Messaline . . .
I never saw Messaline approach. It must have been while I was pushed up on the cross as I tried to relieve the burning, knotted pain in my shoulders and arms. She was just standing there when I opened my eyes after relaxing my legs and lowering myself against the upright.
View attachment 524688 I didn’t know what to make of her at first. She’s very different from the other women here. For one thing, she’s not naked and frolicking in the pool. Her delightful French accent along with her sexy floral dress, strappy high-heeled sandals, and a floppy summer hat all make her seem very sophisticated to me—a jeans-and-tee-shirt sort of girl who grew up in the American heartland.
“Oh,
ma chère,” she says in a slightly husky, low voice as she looks me over hanging in front of her, “you are so very beautiful. Such a lean, strong, feminine body. I just love your long, slender legs! So sexy! And your beautiful breasts, they are perfection! Oh, and what a delectably sweet pussy—
exquise!”
As Messaline expresses admiration for my lady bits she reaches out her hand and touches my belly, under my navel, with the tips of her fingers. They trace a path down to my mons where they play in my curly, damp pubic hair. She turns her hand up and slides it between my thighs to run her fingers lightly over my vulva. It’s a delightful sensation but I flinch and shout “No, don’t!” I instinctively squeeze my legs closed as though I’m a teenage girl getting felt-up in the back seat of a car. My face burns with embarrassment.
My blushing must be obvious. “Have I embarrassed you, my dear?” Messaline asks so sweetly after withdrawing her hand. “I did not mean to.” Before I can answer she goes on to say: “Oh, but of course I have.” She looks at me with wide open eyes and her mouth slightly open, as though she’s shocked at her own behavior.
“No . . . well . . . yes.” I stammer, searching for the correct answer. For some time now I’ve been virtually ignored as I hang on my cross. Now, to suddenly have someone standing so close and examining me is disconcerting. I’m in relentless pain and utterly helpless stretched out on my cross. Other than touching me Messaline has done nothing threatening, yet I feel as scared and vulnerable right now as any crucified woman would.
Messaline crosses her arms under her breasts, gently pushing them up slightly out of the top of her dress. She tightens her lips and shakes her head, as if showing disapproval. “Ah, my poor Marcella.” She sighs. “What a terrible shame that you’ve been crucified.”
She speaks as if she knows something of my fate that I do not. As if she knows I’ll not be coming off this cross. I try to say that I can end this at any time, but before I can she asks, rather bluntly, “Why did your master have you crucified?”
“My master?” I snap back her, groaning in pain as I tense my legs and twist my ass to one side of the upright against the fresh pain building in my shoulders. “I’m no slave!”
“Oh! A criminal then? Or a rebel, perhaps? What did you do to deserve this?”
My head rolls from side to side as I answer in a voice that starts out low but rises in vehemence as my pain escalates. “No . . . not a criminal either, or a rebel. I’m an innocent woman!”
“Oh, and how is that possible? An innocent woman crucified?
Impossible!” Messaline looks at me with disbelief in her eyes as her hands playfully swish the hem of her dress as though music was playing on her head.
I gather my thoughts to answer as she touches my leg, just above the knee, and then runs her hand up between my thighs, all the way to my crotch. The tip of a finger pushes into my cleft, separating my labia. She brushes her finger against my clit. The unexpected intimacy thrills me and this time I do not flinch or squeeze my legs together. I suck in my breath and tense my whole body, waiting for more. But, teasingly, she drops her hand back down. Shit! