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Sizzling Sluts: A Dolcett Restaurant
- Thread starter CruxGirl
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CruxGirl
Magistrate
No it's not the end. I'll try and write the next part as soon as I get a chance
CruxGirl
Magistrate
OK ... the Easter Vacation is a good time for writing, and I've nearly finished the next chapter. For you guys who say you're enjoying it despite not having a real taste for Dolcett, the next couple of chapters will have a heavy crux orientation -- as well as some backstory and some world-building ... I'll be posting later today ... 
CruxGirl
Magistrate
4.
Greta’s classmate, Sophie Sweetly, was a shy and demure brunette, very pretty, in a pale and understated English kind of way. Greta remembers how Sophie blushed as she stood facing the class of twelve girls and began to unbutton her blouse.
“You can keep your panties on for this pose, Sophia,” said Signora Meloni.
How vulnerable and pathetic Sophie looked, standing before them -- her slim nubile little body naked except for her skimpy white cotton panties.
“Allora, as I am sure you all know very well – la sua bella madre – Sophia's pretty mommy, Hermione Sweetly, is at this time on trial at the Old Bailey, Criminal Court, for possessing of a forbidden book. Sophia, please to remind us, my dear? What is the book called?”
Sophie stared searchingly at Signora Meloni, her bright blue eyes wide with incomprehension. Why did her teacher feel the need to humiliate her in this way?
“It – It’s called A Vindication of the Rights of Women, she said in a barely audible voice, casting her eyes downwards.”
“That is right, Sophia. A very clever book. But also a very dangerous book, that can put dangerous ideas in our silly little heads. It claims that we girls should have equal power with the men, instead of being just spoiled and pampered and made love to by them. Hah! It was written nearly three hundred years ago by the proto-fembitch writer, Maria Wollstonecraft, a very cunning woman, who was described by the most brilliant men of her time as ‘a Hyena in a Petticoat’.”
Greta glanced nervously at the Classroom Monitor, a boy called Hector, who was sitting in the corner with a smirk on his well-chiseled Alpha face. It was his task to ensure that nothing improper occurred between a female teacher and her pupils.
By referring to Mary Wollstonecraft as “a very cunning woman” and to her most subversive book as “a very clever book”, Signora Meloni was flirting with danger. It was something she did frequently. She seemed to enjoy the thrill of it. If Hector decided to report her to the Headmaster it could get her into serious trouble.
Little Boundwench Sixth Form College was not above punishing its female teachers with public breast whippings. But thus far the art teacher had evaded such embarrassment.
The Alpha boys liked her confident sensuality. Moreover, whenever she crossed the line she seemed very happy to buy their silence with sexual favors, often giving them blowjobs in class, as the girls carried on with their drawing assignments.
Greta’s brother, Thor, had often mentioned that the school Alphas considered supervising Meloni’s life-drawing classes to be one of the more enjoyable monitoring jobs.
Greta had a huge crush on her art teacher. There was no denying that Signora Meloni was herself -- as well as beautiful and sexy -- a very cunning and clever woman. She was a force of nature. A reckless and unpredictable pansexual nymphomaniac.
“A hyena in a petticoat”, Signora Meloni repeated portentously. “Does anyone know what will happen if Sophia’s mommy is found to be guilty of possessing such a book?”
She stared directly at Greta.
“Do you know, Greta?”
Greta felt distinctly uncomfortable. She stared back at her with a blank expression.
Was Signora Meloni aware that she had read the text which Sophie’s mother was accused of possessing. Did she know that the exact same copy of the book had once been in Greta’s possession?
Greta had a strong intuition that she did. Something in her playful dark-eyed gaze suggested it.
Subversive feminist texts were widely circulated in the London suburbs among cliques of intelligent independent-minded women; or in many cases, simply women who loved the peril and excitement of holding forbidden books in their hands.
Staying awake late a few months previously -- safely snuggled under her duvet and reading by torchlight -- Greta had devoured the battered copy of Mary Wollstonecraft’s eighteenth-century treatise that now formed “Exhibit A” in the trial of Hermione Sweetly.
It had been given to Greta, in exchange for some of her very accomplished drawings, by a lady called Demeter. Demeter was a sophisticated housewife in her late forties, and she was married to Dean Farmer, the Headmaster of Greta's school. They lived not far from the Larsons, in a very large and expensive house.
Dean Farmer was a workaholic who regularly brought his work home. And because Little Boundwench Sixth Form College ran a very ambitious correction schedule, he frequently brought the naughtiest girls home with him, for punishment in his specially adapted basement torture chamber. This allowed his wife plenty of free time to pursue her own, artistic, interests, and to read forbidden texts. She was something of an art connoisseur, and had taken an interest in Greta, believing that she showed great promise as an artist.
The copy of Wollstonecraft’s Vindication which Demeter had passed on to Greta had been disguised as a novel called Cindy at the Snuff Fair. It bore a lurid picture on its creased fake cover of a line of naked women patiently awaiting their turn to be garrotted in front of a laughing crowd.
Greta’s biggest fear had been that her brother might find the book. Thor was in the habit of entering her bedroom while she was out, and rummaging through her drawers in search of titillating items of clothing. The cover of Cindy at the Snuff Fair would have piqued his curiosity and he would certainly have flicked through its dog-eared pages, looking for the dirty bits.
But on realizing exactly what kind of book it was, Thor would have had no hesitation in doing his duty as an Alpha, and turning his sister in to the police. He would have done so just for the pleasure of being allowed to rape her and then see her publicly executed. Such were the pranks that turned her brother on.
Nevertheless, by hiding it under her mattress, Greta had managed to read Wollstonecraft’s Vindication undetected – by Thor or anyone else in her family. The book had made a very profound impression on her. It spoke to her as no other book had done, in a clear distinct voice and with a cold hard logic.
It told her who she was. It told her that, as a woman, she had agency and intrinsic worth. It gave her the strength to believe that she was so much more than an object, or a piece of property; so much more than a vapid sentimental bimbo whose only purpose in life was to serve and give sexual pleasure to men.
Having read the book, Greta’s main concern had been how to dispose of it. She had wiped it down carefully for fingerprints and exchanged it with Demeter for a mainstream classic which she felt no necessity to conceal: a comic book, by a late twentieth-century artist called Dolcett, entitled Club X and other tales.
Reading Dolcett after internalizing the impassioned moralizing prose of Mary Wollstonecraft produced a curious effect on Greta. In contrast to Wollstonecraft, Dolcett made her feel guilty, soiled, dirty and worthless – but also achingly, deliriously, sexually aroused.
Each evening, after turning off the light – her 18-year old imagination packed and feverish with Dolcett’s prescient images and realistic scenarios – she masturbated breathlessly to frenzied fantasies of attending the fictional Club X (or one of the myriad real-life snuff clubs now operating in London) in the company of Signora Meloni.
She would gag herself, cramming her wet panties into her mouth – fearing that her shrieking and moaning would be heard by her brother in the next room – and then edge herself to a climax, over and over, to thoughts of making out with her art teacher, kissing and groping in a naked embrace, as they both waited in line for their turn to be executed ... and being prised apart by the executioner when their turn to stand on the gallows wearing the noose came around …
Dolcett had produced his art long before snuff clubs and meatgirl barbecues had become a thing -- an everyday reality. But there was an unthreatening charm and a moral clarity to his vision, which Greta’s libido found deeply satisfying. Whenever she analyzed herself, she guessed that her Dolcett fantasies were her way of dealing with the anxiety associated with the very real possibility of being snuffed to satisfy men's -- or even other women's -- sexual or gastronomic urges.
“Come Greta”, said Signora Meloni, still staring intently at her. “I’m sure you know the answer … What will happen to Sophia’s mommy when – I mean if – she is found guilty?”
Sophie let out a sob.
Greta continued to hold her teacher’s gaze, but her heart was beating faster.
Signora Meloni was playing with her like a cat with a mouse.
A sheen of perspiration broke out on her forehead as the fear that her teacher might report her to the police took hold. The woman was a total loose cannon … Nothing was beyond her … Did Signora Meloni have any evidence against her?
When she had returned the book to Demeter, Demeter had told Greta that disposing of it once again would be easy because there was a female teacher at the school who was very eager to acquire a copy. Could that have been Signora Meloni? And if so, how did it come eventually into the possession of Sophie’s mom?
There was a rumor circulating within Demeter’s circle that someone had planted the book in Sophie’s school bag and then tipped off the police. On raiding the house after school hours the police had discovered the book, still in Sophie’s bag.
It was further rumored that Sophie’s mom, Hermione Sweetly, had immediately claimed responsibility for it, in order to protect her daughter, knowing full well that, for a woman, even routine questioning at a police station inevitably involved getting gang raped.
After she herself had been repeatedly raped and tortured with electricity, Hermione Sweetly had confessed to the crime of sedition. But in court she had withdrawn her confession and pleaded “not guilty”. Hence the inconvenience of a jury trial.
Getting no reply from Greta, Signora Meloni’s smoldering gaze swept over the entire class.
“Who can tell me how Sophie’s mommy will be punished if she is found to be guilty?”
Every one of the girls knew the answer. Each evening for the past week Greta and her classmates had been glued to the TV, watching the highlights of the trial. The jury had not yet been sent out to deliberate. But the verdict in such trials was always a foregone conclusion. There was little point in hoping for a “not guilty” verdict.
Each of the girls, except for Greta, raised her hand.
“Yes, Klara?” The teacher nodded at the nerdiest girl in the class.
“She’ll be sentenced to be crucified, on Trafalgar Square, Signora Meloni, after being flogged and publicly raped.”
“That is correct, Klara. Pretty women who commit sedition are punished with crucifixion, a very painful and humiliating method of execution. And who will be crucified alongside her? … Yes, Jessica?”
“All the female members of her family, Signora Meloni. Which means, Sophie, Sophie’s sister, her aunt and … erm, her cousin?” said Jessica with obvious relish.
Jessica was a buxom and stunningly beautiful blonde, and Greta despised her for being such a self-satisfied airhead.
“Excellent, Jessica!” said Signora Meloni. The law states very clearly that when a woman is found to be guilty of sedition, all of the female members of her family must be executed too. Just in case that the – how do you say? – virus of sedition has spread among them also.”
Greta bristled as Jessica preened herself. Sophie began to cry. Big tears tumbled onto her firm and pert little breasts.
Sophie’s tears were a huge turn-on for Hector, who casually unzipped his fly and began to play with his big semi-hard cock.
The girls glanced furtively at him and giggled amongst themselves.
“Wow!” Jessica whispered. “That’s a helluva cock! Even by Alpha standards!”
Greta felt deep indignation at her classmates’ insensitivity. The teacher was telling them that Sophie was going to be crucified, and all they could do was ogle an Alpha cock!
It was their coping mechanism, she supposed: their way of dealing with the relentless sexualized peril of their daily lives under King Henry IX’s so-called "New Patriarchy". What was about to happen to Sophie could equally well happen to any of them. If they were lucky they would end up auctioned off as virgin brides to Alphas like Hector. But that was the best they could hope for.
“Allora ragazze, my assignment for you today is to draw Sophie, as you imagine her being prepared for her crucifixion. Klara, please to go to the props closet and bring me a long thick piece of wood. Not too heavy. And some bindings, and some crux nails … there should be four nails tied together with string, somewhere on the top shelf …”
Sophie sobbed quietly as Klara scuttled off to the closet. Greta felt a strong urge to go and give the weeping girl a comforting hug.
She felt relieved when Signora Meloni moved over and enfolded Sophie tightly in her arms, wiping her tears and cradling her head and rich brown hair over the mighty ravine of her own plunging cleavage.
“There, there. La mia bella ragazza. Don’t worry. Yes, being crucified will hurt a lot and be very humiliating for you. But trust me Sophia, you are very lucky girl. You will make great show when you are crucified. So all the men will lust after you and all the girls will want to be like you and change places with you … You see how Hector is turned on by the sight of your nakedness? Your lovely tits? You see how he plays with his big cock? When you are crucified you will see many many men playing with their cocks and looking up at you with strong and fiery passion in their eyes as you scream and scream … you will become a truly sexy woman … and you will cum and cum like you have never cummed before ...”
Sophie broke down in an overwhelming, convulsive fit of sobbing. Tears dripped from her flushed cheeks, and thick drool hung from her pretty, contorted mouth.
Greta fought to control her own tears as Sophie's eyes met hers. Never had she seen such terror in a girl's eyes.
A few minutes later, still sobbing intermittently, Sophie was standing on the plinth, posing as a crux girl, with a rough Roman-style patibulum strapped across her arms and shoulders, and a posy of four long cold nails dangling grotesquely against her perky little breasts.
Greta’s classmate, Sophie Sweetly, was a shy and demure brunette, very pretty, in a pale and understated English kind of way. Greta remembers how Sophie blushed as she stood facing the class of twelve girls and began to unbutton her blouse.
“You can keep your panties on for this pose, Sophia,” said Signora Meloni.
How vulnerable and pathetic Sophie looked, standing before them -- her slim nubile little body naked except for her skimpy white cotton panties.
“Allora, as I am sure you all know very well – la sua bella madre – Sophia's pretty mommy, Hermione Sweetly, is at this time on trial at the Old Bailey, Criminal Court, for possessing of a forbidden book. Sophia, please to remind us, my dear? What is the book called?”
Sophie stared searchingly at Signora Meloni, her bright blue eyes wide with incomprehension. Why did her teacher feel the need to humiliate her in this way?
“It – It’s called A Vindication of the Rights of Women, she said in a barely audible voice, casting her eyes downwards.”
“That is right, Sophia. A very clever book. But also a very dangerous book, that can put dangerous ideas in our silly little heads. It claims that we girls should have equal power with the men, instead of being just spoiled and pampered and made love to by them. Hah! It was written nearly three hundred years ago by the proto-fembitch writer, Maria Wollstonecraft, a very cunning woman, who was described by the most brilliant men of her time as ‘a Hyena in a Petticoat’.”
Greta glanced nervously at the Classroom Monitor, a boy called Hector, who was sitting in the corner with a smirk on his well-chiseled Alpha face. It was his task to ensure that nothing improper occurred between a female teacher and her pupils.
By referring to Mary Wollstonecraft as “a very cunning woman” and to her most subversive book as “a very clever book”, Signora Meloni was flirting with danger. It was something she did frequently. She seemed to enjoy the thrill of it. If Hector decided to report her to the Headmaster it could get her into serious trouble.
Little Boundwench Sixth Form College was not above punishing its female teachers with public breast whippings. But thus far the art teacher had evaded such embarrassment.
The Alpha boys liked her confident sensuality. Moreover, whenever she crossed the line she seemed very happy to buy their silence with sexual favors, often giving them blowjobs in class, as the girls carried on with their drawing assignments.
Greta’s brother, Thor, had often mentioned that the school Alphas considered supervising Meloni’s life-drawing classes to be one of the more enjoyable monitoring jobs.
Greta had a huge crush on her art teacher. There was no denying that Signora Meloni was herself -- as well as beautiful and sexy -- a very cunning and clever woman. She was a force of nature. A reckless and unpredictable pansexual nymphomaniac.
“A hyena in a petticoat”, Signora Meloni repeated portentously. “Does anyone know what will happen if Sophia’s mommy is found to be guilty of possessing such a book?”
She stared directly at Greta.
“Do you know, Greta?”
Greta felt distinctly uncomfortable. She stared back at her with a blank expression.
Was Signora Meloni aware that she had read the text which Sophie’s mother was accused of possessing. Did she know that the exact same copy of the book had once been in Greta’s possession?
Greta had a strong intuition that she did. Something in her playful dark-eyed gaze suggested it.
Subversive feminist texts were widely circulated in the London suburbs among cliques of intelligent independent-minded women; or in many cases, simply women who loved the peril and excitement of holding forbidden books in their hands.
Staying awake late a few months previously -- safely snuggled under her duvet and reading by torchlight -- Greta had devoured the battered copy of Mary Wollstonecraft’s eighteenth-century treatise that now formed “Exhibit A” in the trial of Hermione Sweetly.
It had been given to Greta, in exchange for some of her very accomplished drawings, by a lady called Demeter. Demeter was a sophisticated housewife in her late forties, and she was married to Dean Farmer, the Headmaster of Greta's school. They lived not far from the Larsons, in a very large and expensive house.
Dean Farmer was a workaholic who regularly brought his work home. And because Little Boundwench Sixth Form College ran a very ambitious correction schedule, he frequently brought the naughtiest girls home with him, for punishment in his specially adapted basement torture chamber. This allowed his wife plenty of free time to pursue her own, artistic, interests, and to read forbidden texts. She was something of an art connoisseur, and had taken an interest in Greta, believing that she showed great promise as an artist.
The copy of Wollstonecraft’s Vindication which Demeter had passed on to Greta had been disguised as a novel called Cindy at the Snuff Fair. It bore a lurid picture on its creased fake cover of a line of naked women patiently awaiting their turn to be garrotted in front of a laughing crowd.
