this ward! Eh, Doctor?” says the blond man with a cackle. “Or you’ll get spanked by the Sister! Eh?” He leers at him. “And they say women don’t have no power anymore in this country!”
The man grins, flashing his yellow teeth, and flicking his ash on the floor.
“My only desire is to serve the nation”, says the Sister with equanimity. “To oil the wheels of justice, and to deliver entertainment of the highest quality to the people of England.”
“And my word, how you succeed, Sister!” says the Doctor, looking increasingly uncomfortable with the two men’s disrespectful banter.
“Okay!” says the Sister in a business-like tone, clapping her hands together, and attempting to take control of the situation. “Time to get these ladies into position for their ‘fucking’.”
Destiny Treadmill and Ophelia Coxwell are sitting on the edges of their beds, looking vacant and hollow eyed. Emma negotiates a gray splintery patibulum into position over Ophelia’s narrow shoulder blades as the Sister straps it along her arms. She is barely five feet tall, and Mercy wonders how her delicate frame can possibly bear such a brutally heavy object.
Meanwhile Sophie, kneeling on the floor, pulls a G-string – a mere wisp of lace, attached to a tiny pink triangle – up over Destiny’s long slim ebony legs and curvy thighs. A pair of black, four-and-a-half inch stiletto pumps completes the former studio floor manager’s humiliating execution attire. Finally, Sophie gathers her straight black hair into a sleek pony-tail.
Emma and the Sister move over to attach her patibulum, forcing her shoulders back so that her perky, dark-nippled breasts are pushed forwards and upwards.
Sophie crouches next to Ophelia and pulls a pair of pathetically skimpy cream panties over the former political correspondent's lithe smooth legs. Then she eases a pair of tarty red stiletto sandals onto her pretty little feet.
“Gentlemen! How would you like to penetrate your patients?” asks the Sister. “Would you like to use the stocks?”
“You bet! We’ll fuck ‘em from behind, like we always do”, says the dark haired nailor.
Both nailors walk over to a corner of the ward where a variety of strange-looking pieces of equipment have been accumulated. Each man drags back a wooden device mounted on wheels. The devices have two upright posts, topped with U-shaped slots, at either end.
As they unzip their flies, pull out their semi-erect penises, and masturbate them to the required degree of hardness, the nurses help the two women to their feet. Supporting their crossbeams, they encourage them to walk over towards the devices and the two waiting rapists.
One at a time, they bend them over the wooden frames, guiding their crossbeams into the U-shaped slots, and locking them into position. Finally their ankles are pulled apart and secured, by metal bracelets, to the base of each contraption.
The two women are now facing in opposite directions. Mercy can see Ophelia’s cute pixie face, framed by her rich brown hair. She looks totally bewildered, hanging downwards from her crossbeam, her pert breasts swaying enticingly over the floor, and the fleshy globes of her bubble butt rising up behind her.
Emma and Sophie peel down the women’s panties as far as their knees. Mercy can see the bright pink crease of Destiny’s sex, between the dark ebony folds of her thick labia.
“Splendid!” says Dr. Painjoy, his voice sounding thick with excitement.
With a needle in one hand, he runs his other hand libidinously over the fleshy globes of Destiny’s buttocks. Then he plunges in his needle and squeezes the syringe.
He walks around and does likewise to Ophelia, who winces as she feels the needle penetrate her cute bubble-butt.
“And now for the Epinephrine!” he says, picking up another syringe.
He takes hold of Destiny’s thick black hair and twists her neck sideways.
Then Carefully, and with great deliberation, he pushes his needle into her jugular vein.
Blue
Magistrate
Love it!And then two come along at once ...
bispanker
Magistrate
hot story can you work me in to be crucified anally fucked by Spike and Cos before I am crucified
carloscruz
Governor
A very clever plot, very well written and highly exciting!
I am really looking forward to have the whole story. I will take some hours off and read it complete!
Thank you @CruxGirl
CruxGirl
Magistrate
Thanks, @sebastian, I find myself having to read through the earlier parts for the sake of continuity!
The idea of a crucified weather girl came to me when I noticed the way some female weather forecasters stretch out their arms a lot and tend to make very delicate wrist movements.
CruxGirl
Magistrate
Thanks for the suggestion!
