• Sign up or login, and you'll have full access to opportunities of forum.

The Real Historical Female Jesus

Go to CruxDreams.com
And speaking of researching history, Barb and I even spent some time digging into the important question of 18th century women's undergarments:D I kid you not and the discussion got quite heated, right Barb? We needed to know what an 18th century Barb covered her tight little with...
 
Chapter 5.

The Magistrate and the Sheriff stepped aside, signaling their men to carry out the sentence. The crowd, which had been watching intently from a discreet distance, began to buzz among themselves while jostling for position to witness what might happen next.

A moment later two men made their way forward through the crowd carrying a thick rough-hewn wooden beam. I was lifted off the ground and set down on my knees. Someone took me by the hair and forced me to hunch forward until my breasts dangled freely over my thighs. Then they positioned the wooden beam across my bare shoulders, its roughness grating against the back of my neck.

I groaned as my arms were stretched out along the face of the beam, the forced movement of muscles in my back renewing the fiery pain of my scourging. Lengths of cord were used to secure my wrists firmly in place. Finally a rope was noosed around my neck, its free length of perhaps ten feet tossed to the Sheriff, who pulled it taut and growled, "Arise, Ann, it's time to walk to the site of your crucifixion."

"Dear God, give me ... your Daughter, sent to this sinful earth by you, my Lord and Heavenly Father ... the strength to walk the path of your only Son, our Savior ... to die, as he did before me, on a cross to cleanse and save the souls of all men," I proclaimed grandly as I struggled to my feet, nearly toppling over under the awkward weight of the wooden beam.

The Sheriff gave a sharp tug on the rope, partly to shut me up and partly to move me forward. I took an uncertain step, then two. The crowd parted and I was led, weaving unsteadily, from the commons into the streets and lanes of the town. The crowd followed; it was like a parade. People hung out of windows, or stood in doorways along the way. The number of onlookers multiplied as the procession made its way through the town.

I staggered and stumbled, weak from my whipping and bent over under the weight of the heavy beam. My dangling breasts swayed from side to side, causing men and women to stare and point, titter and shout rude comments. I saw one woman, red-faced with disgust, dragging her poor husband away by the ear, while others laughed.

The man who had whipped me earlier, strode alongside, slapping the multi-tailed ends of his whip against my breasts with a playful under-handed flick every time I faltered. My long skirt, which had always been a little too big for me, kept slipping down from my waist to my hips, causing me to step on the hem and stumble. After a while, the Sheriff called a halt and had them remove my skirt, leaving me with nothing but a fitted white-linen breechcloth, which we Shaker women had adopted from the Mohawk people who lived near us in New York, tied at my hips.

A young man darted out and snatched up my skirt from where it had fallen in the lane, and strutted out ahead of the procession swinging the skirt over his head and yelling, "Here she comes! The woman who thinks she is the second coming! We'll give her what she wants, we will. Come on everyone. Out to the bluff to see the show!"

The procession reached the edge of town and took to a cowpath leading out to the bluff above the Merrimack River on which I was to be crucified. The sharp stones hurt my feet as I struggled to remain upright while negotiating the uphill grade.

By now the crowd that had witnessed my whipping on the town commons had grown to a throng the size of which was so immense as to be difficult to judge. I reckoned that to be a good thing; the more who came to witness my passion on the cross, the more who would someday see the true path to eternal life.

The cowpath seemed endless, snaking through forest and pasture, but at last the procession came to a halt in an opening atop a bluff overlooking the river. Exhausted I fell to my knees, hoping to gather strength for the coming ordeal.

The Sheriff removed the noose from my neck, while two burly fellows carried a long and very heavy wooden timber past me and dropped it on the ground. Two others set about digging a narrow hole in the turf, not far from the edge of the bluff. The crowd gathered around, shouting words of encouragement to the diggers.

The Sheriff looked to the Magistrate, who gave him a nod. "It's time," he said to me quietly as two of his men took the ends of the beam resting on my shoulders, lifted me up and backed me over to the timber lying in the grass. They sat me down on it, legs straddling either side of the wood, bent over under the weight of the beam.

I looked up. There seemed to be a disagreement. The Magistrate had an illustrated Bible open and was pointing to it. I listened. They were arguing about whether I should be tied or nailed to the cross. The Sheriff wanted to tie me, avowing that it would be more humane, while the Magistrate was insisting that I should be nailed as Jesus was.