Greta’s biggest fear had been that her brother might find the book. Thor was in the habit of entering her bedroom while she was out, and rummaging through her drawers in search of titillating items of clothing. The cover of Cindy at the Snuff Fair would have piqued his curiosity and he would certainly have flicked through its dog-eared pages, looking for the dirty bits.
But on realizing exactly what kind of book it was, Thor would have had no hesitation in doing his duty as an Alpha, and turning his sister in to the police. He would have done so just for the pleasure of being allowed to rape her and then see her publicly executed. Such were the pranks that turned her brother on.
Nevertheless, by hiding it under her mattress, Greta had managed to read Wollstonecraft’s Vindication undetected – by Thor or anyone else in her family. The book had made a very profound impression on her. It spoke to her as no other book had done, in a clear distinct voice and with a cold hard logic.
It told her who she was. It told her that, as a woman, she had agency and intrinsic worth. It gave her the strength to believe that she was so much more than an object, or a piece of property; so much more than a vapid sentimental bimbo whose only purpose in life was to serve and give sexual pleasure to men.
Having read the book, Greta’s main concern had been how to dispose of it. She had wiped it down carefully for fingerprints and exchanged it with Demeter for a mainstream classic which she felt no necessity to conceal: a comic book, by a late twentieth-century artist called Dolcett, entitled Club X and other tales.
Reading Dolcett after internalizing the impassioned moralizing prose of Mary Wollstonecraft produced a curious effect on Greta. In contrast to Wollstonecraft, Dolcett made her feel guilty, soiled, dirty and worthless – but also achingly, deliriously, sexually aroused.
Each evening, after turning off the light – her 18-year old imagination packed and feverish with Dolcett’s prescient images and realistic scenarios – she masturbated breathlessly to frenzied fantasies of attending the fictional Club X (or one of the myriad real-life snuff clubs now operating in London) in the company of Signora Meloni.
She would gag herself, cramming her wet panties into her mouth – fearing that her shrieking and moaning would be heard by her brother in the next room – and then edge herself to a climax, over and over, to thoughts of making out with her art teacher, kissing and groping in a naked embrace, as they both waited in line for their turn to be executed ... and being prised apart by the executioner when their turn to stand on the gallows wearing the noose came around …
Dolcett had produced his art long before snuff clubs and meatgirl barbecues had become a thing -- an everyday reality. But there was an unthreatening charm and a moral clarity to his vision, which Greta’s libido found deeply satisfying. Whenever she analyzed herself, she guessed that her Dolcett fantasies were her way of dealing with the anxiety associated with the very real possibility of being snuffed to satisfy men's -- or even other women's -- sexual or gastronomic urges.
“Come Greta”, said Signora Meloni, still staring intently at her. “I’m sure you know the answer … What will happen to Sophia’s mommy when – I mean if – she is found guilty?”
Sophie let out a sob.
Greta continued to hold her teacher’s gaze, but her heart was beating faster.
Signora Meloni was playing with her like a cat with a mouse.
A sheen of perspiration broke out on her forehead as the fear that her teacher might report her to the police took hold. The woman was a total loose cannon … Nothing was beyond her … Did Signora Meloni have any evidence against her?
When she had returned the book to Demeter, Demeter had told Greta that disposing of it once again would be easy because there was a female teacher at the school who was very eager to acquire a copy. Could that have been Signora Meloni? And if so, how did it come eventually into the possession of Sophie’s mom?
There was a rumor circulating within Demeter’s circle that someone had planted the book in Sophie’s school bag and then tipped off the police. On raiding the house after school hours the police had discovered the book, still in Sophie’s bag.
It was further rumored that Sophie’s mom, Hermione Sweetly, had immediately claimed responsibility for it, in order to protect her daughter, knowing full well that, for a woman, even routine questioning at a police station inevitably involved getting gang raped.
After she herself had been repeatedly raped and tortured with electricity, Hermione Sweetly had confessed to the crime of sedition. But in court she had withdrawn her confession and pleaded “not guilty”. Hence the inconvenience of a jury trial.
Getting no reply from Greta, Signora Meloni’s smoldering gaze swept over the entire class.
“Who can tell me how Sophie’s mommy will be punished if she is found to be guilty?”
Every one of the girls knew the answer. Each evening for the past week Greta and her classmates had been glued to the TV, watching the highlights of the trial. The jury had not yet been sent out to deliberate. But the verdict in such trials was always a foregone conclusion. There was little point in hoping for a “not guilty” verdict.
Each of the girls, except for Greta, raised her hand.
“Yes, Klara?” The teacher nodded at the nerdiest girl in the class.
“She’ll be sentenced to be crucified, on Trafalgar Square, Signora Meloni, after being flogged and publicly raped.”
“That is correct, Klara. Pretty women who commit sedition are punished with crucifixion, a very painful and humiliating method of execution. And who will be crucified alongside her? … Yes, Jessica?”
“All the female members of her family, Signora Meloni. Which means, Sophie, Sophie’s sister, her aunt and … erm, her cousin?” said Jessica with obvious relish.
Jessica was a buxom and stunningly beautiful blonde, and Greta despised her for being such a self-satisfied airhead.
“Excellent, Jessica!” said Signora Meloni. The law states very clearly that when a woman is found to be guilty of sedition, all of the female members of her family must be executed too. Just in case that the – how do you say? – virus of sedition has spread among them also.”
Greta bristled as Jessica preened herself. Sophie began to cry. Big tears tumbled onto her firm and pert little breasts.
Sophie’s tears were a huge turn-on for Hector, who casually unzipped his fly and began to play with his big semi-hard cock.
The girls glanced furtively at him and giggled amongst themselves.
“Wow!” Jessica whispered. “That’s a helluva cock! Even by Alpha standards!”