Not sure I can work you in, @bispanker. In my narrative all the males have already been sodomized and cruxed. Only women remain ...
CruxGirl
Magistrate
Part 14
As the Doctor walks back towards Ophelia, Mercy can see that his stiffening cock is tenting out his crotch.
In passing, he runs a finger down Destiny’s spine. Her torso stiffens, and she raises her head, bucks her hips and starts jerking and thrashing wildly from side to side, causing the entire contraption to rattle and squeak.
“Let me go!” she shouts. But the tightness of her bondage allows very little movement. “Let me … go!” Her voice breaks into a shriek.
“Well, well!” says the Sister. “That’s more like it, Mrs Treadmill! We were getting worried you’d miss out on the fun of your crucifixion. I must say, Dr. Painjoy, that’s very impressive!”
“Just some rudimentary crux pharmacology,” says the Doctor, seizing hold of Ophelia Coxwell’s thick soft fragrant hair, pulling up her neck and twisting it to the side.
Mercy winces as she sees the needle slide smoothly into the tender, sensitive skin over Ophelia’s jugular. So sweet and poignant are the memories that come flooding back to her of the night when she and Ophelia had made raw, ardent love together; and how she had kissed that neck over and over and lost herself in the natural scent of Ophelia’s hair.
It had happened on that horrible, fateful day – two weeks before the General Election – when Augustus Oakbeam had lobbed his depth charge into the murky waters of the English psyche by pledging on live TV to crucify the nation’s sexiest weather girl.
Having done her forecast immediately after the Oakbeam interview, Mercy had left the studio with Ophelia, ignoring Destiny and Henry, the producer’s, insistence that she attend a meeting with crucible’s lawyers and, at least, accept police protection. Instead, Ophelia and Mercy had headed off together to their favorite West End wine bar to try and process what had happened in a more mellow environment.
“It’s electoral suicide!” Ophelia had said, as she nibbled at her tapas. “He’ll be a pariah! … He’s totally finished!”
But Mercy noticed that Ophelia’s fingers were trembling slightly as she spoke, and that she was draining her second glass of chardonnay at an even faster rate than the first.
Mercy’s boyfriend, Toby, was away in Paris doing a fashion show. She had tried to call him several times, and blocked all calls except his. But, for some mysterious reason, he hadn’t tried to contact her. Ophelia’s cell, on the other hand, was pinging incessantly. Now and again she picked it up and began texting in a flurry of thumb twitches.
Mercy said nothing. She looked towards the bar where two men perched on stools were staring at her. She smiled at them. Her smiles usually elicited an embarrassed reciprocal smile and a swift turning away. But these men continued to stare. There was something unsettling about them. It was almost as if they’d been given permission to ogle her unashamedly.
“Ophelia, can we go now?” she pleaded, feeling a chill run down her spine.
“I’m so sorry, Mercy!” said Ophelia, sounding tipsy. “I pushed him too far, you know? I should have allowed him a way out … I should have seen this coming! It’s the Augustus Oakbeam playbook. Back him into a corner and he’ll come up with the most outrageous thing he can think of … Just to throw the news cycle – and cause chaos … I’m so, so sorry, Mercy! It’s my fault! I brought this on you! …”
“Ophelia! Please, stop!”, said Mercy, taking hold of her hand. “It’s not your fault! I just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. I was the first thing he saw when he looked up! And – like you said, he’s – totally finished now, anyway. No one will vote for him! He’s electoral toast.”
“He won’t even be able to stand for parliament! I heard Destiny talking to Henry. He was saying that Crucible is seeking an injunction, and they want the police to press charges for hate speech, sexual harassment, common assault, or – whatever. I’m not a lawyer … But there are plenty of ways to stop him! … Who is your lawyer, by the way?”
“Sir Tristram Roper.”
“The Groper!” Ophelia, pulled a face.
“Yeah, he is very – erm – handsy, and – a bit of a lech … But, he’s a bloody good lawyer!”
“Mercy, he’s a total perv! But – like you say – he’s good. Probably the best in London … You must call him as soon as you get home! You can’t just bury your head in the sand, sweetheart. This whole thing will need to be managed –”
“Ophelia, I want to leave now. People are staring at us! … Will you come back to my place?”
