Old Crucifying Stories

admihoek · May 21, 2014

I have a great bunch of stories from old members which I'll publishing in this thread.
The first one found because Barbara's work
HAKENKREUZ (swastika)

By Dr Adolphus dradolphus@aol.com

1

"It's starting! It's starting!" cried Hitler excitedly, gesturing to his guests to get seated. The Fuhrer liked to watch a film right through from the beginning and didn't want his concentration disturbed by latecomers. Goebbels had excelled himself this time. The film was shot in full colour with crystal-clear sound and starred a pair of perfect specimens of Nordic man- and woman-hood.

Seated in the front row, SS-Colonel Kraft von Kreuzberg was hurriedly joined by the menacing figure of the Reichsfuhrer-SS. For once, Himmler looked pleased with himself. Von Kreuzberg smiled inwardly. There would be a promotion for him in all of this.

Just days earlier, he had been in Nancy, at the splendid chateau requisitioned as his headquarters, receiving the report of the local head of Gestapo operations, Fritz Muller. He had nothing but contempt for Herr Muller. Just a dumb policeman. No imagination. Barely acceptable as a member of the Master Race. Today Muller was boring him with details of the arrest of a certain Hans Bauer on suspicion of passing information to the Resistance.

Bauer. Hans Bauer. He knew the name. Or something similar. Hanna Bauer. One of the cleaning staff. A truly beautiful girl. Impeccable credentials. Just co-incidence.

"So, this Bauer", continued Muller. "We got him in and interrogated him. Cracked eventually. Gave us quite a lot. Wouldn't reveal his sources though. So we looked into his background and it seems he has a twin sister, also 18 years old."

That figures, thought von Kreuzberg impatiently.

"And when we looked further, it seems she works here. As a part-time cleaner. So it all fits together. She cleans the offices, snoops around, passes information to her brother and he tips off the Resistance. We couldn't get him to admit as much, so, now, with your permission, we'd like to get her in for a spot of questioning." He grinned cruelly.

Von Kreuzberg flipped open the top of a Faberge cigarette case that stood on his huge Louis Seize desk and lit up. This was a lot to take in. He wanted certainty.

"This Bauer. Tall, blonde, blue-eyed?"

"The Race and Settlement Main Office couldn't ask for better."

"Then someone has definitely slipped up here, Muller, and it certainly is not me. I looked into Fraulein Bauer's family when she applied to work here. Settled in Metz in 1872, after the Reichsland was annexed by Bismarck. I obtained glowing references from her head teacher and from the League of German Maidens. I even interviewed her personally for the post. She was full of praise for the Fuhrer for recovering Elsass-Lothringen from the French. Said she would happily die for the Fatherland."

"Words are words. Facts are facts. No reflection on your thoroughness, sir. It's just that things aren't going well for us at the moment... news from the east I mean... well, just the time for traitors to come out of the woodwork."

"Thank you Muller. It is indeed a sign of the times we are living through. Early on in the struggle we knew who the enemy was. The Jew. The Slav. The Bolshevik. Now we have to watch our own kind. There's bad blood about. Unfit to withstand the pressures of the struggle. We shall see to it though. Have her brought in for questioning. A full confession."

"As you wish. I take it you will want me to execute them both afterwards?"

"No. I think not. Bring them here. There is a film crew visiting tomorrow, working directly to Reichsminister Goebbels. They are going to be filming an execution of some Resistance girls at noon. Slow hanging with piano wire."

"The Bauers too?"

"A waste of talent. I see them suffering a more exhilarating death. Something the hierarchy will love. Their naked Nordic bodies straining to survive upon a delightful instrument for which we must thank ancient Rome."

Muller's face turned quizzical.

"That's right, my clever detective friend. The traitors are going to be crucified on film. Fraulein Bauer will get her wish. She will die for the Fatherland, perhaps even for the amusement of our beloved Fuhrer himself!"

2

When delivered to the chateau first thing in the morning, the Bauer twins were already in a sorry state. Deprived of sleep, they had been repeatedly beaten but Herr Muller had given stern instructions that the girl's face was to be left unmarked. Her short summer dress clung to her bruised back and shoulders. It was clear that she had been permitted to wear it again only for the journey. The Gestapo would have had fun with her last night.

She was indeed a beauty, torn, but in her own way still proud. Her pale oval face was set within the frame of her golden hair, swept back to give her head the impression of a wheatfield swaying in the wind. A few strands fell free at the sides, spiralling down, much like her spirits must now have felt. Her eyes still blazed a brilliant blue, her full lips glowed pink and inviting, her body's whole physique perfect in every proportion. Hanna's brother stared defiantly at his Nazi captors but it seemed she was made of weaker stuff. In the moments of peace they had left her that night, Hanna had been crying.

Nevertheless, despite the application of a wide variety of physical and psychological tortures, she had confessed nothing, loudly protesting her innocence. Muller had begun to think Hanna Bauer had no part in her brother's treachery, and he expressed his doubts to von Kreuzberg. The SS officer seemed strangely unconcerned.

"No matter. The blood is bad. If she has not betrayed us yet, it is only a question of time before she succumbs to temptation. You know the doctrine of Sippenhaft. She shares her brother's blood; she must share his fate upon the cross."
Hands secured behind them, the twins were led through the chateau's grand rooms where SS officers worked diligently at their files and card indexes, rooting out the enemies of the Reich. Some gestured obscenely at the former cleaner and her brother, all parties still unaware of what destiny held in store for the beautiful blonde beasts.
At length they arrived at the wood-panelled room in which von Kreuzberg had established the film crew. A smallish room, perfectly cubed, ante-room to the much grander chamber beyond. It was ideal for his purpose. On two sides were the doors in and out. On the other two hung large and identical banners. Red, with a big white circle, and at its centre the twisted black cross that symbolised the power now possessing the two young people's bodies.

A group of SS officers stood with the film crew, waiting idly to play their assigned parts in the tragedy.

The twins were stood facing each other in the centre of the room and their hand-cuffs were removed.

"Now strip", ordered the SS-Colonel. "I want the whole world to see what stuff traitors are made of."

Hanna looked nervously at the camera set up on a tripod to her left as the cameraman started filming in earnest. She kicked off her shoes and began lifting her dress as Hans pulled his shirt over his head to reveal a firmly-muscled chest and rippling stomach, criss-crossed with new welts. As he undid his belt, Hanna stood before him fearfully in bra and panties, unable to go on.

"Allow me" suggested von Kreuzberg, stepping forward to undo the bra.

"NO!" shrieked Hanna, spinning round before recoiling in horror. She undid the bra strap herself, held the garment against her chest for a moment, then realised resistance was pointless and dropped it to the floor. Her breasts quivered, enjoying their new-found freedom. A man with a hand-held camera swooped in low, capturing in close-up their soft pink tips before rising to catch the embarrassed glow on her cheeks.
Hans now stood before her naked, his massive maleness dangling between his legs. She looked to him for comfort, took several deep breaths, then started peeling off her panties. The cameraman was on his knees beside her, catching them on film as they fell, soft fabric caressing her lovely legs before gathering crumpled and defeated at her ankles. The shot would look good in slow motion, following the graceful curve of her smooth calves.
Hanna stepped out of the panties, feeling very, very vulnerable. Would these SS men now rape her, she wondered? They seemed excited by her touching nudity. An SS officer collected the twins' clothing and von Kreuzberg barked out an order.
"Hans and Hanna Bauer. 18-year old brother and sister. You will now make love. Or you will watch your parents hang. Do as you are told and they will live. It is your choice. The result will be on your conscience."
Hanna shuffled forward and embraced her brother.
"Oh, Hans. They wouldn't!"

"They would. We don't have any choice."

Tears began to form in Hanna's lovely eyes as she slowly fell to her knees and took her brother's limp maleness in her hands. It began to respond.

"In your mouth, Fraulein!" ordered von Kreuzberg.

Hanna looked up at Hans struggling with himself as both siblings adjusted to the mad morals of Nazi entertainment. Then her mouth lowered, lips parted, and she took him within her, sucking well just as if he were her boyfriend. He ran his fingers through her hair, holding her close as she held him by the hips, his ankles pressed to her kneeling thighs, her rear moving erotically as the camera caught it all.

Von Kreuzberg turned and whispered to the director, eagerly awaiting the next scene.

"In just a moment or two, they fuck. And then, we crucify them!"

3

"Enough!" yelled von Kreuzberg, tugging at Hanna's blonde hair, her head jerking back as her brother's thick cock slipped slimily from her lips.

"Now fuck. You, Bauer, lie down. She will ride."

Hans squatted down and lay on his back while the cameraman panned his length. Hanna came to stand over him, then knelt with his body between her thighs. Still shaking and crying with shame, she inched forwards and paused above his cock, taking it between her trembling fingers and pressing it to the lips of her cunt. It wasn't going in.

Von Kreuzberg looked at her harshly, put his hand to his throat and made a hanging gesture for Hanna to see.

She threw back her head in despair, her breasts jiggling above her brother's body as he stroked her hips and encouraged her to be brave. Her fingers held open her cunt as she willed herself to lubricate and slowly the thick shaft slithered into her widening wetness. She pushed down hard to drive it in deep until it filled her. Then, utterly humiliated, she began to rock back and forth on the one thing that gave her security in this mad, bad world so cruelly thrust upon her.

On cue, two SS officers stepped forward and their shining black boots kicked Hans' hands from his sister's hips. They kept kicking back until the arms were level with his shoulders, stretched out in adoration. Then they stood on the wrists, grotesquely previewing the fate awaiting the lovers.

"Oh, Hans", moaned Hanna, stroking his bare chest with her soft, female fingers, fucking him deliriously. Then she gasped as two more SS officers took hold of her arms and stretched them out also, gripping her firmly by the wrists as her lower body thrust onwards towards orgasm. Her arms felt like her body was being pulled apart and her urge to grasp at anything firm drove her hips on, rocking frantically on the hot rod within her. By their movements of her arms, the men encouraged her.

In both the youngsters' minds, the sign of the cross their bodies made formed a disturbing question, repeating itself over and over. Centuries of church imagery resonated before them; Hanna prayed, prayed on her knees but never like this before. Revelation tore its path through as all thoughts united in a single act of deliverance unto evil. Emotion overcame them both as the question seemed subconsciously to answer itself in the affirmative. Hail the cross!!! Those about to die salute you!!!

Together brother and sister started to cry out. Hans thrust up vigorously into his sibling's belly as the first rush of the sowing seized his loins. Then just as he felt the torrent of seed flow through his cock she was gone, lifted up and dragged back, wailing in frustration as the thick ejaculation leapt into thin air between her departing thighs.

Von Kreuzberg delivered a mighty kick to the boy's balls. Hans sat up sharply and gasped for breath, cursing loudly. The Nazi seemed angry, just as the script required.

"Impregnate your own sister, would you! We'll show the world what we do to people like you, you traitorous filth. Now, see, you've dirtied my boot with your tainted seed. Lick it off."

Hans had no choice but to obey. Then, while Hanna was held tightly, sobbing with the tension still rocking her body, her brother was dragged from the floor and led to one of the walls with a flag draped upon it. A short rectangular stool was swiftly placed beneath and Hans was motioned upwards. SS officers stretched out his arms against the flag with the white disk against the centre of his body. Others then stepped forward bearing the dreaded instruments of affixion.

Hanna shook with horror in her captors' firm grip as the nail was driven into her brother's wrist, through the flag, and on into the panelling, then the head of the nail was bent back upwards to ensure it would stay there. By the time the other nail impaled Hans' left wrist, the right was already oozing bright blood into the banner.

The stool was pulled away. Hans slid hard but the nails held. His face contorted with such pain that Hanna burst into uncontrollable sobs and was brought to order only by von Kreuzberg's close-up glare of pure malice that slowly reduced her to subdued whimpers.