Greta felt deep indignation at her classmates’ insensitivity. The teacher was telling them that Sophie was going to be crucified, and all they could do was ogle an Alpha cock!
It was their coping mechanism, she supposed: their way of dealing with the relentless sexualized peril of their daily lives under King Henry IX’s so-called "New Patriarchy". What was about to happen to Sophie could equally well happen to any of them. If they were lucky they would end up auctioned off as virgin brides to Alphas like Hector. But that was the best they could hope for.
“Allora ragazze, my assignment for you today is to draw Sophie, as you imagine her being prepared for her crucifixion. Klara, please to go to the props closet and bring me a long thick piece of wood. Not too heavy. And some bindings, and some crux nails … there should be four nails tied together with string, somewhere on the top shelf …”
Sophie sobbed quietly as Klara scuttled off to the closet. Greta felt a strong urge to go and give the weeping girl a comforting hug.
She felt relieved when Signora Meloni moved over and enfolded Sophie tightly in her arms, wiping her tears and cradling her head and rich brown hair over the mighty ravine of her own plunging cleavage.
“There, there. La mia bella ragazza. Don’t worry. Yes, being crucified will hurt a lot and be very humiliating for you. But trust me Sophia, you are very lucky girl. You will make great show when you are crucified. So all the men will lust after you and all the girls will want to be like you and change places with you … You see how Hector is turned on by the sight of your nakedness? Your lovely tits? You see how he plays with his big cock? When you are crucified you will see many many men playing with their cocks and looking up at you with strong and fiery passion in their eyes as you scream and scream … you will become a truly sexy woman … and you will cum and cum like you have never cummed before ...”
Sophie broke down in an overwhelming, convulsive fit of sobbing. Tears dripped from her flushed cheeks, and thick drool hung from her pretty, contorted mouth.
Greta fought to control her own tears as Sophie's eyes met hers. Never had she seen such terror in a girl's eyes.
A few minutes later, still sobbing intermittently, Sophie was standing on the plinth, posing as a crux girl, with a rough Roman-style patibulum strapped across her arms and shoulders, and a posy of four long cold nails dangling grotesquely against her perky little breasts.
carloscruz
Governor
Thank you very much @CruxGirl!
I reread the whole story in order to fully enjoy your last chapter.
It is very well written and the characters are depicted with intelligent complexity.
It is incredibly exciting for me to read your stories. Specially, knowing that those are the fantasies of an intelligent and attractive woman.
For instance, I find very very arousing this paragraph:
I must confess that I get an erection every time I read it
CruxGirl
Magistrate
Thank you so much carloscruz! That is the highest tribute anyone could possibly pay to my writing!I must confess that I get an erection every time I read it
carloscruz
Governor
Now you know why I wait impatient for your next chapter!
CruxGirl
Magistrate
5.
Greta excelled at figure drawing. With a soft pencil poised between nimble fingers, she began to study the lines and contours of Sophie’s outstretched form, following the subtle interplay of arched back, flat belly and taut arm muscles, with the lovely softer curves of anxious hips, girly thigh-gap, bubble butt, and an exquisitely flirtatious pair of upward-jutting breasts.
She noticed that Sophie’s nipples were now erect and engorged. They looked hard and pink like the rubber tips of her eraserhead pencils. There was also a trace of wetness on her panties, in the tiny furrow where moist pussy lips kissed white cotton.
She wondered whether Signora Meloni’s encouraging words and sensual cuddle had awoken in the hapless girl a thrill of masochistic excitement, spicing her terror of crucifixion with a dark and unwholesome eroticism.
There was a broad consensus, among both psychotherapists and teaching professionals, that paraphilic arousal ought to be encouraged in teenage girls (those aged eighteen to nineteen) who were sentenced to public execution, especially those facing crucifixion.
Fetishistic arousal ensured greater compliance and submissiveness among the subjects, as well as a more satisfying spectacle for the onlookers. That was why the works of Dolcett featured regularly as school set-texts. They helped normalize snuff and gynophagia as societal norms.
Quite recently there had been a spate of court cases in which groups of schoolgirls (usually under the influence of charismatic teachers) had conspired together to break the law, en masse, in a frenzied and seemingly spontaneous impulse to be tortured and crucified.
There had been one instance, at Greta’s own school, of a class of nine girls who had visited a local department store, put on various items of hot lingerie in the changing rooms, and then casually walked towards the exit, still wearing them underneath their school uniforms.
When the alarms were triggered the store detectives demanded that they strip in front of the other shoppers and surrender the stolen goods. The girls were then charged with shoplifting and indecent exposure, both of which, under England’s new “Bloody Code”, were punishable by death if the perpetrators were female.
On interrogation, the girls confessed that they had simply felt horny, and thought that being crucified would be enormously sexually exciting. Some of them even mentioned Signora Meloni as the one who had planted the idea in their heads.
All nine girls had their wish granted by the judge at the local magistrates court when they were sentenced to be crucified on Little Boundwech village green, after first being raped and caned in the school hall.
An epidemic of similar cases throughout the kingdom triggered a moral panic within England’s middle-class, giving rise to much discussion in the national media about the susceptibility of teenage girls to “social contagion”.
Social commentators made bizarre comparisons with Joan of Arc, or young girls seeking martyrdom in Ancient Rome, or frenzied teenagers accusing their neighbors of witchcraft in seventeenth-century Salem.
Petitions to King Henry to stop the execution of the nine girls on the grounds that it entailed the wanton and wasteful destruction of premium housewife material, were declined on the grounds that the girls were human beings and not pieces of property. They were free moral agents, capable of participating in the social contract, and of understanding the pain and humiliation exacted by retributive justice.