“Why didn’t you agree to have police protection, Mercy? Destiny wanted to arrange it –”
“Because I’m not going to let a fucking creep like Oakbeam change my life. This is England, Ophelia! People are decent and respectful! … W-will you come over to my place? Toby’s away in Paris, doing a show. I… I need some company.”
Ophelia picked up the check. “I’ll get this. I’d love to come over, Mercy. But I will need to do some work at your place, if that’s okay … just some calls, and I’ll need to post a couple of articles. Then we’ll order a takeaway, and – chill out together.”
“Thanks, Ophelia. You’re the best!”
“I’ll grab us another bottle.”
As Ophelia went to pay, Mercy waited on the sidewalk outside. It was twilight. A thin drizzle seemed to hover indecisevely in the smoggy London air. Huddled under their hoods and umbrellas, the rush-hour crowds were moving swiftly past. Mercy was glad of the excuse to pull up her own hood to make herself less conspicuous.
When Ophelia emerged, she had a chilled bottle of very expensive chardonnay protruding from her shoulder bag.
“Ophelia, you shouldn’t have!”
‘Only the best for you, Mercy!” She grinned impishly at her, showing off her dimpled cheeks.
As they walked past the entrance to Oxford Circus tube station, the headline board for the London evening newspaper leapt out at Mercy.
“CRUCIFY WEATHER GIRL!!! PSYCHO GUS MAKES PERVERSE ELECTION PLEDGE.”
Mercy halted and shuddered.
Ophelia picked up a copy of the paper. “Come on”, she said, putting an arm around Mercy and pulling her along, “everyone’s behind you! Look! They’re all on your side. I mean – why wouldn’t they be? …”
She held up the paper, and Mercy read the words: “Augustus Oakbeam’s election campaign is in freefall tonight as erstwhile supporters scramble to distance themselves from his bizarre and possibly criminal promise to rape, whip and crucify weather forecaster, Mercy Skreemings, of the Crucible News channel …”
“And listen to this …” She stuck out her arm to summon a cab as she read out: “The nation’s sweetheart, strawberry-blonde stunner Mercy Skreemings was unavailable for comment, but is thought to be considering legal action against Mr Oakbeam …”
As they sat in the back of the cab, Mercy caught the driver’s eyes leering at her in his rear-view mirror. She looked away.
“Hope you’re not too shook up, Miss,” he said in a hoarse, scratchy voice. “What a palava, eh? I ‘ad that Augustus Oakbeam in the back of the cab once. And I’ll tell you one thing, Miss – crucifixion’s too good for the likes of ‘im! He oughta be flayed alive! What an absolute wanker! Eh? … Mind you, now that he’s – like – you know – made it a talking point – put it out there, like -- if ya know what I mean – well – I can think of one or two people I’d like to see nailed nude up in public, I’ll tell ya! … Starting wiv my unfaithful ex-wife! The bitch!” He began to cackle. “But not you, Miss Skreemings … definitely not you … I mean, wot ‘arm ‘ave you ever done to anyone? … except maybe drive up a bloke’s blood pressure wiv them short skirts of yours, eh?” He gave another cackle.
“Thanks – I guess”, said Mercy icily.
Ophelia maintained a stony silence.
As they got out of the cab outside Mercy’s apartment building, a crowd, made up of paparazzi, journalists and many regular Londoners, surged forward and engulfed them.
Trapped on all sides, Mercy fought hard to maintain her composure.
“Mercy, what’s your response to Mr Oakbeam’s pledge to crucify you naked?” shouted a man whom she recognized as one of the most odious of tabloid journalists. “Are you going to sue him?”
“Miss Skreemings, are you shocked by Mr Oakbeam’s promise?” asked a TV reporter. “Why d’you think he made it? Have you ever been involved with Mr Oakbeam in any way, Miss Skreemings?”
The crowd moved in closer and in the crush she felt hands groping her buttocks, pushing up her coat and the short hem of her dress. She squirmed and shrieked and elbowed everyone around her, pushing forward. Ophelia tried to fight them off with one arm, keeping the other around Mercy in a tight embrace.
Moments later, as they stood together in the elevator Mercy stared at her own reflection under the garish light. She was frighteningly pale and, under her bright red lipstick, her bloodless lips were trembling.
“That … that’s never happened before”, was all she could say.
“Animals!” said Ophelia. “Filthy Animals! …”
It was over a year since Mercy had quit smoking, but never had she felt in such desperate need of a cigarette. What she craved even more was to be fucked by Toby.