"Save your tears for later, Fraulein."

As she watched, Hanna's brother's feet were secured with a single large nail. It was just like the crucifix in church. O, how could they?

Von Kreuzberg grinned. The young man was now fully crucified. He would learn who were the masters now. Soon his sister would join him in tasting the bitter price of betrayal. The colonel stood back to satisfy himself that all was correct. He was very pleased with the result. The Fuhrer would admire the arrangement. A young Nordic man, naked, writhing with helpless determination against the backdrop of the dark, black arms of the broken cross, the white circle targetting the centre of his body like a searchlight, the whole scene played out against the blood red base of the world's most sacred flag.

Hanna stared disbelievingly at the scene before turning to von Kreuzberg with a look of pure torture on her face. A look of pain. A look of fear, for she knew she would also suffer today. Why, she knew not. She had done no wrong, but orders were orders. If she had somehow disobeyed, somehow displeased, she knew not how, then she must suffer the consequences. She would be put to death. Yet she longed for mercy.

Von Kreuzberg's look gave her no comfort. He had never asked if she had a brother. Only one person could testify before his superiors to this glaring oversight; she now stood naked before him, her destruction deliciously imminent.

be continued

admihoek · May 21, 2014

HAKENKREUZ (swastika)

By Dr Adolphus dradolphus@aol.com

4

"We have much to learn from the Romans, my dear Fraulein Bauer", von Kreuzberg began. "Our empire too will endure for a thousand years. Like them, we have understood the need for utter ruthlessness towards those who oppose us. Jews and other rebels, inferior races all, they were not shown any mercy. Crucifixion was the only answer they got to their complaints."

Hanna gathered up what shreds of pride remained to her and formed them into a half-conscious defence. She knew it would sound comic in the circumstances but it was now the only card she could play.

"I am a German citizen. I demand for myself and my brother the right to be beheaded."

"Don't play the barrack room lawyer with me, you treacherous whore!" roared the enraged officer, his leather-gloved hand briskly slapping the girl hard across the cheek. Her breasts bounced charmingly in reaction as her face smarted under the blow. "The rights of German citizenship are reserved for those of good blood. Yours is bad, tainted. You could have served the Volk well. You could have looked forward to giving birth many times for the Fatherland. As it is, you have proved that you are unworthy of the high destiny your biology offered you. It is as well you were discovered before you began to breed."

Hanna hung her head in shame. If only she knew what she had done that she must die for. But seemingly she would never know.

"Now, over against the wall. These men will bring you a stool. We are going to nail up your disloyal body just like your brother's."

Eyes downcast, her face filled with dread, Hanna stepped forward to be crucified. Surely this couldn't be happening to her? Yes, the world was at war but she knew she had done nothing to justify mortal punishment, still less THIS.

The camera followed her shapely butt as she walked and placed her foot upon the stool, turning to face her executioners as best she could. They raised up her arms and held them tightly as the first nailpoint scratched against her wrist.

Immediately after yesterday's briefing with Muller, von Kreuzberg had sent a telegram to the film unit's director inviting him to the chateau without delay. Last night, the two men had sat up late, working on the plot. Early that morning, an empty bottle of schnapps stood on the table beside a well scrawled-over script. They had agreed a title. 'Hakenkreuz' meant hooked cross, the German term for the swastika flag that would play a leading role. Upon this blood banner of a cross, the Bauers' bodies would be broken, broken like their oaths of loyalty to the Fuhrer.

The story would play itself out according to a preset path of inevitability. All possibilities were allowed for, all resistance would be overpowered. Some scenes could not be re-shot so great care would be taken to ensure the Bauers' full co-operation. Others could be repeated until right. There was no hurry. Everything would be captured on film in due course; every gasp of fear, every pulse of terror, every throb of agony and every sigh of resignation.

So it was that the nail point was three times brought to Hanna's wrist until the director was satisfied that sufficient of her inner turmoil had been brought out upon her face. The SS officer responsible wielded the mallet with glee as he at last received the instruction to strike. The man with the tripod had his camera focussed upon Hanna's face as it displayed the full power of her emotions. At the point of impact, the blonde's blood flew, bright sparks of living red. The man with the hand-held camera caught the nailing, the shaking and twitching of Hanna's body as it adjusted to the happening of the impossible.

There was plenty of time. First one hand, then the other, then the feet. Hanna's nailing was a long drawn-out agony. It became obvious to her that the director was no accidental perfectionist. Sadism was his profession.

"So beautiful... So necessary", purred von Kreuzberg gently in Hanna's ear, running his hand up across her forehead. "Now you must suffer. Suffer so very much. It is your duty. A sacred patriotic duty. Your suffering must be a thing of the most intense beauty to behold."

Breathless with pain, Hanna hung. Blood oozed from the backs of her wrists and the soles of her feet and dripped from the fronts. The panelling gave no hope of freedom. Von Kreuzberg had had a section dismantled last night to check. It was solid and quite thick enough to absorb the long steel nails and bear the weight of its young charges.

Brother and sister gazed at each other across the room. Little by little, the crucified lovers began to move up and down, slowly exhausting their precious lives, offering futile resistance to their fate. To the director's trained eye, the scene looked very good indeed. Strong young bodies undergoing compulsory exercise, the cross working them like an invisible instructor.

But the best was over for now. Hans and Hanna could enjoy the ever-repeating agony in which they were trapped. Now was not the time to waste film on the more mundane moments of their suffering. Besides, there were girls to hang. The suspension, naked, of the six pretty French girls would make a nice interlude. The crew knew how much the Fuhrer liked to see a good slow hanging. One of the girls was rather portly. With luck, the piano wire might decapitate her.

5

The crew were back before dusk to film the final act. Von Kreuzberg and the director had discussed whether to prolong the twins' agony over several days but both had come up with reasons to be merciful. Von Kreuzberg wanted to get on with his normal work and the director had a deadline to meet. The film was needed for a party the Fuhrer would be throwing shortly. If Goebbels approved of the product, von Kreuzberg, as the sole surviving star, stood a good chance of receiving an invitation.

"How are we doing then?" asked von Kreuzberg with mock concern. "What, not dead yet? We can't have you hanging around forever. Keeping the Fuhrer waiting! Not to mention your parents."

A look of puzzlement and worry momentarily shone through the twins' pain at this last remark. Von Kreuzberg continued.

"There will be several prints taken of the film of your death. You said you wished to die for the Fatherland, Fraulein Bauer. Well, one print is all but certain to be seen by the Fuhrer, and others will go to private showings for senior SS figures. What a boost to morale you will be! But we shall have one print sent back here. For your family to watch. We wouldn't want them to think you hadn't been given the chance to say goodbye. But be quick about it. I'm looking forward to breaking your arms and legs. Rather an allegory upon our beloved party's symbol, I feel."

Von Kreuzberg began with Hans. Wielding a heavy iron bar, he smashed the young man's legs below the knee and as the body crumpled he smashed first one, then the other forearm. Hans' body shook with shock and pain and then the convulsions died away as quickly as they had come. Von Kreuzberg turned with glee to see what despair was now etched upon the pretty face of Hanna Bauer as she awaited her own coup-de-grace at his hands.
He crossed the room, rested the bar on end against the wall and with his hands now free gently stroked her breasts, flicking at the soft, pert little nipples. She squirmed briefly and turned her head away but her energy was deserting her. What purpose in resisting shame now she knew that soon her body must die? Her poor, wretched body, now drenched in sweat. Her hair matted with it, stuck to her forehead in oily golden strands. Her neck and chest glowing with the sheen of tortured perspiration. Her aching thighs straining, glistening, in hopeless struggle.

Von Kreuzberg's hand pressed against her chest, feeling for her heart, still strong after all these hours. Bad blood, but blood of the Master Race. He thought she might suffer days of torment before the cross claimed her naturally. His hand continued to sweep down over the line of her belly, pausing briefly to press the Death's Head ring firmly into the moist cup of her navel. He would let death drink of her sweat. His fingers continued through the burnished bush; he stroked her sex subtly, and slowly she began to open to him, willing or unwilling, her body was no longer hers. The girl would die but first she would come mightily for Reich, Volk and Fuhrer.

Hanna's body arched back on the cross and through her pain a cry of intense pleasure broke from her lips as she found release. Von Kreuzberg let her settle back, watching her knees bend as she once more took the tension fully into her arms. Then he pressed on her knee-caps, forcing her to stand one more time. To stand to attention like a good German girl and receive her final punishment.

"It does seem such a pity to break your beautiful legs, Fraulein Bauer. After all is said and done though, I am only bringing to the surface the ugliness that has festered inside your faithless body for years. Bad blood is best spilt."

The girl's body recoiled in agony as the iron bar shattered first her right shin, then in swift succession, her left. The camera caught her expression perfectly. The look of overwhelmingly painful surprise as her body had crumpled to the right, tearing at the muscles in her thighs, haunches and back. How much suffering was a girl supposed to endure? There was no time to absorb the blow before it was joined by its twin. Below, splinters of broken bone protruded from bruised and bloody flesh as a trickle of yellow liquid formed a pool upon the floor. For the sake of completeness, for the sake of art, von Kreuzberg proceeded to break Hanna's arms.

Instantly her legs were broken, Hanna's body had slumped for the last time, her head hanging down as the man with the hand-held camera hurriedly moved in, crouching below to capture her dying face. There were cheers in the little cinema at the Berchtesgaden as her cornflower blue eyes froze fixed forever. Between her sweet, soft young breasts, the blonde 18-year old's over-taxed heart had throbbed its final beat.

cxslave · May 21, 2014

admihoek said:
HAKENKREUZ (swastika)

By Dr Adolphus dradolphus@aol.com

4

"We have much to learn from the Romans, my dear Fraulein Bauer", von Kreuzberg began. "Our empire too will endure for a thousand years. Like them, we have understood the need for utter ruthlessness towards those who oppose us. Jews and other rebels, inferior races all, they were not shown any mercy. Crucifixion was the only answer they got to their complaints."

Hanna gathered up what shreds of pride remained to her and formed them into a half-conscious defence. She knew it would sound comic in the circumstances but it was now the only card she could play.

"I am a German citizen. I demand for myself and my brother the right to be beheaded."

"Don't play the barrack room lawyer with me, you treacherous whore!" roared the enraged officer, his leather-gloved hand briskly slapping the girl hard across the cheek. Her breasts bounced charmingly in reaction as her face smarted under the blow. "The rights of German citizenship are reserved for those of good blood. Yours is bad, tainted. You could have served the Volk well. You could have looked forward to giving birth many times for the Fatherland. As it is, you have proved that you are unworthy of the high destiny your biology offered you. It is as well you were discovered before you began to breed."

Hanna hung her head in shame. If only she knew what she had done that she must die for. But seemingly she would never know.

"Now, over against the wall. These men will bring you a stool. We are going to nail up your disloyal body just like your brother's."

Eyes downcast, her face filled with dread, Hanna stepped forward to be crucified. Surely this couldn't be happening to her? Yes, the world was at war but she knew she had done nothing to justify mortal punishment, still less THIS.

The camera followed her shapely butt as she walked and placed her foot upon the stool, turning to face her executioners as best she could. They raised up her arms and held them tightly as the first nailpoint scratched against her wrist.

Immediately after yesterday's briefing with Muller, von Kreuzberg had sent a telegram to the film unit's director inviting him to the chateau without delay. Last night, the two men had sat up late, working on the plot. Early that morning, an empty bottle of schnapps stood on the table beside a well scrawled-over script. They had agreed a title. 'Hakenkreuz' meant hooked cross, the German term for the swastika flag that would play a leading role. Upon this blood banner of a cross, the Bauers' bodies would be broken, broken like their oaths of loyalty to the Fuhrer.

The story would play itself out according to a preset path of inevitability. All possibilities were allowed for, all resistance would be overpowered. Some scenes could not be re-shot so great care would be taken to ensure the Bauers' full co-operation. Others could be repeated until right. There was no hurry. Everything would be captured on film in due course; every gasp of fear, every pulse of terror, every throb of agony and every sigh of resignation.

So it was that the nail point was three times brought to Hanna's wrist until the director was satisfied that sufficient of her inner turmoil had been brought out upon her face. The SS officer responsible wielded the mallet with glee as he at last received the instruction to strike. The man with the tripod had his camera focussed upon Hanna's face as it displayed the full power of her emotions. At the point of impact, the blonde's blood flew, bright sparks of living red. The man with the hand-held camera caught the nailing, the shaking and twitching of Hanna's body as it adjusted to the happening of the impossible.

There was plenty of time. First one hand, then the other, then the feet. Hanna's nailing was a long drawn-out agony. It became obvious to her that the director was no accidental perfectionist. Sadism was his profession.

"So beautiful... So necessary", purred von Kreuzberg gently in Hanna's ear, running his hand up across her forehead. "Now you must suffer. Suffer so very much. It is your duty. A sacred patriotic duty. Your suffering must be a thing of the most intense beauty to behold."

Breathless with pain, Hanna hung. Blood oozed from the backs of her wrists and the soles of her feet and dripped from the fronts. The panelling gave no hope of freedom. Von Kreuzberg had had a section dismantled last night to check. It was solid and quite thick enough to absorb the long steel nails and bear the weight of its young charges.

Brother and sister gazed at each other across the room. Little by little, the crucified lovers began to move up and down, slowly exhausting their precious lives, offering futile resistance to their fate. To the director's trained eye, the scene looked very good indeed. Strong young bodies undergoing compulsory exercise, the cross working them like an invisible instructor.

But the best was over for now. Hans and Hanna could enjoy the ever-repeating agony in which they were trapped. Now was not the time to waste film on the more mundane moments of their suffering. Besides, there were girls to hang. The suspension, naked, of the six pretty French girls would make a nice interlude. The crew knew how much the Fuhrer liked to see a good slow hanging. One of the girls was rather portly. With luck, the piano wire might decapitate her.

5

The crew were back before dusk to film the final act. Von Kreuzberg and the director had discussed whether to prolong the twins' agony over several days but both had come up with reasons to be merciful. Von Kreuzberg wanted to get on with his normal work and the director had a deadline to meet. The film was needed for a party the Fuhrer would be throwing shortly. If Goebbels approved of the product, von Kreuzberg, as the sole surviving star, stood a good chance of receiving an invitation.

"How are we doing then?" asked von Kreuzberg with mock concern. "What, not dead yet? We can't have you hanging around forever. Keeping the Fuhrer waiting! Not to mention your parents."

A look of puzzlement and worry momentarily shone through the twins' pain at this last remark. Von Kreuzberg continued.

"There will be several prints taken of the film of your death. You said you wished to die for the Fatherland, Fraulein Bauer. Well, one print is all but certain to be seen by the Fuhrer, and others will go to private showings for senior SS figures. What a boost to morale you will be! But we shall have one print sent back here. For your family to watch. We wouldn't want them to think you hadn't been given the chance to say goodbye. But be quick about it. I'm looking forward to breaking your arms and legs. Rather an allegory upon our beloved party's symbol, I feel."

Von Kreuzberg began with Hans. Wielding a heavy iron bar, he smashed the young man's legs below the knee and as the body crumpled he smashed first one, then the other forearm. Hans' body shook with shock and pain and then the convulsions died away as quickly as they had come. Von Kreuzberg turned with glee to see what despair was now etched upon the pretty face of Hanna Bauer as she awaited her own coup-de-grace at his hands.
He crossed the room, rested the bar on end against the wall and with his hands now free gently stroked her breasts, flicking at the soft, pert little nipples. She squirmed briefly and turned her head away but her energy was deserting her. What purpose in resisting shame now she knew that soon her body must die? Her poor, wretched body, now drenched in sweat. Her hair matted with it, stuck to her forehead in oily golden strands. Her neck and chest glowing with the sheen of tortured perspiration. Her aching thighs straining, glistening, in hopeless struggle.

Von Kreuzberg's hand pressed against her chest, feeling for her heart, still strong after all these hours. Bad blood, but blood of the Master Race. He thought she might suffer days of torment before the cross claimed her naturally. His hand continued to sweep down over the line of her belly, pausing briefly to press the Death's Head ring firmly into the moist cup of her navel. He would let death drink of her sweat. His fingers continued through the burnished bush; he stroked her sex subtly, and slowly she began to open to him, willing or unwilling, her body was no longer hers. The girl would die but first she would come mightily for Reich, Volk and Fuhrer.

Hanna's body arched back on the cross and through her pain a cry of intense pleasure broke from her lips as she found release. Von Kreuzberg let her settle back, watching her knees bend as she once more took the tension fully into her arms. Then he pressed on her knee-caps, forcing her to stand one more time. To stand to attention like a good German girl and receive her final punishment.

"It does seem such a pity to break your beautiful legs, Fraulein Bauer. After all is said and done though, I am only bringing to the surface the ugliness that has festered inside your faithless body for years. Bad blood is best spilt."

The girl's body recoiled in agony as the iron bar shattered first her right shin, then in swift succession, her left. The camera caught her expression perfectly. The look of overwhelmingly painful surprise as her body had crumpled to the right, tearing at the muscles in her thighs, haunches and back. How much suffering was a girl supposed to endure? There was no time to absorb the blow before it was joined by its twin. Below, splinters of broken bone protruded from bruised and bloody flesh as a trickle of yellow liquid formed a pool upon the floor. For the sake of completeness, for the sake of art, von Kreuzberg proceeded to break Hanna's arms.

Instantly her legs were broken, Hanna's body had slumped for the last time, her head hanging down as the man with the hand-held camera hurriedly moved in, crouching below to capture her dying face. There were cheers in the little cinema at the Berchtesgaden as her cornflower blue eyes froze fixed forever. Between her sweet, soft young breasts, the blonde 18-year old's over-taxed heart had throbbed its final beat.

Brilliant Story! Thanks Admi!

admihoek · May 21, 2014

cxslave said:
Brilliant Story! Thanks Admi!

much more to come.........................old ones and written by our founders on the old yahoo-sites

cxslave · May 21, 2014

admihoek said:
much more to come.........................old ones and written by our founders on the old yahoo-sites

Very cool!

Yupar · May 21, 2014

So nice!

Naraku · May 23, 2014

I'm pretty sure this one is in the Crux Foundation Archive. But, if memory serves, I first read it on the ZIggy Red Tripod site. That's where I first encountered stories that matched my own sick fantasies.
Sadly, that site is no more. Not surprising, since it hadn't been updated in something like 10 years.
There were a large number of crux stories on the site. Some are in the aforementioned Archive, but many aren't. Unfortunately, I didn't save any (even if I had, they'd be on a now deceased computer). If anyone out there did save any, or any of the other snuff stories from the site, I'm sure it would be appreciated if you could post them here.

phlebas · Jun 5, 2014

Well, Naraku, you and Admi have inspired me to look through my own archive (I found and posted that China story for you on the "What is your perception" thread.

Here is a story from one of my favourite old Crux group authors, Severianus Latro. From my own archive and as saved as the original html file, so let's see how the formatting goes here . . .