As a valuable moral lesson, Greta’s entire school was required to watch the girls’ crucifixions. Greta never quite understood what the lesson was, but she never forgot the look of petrified horror in the girls’ eyes as they approached the village green and the nine wooden posts awaiting them, lying flat on the fragrant freshly mown grass.
She was filled with pity for the girls as they whimpered pathetically when their patibula were removed and, one by one, they were invited forward by men bearing hammers who instructed them to take off their panties and lie down in the nailing position, feet together, arms outstretched, on their newly assembled T-cruxes.
But what made the deepest impression on Greta, as she stared with both sympathy and curiosity into each of the girls’ eyes, was that – mixed in with the horror and the tears – she could discern something else. She saw in them the steady glow of a still-smoldering and shameless erotic craving.
She saw that the savage and brutal punishment about to be visited upon them was actually fuelling a deep, dark yearning. For these girls crucifixion was feeding an insatiable and ravenous sexual hunger.
Greta often thought about the things that she had witnessed on that day. Her spine had tingled as she listened to the piercing purity of the girls’ screams. Her legs had become weak and shaky as she watched them hanging in agony from their timbers, begging and pleading to be taken down and sent home to their parents.
And as the girls had lowered themselves onto their thick cornus, allowing their glistening pussies to be penetrated very deeply by the polished wooden phalluses, they all, without exception, closed their eyes tightly, arched their backs and moaned, crying out in ecstasy, as if ravaged by the most sublimely powerful orgasms a young girl was capable of experiencing. Many of them had even squirted before their pussies had touched the cornus.
This happened over and over, until they were totally spent and too exhausted to prolong their show, and the order was given to break their legs. The whole spectacle had left Greta wondering whether the trauma of extreme humiliation, the horrendous pain followed by death, had really been worth it for these girls, just for the sake of having some very intense sexual climaxes. Probably not, she thought.
She did wonder however whether Sophie – given that crucifixion seemed inevitable and inescapable in her case – might profit from the kind of extraordinary sexual arousal that those girls had experienced. Sexual pleasure, even in horrid circumstances, had to be a plus. Right? Even if it did mean the total surrender of one’s dignity as a woman.
"Allora! How are you all getting along?" asked Signora Meloni. "Remember, you must not just draw what you are seeing. Great artists invest what they see with a moral vision."
Greta looked around in panic. All the other girls were busily sketching away, but she was yet to start her outline drawing. She needed to focus. She had been daydreaming as usual, dwelling on things which were of no consequence. Survival always meant concentrating on the task in hand. She tried to bring her mind back to the task of drawing Sophie's almost naked form..
But there was something about this particular assignment that made concentration difficult. The idea of seeing Sophie crucified was just too upsetting for her. Signora Meloni would coming around any moment to see how everyone was doing, and she was not above sending girls over to Dean Farmer’s study to be caned for not concentrating sufficiently in class.
She glanced sideways and noticed that Hector's cock was, by now, totally erect. He was pumping it vigorously with his fist. Jessica, sitting in front of Greta, raised her head and looked over at him, flicking back her luscious blonde bangs, and trying to catch his eye. But Hector’s gaze – lecherous and malevolent – was focused entirely on poor Sophie.
He was clearly imagining the things he was going to do to her at her pre-crux gangbang, for which he and the other school Alphas would be given priority tickets. For them Sophie would be just a piece of meat with three holes. They would penetrate each of her orifices simultaneously. Thor had told Greta that Hector absolutely loved violently throatfucking a girl almost to the point of choking.
Sophie was glancing at Hector now and again, nervously licking her lips, obviously aware of what he was thinking. She moved her hips slightly and shifted her balance, as the weight of the patibulum began to tire her legs.
“Keep still, Sophia, my dear!” said Signora Meloni in her husky voice. “You must maintain your pose!”
Greta focused her attention on Sophie's face, her fine bone structure, and her cute little nose. She studied her expression, trying to gauge her state of mind. Still anguished and wet with tears, Sophie’s face was no longer simply pretty. It had acquired a poignant and sultry beauty. Greta resolved to capture as much as she could of this haunting beauty, a beauty heightened by impending tragedy.
When their eyes met Greta also noticed a new pride and defiance in her gaze, which seemed to offset her accustomed timidity. But she knew that the self-conceit and determination a teenage girl could muster in front of a class of fellow schoolgirls was unlikely to survive the crushing power of the Patriarchy’s Department of Justice.
Once the Police came to arrest her, and to explain to her exactly what would be done to her, Sophie, like most other girls of her age, would be reduced to a whimpering wreck. Greta imagined her desperately offering sexual favors to the officers while pleading to be spared the whip and the nails.
They would simply ridicule her and taunt as a pathetic broken little slut. Ruthless misogyny was institutionalized within the police, and mercy of any kind was viewed as tantamount to weakness.
Finally, Greta found the confidence and determination to begin sketching her model. With some feather-light strokes she drew the outline of Sophie’s petite figure, perfectly conveying the weight of the gruesome patibulum pressing down on her slender shoulders.
As she pursued her artistic vision, Greta's imagination took flight, following Sophie and her mom and sister and aunt and cousin, on their walk of shame through the thronging London streets, wending their way from the Old Bailey, down the Strand, towards Leicester Square, where they would be gang-raped and whipped, and then onwards to Trafalgar Square, and the steps leading up to the National Gallery, where a large wooden platform had been erected.
On the platform there was a row of heavy wooden beams, lying flat and horizontal, onto which the patibula would be attached. At the press of a button, these beams – called stipites – would rise slowly, bearing their naked shrieking payloads skywards in a humiliating ninety-degree arc.
Then, hanging vertically by their nailed wrists and feet, Sophie, and her mother and her sister and her aunt and cousin, would begin to perform their “dance”: a grotesque heaving parody of elegant movement, a Sisyphean sequence of meaningless contortions, a desperate effort to mitigate the excruciating pain, while exposed to the laughter and the dark sexual excitement of the London crowd.