Why did he have to be away? Right now of all times?
Things had not been that great between them lately. She had sensed a lack of seriousness, a falling away of commitment on his part. A couple of times, as he lay in bed next to her, she had thought she could smell the odor of another woman's groin in his hair. Or was she just being paranoid?
But right now – as she stood with Ophelia outside the door to her penthouse apartment, fumbling in her bag for the key – all she could think of was being fucked senseless by Toby. Fucked until she could feel nothing except the protective strength of his arms, his hard pecs pressing down on her, and his iron hard cock deep inside her.
Despite a falling away of tenderness on his part, he still seemed to want her body. Whenever they spent time together they were at it like rutting rabbits. But he was becoming increasingly brutal – even violent – in the way he fucked her.
They had perfected the full Nelson position together, with Toby supporting her weight by hooking his forearms behind her knees and linking his hands around her throat. She could tell by his intense guttural groaning that he enjoyed it. It made him feel masterful and all-powerful, she supposed.
On a couple of occasions Toby had filmed them doing the full Nelson with him standing upright, naked, in the middle of the living room, and his phone perched on the mantelpiece. “I need to see if I can improve my technique”, he had said to her.
At first she had been reluctant to be filmed having sex. But then her cruel inner voice began telling her that it was no wonder that their relationship was in trouble given that she was so uptight and had so little trust in him. It wasn’t as if he was going to post his video on pornhub, was it? And so she gave in. After that, Toby expressed a desire to tie her up before fucking her, and she went along with that too. And she listened patiently as he shared his fantasies about inviting his friends from the modeling industry over to gangbang her on her kitchen table ...
The increasingly submissive role she was playing had made her feel small and vulnerable and helpless. Even in the full Nelson position she had no control whatsoever over his thrusting, and was totally at the mercy of the relentless, piston-like pounding of his mighty phallus.
She felt imperiled and light-headed whenever he began to restrict her breathing by squeezing her neck. But she had to confess to herself that it excited her more and more to be treated as an object by Toby, as less than fully human: just a toy to be played with, for his pleasure.
She was well aware that she had all the manifold insecurities of an eighteen-year-old who had become famous and wealthy overnight – before really finding out who she was, and what she wanted from life. She had a desperate need to be loved, and she craved the protection of a tall physically strong hunk like Toby – with his gorgeous blond hair and his stunningly well-toned physique – not to mention that huge cock.
There were countless women who would crawl naked over smoldering embers just to be allowed to suck on Toby’s cock and have him cum in their throats. He was – afterall – number seventeen on Marie Claire magazine’s list of the world’s thirty hottest male models.
And so, naturally, she blamed herself for the shortcomings of their relationship. That nasty sadistic inner voice told her over and over that perhaps she was less pretty than she used to be. Was she too fat for him? Was her bum too big? Her hips too wide? Her breasts too small? Should she have a boob job?
These were ridiculous thoughts, and she knew it. Her boobs were perfect – naturally high, full, plump and firm, round and heavy. Countless times she had seen herself described as being somewhere between a babe and a bombshell, a 5’2’’ stunner, weighing 119 pounds, with a perfect hourglass figure: a 39-24-36 body, with natural 34DD tits. What more could any man want in a girlfriend?
“Are you okay?” asked Ophelia, as Mercy continued to root around in her bag for her key.
Ignoring her, Mercy checked her phone again.
“He still hasn’t called!” she said.
“Men!” said Ophelia. “They never stop being toddlers, you know? That’s all they are … Overgrown toddlers … Here, let me help you –”
Mercy’s hands were trembling badly as she tried to open the door. Ophelia cupped her own warm soft hands over hers and helped her push the key into the lock.
After closing the door behind them, Mercy burst into tears and brought her hands up to her face. Ophelia wrapped her arms around her and pulled her towards her in a tight hug, so that they were standing cheek to cheek, with Mercy’s cute nose buried in Ophelia’s soft hair.
“Hey … Hey … It’s going to be alright,” Ophelia whispered. “This will pass. It’ll all be forgotten … very quickly …”
Inhaling sharply between sobs, Mercy’s senses were overwhelmed by the warmth of Ophelia’s body, the rich scent of her hair, mingled with the earthy musky sensuality of her perfume.