They barely know what they are doing, I thought to myself, annoyed at the delay. Waiting is the hardest part. Gives one too much time to think. I wished they would make up their minds and just get on with it.

They finally reached a decision, or that is to say the Magistrate had his way. Another delay ensued while they sent someone back to town to fetch some nails. In the meantime people ambled around, gossiped, edged closer to get a better look at me as I sat forlornly on the timber. The Magistrate and the Sheriff continued to argue, this time about how properly to raise and secure a cross.

At last the nails had arrived. A heavy-set man with powerful arms came rushing through the crowd, a hammer in one hand, a bag of nails in the other. Helpful hands laid me back until the beam behind my neck banged against the timber beneath me. Ropes were used to quickly bind the two together. All was ready. My burden had become the crossbeam of my cross.

The man with the hammer came forward, kneeling by my extended left arm and placing the point of one of his nails over my wrist. I turned my head, determined to watch. I could both see and feel the sharp point of the nail pressing against my skin as he raised the hammer and brought it down.

It struck the nail full on. The point and shank slammed through my wrist as though it was nothing and buried itself deep in the soft wood of the crossbeam. As the nail tore into my flesh, a spurt of blood shot into the air, leaving a spotty red trail the length of my forearm.

At the moment of penetration, I twisted away, screaming and arching my back, digging in with both feet. There was a collective gasp from the crowd when the hammer struck with a ringing metallic clang, and then applause as a second hammer blow finished the job. Without a word, the man with the hammer rose to his feet, stepped over my panting, shaking body, and knelt down on my right to attend to nailing my other wrist.

This time I screwed my eyes shut and looked the other way. The violence of driving hard iron through my slim wrist, however, could hardly be ignored no matter what I did. A lightning bolt of pain raced up my arm, and my scream was even louder and more drawn out than before, as I dug my heels in, and again raised myself off the wood, went completely rigid before falling back, terror-stricken and sobbing.

Prayers flowed from my trembling lips as helping hands bound my ankles together, forced my knees to bend, and pressed the soles of my feet firmly down against the wood. A third nail was immediately pressed against my left foot and seconds later it was driven through with three quick hammer blows, breaking cartilage and bones, and eliciting not a scream from me this time ... but a long drawn-out animal-like moan of distress.

I raised my head weakly as the fourth and final nail was positioned over my left foot. I pleaded, in a raspy croaking voice, "please ... please ... don't ..." But the hammer came smashing down and I was thrown into another wild spasm of pain that left me writhing about and howling in agony.

They had done it! I had been brutally nailed ... pinned like a prize butterfly to the wood of my cross.

The men who had attended to my nailing stepped back to survey their handiwork. The Magistrate and Sheriff stepped forward, eager now that my nailing had been completed to get on with the raising. A hush of expectation spread through the crowd.

I lay there, waiting, panting, my chest rising and falling, heart racing, bracing for the next act ... when someone in the crowd called out. "Take away that breechcloth! Strip her bare! Allow her no dignity!" The crowd began to chant, as one, taking up and repeating this demand, united in their lustful desire to see me fully naked and humiliated.

The sheriff looked questionably at the Magistrate ... who hesitated, pondering the appropriateness of taking such an action. He stole a glance over his shoulder at the raucous crowd, sighed his acceptance, nodded his head at the Sheriff and said simply, "do it."

It happened so quickly. A sharp tug, the sound of ripping fabric, and my little linen breechcloth was gone! The crowd roared its approval. I pressed my knees together on a vain attempt to shield myself. Trembling with shock and lost in shame, I closed my eyes, looked to the sky and prayed.

"Raise her!" ordered the Magistrate, pointing to the sky.
 
windar said:
But I thought of Jesus and how bravely He had borne the burden. “I will follow God no, matter what.”

Finally, I gathered my strength. “I cannot recant the truth. I will beg you for mercy if that would change your minds, but recant I cannot do.”
Click to expand...

Barbaria1 said:
At the moment of penetration, I twisted away, screaming and arching my back, digging in with both feet. There was a collective gasp from the crowd when the hammer struck with a ringing metallic clang, and then applause as a second hammer blow finished the job. Without a word, the man with the hammer rose to his feet, stepped over my panting, shaking body, and knelt down on my right to attend to nailing my other wrist.
Click to expand...

Great work, Windar and Barb. We feel for her, her suffering unjust and yet accepted, her stubborn faith leading her to that hardest of paths.

windar said:
Never had I stood exposed like this in public, the object of attention of perhaps 200 or more pairs of eyes, all of which were staring fixedly at me. They were, in fact, so transfixed, that there was barely a sound. Even the most outspoken were silenced by the power of the moment.
Click to expand...