Mother-and-daughter crucifixions were a major attraction on the London scene, and Greta knew that many column inches of the Sunday papers would be devoted to the individual “performance” put on by each member of Sophie’s family. Sophie’s lovely figure, the wretched writhing and squirming of her hot and sexy body, would no doubt give rise to rapturously sophisticated commentary among the crux aficionados.
It was totally barbaric! And yet, as she imagined these things, Greta herself was becoming aroused. She crossed her legs, squeezing her thighs together, negotiating the sticky warmth of her wet panties. She felt guilty and disgusted with herself. How could she derive pleasure from what was going to happen to Sophie? That sweetest, cutest, most innocent of girls!
Greta excelled at figure drawing. With a soft pencil poised between nimble fingers, she began to study the lines and contours of Sophie’s outstretched form, following the subtle interplay of arched back, flat belly and taut arm muscles, with the lovely softer curves of anxious hips, girly thigh-gap, bubble butt, and an exquisitely flirtatious pair of upward-jutting breasts.
She noticed that Sophie’s nipples were now erect and engorged. They looked hard and pink like the rubber tips of her eraserhead pencils. There was also a trace of wetness on her panties, in the tiny furrow where moist pussy lips kissed white cotton.
She wondered whether Signora Meloni’s encouraging words and sensual cuddle had awoken in the hapless girl a thrill of masochistic excitement, spicing her terror of crucifixion with a dark and unwholesome eroticism.
There was a broad consensus, among both psychotherapists and teaching professionals, that paraphilic arousal ought to be encouraged in teenage girls (those aged eighteen to nineteen) who were sentenced to public execution, especially those facing crucifixion.
Fetishistic arousal ensured greater compliance and submissiveness among the subjects, as well as a more satisfying spectacle for the onlookers. That was why the works of Dolcett featured regularly as school set-texts. They helped normalize snuff and gynophagia as societal norms.
Quite recently there had been a spate of court cases in which groups of schoolgirls (usually under the influence of charismatic teachers) had conspired together to break the law, en masse, in a frenzied and seemingly spontaneous impulse to be tortured and crucified.
There had been one instance, at Greta’s own school, of a class of nine girls who had visited a local department store, put on various items of hot lingerie in the changing rooms, and then casually walked towards the exit, still wearing them underneath their school uniforms.
When the alarms were triggered the store detectives demanded that they strip in front of the other shoppers and surrender the stolen goods. The girls were then charged with shoplifting and indecent exposure, both of which, under England’s new “Bloody Code”, were punishable by death if the perpetrators were female.
On interrogation, the girls confessed that they had simply felt horny, and thought that being crucified would be enormously sexually exciting. Some of them even mentioned Signora Meloni as the one who had planted the idea in their heads.
All nine girls had their wish granted by the judge at the local magistrates court when they were sentenced to be crucified on Little Boundwech village green, after first being raped and caned in the school hall.
An epidemic of similar cases throughout the kingdom triggered a moral panic within England’s middle-class, giving rise to much discussion in the national media about the susceptibility of teenage girls to “social contagion”.
Social commentators made bizarre comparisons with Joan of Arc, or young girls seeking martyrdom in Ancient Rome, or frenzied teenagers accusing their neighbors of witchcraft in seventeenth-century Salem.
Petitions to King Henry to stop the execution of the nine girls on the grounds that it entailed the wanton and wasteful destruction of premium housewife material, were declined on the grounds that the girls were human beings and not pieces of property. They were free moral agents, capable of participating in the social contract, and of understanding the pain and humiliation exacted by retributive justice.
As a valuable moral lesson, Greta’s entire school was required to watch the girls’ crucifixions. Greta never quite understood what the lesson was, but she never forgot the look of petrified horror in the girls’ eyes as they approached the village green and the nine wooden posts awaiting them, lying flat on the fragrant freshly mown grass.
She was filled with pity for the girls as they whimpered pathetically when their patibula were removed and, one by one, they were invited forward by men bearing hammers who instructed them to take off their panties and lie down in the nailing position, feet together, arms outstretched, on their newly assembled T-cruxes.
But what made the deepest impression on Greta, as she stared with both sympathy and curiosity into each of the girls’ eyes, was that – mixed in with the horror and the tears – she could discern something else. She saw in them the steady glow of a still-smoldering and shameless erotic craving.
She saw that the savage and brutal punishment about to be visited upon them was actually fuelling a deep, dark yearning. For these girls crucifixion was feeding an insatiable and ravenous sexual hunger.
Greta often thought about the things that she had witnessed on that day. Her spine had tingled as she listened to the piercing purity of the girls’ screams. Her legs had become weak and shaky as she watched them hanging in agony from their timbers, begging and pleading to be taken down and sent home to their parents.
And as the girls had lowered themselves onto their thick cornus, allowing their glistening pussies to be penetrated very deeply by the polished wooden phalluses, they all, without exception, closed their eyes tightly, arched their backs and moaned, crying out in ecstasy, as if ravaged by the most sublimely powerful orgasms a young girl was capable of experiencing. Many of them had even squirted before their pussies had touched the cornus.
This happened over and over, until they were totally spent and too exhausted to prolong their show, and the order was given to break their legs. The whole spectacle had left Greta wondering whether the trauma of extreme humiliation, the horrendous pain followed by death, had really been worth it for these girls, just for the sake of having some very intense sexual climaxes. Probably not, she thought.
She did wonder however whether Sophie – given that crucifixion seemed inevitable and inescapable in her case – might profit from the kind of extraordinary sexual arousal that those girls had experienced. Sexual pleasure, even in horrid circumstances, had to be a plus. Right? Even if it did mean the total surrender of one’s dignity as a woman.