She opened her wet eyes, tilted back her head and met Ophelia’s hungry ocean-blue gaze. The two women were roughly the same height. Ophelia’s pert smallish breasts pressed hard against Mercy’s prodigious bust. Without breaking eye-contact, Ophelia parted her moist lips and moved her face an inch or two closer to Mercy’s mouth.
Mercy saw that there was more than sisterly concern in her twenty-five-year-old colleague’s eyes. There was desire. There was raw, pent-up lust, held in check by an implicit question.
Ophelia was asking her with her eyes for permission to kiss her. Those intense blue eyes that could strike terror into the heart of a dissembling politician were now misted over, sultry with a fervent, feverish hunger for Mercy’s body.
Mercy ran her fingers through Ophelia’s hair. Ophelia’s breathing quickened and her eyes widened. Mercy brushed her mouth against Ophelia’s lips, barely touching, skimming, teasing her colleague's rose-petal mouth, causing wave after wave of intense excitement to surge through her own fraught, harassed and tired body.
Ophelia lost all restraint and kissed Mercy, long and hard, on the lips. Mercy responded in kind, forcing her tongue deep into Ophelia’s mouth, pushing against Ophelia's tongue. She felt Ophelia’s hands eagerly caressing her buttocks, and then she felt the zip at the back of her canary-yellow dress being pulled downwards.
As the Doctor walks back towards Ophelia, Mercy can see that his stiffening cock is tenting out his crotch.
In passing, he runs a finger down Destiny’s spine. Her torso stiffens, and she raises her head, bucks her hips and starts jerking and thrashing wildly from side to side, causing the entire contraption to rattle and squeak.
“Let me go!” she shouts. But the tightness of her bondage allows very little movement. “Let me … go!” Her voice breaks into a shriek.
“Well, well!” says the Sister. “That’s more like it, Mrs Treadmill! We were getting worried you’d miss out on the fun of your crucifixion. I must say, Dr. Painjoy, that’s very impressive!”
“Just some rudimentary crux pharmacology,” says the Doctor, seizing hold of Ophelia Coxwell’s thick soft fragrant hair, pulling up her neck and twisting it to the side.
Mercy winces as she sees the needle slide smoothly into the tender, sensitive skin over Ophelia’s jugular. So sweet and poignant are the memories that come flooding back to her of the night when she and Ophelia had made raw, ardent love together; and how she had kissed that neck over and over and lost herself in the natural scent of Ophelia’s hair.
It had happened on that horrible, fateful day – two weeks before the General Election – when Augustus Oakbeam had lobbed his depth charge into the murky waters of the English psyche by pledging on live TV to crucify the nation’s sexiest weather girl.
Having done her forecast immediately after the Oakbeam interview, Mercy had left the studio with Ophelia, ignoring Destiny and Henry, the producer’s, insistence that she attend a meeting with crucible’s lawyers and, at least, accept police protection. Instead, Ophelia and Mercy had headed off together to their favorite West End wine bar to try and process what had happened in a more mellow environment.
“It’s electoral suicide!” Ophelia had said, as she nibbled at her tapas. “He’ll be a pariah! … He’s totally finished!”
But Mercy noticed that Ophelia’s fingers were trembling slightly as she spoke, and that she was draining her second glass of chardonnay at an even faster rate than the first.
Mercy’s boyfriend, Toby, was away in Paris doing a fashion show. She had tried to call him several times, and blocked all calls except his. But, for some mysterious reason, he hadn’t tried to contact her. Ophelia’s cell, on the other hand, was pinging incessantly. Now and again she picked it up and began texting in a flurry of thumb twitches.
Mercy said nothing. She looked towards the bar where two men perched on stools were staring at her. She smiled at them. Her smiles usually elicited an embarrassed reciprocal smile and a swift turning away. But these men continued to stare. There was something unsettling about them. It was almost as if they’d been given permission to ogle her unashamedly.
“Ophelia, can we go now?” she pleaded, feeling a chill run down her spine.