<h3 align="center">The End of the Iceni</h3>
By Severianus Latro 
Suetonius Paulinus broke the seal on the letter from cousin
Suetonius Tranquillus, his agent in Roma, and began reading.
After the routine greetings, reports on the crops, and the like,
there was finally a reference to current events. "The Senate
has voted a thanksgiving to the Emperor for having subdued the
recent rebellion in Brittania." It was only with a proper
Republican act of self control that the Governor refrained from
crumpling the papyrus. 
Back under the dribbler things had been better. Years and
years under the old he-goat and his crazy successor had made the
army furious at inaction, so when lame old Claudius was hoisted
up on the Praetorians' shoulders they were about to burst. Well,
he may have copped the brass ring for himself here, but there
were enough triumphal ornaments passed out to satisfy everyone,
not to mention Mauretania and those raids in Germania.
Unfortunately, the boy was, well . . . 
On the other hand, that meant he could take care of one little
side problem locally, and so impress the locals with the might
and power of Rome. Chariots were something out of Homer, he had
learned, and after theirs had been so spectacularly demolished in
the recent battle, so had the locals. There had to have been some
reason beyond being a barbarian horde that their army had
disintegrated so quickly, and searching for the wounded had
revealed why. 
One of the Icenic chariots that had come a cropper under a
shower of pila had been better made, more barbarically ornamented.
And, lying pinned under the bodies of the driver and the off
horse, was an even more barbarically ornamented woman. Small
wonder that a barbarian army would disintegrate when its
commander was taken out! 
Indeed the gods of fortune must have been smiling on him. The
pursuit had been insane, and before the soldiers recovered they
had slaughtered the women in the wagon train. Most of them; but
there had been some survivors. As commander, he was entitled to a
few, and went looking for breeding stock for the estate. One of
the new slaves had gasped at seeing his staff, and when it turned
out that he had a survivor of the confiscation of the Icenic
kingdom, it was only a moment's work to identify the rebel leader's
daughters among the slaves stripped for evaluation. 
And now it would be their time . . . 
It happened that Cea was in the cell closer to the post, so
she was chosen first to be scourged that morning. Bubo, the
flogger, was quite willing to continue the task, and he stood in
a corner, carefully untangling his whip, as the Brittanic
princess was brought out of the rough building among the ruins of
Camulodunum that was serving as a prison. 
The auburn-haired Cea struggled in the hands of the soldiers
as they stripped the filthy tunic from her. Her full figure was a
delight to the eye, and surely the exercise of her being in arms
had helped develop that body all the more. Such a waste. 
Naked and on exhibit, the struggling Cea was bound to the
whipping post. Her wrists were drawn up and bound high above her
head, stretching her body to its fullest and pressing those
rounded breasts against the splintery wood of the whipping post.
Bubo came forward. The huge man walked quietly, as many such do,
and held his whip so as to keep his victim in suspense until he
swung -- CRACK! A red line opened up on the naked woman's back,
and then a second, and a third . . . 
But Cea did not cry out during the scourging. After twenty
lashes, Centurion Aemilianus Sinigalus, the duty officer (and he
was much envied by his colleagues for this) ordered her cut down.
When the ropes were severed, Cea slumped to the ground, her
bloody back heaving with her pained breaths. Yet she had been a
good daughter. At a curt command, she was picked up and put on a
bench where her hands and feet were tied. 
Meanwhile, her sister Dilwys was brought out. Where Cea had
been a fighter, Dilwys was passive, unmoving as they stripped her.
Her great blue eyes stared past the men admiring her slight,
undeveloped figure, and unresisting she let them bind her to the
post. After tying her hands, one of the men moved her long pale
fair hair aside to bare her back. Bubo took his stand again,
measured the distance with his eye, and swung. One, two, three, .
. . if her sister had been stoic, Dilwys was merely beyond such
things. Blankly, she took her stripes as if she had merely been a
part of the post, and slumped with equal indifference when she
was cut down. 
Dilwys was doused with a bucketful of water and raised to her
feet, while her sister was unbound. Now another part of their
fate came into play, as the crossbeams they would soon be hung on
were brought to them. Among the red-tuniced soldiers, the pale
naked bodies of the two women made a striking contrast. When Cea
was burdened with her patibulum, she grunted and set her teeth,
but was too weakened by her scourging to resist the binding of
her arms to the beam. Dilwys remained as passive as ever when
they set the heavy patibulum across her slight shoulders, and
bound her thin arms to its ends. 
But by now no one was looking at them. Their mother had been
brought from her cell. She was already naked, since Paulinus had
had her stripped when she was first chained up, as a plan to help
break her spirit. Her hands were bound behind her back, leaving
her nakedness fully exposed. The promise of Dilwys's body, the
expectations of Cea's shapely form, were fully realized in their
mother. Had she been on the slave block Senators would have
bartered estates and lupanars entire houses of whores in order to
possess that magnificent, high-breasted, strong, well-rounded
body. Had she not been so foolish as to defy the Emperor, surely
she would have found a second, Roman, husband who would have
habituated her to civilized ways. But no, this beautiful woman
had chosen to defy Roma and now she would pay the price. 
The rest of the program was already planned out. As Paulinus
said, "Do we really want her to die quickly?" Bubo had
no more to do, for example. Besides, she had already been
scourged. 
Soldiers raised the patibulum to the condemned woman's
shoulders; they quickly unbound her hands and bound the wrists to
the ends of the beam. Now they were ready, and the tramp of iron-nailed
boots heralded the last royal procession of the Iceni. 
Aemilianus Sinigalus led the way, unburdned but for his
vinewood staff, tucked under an arm. Behind him a legionary
carried the first titulus: 
BOUDICCA 
REBEL AND ENEMY OF ROME 
And then came the rebel woman, proud and firm even though she
was naked and bound, helpless and condemned, in the hands of her
enemies and conquerors. Her long red hair blew in the breeze as
she stepped along. Soldiers flanked her, ready to pick her up if
she fell. Behind her, a decurion had a vinewood staff to hand to
start her should she decide to stop. 
Behind them was another titulus bearer: 
CEA DAUGHTER OF BOUDICCA 
REBEL AND ENEMY OF ROME 
The decurion behind Cea had to swat her rounded bottom, or
occasionally even her bloody back, to make her go on. Behind him
a comrade bore the final titulus: 
DILWYS DAUGHTER OF BOUDICCA 
REBEL AND ENEMY OF ROME 
And passive Dilwys went to her death unmoved, unspurred-on by
her escort. 
The procession of the three naked women to the ruined forum of
ruined Camuldonum was brief. Nevertheless there was a full crowd
waiting there. Survivors of the devastation rubbed shoulders with
veterans of the army. You would think it was Donative Day at the
games. The survivors let out a volley of cries at the sight of
the rebel leader. "Crucify her!" "To the beasts!"
"Die, she-wolf!" The soldiers, with a visceral feeling
of sympathy for a commander, even if she was the enemy, generally
were silent. As the condemned women passed, a barrage of rotting
vegetables pelted them. The bloodthirsty shouts increased in
venom and volume. Had Aemilianus Sinigalus been taking volunteers
for a gang rape, the list would have taken up many tablets. And
as many for women volunteering to scourge them, even though they
would have had to strip to the waist themselves. 
The sediles were waiting in the center of the forum. One
soldier, adherent of some obscure Eastern sect, had refused to
set up the three posts, and had himself been scourged. He was now
not popular with his comrades who had had to do extra work. The
ropes to hoist the patibula and bind them were coiled and ready,
and the ladder was on hand. 
The escorts led the condemned to the place of death. It was no
problem to bring weakened Cea and passive Dilwys down on the
ground, but their mother was a harder case, and it took some
struggle to take her down. She would have the honor of being hung
up first. The soldiers pulled her strong shapely arms out on the
beam and tied them firmly, with one lashing at the wrists and
another midway down the arm. As the doomed woman tossed her head
back and forth, the legionary farrier took his place. He put a
strip of wood on her wrist, seated the spike in it, and began
driving it in. Stoic, the rebel woman accepted the blows of the
hammer as it drove the point of the spike through her flesh and
into the wood of the patibulum. He finished this and went to the
other wrist to do as much. 
Their mother secured, the farrier went to take care of the
daughters. Cea had enough strength left to scream, and Dilwys as
ever remained uncaring. Meanwhile, other soldiers nailed each
woman's titulus on her sedile, so there would be record of the
power and dominion of Rome. 
The execution squad went on to the next step, which was
hauling up the special exhibit. Heaving and straining, they
lifted the patibulum and its female burden to its place on the
sedile, then the man on the ladder bound it in place. Aemilianus
Sinigalus himself took the condemned woman by the hips and
ensured she was sitting on the shelf of the stipes. Finally, the
farrier stepped up with his hammer and nails and spiked her feet
to the rest. 
The condemned rebel made a magnificent figure, naked and
outstretched on her cross, her long red hair flying in the breeze.
Her breasts stood out, uplifted by the pull of her raised arms,
and heaved with her breaths. The only thing wanting, some might
have said, was that her feet were so nailed as to push her legs
together, shielding her private parts. 
No such modesty was permitted her daughters. Dilwys stared
blankly at the men staring up between her parted legs, spread
apart by the crossing of her ankles needful to spike them both
with one nail. Cea was more alert, but her alertness was spent on
pulling herself up to breathe, then sinking down again. 
Now one could see the fullness of Suetonius Paulinus's intents.
The rebel leader would suffer the longest of them, since she
could breathe without pulling herself up. Unscourged, and her
arms bound to prevent her tearing herself around the spikes, she
would not bleed to death either. Provided she was given water,
and spared the breaking of her legs, she would live, and suffer,
a long long time. 
Flies soon came to feast on the spattered blood. The two
daughters suffered greatly from their attention, from the buzzing
insects drawn to their bloody backs. A few sipped from the lesser
streams running down their mother's arms and feet. After some
time, the cluster of angry victims watching the degradation and
suffering of the naked, helpless women thinned, as it became
apparent that they would still be suffering later on. 
At noontime the new watch relieved the old, and with them came
the water boys. Each of the condemned women was proffered a
sponge, soaked in the soldier's refresher of water laced with
vinegar. Dilwys was too far gone, and the water from the sponge
only laved her small breasts as the sponge was pressed against
her mouth. Her sister suckled blindly, and their mother sucked
with resignation, lost in her own suffering. 
The extremes of her captivity, her punishment, and her
passivity all too soon told on Dilwys. As the cool Brittanic
afternoon sun beat down on her body, her arms finally failed to
pull her up. Her mouth fluttered as she desperately sought to
breathe, but in vain. Her head flopped forward, and tresses of
her pale hair fell down and veiled her empty eyes. Her bowels
loosened, urine and dung fouled her cross and pooled around its
base. A raven landed on her head and strutted down her shoulders;
then pecked at the ready meal. 
The setting sun picked out the naked bodies, throwing their
breasts into high relief and highlighting the flat bellies and
the welcoming sex below. Aemilianus Sinigalus sent a double-
strength guard for the night shift. His grandfather had been
marked down when a Greek woman he was supposed to be guarding had
somehow escaped, and he had no desire to emulate the old man. 
While the water boys were proffering sponges to the two of
them, water trickled from the one to drip on the sweat that
sparkled on Cea's throat and breasts. In sympathy, she suddenly
let go with a torrent of urine, dousing her bloody feet and the
lower part of her cross. The water boys and the soldiers all
laughed. 
The evening was chill, and the guards stamped their feet
constantly, disliking the unpleasant Brittanic night. During the
night, both the women passed yet more urine, and its acrid tang
added an additional smell to the gloom. 
Sunrise touched the two contorted bodies that were still
living, and the slumped corpse. With the light came more flies,
and a murder of crows to peck at the dead woman's body. The
morning guard shift came, bringing more water. Cea was too far
gone to notice, but her mother sucked blindly at the sustenance. 
Clouds moved in all too soon, sparing them the suffering of
further sunlight. With the coming of the work day, survivors of
the massacres, and soldiers of the victorious army spared from
duty, came by to see the vengance of the imperial city. Though
there was ample broken stone lying around, Suetonius Paulinus's
orders were strictly obeyed, and none were flung at the dying
rebels. 
The noon relief shift was accompanied by Aemilianus Sinigalus.
While the water boys proffered sponges again to the condemned
women, he took care of another matter. With one sweep of his
sword, he gutted the corpse of Dilwys, spilling her bowels out
and to the ground. A crucified slave on his father's estate had
not been treated so, and when the gases of his rotting had
accumulated sufficiently, the corpse's swollen belly had burst,
spattering the imperial tax collector and no doubt augmenting the
levy. Aemilianus Sinigalus remembered that all too well, and so
he paunched the crucified the way he paunched the prey of the
hunt. 
A different sort of hunter responded. Cawing ravens coming in
for the fresh meat were driven off by snarling and yapping hounds.
This violation stirred some flicker of interest from her mother,
but her sister remained withdrawn into her shell of dying. 
The watering proved less needful than had been anticipated.
Those clouds delivered the expected Brittanic drizzle. The
soldiers of the afternoon guard cursed, anticipating the scouring
of nascent rust from armor and arms to come. The flanks and
breasts of the dying women soon were washed clean of blood and
sweat, producing a sheen that highlighted the splendid muscles
and uplifted breasts of the stretched bodies. 
As the Brittanic gloom thickened, signaling the end of another
day, Cea lost her struggle with the cross. Her head, its curls
soggy with rain, with sweat, and with blood, slumped on her chest.
Her breasts ceased to lift with the strain of breathing, and her
face turned black as she died. With that, her bowels relaxed,
spattering the cross with their contents. 
Hanging naked between the naked corpses of her daughters,
suspended between earth and sky, the rebel leader passed the
night withdrawn into her shell, cut off from the world of the
living, alone now in her place of death. Shamed and naked in the
hands of her enemies, displayed helpless before the eyes of her
people, she was a dying emblem of the might and power of Rome. 
Aemilianus Sinigalus was turned out again in the morning, when
he gutted Cea's corpse and gave the hounds a new meal. Already
the body of her sister was well gone in decay and under the beaks
and teeth of animals. But they would stay there in the forum
until the bones fell from the crosses, to be taken away by dogs
or pitched into the sea at the order of the Governor. 
The civilians were by now returning to the task of rebuilding.
Occasionally a man whose wife had been found spitted in the
swamps, sacrificed to some barbarian Brittanic god, would come by
to curse the dying rebel; or some mother, survivor of a hundred
rapes, of the blood of her husband and children being flung
across her family altars, would make a sign of cursing at her.
But the ruined forum was otherwise vacant, marked only by the
rasps of the crucified woman's breath, and the muted curses and
stampings of the disgusted guards. 
During the day, out of weariness, the crucified woman could no
longer control her bowels, and fouled her cross with her dung.
The guard might have summoned the centurion to finish the job,
but he could see that she still breathed, her magnificent breasts
moving slightly as she drew in air. Amazed at her continued
survival, Aemilianus Sinigalus decided to discontinue the water. 
This shortened the naked, dying woman's torments. She survived
the night, though. As the next dawn of her crucifixion
highlighted the grim figure, flanked by its masses of carrion,
the Brittanic rebel raised her eyes to see the sun rise, and with
that sign pushed her spirit forth to meet it. Behind, the once-desirable
body slumped in death. Soon the disemboweler would come, followed
by the crows, the hounds, and the flies, and with the natural
processes of nature at hand, that beauty would be reduced to
bones and scraps of dried, leathery skin. 
While Camulodonum was being rebuilt, the Romans would have
this example of the power of their city, and the Britons would be
reminded of the punishment of rebellion. But no one would have
the time, or the opportunity, to write of it, and the official
story of the cowardly rebel having taken her own life in ignoble
acknowledgement of defeat would prevail. 
<div align="center"><center>

Yupar · Jun 5, 2014

phlebas said:
Well, Naraku, you and Admi have inspired me to look through my own archive (I found and posted that China story for you on the "What is your perception" thread.

Here is a story from one of my favourite old Crux group authors, Severianus Latro. From my own archive and as saved as the original html file, so let's see how the formatting goes here . . .