And great setting of the scene. The crowd hungry for her shame and suffering, yet also brought to silence by the reality of what they are doing, what they are witnessing. As her clothes are stripped away, and then her flesh, we move finally to her dignity and her humanity. She is lower than an animal, a human stripped of her rights, yet she stays fixed to her path.

I hear the collective gasp rise up throughout the land of CF
mxxx2.jpg
 
Last edited:
Tricia said:
Yes it does it for me also!

Thank you Windar ... I know writing about crucifixion isn't your favorite topic ... hopefully we can be your muse.
Click to expand...

I would never say never to another such story, but it would have to be something with unique elements, like this one. But whatever I might write, you guys here are terrific muses:)

phlebas said:
Great work, Windar and Barb. We feel for her, her suffering unjust and yet accepted, her stubborn faith leading her to that hardest of paths.
Click to expand...

Thank you for your very kind words.:) Ann's refusal to recant, a recantation she could easily disavow later on, is quite a statement I think. She could have done like Galileo, who, faced with the Inquisition, recanted while muttering "But still it moves." Well, he actually said it in Italian, but you get what I'm saying....
 
phlebas said:
Great work, Windar and Barb. We feel for her, her suffering unjust and yet accepted, her stubborn faith leading her to that hardest of paths.



And great setting of the scene. The crowd hungry for her shame and suffering, yet also brought to silence by the reality of what they are doing, what they are witnessing. As her clothes are stripped away, and then her flesh, we move finally to her dignity and her humanity. She is lower than an animal, a human stripped of her rights, yet she stays fixed to her path.

I hear the collective gasp rise up throughout the land of CF
View attachment 435504
Click to expand...

If she were lying in a grassy meadow, and was wearing a more tailored cloth ... she could be Ann.
 
Crucified-Woman_shadowsinedendotblogspotdotcom.jpg Crucified-Woman_shadowsinedendotblogspotdotcom.jpg
Barbaria1 said:
Chapter 5.

The Magistrate and the Sheriff stepped aside, signaling their men to carry out the sentence. The crowd, which had been watching intently from a discreet distance, began to buzz among themselves while jostling for position to witness what might happen next.

A moment later two men made their way forward through the crowd carrying a thick rough-hewn wooden beam. I was lifted off the ground and set down on my knees. Someone took me by the hair and forced me to hunch forward until my breasts dangled freely over my thighs. Then they positioned the wooden beam across my bare shoulders, its roughness grating against the back of my neck.

I groaned as my arms were stretched out along the face of the beam, the forced movement of muscles in my back renewing the fiery pain of my scourging. Lengths of cord were used to secure my wrists firmly in place. Finally a rope was noosed around my neck, its free length of perhaps ten feet tossed to the Sheriff, who pulled it taut and growled, "Arise, Ann, it's time to walk to the site of your crucifixion."

"Dear God, give me ... your Daughter, sent to this sinful earth by you, my Lord and Heavenly Father ... the strength to walk the path of your only Son, our Savior ... to die, as he did before me, on a cross to cleanse and save the souls of all men," I proclaimed grandly as I struggled to my feet, nearly toppling over under the awkward weight of the wooden beam.

The Sheriff gave a sharp tug on the rope, partly to shut me up and partly to move me forward. I took an uncertain step, then two. The crowd parted and I was led, weaving unsteadily, from the commons into the streets and lanes of the town. The crowd followed; it was like a parade. People hung out of windows, or stood in doorways along the way. The number of onlookers multiplied as the procession made its way through the town.

I staggered and stumbled, weak from my whipping and bent over under the weight of the heavy beam. My dangling breasts swayed from side to side, causing men and women to stare and point, titter and shout rude comments. I saw one woman, red-faced with disgust, dragging her poor husband away by the ear, while others laughed.

The man who had whipped me earlier, strode alongside, slapping the multi-tailed ends of his whip against my breasts with a playful under-handed flick every time I faltered. My long skirt, which had always been a little too big for me, kept slipping down from my waist to my hips, causing me to step on the hem and stumble. After a while, the Sheriff called a halt and had them remove my skirt, leaving me with nothing but a fitted white-linen breechcloth, which we Shaker women had adopted from the Mohawk people who lived near us in New York, tied at my hips.

