riwa
Governor
"If you'll put your wrists up against the cross, Petra, we can get started." He held up the hammer and nails, making sure she got a good look at them.
"Why are you doing this to me?" she asked softly.
"Honest answer? It's your breasts. There's nothing I like better than the sight of a big-breasted woman on a cross. And let's face it, Petra, they just don't make any mightier tits than yours."
"That's all I am to you, isn't it? A pair of breasts."
"Of course not, Petra. A pair of breasts can't suffer. A pair of breasts can't scream. A pair of breasts can't be tortured to death. You're a big-breasted WOMAN, Petra, and I assure you that I have the deepest respect for you and for your abilities. Now please put your wrists up against the crossbeam."
"No."
"Then I'm sure you'll understand why I'm doing this." He lifted a special prod, designed for use on human cattle, set it on BRUTAL, and applied the tip to her left nipple. Howling, she raised her wrists.
"I put the nails through the wrists rather than the hands," he explained, placing the tip of a nail against her flesh, "because you'll be more stable that way. Sometimes the hands tear."
Petra's breathing was shallow and rapid as he raised the hammer. She closed her eyes, turning her head away. The mallet fell. There was a sickening crunch. Petra began to scream wildly. She managed to open her eyes, and saw that her wrist was slick with blood. The nail had gone straight through and was now embedded in the wood behind her.
She began to shiver, which made it harder for him to get the second nail into place. But with one wrist already nailed, there was no way she could offer any effective resistance. He drove the second nail as straight and true as the first, right between the bones of her wrist.
"Now the feet," he announced. The lower nails went through her ankles; this preserved symmetry with the wrist spikes. With all four nails in place, Petra was thoroughly crucified. She was almost a part of the cross now, and would remain that way for the rest of her life. Wood, steel and flesh combined to produce a work of art.
Now the long wait began. At first, Petra's pain came from her wrists and ankles. Her limbs were screaming at her brain. She moaned softly as she suffered. The pain was immense, but not quite enough to send her into shock. She remained fully conscious, and felt everything.
Gradually the nature of the torture began to change. The pain began to spread from Petra's wrists through her arms, and from her ankles up into her calves and thighs. Her full weight was on the nails which had been driven ruthlessly through her flesh. The cross offered her no rest, no respite.
He tortured her with the prod as she hung there on the cross. He ran it playfully across the enormous pain receptors which were her breasts, sending crippling shocks straight into her nipples. During that first day, Petra's focus was on the pain: pain in her arms, legs, breasts. She had never experienced torture before. It was overwhelming. She wanted to die, but she knew that he would allow that only when she had no more capacity to suffer.
She didn't sleep at all that night, of course. He left her alone with her agony, and by the time he returned in the morning, she couldn't even remember a time when she hadn't been in pain. She was spectacularly gorgeous, her arms stretched out, her breasts naked and enormous, her soft, brown hair flowing down around her shoulders.
On the second day, the nature of Petra's suffering changed once more. Slowly the pain began to shade off into asphyxiation. It became harder and harder for poor Petra to breathe. With her arms pulled back as they were, it was a constant struggle for Petra to raise her mighty chest and fill her lungs with air. Each breath was harder than the last.
The pain was still with her all through that second day, just as it had been during the first. But it was overshadowed now by Petra's slow asphyxiation, and by the tremendous fear of death which grew in her as she strangled. Part of her had known, of course, that crucifixion is a lethal torture. But she hadn't really faced that truth, not until now. Now she saw her death, felt it. It was real, and it was close. She was dying, and no one was going to save her. That filled her with sorrow.
Petra passed a second night with no sleep, and was nearly delirious by the next morning. Her face was a mask of pain: agony was apparent in her deep, green eyes, in her twitching red mouth. Her cheeks were dry now, not because she no longer felt like crying, but because she was dehydrated. There were simply no more tears for her to cry. She had also stopped screaming, for her throat was parched.
On the third day, Petra's torture changed one final time. It was harder than ever for her to breathe. She could barely lift herself up at all; her respiration was shallow, uneven. The pain had receded. Petra's main experience now was one of asphyxiation.
She was strangling on the cross, as she had been the previous day. The difference was that now she welcomed it. The second night on the cross had finally broken her will. She saw now that there was only one way out of here. She was ready. And yet still she lingered for most of the third day, unable to die. Her naked body squirmed invitingly. Her enormous, round breasts smiled at the sky. They wiggled wonderfully as she fought for breathing space on the cross.
At last the moment came. Petra tried to breathe and simply couldn't. Her muscles were too exhausted. She was utterly, profoundly strangled. Her breasts shuddered, immense and beautiful. She gurgled and fell limp on the cross, exquisitely snuffed.