<h3 align="center">The End of the Iceni</h3>
By Severianus Latro 
Suetonius Paulinus broke the seal on the letter from cousin
Suetonius Tranquillus, his agent in Roma, and began reading.
After the routine greetings, reports on the crops, and the like,
there was finally a reference to current events. "The Senate
has voted a thanksgiving to the Emperor for having subdued the
recent rebellion in Brittania." It was only with a proper
Republican act of self control that the Governor refrained from
crumpling the papyrus. 
Back under the dribbler things had been better. Years and
years under the old he-goat and his crazy successor had made the
army furious at inaction, so when lame old Claudius was hoisted
up on the Praetorians' shoulders they were about to burst. Well,
he may have copped the brass ring for himself here, but there
were enough triumphal ornaments passed out to satisfy everyone,
not to mention Mauretania and those raids in Germania.
Unfortunately, the boy was, well . . . 
On the other hand, that meant he could take care of one little
side problem locally, and so impress the locals with the might
and power of Rome. Chariots were something out of Homer, he had
learned, and after theirs had been so spectacularly demolished in
the recent battle, so had the locals. There had to have been some
reason beyond being a barbarian horde that their army had
disintegrated so quickly, and searching for the wounded had
revealed why. 
One of the Icenic chariots that had come a cropper under a
shower of pila had been better made, more barbarically ornamented.
And, lying pinned under the bodies of the driver and the off
horse, was an even more barbarically ornamented woman. Small
wonder that a barbarian army would disintegrate when its
commander was taken out! 
Indeed the gods of fortune must have been smiling on him. The
pursuit had been insane, and before the soldiers recovered they
had slaughtered the women in the wagon train. Most of them; but
there had been some survivors. As commander, he was entitled to a
few, and went looking for breeding stock for the estate. One of
the new slaves had gasped at seeing his staff, and when it turned
out that he had a survivor of the confiscation of the Icenic
kingdom, it was only a moment's work to identify the rebel leader's
daughters among the slaves stripped for evaluation. 
And now it would be their time . . . 
It happened that Cea was in the cell closer to the post, so
she was chosen first to be scourged that morning. Bubo, the
flogger, was quite willing to continue the task, and he stood in
a corner, carefully untangling his whip, as the Brittanic
princess was brought out of the rough building among the ruins of
Camulodunum that was serving as a prison. 
The auburn-haired Cea struggled in the hands of the soldiers
as they stripped the filthy tunic from her. Her full figure was a
delight to the eye, and surely the exercise of her being in arms
had helped develop that body all the more. Such a waste. 
Naked and on exhibit, the struggling Cea was bound to the
whipping post. Her wrists were drawn up and bound high above her
head, stretching her body to its fullest and pressing those
rounded breasts against the splintery wood of the whipping post.
Bubo came forward. The huge man walked quietly, as many such do,
and held his whip so as to keep his victim in suspense until he
swung -- CRACK! A red line opened up on the naked woman's back,
and then a second, and a third . . . 
But Cea did not cry out during the scourging. After twenty
lashes, Centurion Aemilianus Sinigalus, the duty officer (and he
was much envied by his colleagues for this) ordered her cut down.
When the ropes were severed, Cea slumped to the ground, her
bloody back heaving with her pained breaths. Yet she had been a
good daughter. At a curt command, she was picked up and put on a
bench where her hands and feet were tied. 
Meanwhile, her sister Dilwys was brought out. Where Cea had
been a fighter, Dilwys was passive, unmoving as they stripped her.
Her great blue eyes stared past the men admiring her slight,
undeveloped figure, and unresisting she let them bind her to the
post. After tying her hands, one of the men moved her long pale
fair hair aside to bare her back. Bubo took his stand again,
measured the distance with his eye, and swung. One, two, three, .
. . if her sister had been stoic, Dilwys was merely beyond such
things. Blankly, she took her stripes as if she had merely been a
part of the post, and slumped with equal indifference when she
was cut down. 
Dilwys was doused with a bucketful of water and raised to her
feet, while her sister was unbound. Now another part of their
fate came into play, as the crossbeams they would soon be hung on
were brought to them. Among the red-tuniced soldiers, the pale
naked bodies of the two women made a striking contrast. When Cea
was burdened with her patibulum, she grunted and set her teeth,
but was too weakened by her scourging to resist the binding of
her arms to the beam. Dilwys remained as passive as ever when
they set the heavy patibulum across her slight shoulders, and
bound her thin arms to its ends. 
But by now no one was looking at them. Their mother had been
brought from her cell. She was already naked, since Paulinus had
had her stripped when she was first chained up, as a plan to help
break her spirit. Her hands were bound behind her back, leaving
her nakedness fully exposed. The promise of Dilwys's body, the
expectations of Cea's shapely form, were fully realized in their
mother. Had she been on the slave block Senators would have
bartered estates and lupanars entire houses of whores in order to
possess that magnificent, high-breasted, strong, well-rounded
body. Had she not been so foolish as to defy the Emperor, surely
she would have found a second, Roman, husband who would have
habituated her to civilized ways. But no, this beautiful woman
had chosen to defy Roma and now she would pay the price. 
The rest of the program was already planned out. As Paulinus
said, "Do we really want her to die quickly?" Bubo had
no more to do, for example. Besides, she had already been
scourged. 
Soldiers raised the patibulum to the condemned woman's
shoulders; they quickly unbound her hands and bound the wrists to
the ends of the beam. Now they were ready, and the tramp of iron-nailed
boots heralded the last royal procession of the Iceni. 
Aemilianus Sinigalus led the way, unburdned but for his
vinewood staff, tucked under an arm. Behind him a legionary
carried the first titulus: 
BOUDICCA 
REBEL AND ENEMY OF ROME 
And then came the rebel woman, proud and firm even though she
was naked and bound, helpless and condemned, in the hands of her
enemies and conquerors. Her long red hair blew in the breeze as
she stepped along. Soldiers flanked her, ready to pick her up if
she fell. Behind her, a decurion had a vinewood staff to hand to
start her should she decide to stop. 
Behind them was another titulus bearer: 
CEA DAUGHTER OF BOUDICCA 
REBEL AND ENEMY OF ROME 
The decurion behind Cea had to swat her rounded bottom, or
occasionally even her bloody back, to make her go on. Behind him
a comrade bore the final titulus: 
DILWYS DAUGHTER OF BOUDICCA 
REBEL AND ENEMY OF ROME 
And passive Dilwys went to her death unmoved, unspurred-on by
her escort. 
The procession of the three naked women to the ruined forum of
ruined Camuldonum was brief. Nevertheless there was a full crowd
waiting there. Survivors of the devastation rubbed shoulders with
veterans of the army. You would think it was Donative Day at the
games. The survivors let out a volley of cries at the sight of
the rebel leader. "Crucify her!" "To the beasts!"
"Die, she-wolf!" The soldiers, with a visceral feeling
of sympathy for a commander, even if she was the enemy, generally
were silent. As the condemned women passed, a barrage of rotting
vegetables pelted them. The bloodthirsty shouts increased in
venom and volume. Had Aemilianus Sinigalus been taking volunteers
for a gang rape, the list would have taken up many tablets. And
as many for women volunteering to scourge them, even though they
would have had to strip to the waist themselves. 
The sediles were waiting in the center of the forum. One
soldier, adherent of some obscure Eastern sect, had refused to
set up the three posts, and had himself been scourged. He was now
not popular with his comrades who had had to do extra work. The
ropes to hoist the patibula and bind them were coiled and ready,
and the ladder was on hand. 
The escorts led the condemned to the place of death. It was no
problem to bring weakened Cea and passive Dilwys down on the
ground, but their mother was a harder case, and it took some
struggle to take her down. She would have the honor of being hung
up first. The soldiers pulled her strong shapely arms out on the
beam and tied them firmly, with one lashing at the wrists and
another midway down the arm. As the doomed woman tossed her head
back and forth, the legionary farrier took his place. He put a
strip of wood on her wrist, seated the spike in it, and began
driving it in. Stoic, the rebel woman accepted the blows of the
hammer as it drove the point of the spike through her flesh and
into the wood of the patibulum. He finished this and went to the
other wrist to do as much. 
Their mother secured, the farrier went to take care of the
daughters. Cea had enough strength left to scream, and Dilwys as
ever remained uncaring. Meanwhile, other soldiers nailed each
woman's titulus on her sedile, so there would be record of the
power and dominion of Rome. 
The execution squad went on to the next step, which was
hauling up the special exhibit. Heaving and straining, they
lifted the patibulum and its female burden to its place on the
sedile, then the man on the ladder bound it in place. Aemilianus
Sinigalus himself took the condemned woman by the hips and
ensured she was sitting on the shelf of the stipes. Finally, the
farrier stepped up with his hammer and nails and spiked her feet
to the rest. 
The condemned rebel made a magnificent figure, naked and
outstretched on her cross, her long red hair flying in the breeze.
Her breasts stood out, uplifted by the pull of her raised arms,
and heaved with her breaths. The only thing wanting, some might
have said, was that her feet were so nailed as to push her legs
together, shielding her private parts. 
No such modesty was permitted her daughters. Dilwys stared
blankly at the men staring up between her parted legs, spread
apart by the crossing of her ankles needful to spike them both
with one nail. Cea was more alert, but her alertness was spent on
pulling herself up to breathe, then sinking down again. 
Now one could see the fullness of Suetonius Paulinus's intents.
The rebel leader would suffer the longest of them, since she
could breathe without pulling herself up. Unscourged, and her
arms bound to prevent her tearing herself around the spikes, she
would not bleed to death either. Provided she was given water,
and spared the breaking of her legs, she would live, and suffer,
a long long time. 
Flies soon came to feast on the spattered blood. The two
daughters suffered greatly from their attention, from the buzzing
insects drawn to their bloody backs. A few sipped from the lesser
streams running down their mother's arms and feet. After some
time, the cluster of angry victims watching the degradation and
suffering of the naked, helpless women thinned, as it became
apparent that they would still be suffering later on. 
At noontime the new watch relieved the old, and with them came
the water boys. Each of the condemned women was proffered a
sponge, soaked in the soldier's refresher of water laced with
vinegar. Dilwys was too far gone, and the water from the sponge
only laved her small breasts as the sponge was pressed against
her mouth. Her sister suckled blindly, and their mother sucked
with resignation, lost in her own suffering. 
The extremes of her captivity, her punishment, and her
passivity all too soon told on Dilwys. As the cool Brittanic
afternoon sun beat down on her body, her arms finally failed to
pull her up. Her mouth fluttered as she desperately sought to
breathe, but in vain. Her head flopped forward, and tresses of
her pale hair fell down and veiled her empty eyes. Her bowels
loosened, urine and dung fouled her cross and pooled around its
base. A raven landed on her head and strutted down her shoulders;
then pecked at the ready meal. 
The setting sun picked out the naked bodies, throwing their
breasts into high relief and highlighting the flat bellies and
the welcoming sex below. Aemilianus Sinigalus sent a double-
strength guard for the night shift. His grandfather had been
marked down when a Greek woman he was supposed to be guarding had
somehow escaped, and he had no desire to emulate the old man. 
While the water boys were proffering sponges to the two of
them, water trickled from the one to drip on the sweat that
sparkled on Cea's throat and breasts. In sympathy, she suddenly
let go with a torrent of urine, dousing her bloody feet and the
lower part of her cross. The water boys and the soldiers all
laughed. 
The evening was chill, and the guards stamped their feet
constantly, disliking the unpleasant Brittanic night. During the
night, both the women passed yet more urine, and its acrid tang
added an additional smell to the gloom. 
Sunrise touched the two contorted bodies that were still
living, and the slumped corpse. With the light came more flies,
and a murder of crows to peck at the dead woman's body. The
morning guard shift came, bringing more water. Cea was too far
gone to notice, but her mother sucked blindly at the sustenance. 
Clouds moved in all too soon, sparing them the suffering of
further sunlight. With the coming of the work day, survivors of
the massacres, and soldiers of the victorious army spared from
duty, came by to see the vengance of the imperial city. Though
there was ample broken stone lying around, Suetonius Paulinus's
orders were strictly obeyed, and none were flung at the dying
rebels. 
The noon relief shift was accompanied by Aemilianus Sinigalus.
While the water boys proffered sponges again to the condemned
women, he took care of another matter. With one sweep of his
sword, he gutted the corpse of Dilwys, spilling her bowels out
and to the ground. A crucified slave on his father's estate had
not been treated so, and when the gases of his rotting had
accumulated sufficiently, the corpse's swollen belly had burst,
spattering the imperial tax collector and no doubt augmenting the
levy. Aemilianus Sinigalus remembered that all too well, and so
he paunched the crucified the way he paunched the prey of the
hunt. 
A different sort of hunter responded. Cawing ravens coming in
for the fresh meat were driven off by snarling and yapping hounds.
This violation stirred some flicker of interest from her mother,
but her sister remained withdrawn into her shell of dying. 
The watering proved less needful than had been anticipated.
Those clouds delivered the expected Brittanic drizzle. The
soldiers of the afternoon guard cursed, anticipating the scouring
of nascent rust from armor and arms to come. The flanks and
breasts of the dying women soon were washed clean of blood and
sweat, producing a sheen that highlighted the splendid muscles
and uplifted breasts of the stretched bodies. 
As the Brittanic gloom thickened, signaling the end of another
day, Cea lost her struggle with the cross. Her head, its curls
soggy with rain, with sweat, and with blood, slumped on her chest.
Her breasts ceased to lift with the strain of breathing, and her
face turned black as she died. With that, her bowels relaxed,
spattering the cross with their contents. 
Hanging naked between the naked corpses of her daughters,
suspended between earth and sky, the rebel leader passed the
night withdrawn into her shell, cut off from the world of the
living, alone now in her place of death. Shamed and naked in the
hands of her enemies, displayed helpless before the eyes of her
people, she was a dying emblem of the might and power of Rome. 
Aemilianus Sinigalus was turned out again in the morning, when
he gutted Cea's corpse and gave the hounds a new meal. Already
the body of her sister was well gone in decay and under the beaks
and teeth of animals. But they would stay there in the forum
until the bones fell from the crosses, to be taken away by dogs
or pitched into the sea at the order of the Governor. 
The civilians were by now returning to the task of rebuilding.
Occasionally a man whose wife had been found spitted in the
swamps, sacrificed to some barbarian Brittanic god, would come by
to curse the dying rebel; or some mother, survivor of a hundred
rapes, of the blood of her husband and children being flung
across her family altars, would make a sign of cursing at her.
But the ruined forum was otherwise vacant, marked only by the
rasps of the crucified woman's breath, and the muted curses and
stampings of the disgusted guards. 
During the day, out of weariness, the crucified woman could no
longer control her bowels, and fouled her cross with her dung.
The guard might have summoned the centurion to finish the job,
but he could see that she still breathed, her magnificent breasts
moving slightly as she drew in air. Amazed at her continued
survival, Aemilianus Sinigalus decided to discontinue the water. 
This shortened the naked, dying woman's torments. She survived
the night, though. As the next dawn of her crucifixion
highlighted the grim figure, flanked by its masses of carrion,
the Brittanic rebel raised her eyes to see the sun rise, and with
that sign pushed her spirit forth to meet it. Behind, the once-desirable
body slumped in death. Soon the disemboweler would come, followed
by the crows, the hounds, and the flies, and with the natural
processes of nature at hand, that beauty would be reduced to
bones and scraps of dried, leathery skin. 
While Camulodonum was being rebuilt, the Romans would have
this example of the power of their city, and the Britons would be
reminded of the punishment of rebellion. But no one would have
the time, or the opportunity, to write of it, and the official
story of the cowardly rebel having taken her own life in ignoble
acknowledgement of defeat would prevail. 
<div align="center"><center>