A young man darted out and snatched up my skirt from where it had fallen in the lane, and strutted out ahead of the procession swinging the skirt over his head and yelling, "Here she comes! The woman who thinks she is the second coming! We'll give her what she wants, we will. Come on everyone. Out to the bluff to see the show!"

The procession reached the edge of town and took to a cowpath leading out to the bluff above the Merrimack River on which I was to be crucified. The sharp stones hurt my feet as I struggled to remain upright while negotiating the uphill grade.

By now the crowd that had witnessed my whipping on the town commons had grown to a throng the size of which was so immense as to be difficult to judge. I reckoned that to be a good thing; the more who came to witness my passion on the cross, the more who would someday see the true path to eternal life.

The cowpath seemed endless, snaking through forest and pasture, but at last the procession came to a halt in an opening atop a bluff overlooking the river. Exhausted I fell to my knees, hoping to gather strength for the coming ordeal.

The Sheriff removed the noose from my neck, while two burly fellows carried a long and very heavy wooden timber past me and dropped it on the ground. Two others set about digging a narrow hole in the turf, not far from the edge of the bluff. The crowd gathered around, shouting words of encouragement to the diggers.

The Sheriff looked to the Magistrate, who gave him a nod. "It's time," he said to me quietly as two of his men took the ends of the beam resting on my shoulders, lifted me up and backed me over to the timber lying in the grass. They sat me down on it, legs straddling either side of the wood, bent over under the weight of the beam.

I looked up. There seemed to be a disagreement. The Magistrate had an illustrated Bible open and was pointing to it. I listened. They were arguing about whether I should be tied or nailed to the cross. The Sheriff wanted to tie me, avowing that it would be more humane, while the Magistrate was insisting that I should be nailed as Jesus was.

They barely know what they are doing, I thought to myself, annoyed at the delay. Waiting is the hardest part. Gives one too much time to think. I wished they would make up their minds and just get on with it.

They finally reached a decision, or that is to say the Magistrate had his way. Another delay ensued while they sent someone back to town to fetch some nails. In the meantime people ambled around, gossiped, edged closer to get a better look at me as I sat forlornly on the timber. The Magistrate and the Sheriff continued to argue, this time about how properly to raise and secure a cross.

At last the nails had arrived. A heavy-set man with powerful arms came rushing through the crowd, a hammer in one hand, a bag of nails in the other. Helpful hands laid me back until the beam behind my neck banged against the timber beneath me. Ropes were used to quickly bind the two together. All was ready. My burden had become the crossbeam of my cross.

The man with the hammer came forward, kneeling by my extended left arm and placing the point of one of his nails over my wrist. I turned my head, determined to watch. I could both see and feel the sharp point of the nail pressing against my skin as he raised the hammer and brought it down.

It struck the nail full on. The point and shank slammed through my wrist as though it was nothing and buried itself deep in the soft wood of the crossbeam. As the nail tore into my flesh, a spurt of blood shot into the air, leaving a spotty red trail the length of my forearm.

At the moment of penetration, I twisted away, screaming and arching my back, digging in with both feet. There was a collective gasp from the crowd when the hammer struck with a ringing metallic clang, and then applause as a second hammer blow finished the job. Without a word, the man with the hammer rose to his feet, stepped over my panting, shaking body, and knelt down on my right to attend to nailing my other wrist.

This time I screwed my eyes shut and looked the other way. The violence of driving hard iron through my slim wrist, however, could hardly be ignored no matter what I did. A lightning bolt of pain raced up my arm, and my scream was even louder and more drawn out than before, as I dug my heels in, and again raised myself off the wood, went completely rigid before falling back, terror-stricken and sobbing.

Prayers flowed from my trembling lips as helping hands bound my ankles together, forced my knees to bend, and pressed the soles of my feet firmly down against the wood. A third nail was immediately pressed against my left foot and seconds later it was driven through with three quick hammer blows, breaking cartilage and bones, and eliciting not a scream from me this time ... but a long drawn-out animal-like moan of distress.

I raised my head weakly as the fourth and final nail was positioned over my left foot. I pleaded, in a raspy croaking voice, "please ... please ... don't ..." But the hammer came smashing down and I was thrown into another wild spasm of pain that left me writhing about and howling in agony.

They had done it! I had been brutally nailed ... pinned like a prize butterfly to the wood of my cross.

The men who had attended to my nailing stepped back to survey their handiwork. The Magistrate and Sheriff stepped forward, eager now that my nailing had been completed to get on with the raising. A hush of expectation spread through the crowd.

I lay there, waiting, panting, my chest rising and falling, heart racing, bracing for the next act ... when someone in the crowd called out. "Take away that breechcloth! Strip her bare! Allow her no dignity!" The crowd began to chant, as one, taking up and repeating this demand, united in their lustful desire to see me fully naked and humiliated.

The sheriff looked questionably at the Magistrate ... who hesitated, pondering the appropriateness of taking such an action. He stole a glance over his shoulder at the raucous crowd, sighed his acceptance, nodded his head at the Sheriff and said simply, "do it."

It happened so quickly. A sharp tug, the sound of ripping fabric, and my little linen breechcloth was gone! The crowd roared its approval. I pressed my knees together on a vain attempt to shield myself. Trembling with shock and lost in shame, I closed my eyes, looked to the sky and prayed.
"Raise her!" ordered the Magistrate, pointing to the sky.
Click to expand...
Excellent B, that's a just punishment for a heretic!
 
Barbaria1 said:
Chapter 5.

The Magistrate and the Sheriff stepped aside, signaling their men to carry out the sentence. The crowd, which had been watching intently from a discreet distance, began to buzz among themselves while jostling for position to witness what might happen next.

A moment later two men made their way forward through the crowd carrying a thick rough-hewn wooden beam. I was lifted off the ground and set down on my knees. Someone took me by the hair and forced me to hunch forward until my breasts dangled freely over my thighs. Then they positioned the wooden beam across my bare shoulders, its roughness grating against the back of my neck.

I groaned as my arms were stretched out along the face of the beam, the forced movement of muscles in my back renewing the fiery pain of my scourging. Lengths of cord were used to secure my wrists firmly in place. Finally a rope was noosed around my neck, its free length of perhaps ten feet tossed to the Sheriff, who pulled it taut and growled, "Arise, Ann, it's time to walk to the site of your crucifixion."

"Dear God, give me ... your Daughter, sent to this sinful earth by you, my Lord and Heavenly Father ... the strength to walk the path of your only Son, our Savior ... to die, as he did before me, on a cross to cleanse and save the souls of all men," I proclaimed grandly as I struggled to my feet, nearly toppling over under the awkward weight of the wooden beam.

The Sheriff gave a sharp tug on the rope, partly to shut me up and partly to move me forward. I took an uncertain step, then two. The crowd parted and I was led, weaving unsteadily, from the commons into the streets and lanes of the town. The crowd followed; it was like a parade. People hung out of windows, or stood in doorways along the way. The number of onlookers multiplied as the procession made its way through the town.

I staggered and stumbled, weak from my whipping and bent over under the weight of the heavy beam. My dangling breasts swayed from side to side, causing men and women to stare and point, titter and shout rude comments. I saw one woman, red-faced with disgust, dragging her poor husband away by the ear, while others laughed.

The man who had whipped me earlier, strode alongside, slapping the multi-tailed ends of his whip against my breasts with a playful under-handed flick every time I faltered. My long skirt, which had always been a little too big for me, kept slipping down from my waist to my hips, causing me to step on the hem and stumble. After a while, the Sheriff called a halt and had them remove my skirt, leaving me with nothing but a fitted white-linen breechcloth, which we Shaker women had adopted from the Mohawk people who lived near us in New York, tied at my hips.

A young man darted out and snatched up my skirt from where it had fallen in the lane, and strutted out ahead of the procession swinging the skirt over his head and yelling, "Here she comes! The woman who thinks she is the second coming! We'll give her what she wants, we will. Come on everyone. Out to the bluff to see the show!"

The procession reached the edge of town and took to a cowpath leading out to the bluff above the Merrimack River on which I was to be crucified. The sharp stones hurt my feet as I struggled to remain upright while negotiating the uphill grade.

By now the crowd that had witnessed my whipping on the town commons had grown to a throng the size of which was so immense as to be difficult to judge. I reckoned that to be a good thing; the more who came to witness my passion on the cross, the more who would someday see the true path to eternal life.

The cowpath seemed endless, snaking through forest and pasture, but at last the procession came to a halt in an opening atop a bluff overlooking the river. Exhausted I fell to my knees, hoping to gather strength for the coming ordeal.

The Sheriff removed the noose from my neck, while two burly fellows carried a long and very heavy wooden timber past me and dropped it on the ground. Two others set about digging a narrow hole in the turf, not far from the edge of the bluff. The crowd gathered around, shouting words of encouragement to the diggers.