"Allora! How are you all getting along?" asked Signora Meloni. "Remember, you must not just draw what you are seeing. Great artists invest what they see with a moral vision."
Greta looked around in panic. All the other girls were busily sketching away, but she was yet to start her outline drawing. She needed to focus. She had been daydreaming as usual, dwelling on things which were of no consequence. Survival always meant concentrating on the task in hand. She tried to bring her mind back to the task of drawing Sophie's almost naked form..
But there was something about this particular assignment that made concentration difficult. The idea of seeing Sophie crucified was just too upsetting for her. Signora Meloni would coming around any moment to see how everyone was doing, and she was not above sending girls over to Dean Farmer’s study to be caned for not concentrating sufficiently in class.
She glanced sideways and noticed that Hector's cock was, by now, totally erect. He was pumping it vigorously with his fist. Jessica, sitting in front of Greta, raised her head and looked over at him, flicking back her luscious blonde bangs, and trying to catch his eye. But Hector’s gaze – lecherous and malevolent – was focused entirely on poor Sophie.
He was clearly imagining the things he was going to do to her at her pre-crux gangbang, for which he and the other school Alphas would be given priority tickets. For them Sophie would be just a piece of meat with three holes. They would penetrate each of her orifices simultaneously. Thor had told Greta that Hector absolutely loved violently throatfucking a girl almost to the point of choking.
Sophie was glancing at Hector now and again, nervously licking her lips, obviously aware of what he was thinking. She moved her hips slightly and shifted her balance, as the weight of the patibulum began to tire her legs.
“Keep still, Sophia, my dear!” said Signora Meloni in her husky voice. “You must maintain your pose!”
Greta focused her attention on Sophie's face, her fine bone structure, and her cute little nose. She studied her expression, trying to gauge her state of mind. Still anguished and wet with tears, Sophie’s face was no longer simply pretty. It had acquired a poignant and sultry beauty. Greta resolved to capture as much as she could of this haunting beauty, a beauty heightened by impending tragedy.
When their eyes met Greta also noticed a new pride and defiance in her gaze, which seemed to offset her accustomed timidity. But she knew that the self-conceit and determination a teenage girl could muster in front of a class of fellow schoolgirls was unlikely to survive the crushing power of the Patriarchy’s Department of Justice.
Once the Police came to arrest her, and to explain to her exactly what would be done to her, Sophie, like most other girls of her age, would be reduced to a whimpering wreck. Greta imagined her desperately offering sexual favors to the officers while pleading to be spared the whip and the nails.
They would simply ridicule her and taunt as a pathetic broken little slut. Ruthless misogyny was institutionalized within the police, and mercy of any kind was viewed as tantamount to weakness.
Finally, Greta found the confidence and determination to begin sketching her model. With some feather-light strokes she drew the outline of Sophie’s petite figure, perfectly conveying the weight of the gruesome patibulum pressing down on her slender shoulders.
As she pursued her artistic vision, Greta's imagination took flight, following Sophie and her mom and sister and aunt and cousin, on their walk of shame through the thronging London streets, wending their way from the Old Bailey, down the Strand, towards Leicester Square, where they would be gang-raped and whipped, and then onwards to Trafalgar Square, and the steps leading up to the National Gallery, where a large wooden platform had been erected.
On the platform there was a row of heavy wooden beams, lying flat and horizontal, onto which the patibula would be attached. At the press of a button, these beams – called stipites – would rise slowly, bearing their naked shrieking payloads skywards in a humiliating ninety-degree arc.
Then, hanging vertically by their nailed wrists and feet, Sophie, and her mother and her sister and her aunt and cousin, would begin to perform their “dance”: a grotesque heaving parody of elegant movement, a Sisyphean sequence of meaningless contortions, a desperate effort to mitigate the excruciating pain, while exposed to the laughter and the dark sexual excitement of the London crowd.
Mother-and-daughter crucifixions were a major attraction on the London scene, and Greta knew that many column inches of the Sunday papers would be devoted to the individual “performance” put on by each member of Sophie’s family. Sophie’s lovely figure, the wretched writhing and squirming of her hot and sexy body, would no doubt give rise to rapturously sophisticated commentary among the crux aficionados.
It was totally barbaric! And yet, as she imagined these things, Greta herself was becoming aroused. She crossed her legs, squeezing her thighs together, negotiating the sticky warmth of her wet panties. She felt guilty and disgusted with herself. How could she derive pleasure from what was going to happen to Sophie? That sweetest, cutest, most innocent of girls!
Blue
Magistrate
This^^^^
And this^^^^
Are what got me to join this forum! “Naked shrieking payloads....” “a Sisyphean sequence of meaningless contortions...” Brilliantly clever and erotic.
Anything in the forecast for Miss Mercy Skreemings?
carloscruz
Governor
Totally agree! Clever and erotic and I also expect to learn about the end on Mercy!
Thanks a lot @CruxGirl you are obviously not only sexy, but an intelligent and cultured woman too!
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CruxGirl
Magistrate
Thanks, Blue! I'm afraid the forecast for Mercy is grim. But I hope to post a bulletin pretty soon
CruxGirl
Magistrate
carloscruz
Governor
carloscruz
Governor
I am really looking forward to read about signora Meloni crucifixion in London!
CruxGirl
Magistrate
Thank you @carloscruz. I'll try and write something soon, but the beginning of term is fast approaching and I have less free time for writing
carloscruz
Governor
Please!
Fantasmo
Senator
Take your time! The muse cannot be forced, its kiss must be awaited!Thank you @carloscruz. I'll try and write something soon, but the beginning of term is fast approaching and I have less free time for writing
Camoflarge
Condemned
Clever narrative and evocative writing style CruxGirl... It's full marks from me!