Good story. I think i hv pdf of itI will search on this rest day in my hd

For html code, u can copy to .txt n the save as .htm or .html . Then it will show u as web page . So u can copy text frm that offline web page

I m sorry i cant do it by ph. But HTML(hyper text makeup lsnguage) is the first web programming language I hv learned long time ago when I was sweet sixteen

Yupar is multi-talent one but sometimes crazy n naughty

admihoek · Jun 5, 2014

Yupar said:
Good story. I think i hv pdf of itI will search on this rest day in my hd
For html code, u can copy to .txt n the save as .htm or .html . Then it will show u as web page . So u can copy text frm that offline web page I m sorry i cant do it by ph. But HTML(hyper text makeup lsnguage) is the first web programming language I hv learned long time ago when I was sweet sixteen
Yupar is multi-talent one but sometimes crazy n naughty

I made and have that pdf too
and indeed sweet girl ......................but sometime need to be changed in often

Yupar · Jun 5, 2014

admihoek said:
I made and have that pdf too
and indeed sweet girl ......................but sometime need to be changed in often

Then I will turn into vixen wz nine tails

admihoek · Jun 5, 2014

Here is the story in pdf

admihoek · Jun 5, 2014

It was in my archive since January 2000 :devil:

Wragg · Jun 5, 2014

I'd never heard of Severianus Latro

I have now!

W

phlebas · Jun 5, 2014

Yupar said:
Good story. I think i hv pdf of itI will search on this rest day in my hd

For html code, u can copy to .txt n the save as .htm or .html . Then it will show u as web page . So u can copy text frm that offline web page I m sorry i cant do it by ph. But HTML(hyper text makeup lsnguage) is the first web programming language I hv learned long time ago when I was sweet sixteen
Yupar is multi-talent one but sometimes crazy n naughty

Dear Yupar, I used to create my own web pages around the end of the 90s, it's a while since I wrote any substantial html though! I wondered if this site would simply accept the html formatting, but obviously not. I'll strip it out next time.

admihoek said:
It was in my archive since January 2000

Indeed

I suspect that our archives are not dissimilar, Admi.
I think you've been around Crux longer than me!

Yupar · Jun 5, 2014

phlebas said:
Dear Yupar, I used to create my own web pages around the end of the 90s, it's a while since I wrote any substantial html though! I wondered if this site would simply accept the html formatting, but obviously not. I'll strip it out next time.

Indeed
I suspect that our archives are not dissimilar, Admi.
I think you've been around Crux longer than me!

End of 90' , I think almost the same time I read n watch abt Jesus movie n cruz started in my heart when I ws 13 ard.
1990, I m still 3 year old kid

You guys are really old crux masters for me. Wzout u guys, we cant live happily in crux twilight zone now

admihoek · Jun 6, 2014

another old one......................... 2005

Helena on the Cross

By Tarquinius Rex <Tarquinius@my-dejanews.com>
"Lictor, bind her hands, veil her head, & hang her upon the tree of shame!"

I once enjoyed furious lovemaking and exotic S/M rituals with a young beautiful woman, Helena. Her sexual intensity and devotion would be the envy of any Master but she had a serious health concern, since she was diabetic. Her lighthearted mood and high energy level often suddenly evaporated after a serious session in bed. Yet, Helena assured me that she had everything under control. If I expressed moderation, she demanded harder sex, explaining her "joie de vivre" with the amazing acknowledgment that she had seen Death up close and was no longer scared.

Helena had worked in my office as a student programmer the summer before and the beginning of our sexual relationship was a classic case of the "late night working session". She was very tall, almost 6 foot, 26 years old, with long lithe legs, the narrowest waist of any woman I had ever held, and large firm breasts with nipples that quickly came alive and hardened in my mouth. Her long dark pubic hair contrasted with the medium length blond hair on her head. But my strongest memories of Helena focus on her pussy. She had the pinkest, tightest, most controllable twat I have ever known.

It wasn't long before the wrestling in our lovemaking led to bondage. This was a new arena for Helena and her imagination and tolerance grew wilder. I soon decided to push her limits all the way.

I told Helena that with her body, she would look especially beautiful hanging on a Roman cross. She listened, transfixed, as I described the efficient and barbaric Roman Tau cross, shaped like a capital T. As with each woman I have had the pleasure to crucify, I explained to Helena that many thousands of men & women had endured crucifixion over the years. Then, I corrected for her the simplistic visual images left by two millennia of religious icons and paintings.

Helena asked more and more detailed questions, and her eyes widened in horror with each answer. I could tell that the thought of her hanging crucified, naked for her Master, was more than her moist twat could bear. It wasn't a matter of if she could perform this, but how soon. We arranged to spend the next weekend at my house.

The next Friday, we went shopping for dinner. She laughed knowingly when I came up to the checkout counter with a large dog collar since she knew a collar of that size would not fit on my dog's neck. I, in turn, wondered why she bought a large over sized T-shirt. We left the store and drove to my house out in the forest through the hot hazy humid dusk of a summer evening.

Since Helena required a special diet, our dinner was simple, but sweet. Afterwards, we spent a quiet sensuous time caressing and cuddling together. When it was dark, she asked to be excused. I knew she was taking care of her medications for her diabetes and checking her blood. After a half-hour, she returned wearing only the large T-shirt, which she had carefully ripped apart and safety-pinned into a typical slave garment. It revealed her long naked legs, barely covered her ass, and was obviously intended to be disposable. She kneeled in front of me, lowered her head, and said "Master, I am yours... crucify me."

I verified once again that her mind was willing and her body capable of taking the terrible torment. I put the dog collar around her neck, blindfolded her, tied her hands around her back and led her on a leash slowly through the house to the garage. Once there, I untied her hands, wrapped her wrists with tape, and then retied her wrists over her head to a rope from the beam overhead. I ordered her to drink a large cup of water. I did not want her to dehydrate in that sweltering summer heat. I then turned the crank for the rope until her feet barely rested on her toes.

I next asked her if she knew what came first. She smiled, and with a half- giggle, she answered "My scourging." Her amusement did not concern me. In our previous bondage sessions, she often started out light hearted, but I had seen her passions erupt before, and I knew they boiled just under the surface. Soon, I would have not the know-it-all wise-ass girl but a lusty deep-throated woman, who would be thrusting her pelvis and moaning in shameless abandon.

I went over to the workbench where I had set up the devices for her torture session. I lit so many candles that a medieval glow illuminated the inside of the room. I picked up a handmade macramé whip, a large bowl of hot melted red wax, and a wide leather belt and carried them to the center of the room where Helena was suspended. Her slave outfit now rose above her waist revealing her small tight ass.

I took the leather belt and lightly traced it along her smooth skin. Her body writhed slowly in knowing anticipation. She knew by now that the Romans used cruel, horrible whips, with pieces of bone, fishhooks, and metal, tied and embedded in leather thongs. She also knew the Romans always preceded crucifixion with a scourging in order to remove all resistance to the progressive series of tortures to come.

She screamed as the first lash of the belt hit square across her buttocks. Then a second, lower on the legs, a third across her thighs. Straining at her bonds, she said "This really HURTS!" but Helena knew she would only be talking to herself. I continued to whip her lower extremities and buttocks; the areas belted glowed red against her pale skin. I then rested and caressed her body gently with my hands and fingers. Sweat was shimmering over her body, so grabbing her by the hair, I forced Helena to drink yet another cup of water.

Turning my attention to her sensuous slave outfit, I went behind her and suddenly rent the back of it down the middle, exposing her long sinuous spine. I caressed the sides of her body, down her long legs, up over her thighs, her waist, and then gently circled her nipples, her points hardening under what remained of her garment. I picked up the macramé whip, dipped in it the hot melted red wax and began to lash her ass. She screamed and writhed for some moments after the stroke, her pelvis straining forward to avoid the next lash.