“I’m so sorry, Mercy!” said Ophelia, sounding tipsy. “I pushed him too far, you know? I should have allowed him a way out … I should have seen this coming! It’s the Augustus Oakbeam playbook. Back him into a corner and he’ll come up with the most outrageous thing he can think of … Just to throw the news cycle – and cause chaos … I’m so, so sorry, Mercy! It’s my fault! I brought this on you! …”
“Ophelia! Please, stop!”, said Mercy, taking hold of her hand. “It’s not your fault! I just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. I was the first thing he saw when he looked up! And – like you said, he’s – totally finished now, anyway. No one will vote for him! He’s electoral toast.”
“He won’t even be able to stand for parliament! I heard Destiny talking to Henry. He was saying that Crucible is seeking an injunction, and they want the police to press charges for hate speech, sexual harassment, common assault, or – whatever. I’m not a lawyer … But there are plenty of ways to stop him! … Who is your lawyer, by the way?”
“Sir Tristram Roper.”
“The Groper!” Ophelia, pulled a face.
“Yeah, he is very – erm – handsy, and – a bit of a lech … But, he’s a bloody good lawyer!”
“Mercy, he’s a total perv! But – like you say – he’s good. Probably the best in London … You must call him as soon as you get home! You can’t just bury your head in the sand, sweetheart. This whole thing will need to be managed –”
“Ophelia, I want to leave now. People are staring at us! … Will you come back to my place?”
“Why didn’t you agree to have police protection, Mercy? Destiny wanted to arrange it –”
“Because I’m not going to let a fucking creep like Oakbeam change my life. This is England, Ophelia! People are decent and respectful! … W-will you come over to my place? Toby’s away in Paris, doing a show. I… I need some company.”
Ophelia picked up the check. “I’ll get this. I’d love to come over, Mercy. But I will need to do some work at your place, if that’s okay … just some calls, and I’ll need to post a couple of articles. Then we’ll order a takeaway, and – chill out together.”
“Thanks, Ophelia. You’re the best!”
“I’ll grab us another bottle.”
As Ophelia went to pay, Mercy waited on the sidewalk outside. It was twilight. A thin drizzle seemed to hover indecisevely in the smoggy London air. Huddled under their hoods and umbrellas, the rush-hour crowds were moving swiftly past. Mercy was glad of the excuse to pull up her own hood to make herself less conspicuous.
When Ophelia emerged, she had a chilled bottle of very expensive chardonnay protruding from her shoulder bag.
“Ophelia, you shouldn’t have!”
‘Only the best for you, Mercy!” She grinned impishly at her, showing off her dimpled cheeks.
As they walked past the entrance to Oxford Circus tube station, the headline board for the London evening newspaper leapt out at Mercy.
“CRUCIFY WEATHER GIRL!!! PSYCHO GUS MAKES PERVERSE ELECTION PLEDGE.”
Mercy halted and shuddered.
Ophelia picked up a copy of the paper. “Come on”, she said, putting an arm around Mercy and pulling her along, “everyone’s behind you! Look! They’re all on your side. I mean – why wouldn’t they be? …”
She held up the paper, and Mercy read the words: “Augustus Oakbeam’s election campaign is in freefall tonight as erstwhile supporters scramble to distance themselves from his bizarre and possibly criminal promise to rape, whip and crucify weather forecaster, Mercy Skreemings, of the Crucible News channel …”
“And listen to this …” She stuck out her arm to summon a cab as she read out: “The nation’s sweetheart, strawberry-blonde stunner Mercy Skreemings was unavailable for comment, but is thought to be considering legal action against Mr Oakbeam …”
As they sat in the back of the cab, Mercy caught the driver’s eyes leering at her in his rear-view mirror. She looked away.
“Hope you’re not too shook up, Miss,” he said in a hoarse, scratchy voice. “What a palava, eh? I ‘ad that Augustus Oakbeam in the back of the cab once. And I’ll tell you one thing, Miss – crucifixion’s too good for the likes of ‘im! He oughta be flayed alive! What an absolute wanker! Eh? … Mind you, now that he’s – like – you know – made it a talking point – put it out there, like -- if ya know what I mean – well – I can think of one or two people I’d like to see nailed nude up in public, I’ll tell ya! … Starting wiv my unfaithful ex-wife! The bitch!” He began to cackle. “But not you, Miss Skreemings … definitely not you … I mean, wot ‘arm ‘ave you ever done to anyone? … except maybe drive up a bloke’s blood pressure wiv them short skirts of yours, eh?” He gave another cackle.
“Thanks – I guess”, said Mercy icily.
Ophelia maintained a stony silence.
As they got out of the cab outside Mercy’s apartment building, a crowd, made up of paparazzi, journalists and many regular Londoners, surged forward and engulfed them.
Trapped on all sides, Mercy fought hard to maintain her composure.
“Mercy, what’s your response to Mr Oakbeam’s pledge to crucify you naked?” shouted a man whom she recognized as one of the most odious of tabloid journalists. “Are you going to sue him?”
“Miss Skreemings, are you shocked by Mr Oakbeam’s promise?” asked a TV reporter. “Why d’you think he made it? Have you ever been involved with Mr Oakbeam in any way, Miss Skreemings?”
The crowd moved in closer and in the crush she felt hands groping her buttocks, pushing up her coat and the short hem of her dress. She squirmed and shrieked and elbowed everyone around her, pushing forward. Ophelia tried to fight them off with one arm, keeping the other around Mercy in a tight embrace.
Moments later, as they stood together in the elevator Mercy stared at her own reflection under the garish light. She was frighteningly pale and, under her bright red lipstick, her bloodless lips were trembling.
“That … that’s never happened before”, was all she could say.
“Animals!” said Ophelia. “Filthy Animals! …”
It was over a year since Mercy had quit smoking, but never had she felt in such desperate need of a cigarette. What she craved even more was to be fucked by Toby.
Why did he have to be away? Right now of all times?
Things had not been that great between them lately. She had sensed a lack of seriousness, a falling away of commitment on his part. A couple of times, as he lay in bed next to her, she had thought she could smell the odor of another woman's groin in his hair. Or was she just being paranoid?
But right now – as she stood with Ophelia outside the door to her penthouse apartment, fumbling in her bag for the key – all she could think of was being fucked senseless by Toby. Fucked until she could feel nothing except the protective strength of his arms, his hard pecs pressing down on her, and his iron hard cock deep inside her.
Despite a falling away of tenderness on his part, he still seemed to want her body. Whenever they spent time together they were at it like rutting rabbits. But he was becoming increasingly brutal – even violent – in the way he fucked her.
They had perfected the full Nelson position together, with Toby supporting her weight by hooking his forearms behind her knees and linking his hands around her throat. She could tell by his intense guttural groaning that he enjoyed it. It made him feel masterful and all-powerful, she supposed.
On a couple of occasions Toby had filmed them doing the full Nelson with him standing upright, naked, in the middle of the living room, and his phone perched on the mantelpiece. “I need to see if I can improve my technique”, he had said to her.
At first she had been reluctant to be filmed having sex. But then her cruel inner voice began telling her that it was no wonder that their relationship was in trouble given that she was so uptight and had so little trust in him. It wasn’t as if he was going to post his video on pornhub, was it? And so she gave in. After that, Toby expressed a desire to tie her up before fucking her, and she went along with that too. And she listened patiently as he shared his fantasies about inviting his friends from the modeling industry over to gangbang her on her kitchen table ...
The increasingly submissive role she was playing had made her feel small and vulnerable and helpless. Even in the full Nelson position she had no control whatsoever over his thrusting, and was totally at the mercy of the relentless, piston-like pounding of his mighty phallus.
She felt imperiled and light-headed whenever he began to restrict her breathing by squeezing her neck. But she had to confess to herself that it excited her more and more to be treated as an object by Toby, as less than fully human: just a toy to be played with, for his pleasure.
She was well aware that she had all the manifold insecurities of an eighteen-year-old who had become famous and wealthy overnight – before really finding out who she was, and what she wanted from life. She had a desperate need to be loved, and she craved the protection of a tall physically strong hunk like Toby – with his gorgeous blond hair and his stunningly well-toned physique – not to mention that huge cock.
There were countless women who would crawl naked over smoldering embers just to be allowed to suck on Toby’s cock and have him cum in their throats. He was – afterall – number seventeen on Marie Claire magazine’s list of the world’s thirty hottest male models.
And so, naturally, she blamed herself for the shortcomings of their relationship. That nasty sadistic inner voice told her over and over that perhaps she was less pretty than she used to be. Was she too fat for him? Was her bum too big? Her hips too wide? Her breasts too small? Should she have a boob job?
These were ridiculous thoughts, and she knew it. Her boobs were perfect – naturally high, full, plump and firm, round and heavy. Countless times she had seen herself described as being somewhere between a babe and a bombshell, a 5’2’’ stunner, weighing 119 pounds, with a perfect hourglass figure: a 39-24-36 body, with natural 34DD tits. What more could any man want in a girlfriend?
“Are you okay?” asked Ophelia, as Mercy continued to root around in her bag for her key.
Ignoring her, Mercy checked her phone again.
“He still hasn’t called!” she said.
“Men!” said Ophelia. “They never stop being toddlers, you know? That’s all they are … Overgrown toddlers … Here, let me help you –”
Mercy’s hands were trembling badly as she tried to open the door. Ophelia cupped her own warm soft hands over hers and helped her push the key into the lock.
After closing the door behind them, Mercy burst into tears and brought her hands up to her face. Ophelia wrapped her arms around her and pulled her towards her in a tight hug, so that they were standing cheek to cheek, with Mercy’s cute nose buried in Ophelia’s soft hair.
“Hey … Hey … It’s going to be alright,” Ophelia whispered. “This will pass. It’ll all be forgotten … very quickly …”
Inhaling sharply between sobs, Mercy’s senses were overwhelmed by the warmth of Ophelia’s body, the rich scent of her hair, mingled with the earthy musky sensuality of her perfume.
She opened her wet eyes, tilted back her head and met Ophelia’s hungry ocean-blue gaze. The two women were roughly the same height. Ophelia’s pert smallish breasts pressed hard against Mercy’s prodigious bust. Without breaking eye-contact, Ophelia parted her moist lips and moved her face an inch or two closer to Mercy’s mouth.
Mercy saw that there was more than sisterly concern in her twenty-five-year-old colleague’s eyes. There was desire. There was raw, pent-up lust, held in check by an implicit question.
Ophelia was asking her with her eyes for permission to kiss her. Those intense blue eyes that could strike terror into the heart of a dissembling politician were now misted over, sultry with a fervent, feverish hunger for Mercy’s body.
Mercy ran her fingers through Ophelia’s hair. Ophelia’s breathing quickened and her eyes widened. Mercy brushed her mouth against Ophelia’s lips, barely touching, skimming, teasing her colleague's rose-petal mouth, causing wave after wave of intense excitement to surge through her own fraught, harassed and tired body.
Ophelia lost all restraint and kissed Mercy, long and hard, on the lips. Mercy responded in kind, forcing her tongue deep into Ophelia’s mouth, pushing against Ophelia's tongue. She felt Ophelia’s hands eagerly caressing her buttocks, and then she felt the zip at the back of her canary-yellow dress being pulled downwards.
kingofohio2022
Condemned
so Mercy is bisexual nice lol cant wait til both ladies are nailed to their crosses
carloscruz
Governor
It is going to be a real show to watch those attractive ladies crucified next to each other!
I hope Cassandra gets her dark fatasy fullfilled with tem!
CruxGirl
Magistrate
Frank Petrexa
Tribune
https://kinseyinstitute.org/research/publications/kinsey-scale.php
There are actually some statistics on this. I tend to think people vary both in preferences and over time in preferences. I also don't know how much is "peer pressure". Certainly American college kids feel pressure to be sexually "cool". As an analogy, people spend money on all kinds of nutty stuff (like cryptocurrencies).
(I don't want to hijack this fine thread with a deep, data-driven discussion, though.)
There are actually some statistics on this. I tend to think people vary both in preferences and over time in preferences. I also don't know how much is "peer pressure". Certainly American college kids feel pressure to be sexually "cool". As an analogy, people spend money on all kinds of nutty stuff (like cryptocurrencies).
(I don't want to hijack this fine thread with a deep, data-driven discussion, though.)
kingofohio2022
Condemned
thats awesome lol nailing the LGBTQ queens to their crosses in June x)
CruxGirl
Magistrate
I think sexual orientation is pretty constant throughout the human race, regardless of culture or milieu. It's just that people living in liberal societies feel less inhibited when talking about same-sex attraction
CruxGirl
Magistrate
carloscruz
Governor
I fully trust you @CruxGirl !Yes, @carloscruz. I can make that happen
bispanker
Magistrate
well I am part of the LGBTQ community should be on my cross with the others crucify one crucify ALLYes, @carloscruz. I can make that happen