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Kristin's Crucifixion: Beginnings

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Compliments for a great story with such talented writing. The unique combination of the christian in the Jesus-loving Kristin with the mythological queen of the underworld in Persephone leaves readers forebodingly wondering where it is going.

But. With first nearly a year between sections, and then nearly a year and a half between story sections? And now over six months since a promise of “not even a week” wait.

One wonders if the surprise ending is that there is none. Anyone have a clue?
 
Here goes my next attempt

It is my eighteenth birthday. By now I am recognised as a maths prodigy and am already two years into an advanced degree in one of the most prestigious universities in the country. But, at my mother’s request, I have flown home. She says she has something important to discuss.

My mother had me when she was at 20. Now, at 38, she is still a beautiful woman.

I do not know who my father is. Somehow it never seemed important to me. My relationship with my mother is very close but never stifling.

“Do you remember when you were seven and you saw the picture of Jesus on the cross in your children’s bible,” she says.

“Yes.”

“And you told me you wanted to be put on a cross like Jesus”

“Yes, and you said I would have to wait until I was a grownup.”

“Today is your eighteenth birthday,” she says. You are a grownup.”

We look into each other’s eyes. Hers are a beautiful green. Mine are grey.

“Do you still need to be crucified?”, she asks.

“Yes”.

“Need, not want” she says.

“Yes.”

“Tell me about it. Describe your feelings.”

“I lust for the cross,” I say. “I fantasise about being crucified. It consumes me.”

We pause and, again, look into each other’s eyes. I feel an electric tension.

“Tell me about your fantasy.”

“I lie down naked on the cross. I stretch out my left arm. I feel the first nail being positioned on my wrist.”

“Where exactly?” my mother say.

“Over the space between the four carpal bones on the thumb side of the wrist. The nail can be hammered through that space without braking any bones.”

“The navicular, lunate, greater multangular, and capitate bones,” my mother says. “You’ve done your homework.

“Yes.”

“Describe what you’re feeling.”

‘I am afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

“Afraid I shall not be able to bear the pain.”

“You cannot bear the pain,” my mother says. “Nobody can. You have to embrace it.”

“I want to,” I say in a soft voice. “I want to feel Jesus’ pain and exult in it.”

“Do you think you will?”

“How can I possibly know until I’m lying on the cross being nailed?” I say.

“You can’t. It is a chance you take.”

“It is what I need. It is my destiny. I do not have a choice.”

“If it is truly your destiny you will exult in the agony. The agony will be the ecstasy.

“But you are right. There is no way you can know whether this is truly your destiny until the first hammer blow on the first nail.”

“What if I’m wrong,” I say in a small voice. “What if I cannot embrace the agony.”

“Then you die a horrible lingering death to no avail,” she says.

She looks at me. “By the time you are lying on the cross you have passed the point of no return. You will be nailed and you will hang on your cross even if you beg and plead to be let go. Even if you protest that it was all a mistake.”

“And there is no way I can be certain in advance that this is the right choice?”

“No.”

“It does not matter. I have to do it.”

“I know darling,” my mother says. “I’ve known for eleven years.”

“So have I,” I say.
 
“Go on with describing your fantasy,” my mother says.

“After both wrists have been nailed I offer up my feet for nailing.”

“What precisely do you do?”

“I place my right foot twisted slightly inwards, with the heel flush against the stipes. Then I place my left foot over the right foot. My executioner adjusts the position so that a single nail will pass through both feet between the space just inward of the big toe and next toe.

“Then I feel him position the nail at just the right spot. It must go through the space between the bones inward of my big toe and second toe on both feet without actually breaking a bone.”

“It is difficult for him to do that if you are struggling,” my mother says. “You need to lie still otherwise it will be a botched job.”

“I know. I am afraid I will not be able to do it.”

“Go on. What happens next?”

“He hammers the nail through both feet but not into the wood.”

“And then?”

“He pulls my feet down a few inches so that my knees are just slightly bent. Now the heel bone of my right foot is hard against the stipes and my feet are at a 45 degree angle to the horizontal. Then he hammers the nail into the wood. I am now fastened to my cross.”

“So far you have described what will happen to you very precisely,” my mother says. “What happens next?”

“My cross is lifted and allowed to fall into a hole with a thunk. I am now hanging on my cross. My feet are about a foot off the ground. My arms are stretched taught at an angle of 30 degrees from the horizontal. My feet rest on the nail that passes through both of them, I feel pressure on the heel bone of my right foot pressed hard against the stipes. I feel what Jesus felt.”

“Do you embrace your agony? Do you feel Jesus inside you?”

“I don’t know.”

“And you can’t know until you are hanging.”

Again, we look into each others’ eyes.

“You are very nearly right my darling. Just one detail. Before you lie on your cross a circle of barbed with will be placed around your head. It will be your crown of thorns.”

I understand how strange this must sound to any reader. Here is my mother, who loves me dearly, and who I love more than anyone else alive, calmly discussing with me the details of my forthcoming crucifixion. Everything is in the future simple tense. It is understood between us that this is not a hypothetical. It will happen. I really am going to be nailed to a cross. I really shall hang from a cross suffering the agony of Jesus.

Only, will I exult in that agony. Will I embrace that agony? Will the agony be my ecstasy? Will I feel Jesus in me as I hang on my cross?

Or will I just die a terrible death “to no avail” as my mother put it.

My mother, the rock of my life so far, offers me no assurances. It is a chance I have to take. And we both know that is what I shall do. I shall accept my crown of thorns, lie down naked on my cross and see what happens.
 
“Go on with describing your fantasy,” my mother says.

“After both wrists have been nailed I offer up my feet for nailing.”

“What precisely do you do?”

“I place my right foot twisted slightly inwards, with the heel flush against the stipes. Then I place my left foot over the right foot. My executioner adjusts the position so that a single nail will pass through both feet between the space just inward of the big toe and next toe.

“Then I feel him position the nail at just the right spot. It must go through the space between the bones inward of my big toe and second toe on both feet without actually breaking a bone.”

“It is difficult for him to do that if you are struggling,” my mother says. “You need to lie still otherwise it will be a botched job.”

“I know. I am afraid I will not be able to do it.”

“Go on. What happens next?”

“He hammers the nail through both feet but not into the wood.”

“And then?”

“He pulls my feet down a few inches so that my knees are just slightly bent. Now the heel bone of my right foot is hard against the stipes and my feet are at a 45 degree angle to the horizontal. Then he hammers the nail into the wood. I am now fastened to my cross.”

“So far you have described what will happen to you very precisely,” my mother says. “What happens next?”

“My cross is lifted and allowed to fall into a hole with a thunk. I am now hanging on my cross. My feet are about a foot off the ground. My arms are stretched taught at an angle of 30 degrees from the horizontal. My feet rest on the nail that passes through both of them, I feel pressure on the heel bone of my right foot pressed hard against the stipes. I feel what Jesus felt.”

“Do you embrace your agony? Do you feel Jesus inside you?”

“I don’t know.”

“And you can’t know until you are hanging.”

Again, we look into each others’ eyes.

“You are very nearly right my darling. Just one detail. Before you lie on your cross a circle of barbed with will be placed around your head. It will be your crown of thorns.”

I understand how strange this must sound to any reader. Here is my mother, who loves me dearly, and who I love more than anyone else alive, calmly discussing with me the details of my forthcoming crucifixion. Everything is in the future simple tense. It is understood between us that this is not a hypothetical. It will happen. I really am going to be nailed to a cross. I really shall hang from a cross suffering the agony of Jesus.

Only, will I exult in that agony. Will I embrace that agony? Will the agony be my ecstasy? Will I feel Jesus in me as I hang on my cross?

Or will I just die a terrible death “to no avail” as my mother put it.

My mother, the rock of my life so far, offers me no assurances. It is a chance I have to take. And we both know that is what I shall do. I shall accept my crown of thorns, lie down naked on my cross and see what happens.
Kristin, I really hope you keep sharing your fantasies with us. I find them deeply arousing, very well written and incredibly intense.
Thanks a lot!
 
Four years pass. During this period I am consumed by just three things. One is, of course, mathematics. Specifically combinatorics. I have proved a number of theorems and published one paper in Journal of the American Mathematical Society and two in Inventiones Mathematicae. My professor tells me I am certain to win a Fields Medal. I don’t care. It is the mathematics that is important, that consumes me.

The second thing is sex. I cannot get enough sex. Early on I discovered I was bisexual. I like everything about sex. Especially I like a foursome. Any combination. Me and three bisexual men. Me with two men and another woman. Or me and three other women. After all, my mathematical passion is combinatorics so you would expect me to want every conceivable combination.

Sometimes people think mathematicians are asexual. Some are. One of the most famous mathematicians of the twentieth century, Paul Erdős, probably was.

He was of no permanent abode. Instead he travelled the world collaborating with mathematicians. He would turn up at the house of a distinguished mathematician somewhere in the world, would invite himself in as a house guest and spend a few weeks or months in collaboration. Then he would move on to the next mathematician who might be on a different continent and start another bout of collaboration.

Some mathematicians have what is called an Erdős number. Paul Erdős himself is number zero. Anyone who has co-authored a paper with Erdős is assigned an Erdős number of one. If you co-author a paper with someone who already has an Erdős number of one you get an Erdős number of two. And so on.

Bill Gates’ Erdős number is four.

My Erdős number is two!

Eat your heart out Bill.

At the other extreme some mathematicians are permanently randy. Albert Einstein, not strictly a mathematician, was a womaniser. What a pity he’s dead. Imagine being fucked by Einstein! The thought makes my pussy wet.

The popular image of Einstein is an elderly grandfather figure but the young Einstein was a sexy hunk. I wonder if he would have enjoyed a foursome. I bet he would have. I’d have convinced him to try it.

No prizes for guessing my third obsession. It is my upcoming crucifixion.

It is not something I discuss with any of my fellow mathematicians or my sex partners. But it always there at the back of my mind when it is not at the front.

My mother and I discuss it frequently and in great detail when I visit her. She tells me some of what I will feel. The muscles in my legs will start cramping. The cramps will spread to my abdominal muscles at which point I will feel as if my bowels are being squashed. Which is what is happening as the muscles cramp.

“The point about crucifixion, my darling, is it inexorability. No matter how intense your suffering at any moment, you know that the next moment will be more intense and the one after that yet more intense until you die.”

My mother explains all this to me very calmly. She leaves me in no doubt about crucifixion. You are nailed. You hang. You suffer. You die. And that is the end. There is no singing in a heavenly choir for eternity. You are dead.

If the cross truly is your destiny you will experience a joy while hanging, while suffering, that only those destined for crucifixion can know. Every moment of agony will be an eternity of heaven.

If, on the other hand, you are wrong, it will be the worst possible end to a life cut short for no reason. Every moment of your crucifixion will be an eternity of regret. It will be a hell beyond anything that Dante could have imagined.

And there is no way to be certain. You will not know whether you have made the right choice until the hammer strikes the first nail for the first time.

Sometimes I lie in bed alone and sob uncontrollably. I want my cross. I want to feel my nails. I want to hang. I am terrified of my cross. I lust for my cross and I fear my cross. It looms and it beckons. It pulls and pushes. But that cross is always there. I cannot escape it. I will submit to it. I will be nailed to it. I will hang from it until I am dead. I cannot escape.

No date has been set but my mother assures me it will happen “when the time is right.”

Then, a few days after my twenty-second birthday my mother phones. “You need to come home my darling,” she says.
 
Four years pass. During this period I am consumed by just three things. One is, of course, mathematics. Specifically combinatorics. I have proved a number of theorems and published one paper in Journal of the American Mathematical Society and two in Inventiones Mathematicae. My professor tells me I am certain to win a Fields Medal. I don’t care. It is the mathematics that is important, that consumes me.

The second thing is sex. I cannot get enough sex. Early on I discovered I was bisexual. I like everything about sex. Especially I like a foursome. Any combination. Me and three bisexual men. Me with two men and another woman. Or me and three other women. After all, my mathematical passion is combinatorics so you would expect me to want every conceivable combination.

Sometimes people think mathematicians are asexual. Some are. One of the most famous mathematicians of the twentieth century, Paul Erdős, probably was.

He was of no permanent abode. Instead he travelled the world collaborating with mathematicians. He would turn up at the house of a distinguished mathematician somewhere in the world, would invite himself in as a house guest and spend a few weeks or months in collaboration. Then he would move on to the next mathematician who might be on a different continent and start another bout of collaboration.

Some mathematicians have what is called an Erdős number. Paul Erdős himself is number zero. Anyone who has co-authored a paper with Erdős is assigned an Erdős number of one. If you co-author a paper with someone who already has an Erdős number of one you get an Erdős number of two. And so on.

Bill Gates’ Erdős number is four.

My Erdős number is two!

Eat your heart out Bill.

At the other extreme some mathematicians are permanently randy. Albert Einstein, not strictly a mathematician, was a womaniser. What a pity he’s dead. Imagine being fucked by Einstein! The thought makes my pussy wet.

The popular image of Einstein is an elderly grandfather figure but the young Einstein was a sexy hunk. I wonder if he would have enjoyed a foursome. I bet he would have. I’d have convinced him to try it.

No prizes for guessing my third obsession. It is my upcoming crucifixion.

It is not something I discuss with any of my fellow mathematicians or my sex partners. But it always there at the back of my mind when it is not at the front.