The next stroke fell across her back, and I noticed her fingers spasmodically straightening out above. Another stroke splattered red wax across the back of her legs. I continued methodically and rhythmically, watching, after each application of the whip, the wax slowly run down her skin like rivulets of blood until it cooled and hardened. After her back, buttocks, and legs were covered with red wax, I stopped and relaxed.

I stood in front of Helena, her blindfolded head hung down between her raised arms. I cut, tore, and pulled away the last remnants of her cloth. Her breasts were gorgeous, her nipples pointing upward with each panting breath she took. I took clothespins and very slowly put them on each nipple. She moaned and curved her long stretched waist in a vain attempt to relieve the torture.

Until now, I had been able to keep all thoughts of sex out of my mind by focusing dispassionately on my efforts and working systematically through her punishment. I decided she was now ready for my pleasure. I stripped myself and positioned myself behind her. Taking the leather belt in one hand, I put it across the front of her pelvis, grabbing it on the other side. With my thumbs, I parted the cheeks of her ass, found her moist tight pussy, and thrust my hard cock inside.

I can never adequately describe the delights Helena gave me with her twat. Perspiring in the summer evening, covered with dried red wax, blindfolded, she purposefully massaged my cock over and over as I pulled her waist towards me on each thrust with the belt. Helena came again and again, her moans spiraling softly into the night air. Finally, I could hold back no more, and she milked my member with exquisite control.

I checked Helena's condition. She was weak, but nodded to me that she was OK. I gave her more water to drink, although this time she did not want it. Then I went over to my chair, sat down and watched her dangle slowly in the candlelight. Her body stimulated my desire to begin the crucifixion, but I waited patiently, absorbed in her beauty. After about 15 minutes, I announced her Master's judgment.

"Helena, you are condemned to the ultimate punishment for slaves, torture on the cross, naked before all, for insolence to your Master. First, you shall carry your crossbeam to the crucifixion site. Once there, your hands and feet will be pinned as punishment. Next, you will be raised on the cross and then you shall suffer the terrible agony of crucifixion in shame and misery. Only your Master can release you now from your cruel pitiful fate." As Helena listened raptly to the sentencing, she already knew, that with the exception of not having to endure spikes driven through her wrists and heels, the actual event for her would be as realistic as possible.

I lowered her suspended body, and she gasped loudly as I took the clothespins off her nipples. With her leash attached again to her collar, I led her over to the garage doors. I picked up her crossbeam, a four inch round post about six foot long with strategically placed 1/2 inch diameter holes through the beam and placed it roughly on her shoulders. Though this beam was not particularly heavy, she responded as most women do when they feel the weight of a crossbeam for the first time and hunched her back under the load. I tied her arms to the beam and ordered her to stand straight.

Standing there, with a collar as her only adornment and with her arms outstretched, I decided that she needed something special before we went outside. I took a thick round paintbrush and dipped it in the hot wax. Her knees buckled, and her groin knotted and squirmed as I painted her left nipple. I alternated back and forth between her nipples, letting one cool as the other received more wax. Finally, her nipples were encased in the thick red wax, hardening, crusting, then cracking with each labored breath that she took.

I opened the garage door, and led Helena by the leash, outside into the bright moonlight, naked with her arms along her beam. She gasped in excitement as her body felt the warm night air. Although she knew that I had very few neighbors, she couldn't be sure where I was leading her. I walked carefully and slowly down a wide path through the woods, and whenever she hesitated, I took the whip and fiercely lashed her ass, back, or legs. Finally, we came to a clearing in the forest.

A four inch round wooden stake stood upright, rough-hewn and stark in the moonlight, approximately eight feet up out of the ground. I left Helena standing as I grabbed the wooden steps built for her crucifixion. The upright stake had a 4-inch block cut from the very top where the crossbeam would sit to form a perfect capital T, a Tau cross.

Since the weight of a victim's body upon her arms quickly cramps her chest, the crucified could only breathe in but not breathe out. When the slave could no longer tolerate the pain caused by the nails in their wrists or arms or when the victim had to relieve the cramp in their chest by breathing out, they would stand on the nail in the heels, pull themselves up by their arms and relieve the pressure for a few moments until that pain became greater. Then they would slide down to hang again, only to repeat the cycle a few minutes later.

The Romans prolonged the misery by a variety of cruel measures, up to local custom or the whim of each executioner. Sometimes, a large single peg would simply support the slave's buttocks, other times a saddle, but often an animal horn would be fastened so that the sharp tip probed the anus. For Helena's cross, I had thoughtfully fastened a small bare seat from an old ten-speed bike that could be tilted in any angle and inserted at different points along the upright stake depending on the victim's height. I pointed the seat down so it provided the least amount of support, then after judging Helena's proportions, put the saddle about four feet from the ground.

I went over to Helena, laid her down flat on the pine needles covering the ground, and quickly went to work. The ropes, which bound her to the crossbeam, were untied and her arms stretched out again. After rearranging her arms in a 45-degree V, I tied a thick knot in one end and threaded the long end through the proper hole on the beam, thus fastening her wrists securely. After she was affixed to the beam, I raised her up roughly and dragged her backwards to the stake.

I then forced her backward up the steps, positioned her astride her narrow seat, and secured the beam to the top of the stake. I stepped back, took her right foot and placed it atop a metal rod that projected through the stake at right angles about a foot off the ground and tied it to the stake. I repeated the process for the other foot, removed the steps, reached up and ripped off Helena's blindfold, then stood back to judge my workmanship.

Helena now experienced the full effect of crucifixion. In the bright moonlight, I could clearly see the dark wax, crustily covering her nipples, move up and down with each breath. Her white skin glowed against the narrow dark wood she hung from. As I walked around her, she jerkily turned her head to see until her raised stretched arms blocked her motion. I walked behind the cross, carefully observing and caressing the cheeks of her naked buttocks, rubbing against the wooden post.

I went over and sat on the steps, watching her slow movements from the side as she explored the limits of her predicament. As I prepared even more instruments to torment her, I would look up and admire her form in profile... the wrists pinned and her hands useless; her long arms stretched as if in supplication; her head wagging back and forth, then hanging down in shame and futility; her full breasts and prominent nipples, dark and pointed, swaying in the moonlight with each movement of her body; her long narrow waist bowing and flexing with her body; her ass, seated on the barest support possible; her legs, bent with her knees flexed; her feet pinned to the sides of the cross.

I took out a vibrator and went to stand in front of her cross. She looked down at me with eyes wide as I considered her private parts. Her bush was dark and hairy, her legs slightly parted, and I imagined that in the daylight, I would see my semen oozing from her cunt. I turned on the vibrator and touched it to her clit. She suddenly tensed her body, then lifted her head and moaned. Eventually, she asked me to stop. "Master, I must pee. Please let me down."

"No. You are under the sentence of crucifixion. You have no other choice but to perform all bodily functions for everyone to see and hear." She moaned again out of frustration but knew it was useless to ask again. I stepped back a few feet as she shamefully lowered her head, spastically spread her knees, and began to urinate from her cross.

"There, are you satisfied, Master?" she grunted afterwards sarcastically. I knew from experience that female slaves grow insolent on the cross as their torture sinks deeper. This was a good sign. I went over to her breasts, reached up and twisted both of her wax encrusted nipples painfully hard. She gasped loudly, shuddered and squirmed, standing straight on the pegs until I let go, then she slowly slid down to hang again, panting breathlessly, her knees flexed, her head resting against her left arm.

I turned and walked back to the house, leaving Helena to contemplate her agony alone. When I returned about fifteen minutes later, I knew she probably thought eternity had gone by. I stood in front of her pussy, smelling the mixture of musk and urine. Numb and motionless, Helena watched as I brought out a steaming hot wet cloth and started to clean her twat. Immediately, the cross shuddered violently but held her tight as she writhed in shameless pleasure. Her deep guttural moans turned gradually to softly whispered pleas.

"Please, Master. Now. Lick me. Now. Lick me down there. Please..." I looked up at her, her face shadowed by the curtains of hair hanging around all sides of her head. I reached up and felt her nipples, twisted them hard one more time for good effect, then parted her pussy lips, and began to lick her clean twat. She strained at her bindings, her knees spreading wider.

I took a vibrator and traced it up and down, laying it along her clit, then probing inside her vagina, and back again to her hardening clit. I watched as she wagged her head ceaselessly from side to side, then straightened her body upwards as the first surging orgasm came. She orgasmed again and again, each time forcing her body up, then she would slide back down the post and greedily spread her legs for more.

I began to use my tongue again, licking her juices up over her clit. She moaned and wailed, then stopped, thrust her vulva forward, widened her knees as much as possible and said, "Master, it's yours. My pussy is yours. You can have it, Master, forever. It's yours. Please take my pussy, take it. You can do whatever you want with it. Forever, Master, forever..." Her words trailed off into a moan.

In the bright moonlight, I raised my face, saw her back arched, her breasts rising with each quick breath, her dark hard nipples, her head tilted back over her outstretched arms. I looked forward and saw her pussy spread wider than I had yet seen, a glistening butterfly fluttering slowly in the moonbeams. I brought her to one more well-deserved orgasm, then slowly and with great care, cleaned her twat again with the moist hot cloth.

I went back to the steps, sat down, and waited in the quiet evening for almost an hour as Helena hung silently on her cross. I have rarely seen a more beautiful woman, who, in the moonlight, was truly statuesque.

Afterwards, it was clear that crucifixion had brought Helena to the limits; possibly too close, considering her health. I released her from her bonds and wrapped a small blanket over her shoulders. I carried her limp body back towards my house until she felt capable of walking. She slept peacefully and soundly that night, whereupon the next morning, we ended the session by making beautiful tender love, where she had only the memories of the cross to endure... and fear again

Naraku · Jun 6, 2014

"The End of the Iceni" is one of the best Boudica stories & a great curx story.
Severianus Latro has been contributing stories on The Dark Spot lately. These days he seems to speciallising in Medieval type setting, mostly about breaking on the wheel.
Thanks to Phlebas & Admi for bringing back a classic.

admihoek · Jun 7, 2014

Naraku said:
"The End of the Iceni" is one of the best Boudica stories & a great curx story.
Severianus Latro has been contributing stories on The Dark Spot lately. These days he seems to speciallising in Medieval type setting, mostly about breaking on the wheel.
Thanks to Phlebas & Admi for bringing back a classic.

it is me a pleasure naraku and here another one

Cleopatra's Punishment

With one hand Octavian grasps Cleopatra’s hair like the rein of a horse’s bridle to pull her head back so that his officers can see the look of anguished pain on her face as he uses her. His other hand pushes her bound wrists up her back toward her neck causing an increasing amount of painful pressure in her elbow and shoulder joints. He manages to elicit a squeal of pain just as he finishes with her. As he withdraws he slaps her ass hard and says to her “The mistake both Mark Anthony and Caesar made was not taking you back to their villas in Rome in chains as a slave girl. Be assured I won’t make their mistake.” The bound ex-queen of Egypt just buries her face on the surface of what used to be her banquet table, being bent over it, spread and bound there isn’t anything else she could do but sob softly into the uncaring marble.

Wading through the group of naked bound women who were the ladies in waiting; and the wives and daughters of officials who supported Cleopatra until the end; Octavian finds one to his liking and jerks the girl to her feet by her hair. Pulling her toward his chambers by her hair he calls out to his subordinates “Enjoy the fruits of Egypt my friends. Just remember the royal bitch has to be in good enough health for her last court appearance tomorrow.”

After Octavian leaves the room Agrippa pushes a captive girl off his lap, gets off his couch and advances to the banquet table. Throwing an iron ring to one of the grinning guards he says: “No use in us not enjoying all her skills.” He turns to the other officers as the guards force open Cleopatra’s month and wedge it open with the ring.”Well gentlemen,” he rolls a pair of dice in his hands, “does rank have it privileges or should we gamble to see what order we get to use the most famous piece of ass in the world?” One of the other officers calls out “You’ll go first either way Agrippa with your luck.” Agrippa smiles as her throws the dice on the table bouncing them off Cleopatra’s flank “A 12, maybe you’re right Lucullis, your throw.”

The officers having long since left with other captives to top off their evening, the guards finish using Cleopatra and then they spread-eagle her between two pillars in the hall. As one of the guards ties her hair up in a knot the centurion steps in front of her holding a three-bladed whip, he leers at a body starting to show the bruises from the abuse already inflicted. “Lord Octavian was quite explicit, I can’t damage this. he drags the blades of the whip suggestively between her legs. “Or these?” as the leather straps slowly work their way up her belly and to caress her breasts. He walks behind her and she screams as the blades crack across her ass “but this and this” another scream as a blow strikes her back “are mine to make the most of.”

The cracking of the whip and Cleopatra’s screams end when she has received 63 lashes (3 for each year of her rule of Egypt). The salt of her sweat invades the bloody mass of cuts on her back and ass. This adds to the discomfort of the beating and the rope burns on her wrists and ankles from struggling against her bonds.

Walking back in front of her the centurion places the handle of the whip between her legs and jams it up her as he gets one more scream, leaving the whip handle in her he walks away “Sleep tight, you have a big day tomorrow.” The guards take up position all around the palace to make sure no one interferes with Cleopatra’s sleep and final humiliations.

Cut down in the morning Cleopatra collapses into a heap. The centurion throws a simple white stola on the floor in front of her “Get into it.” Cleopatra meekly obeys; any thought of resistance has been beaten out of her by the abuse already inflicted on her. She may have once ruled mighty Egypt but it was a pampered life and never prepared her for anything like what has happened to her in the last 48 hours since her capture. Golden chains are cuffed to her wrists and a golden collar around her neck, and she is lead out of the banquet room by a golden chain to the collar toward her own chamber of justice.

Octavian is waiting outside the justice chamber. He would love to parade you naked through the streets of Rome and have you crucified in the arena but I’m sure you’d somehow manage to kill yourself before I got you there. But what I have planned will send a message to all the rulers of the world who may contemplate challenging the might of Rome. He dismisses her with a wave of his hand and she is led into the chamber.

The chamber is packed with the nobility of Egypt and the Ambassadors to the court of Egypt. Cleopatra is led to the dais in the center of the room facing the chair of justice. There is a buzz in the crowd as everyone awaits Octaviana’s entrance. About 10 minutes later Octavian arrives and sits on the chair.

“Cleopatra, your father’s will made Rome the arbiter of his succession. Julius Caesar used that trust to place you on the throne of Egypt under Roman protection. You abused that trust to side with Rome’s enemies and war on her. For that I strip you of Rome’s friendship and protection.’ The guards step forward to rip the stola from Cleopatra’s body. A blow from a rod behind her knees drops Cleopatra to a knelling position on the dais with a squeal. A buzz rises in the crowd at both Cleopatra’s nakedness and the damage from the beatings she has suffered. Octavian holds up a hand to still the gallery.

“For your crimes you will be paraded naked through the streets of Alexandria and crucified on the great wharf in the harbor for all to see the fate of the enemies of Rome. Your crimes will be listed above your head, and when you are dead your body will be dragged to the slave market and hung for a day to prove to all you are dead. After that your head will be severed and sent to Rome, your body cast to the carrion birds.”

The crowd is shocked into stunned silence at the harshness of the sentence. Soldiers come in, remove her chains and bind a patibulum across her shoulders. A sign is tightly tied hanging from her breasts. On it in Greek (the language of commerce) it reads

Cleopatra Daughter of Usurpers Adulterous Traitor Whore of the Romansﾝ

Cleopatra’s breasts are already turning purple as she is led out of the chamber by another rope encircling her breasts.

It is not a long walk from the palace to the great wharf, about a mile but the commerce of the Eastern Mediterranean travels along this route and word spreads fast about Cleopatra’s fate. Large crowds line the way to catch a glimpse of the most famous body in the world.

The hot sun and the abuse already heaped on her make Cleopatra’s last walk a nightmare of pain and disjointed images. The sweat pours off of her as her strength is sapped. The pallubrum rubs on her shoulders tearing open wounds from the whipping. The stones are hard on her feet. She stumbles and crashes to the ground, more scrapes and cuts are accumulated. She only responds to the savage kicking of the guards by whimpering and trying to curl into a ball. Finally she is dragged back to her feet and sent on her way.

Arriving at the wharf the stipes has already been set in such a way that the people on both the ships and in the city will see her death throes. The hot Egyptian sun will eventually kill any exposed person but Octavian wants her dead by nightfall and to send the strongest message possible.

Knocked down once more, the patibulum is removed from her shoulders. She is placed on it with ropes at her wrists and around her upper arms. The sign is cut away from her breasts and tossed to a soldier who scurries up a ladder to fix it to the top of the stipes. Cleopatra sees a soldier pick up a hammer and nails. The horror of her fate finally hits home.

NO PLEASE, mercy, mercy! I beg Octaviana’s forgiveness, please, oh god no, AAAAAHHHHHHH! The first nail is positioned at her wrist and soldier steps on her hand to hold it in place. The first blow drives the nail to the bone and it takes several more blows from the hammer to drive it home. Incoherent begging mingles with more screams as the second nail is driven home in the other wrist. The screams assume a new pitch as the nails take up the weight of her body as she is lifted into position on the stipes. Being dragged up the rough post reopens the whip wounds on her back and ass. She is only dimly aware of the cornu rubbing against her back and ass as she is dragged over it. The patibulum is secured in place and another plateau of pain is reached as the ropes around her upper arms are cut and the full weight of her body is suddenly carried on the ropes and nails securing her wrists. But this scream is cut off as she crashes down on the cornu knocking the wind out of her. Quickly the screaming starts again as her ankles are grabbed, pulled behind the stipes and nailed in place exposing her impaled sex to the world.

While the pain in her ankles and wrists is intense it is the pain the sharp cornu is causing right now that occupies Cleopatra’s mind. The blinding pain on her sex creates a primal urge to get away and she struggles to rise accompanied by another scream as the nails bite into flesh and bone. The combination of her weakened condition and the pain from the nails prevents her from staying up long and she crashed back down with a howl onto the cornu.

So it is true, she’s hump anything.” Comments one of the guards as the cycle starts again.

The crowd howls in glee at the titillating site of Cleopatra riding the cross, her breasts bouncing with each rise and fall accompanied by screams of varying pitch. Prostitutes work the crowd knowing that there is profit at the end of the show, as a lot of sexual tension will need to be released before nightfall.

The main attraction doesn’t last long as the hot sun and loss of blood saps what strength was left in Cleopatra. Within a half an hour all she can do is hang there and moan. Occasionally she gathers enough strength to try to rise again, but each time it is a shorter rise and she comes crashing down faster.

Eventually she looks down on her tormentors. “Please mercy.” She begs in a horse voice. “Please I beg Octavian, mercy in a quick death.”

The centurion looks up “That is outside my orders your highness” he mockingly responds.

“Please mercy, my followers will give you anything you want.”

“You have no followers. You are giving me what I want right now, a nice show.” He grabs one of the slave prostitutes working the crowd and pulls her close, she nuzzles up to him “And later this one will give me what I want then. “I’ve already had you.”

“Please, oh by the gods please.”

He takes a spear from one of his soldiers and places the point against her chest between her breasts. One of his veterans is smiling knowing what is about to happen. “Well my orders do not allow me to kill you but I can’t be blamed if you accidentally fall on this spear.” Dully a way to end her suffering dawns on her through the pain. Cleopatra summons her remaining strength to raise her self up one more time. She draws blood as she bites her lip to stop the scream trying to hold onto some final dignity. She pushes out her chest in order to make sure she strikes the spear tip.

The centurion is a veteran of this game and times it nicely, pulling away the spear just as Cleopatra’s strength gives out and she comes crashing down a final time. The impact of the cornu between her legs is completely unexpected and the resulting scream is a mixture of pain and despair.

”Oh too bad, you missed. Says the centurion as he hands the spear back to the soldier. The crowd howls for more entertainment but the centurion knows Cleopatra isn’t up to any more games. Taking the prostitute by the hand he starts to walk away “I’m taking a break. ”Hurry back.” Says the soldier as he and the others laugh over Cleopatra agony.

Too weak to fight anymore she just hangs there. The pain from the nails, the cornu and the cramping in her muscles is overwhelming. Sweat drips off her and a mixture of blood and sweat grease the stipes. Moaning and fighting for breath is all she has strength for now.

As it approaches midday the crowd dissipates to get away from the heat and the port becomes quiet. The burnt red skin of Cleopatra’s body contrasts vividly with her sweat matted black hair. From his spot in the shade the centurion stares at Cleopatra “Justinian go check her, I’ve got better things to do than guard a corpse in the hot sun."

A soldier groans stands up and walks over to the cross. Drawing his sword he jabs Cleopatra in the ass striking bone. The new pain motivates the dying woman to moan, roll her head to one side and attempt to rise, she doesn’t have enough strength and her head drops back to the center. The soldier cleans his sword on a cloth as he walks back to the shade. “Not yet but soon. She’s tougher than I’d thought she’d be. He considers for a moment, “Nice body what a waste. Hey you did her last night didn’t you? How was she?”

The centurion smiles, “Well there’s nothing better than a young just captured virgin but for a women her age her body was pretty firm. I mean she was tied down across a table limiting how much squirming she could do and she was pretty worn out from all the previous rapes but you know what they say. A bad lay is better than no lay.” Comments of agreement and laughter go through the soldiers.

About an hour later a shudder goes through Cleopatra’s body. “Marcus go get that ox and driver she’s done. “You sure?” “Yeah, I’ve done this enough, I’m sure.” Marcus leaves and the other soldiers follow the centurion over to the cross. He takes a spear and thrusts it through her left breast bottom to top. No reaction. “Yep, take her down.”

The activity around the cross draws a crowd as the soldiers pull out the ankle nails and cut the rope holding the patibulum in place. The body catches on the cornu for a moment before as it rips up her sex and she pitches forward into the dust. Marcus and the ox work their way through the crowd. “Someone climb up there and get the sign, we need it.” A rope is tied around Cleopatra’s ankles and the ox drags her body face up to the slave market about an 500 meters away. The still attached patibulum keeps the body from turning over and stretches it out almost like she is on a rack. Once at the market Cleopatra is hung upside down on the gallows reserved for displaying punished slaves as a warning to others. The centurion takes a one of the nails used on her ankles and jabs in through the nail hole in the sign and into her lower belly; the new wound draws almost no blood. “OK, now they be no confusion as to who she is. Guards are posted to prevent the body from being rescued and the centurion takes the rest of the detail away.

At sundown the next day the guards cut off Cleopatra’s head and send it to Octavian. The body is taken down, loaded onto a galley that takes it out to sea and dumps it on one of the many uncharted rock outcroppings in the Med. A ready-made feast for carrion birds and crabs, the bones never to be discovered.

Octavian takes Cleopatra’s preserved head with him to Rome. He stops along the way at every capital city between Egypt and Rome to display it to the governors and allied ruler of the empire. It is very clear who now runs the show and the fate of those who oppose Octavian.

Arriving at Rome the head is displayed to the Senate and then given to Octavia, Octaviana’s sister and Mark Anthony’s ex-wife. At the next feast of Juno, patron goddess of fidelity in marriage, Octavia has the head burnt as an offering and a warning to future adulteresses.

Yupar · Jun 7, 2014

http://www.cruxforums.com/xf/threads/death-of-a-queen-by-willowfall.1799/

Is it the same ? :rolleyes:

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