"Why are you doing this to me?" she asked softly.
"Honest answer? It's your breasts. There's nothing I like better than the sight of a big-breasted woman on a cross. And let's face it, Petra, they just don't make any mightier tits than yours."
"That's all I am to you, isn't it? A pair of breasts."
"Of course not, Petra. A pair of breasts can't suffer. A pair of breasts can't scream. A pair of breasts can't be tortured to death. You're a big-breasted WOMAN, Petra, and I assure you that I have the deepest respect for you and for your abilities. Now please put your wrists up against the crossbeam."
"No."
"Then I'm sure you'll understand why I'm doing this." He lifted a special prod, designed for use on human cattle, set it on BRUTAL, and applied the tip to her left nipple. Howling, she raised her wrists.
"I put the nails through the wrists rather than the hands," he explained, placing the tip of a nail against her flesh, "because you'll be more stable that way. Sometimes the hands tear."
Petra's breathing was shallow and rapid as he raised the hammer. She closed her eyes, turning her head away. The mallet fell. There was a sickening crunch. Petra began to scream wildly. She managed to open her eyes, and saw that her wrist was slick with blood. The nail had gone straight through and was now embedded in the wood behind her.
She began to shiver, which made it harder for him to get the second nail into place. But with one wrist already nailed, there was no way she could offer any effective resistance. He drove the second nail as straight and true as the first, right between the bones of her wrist.
"Now the feet," he announced. The lower nails went through her ankles; this preserved symmetry with the wrist spikes. With all four nails in place, Petra was thoroughly crucified. She was almost a part of the cross now, and would remain that way for the rest of her life. Wood, steel and flesh combined to produce a work of art.
Now the long wait began. At first, Petra's pain came from her wrists and ankles. Her limbs were screaming at her brain. She moaned softly as she suffered. The pain was immense, but not quite enough to send her into shock. She remained fully conscious, and felt everything.
Gradually the nature of the torture began to change. The pain began to spread from Petra's wrists through her arms, and from her ankles up into her calves and thighs. Her full weight was on the nails which had been driven ruthlessly through her flesh. The cross offered her no rest, no respite.
He tortured her with the prod as she hung there on the cross. He ran it playfully across the enormous pain receptors which were her breasts, sending crippling shocks straight into her nipples. During that first day, Petra's focus was on the pain: pain in her arms, legs, breasts. She had never experienced torture before. It was overwhelming. She wanted to die, but she knew that he would allow that only when she had no more capacity to suffer.
She didn't sleep at all that night, of course. He left her alone with her agony, and by the time he returned in the morning, she couldn't even remember a time when she hadn't been in pain. She was spectacularly gorgeous, her arms stretched out, her breasts naked and enormous, her soft, brown hair flowing down around her shoulders.
On the second day, the nature of Petra's suffering changed once more. Slowly the pain began to shade off into asphyxiation. It became harder and harder for poor Petra to breathe. With her arms pulled back as they were, it was a constant struggle for Petra to raise her mighty chest and fill her lungs with air. Each breath was harder than the last.
The pain was still with her all through that second day, just as it had been during the first. But it was overshadowed now by Petra's slow asphyxiation, and by the tremendous fear of death which grew in her as she strangled. Part of her had known, of course, that crucifixion is a lethal torture. But she hadn't really faced that truth, not until now. Now she saw her death, felt it. It was real, and it was close. She was dying, and no one was going to save her. That filled her with sorrow.
Petra passed a second night with no sleep, and was nearly delirious by the next morning. Her face was a mask of pain: agony was apparent in her deep, green eyes, in her twitching red mouth. Her cheeks were dry now, not because she no longer felt like crying, but because she was dehydrated. There were simply no more tears for her to cry. She had also stopped screaming, for her throat was parched.
On the third day, Petra's torture changed one final time. It was harder than ever for her to breathe. She could barely lift herself up at all; her respiration was shallow, uneven. The pain had receded. Petra's main experience now was one of asphyxiation.
She was strangling on the cross, as she had been the previous day. The difference was that now she welcomed it. The second night on the cross had finally broken her will. She saw now that there was only one way out of here. She was ready. And yet still she lingered for most of the third day, unable to die. Her naked body squirmed invitingly. Her enormous, round breasts smiled at the sky. They wiggled wonderfully as she fought for breathing space on the cross.
At last the moment came. Petra tried to breathe and simply couldn't. Her muscles were too exhausted. She was utterly, profoundly strangled. Her breasts shuddered, immense and beautiful. She gurgled and fell limp on the cross, exquisitely snuffed.