My mother and I discuss it frequently and in great detail when I visit her. She tells me some of what I will feel. The muscles in my legs will start cramping. The cramps will spread to my abdominal muscles at which point I will feel as if my bowels are being squashed. Which is what is happening as the muscles cramp.

“The point about crucifixion, my darling, is it inexorability. No matter how intense your suffering at any moment, you know that the next moment will be more intense and the one after that yet more intense until you die.”

My mother explains all this to me very calmly. She leaves me in no doubt about crucifixion. You are nailed. You hang. You suffer. You die. And that is the end. There is no singing in a heavenly choir for eternity. You are dead.

If the cross truly is your destiny you will experience a joy while hanging, while suffering, that only those destined for crucifixion can know. Every moment of agony will be an eternity of heaven.

If, on the other hand, you are wrong, it will be the worst possible end to a life cut short for no reason. Every moment of your crucifixion will be an eternity of regret. It will be a hell beyond anything that Dante could have imagined.

And there is no way to be certain. You will not know whether you have made the right choice until the hammer strikes the first nail for the first time.

Sometimes I lie in bed alone and sob uncontrollably. I want my cross. I want to feel my nails. I want to hang. I am terrified of my cross. I lust for my cross and I fear my cross. It looms and it beckons. It pulls and pushes. But that cross is always there. I cannot escape it. I will submit to it. I will be nailed to it. I will hang from it until I am dead. I cannot escape.

No date has been set but my mother assures me it will happen “when the time is right.”

Then, a few days after my twenty-second birthday my mother phones. “You need to come home my darling,” she says.
What's going to happen ?
I try to imagine the rest of the story and three possibilities appear to me.
What will be your birthday present?
Either your mother will offer you this cross which fascinates you so much, which is your obsession, or she will offer you her own death on the cross to show you the horror and the suffering experienced in order to disgust you forever of the crucifixion, either finally, convinced by your infinite love of the cross, two crosses in order to share your fantasy and be crucified together mother and daughter for a dantesque, apocalyptic end.
Do not leave me too long in uncertainty?
I want and, I suppose, others with me to know the rest of this fascinating story.
 
Once again very erotic story. My ending sees our heroine’s mother as the one nailing her fulfilling the scene when she was seven years old.
 
We are sitting in my mother’s study. It is on the second floor of the house I lived in my entire childhood until I went away to college.

At 42 my mother is still a beautiful woman but, today, there is something different about her, something numinous.

She reaches down the left side of her partner desk, opens a draw and pulls something out. She places it on the desktop. It is a silver box about a foot long and three inches wide. She opens it with a silver key. Inside, resting on velvet are three long stainless steel nails.

“These are your nails my love,” she says. “The two shorter ones are for your wrists and the longer one for your feet.”

I stare at them, transfixed. “It is happening,” I think.

My mother smiles. “Not so fast my love”.

She closes the box, locks it, and gives it to me. I reach out to take the key but she stops me.

“Keep the box safe. Have it ready at all times.

“When your time comes a messenger will appear and take you away to be crucified. She will have the key to your box. If you do not have it ready she will leave. You will have only one chance.

“But know this. By giving your messenger this box you are committing yourself to hang from these nails until you are dead. There will be no going back. Hand over your box and you cross the event horizon. Willingly or unwillingly you will be taken to your cross, nailed to your cross and hang until you die.”

This is typical of my mother. It sounds brutal when you read it. But somehow her love shines through.

I look at my mother. There is something different about her. Whenever I am in her presence I feel as if there is a light shining from her. But today the light looks, brighter. She is glowing.

And then it hits me. I jump up.

My mother looks at me and smiles.

“So the penny has finally dropped my darling, lovely Kristin?”

“You’re going to be crucified,” I shout. “You also have a messenger. Your messenger has come.”

“My messenger has phoned,” she says. “I am going to meet her this afternoon and give her my box.”

She pulls an identical box from her desk.

“I want to come with,” I say. “I want to hang along side you.”

“No my lovely wonderful Kristin. Your time has not yet come. This is the last time you will see me.”

She hugs me. She kisses me. She hands me a fat envelope. She picks up her box and walks out of the room. I hear her walk down the stairs. I hear the front door open and close. I see her walking along the quiet street in which we lived. She never looks back. And then she turns a corner and is gone.

It never occurs to me to try and stop her. She must lie naked on her cross with the barbed wire around her head, waiting for that first hammer blow on that first nail to discover whether she is destined experience the joy, or bitterness, of crucifixion. There is no way to know in advance.

Her time has come and, one day, so will mine.
 
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