The Sheriff looked to the Magistrate, who gave him a nod. "It's time," he said to me quietly as two of his men took the ends of the beam resting on my shoulders, lifted me up and backed me over to the timber lying in the grass. They sat me down on it, legs straddling either side of the wood, bent over under the weight of the beam.

I looked up. There seemed to be a disagreement. The Magistrate had an illustrated Bible open and was pointing to it. I listened. They were arguing about whether I should be tied or nailed to the cross. The Sheriff wanted to tie me, avowing that it would be more humane, while the Magistrate was insisting that I should be nailed as Jesus was.

They barely know what they are doing, I thought to myself, annoyed at the delay. Waiting is the hardest part. Gives one too much time to think. I wished they would make up their minds and just get on with it.

They finally reached a decision, or that is to say the Magistrate had his way. Another delay ensued while they sent someone back to town to fetch some nails. In the meantime people ambled around, gossiped, edged closer to get a better look at me as I sat forlornly on the timber. The Magistrate and the Sheriff continued to argue, this time about how properly to raise and secure a cross.

At last the nails had arrived. A heavy-set man with powerful arms came rushing through the crowd, a hammer in one hand, a bag of nails in the other. Helpful hands laid me back until the beam behind my neck banged against the timber beneath me. Ropes were used to quickly bind the two together. All was ready. My burden had become the crossbeam of my cross.

The man with the hammer came forward, kneeling by my extended left arm and placing the point of one of his nails over my wrist. I turned my head, determined to watch. I could both see and feel the sharp point of the nail pressing against my skin as he raised the hammer and brought it down.

It struck the nail full on. The point and shank slammed through my wrist as though it was nothing and buried itself deep in the soft wood of the crossbeam. As the nail tore into my flesh, a spurt of blood shot into the air, leaving a spotty red trail the length of my forearm.

At the moment of penetration, I twisted away, screaming and arching my back, digging in with both feet. There was a collective gasp from the crowd when the hammer struck with a ringing metallic clang, and then applause as a second hammer blow finished the job. Without a word, the man with the hammer rose to his feet, stepped over my panting, shaking body, and knelt down on my right to attend to nailing my other wrist.

This time I screwed my eyes shut and looked the other way. The violence of driving hard iron through my slim wrist, however, could hardly be ignored no matter what I did. A lightning bolt of pain raced up my arm, and my scream was even louder and more drawn out than before, as I dug my heels in, and again raised myself off the wood, went completely rigid before falling back, terror-stricken and sobbing.

Prayers flowed from my trembling lips as helping hands bound my ankles together, forced my knees to bend, and pressed the soles of my feet firmly down against the wood. A third nail was immediately pressed against my left foot and seconds later it was driven through with three quick hammer blows, breaking cartilage and bones, and eliciting not a scream from me this time ... but a long drawn-out animal-like moan of distress.

I raised my head weakly as the fourth and final nail was positioned over my left foot. I pleaded, in a raspy croaking voice, "please ... please ... don't ..." But the hammer came smashing down and I was thrown into another wild spasm of pain that left me writhing about and howling in agony.

They had done it! I had been brutally nailed ... pinned like a prize butterfly to the wood of my cross.

The men who had attended to my nailing stepped back to survey their handiwork. The Magistrate and Sheriff stepped forward, eager now that my nailing had been completed to get on with the raising. A hush of expectation spread through the crowd.

I lay there, waiting, panting, my chest rising and falling, heart racing, bracing for the next act ... when someone in the crowd called out. "Take away that breechcloth! Strip her bare! Allow her no dignity!" The crowd began to chant, as one, taking up and repeating this demand, united in their lustful desire to see me fully naked and humiliated.

The sheriff looked questionably at the Magistrate ... who hesitated, pondering the appropriateness of taking such an action. He stole a glance over his shoulder at the raucous crowd, sighed his acceptance, nodded his head at the Sheriff and said simply, "do it."

It happened so quickly. A sharp tug, the sound of ripping fabric, and my little linen breechcloth was gone! The crowd roared its approval. I pressed my knees together on a vain attempt to shield myself. Trembling with shock and lost in shame, I closed my eyes, looked to the sky and prayed.

"Raise her!" ordered the Magistrate, pointing to the sky.
Click to expand...
I was enjoying that! :)

But now I have a very sore ear. :( :doh:

Happily, I told 'er indoors that I was just nipping outside to prune the roses, and I made it back in time for the grand finale! :)

Well done, both of you! :clapping::clapping:
 
You must log in or register to reply here.
Back
Top Bottom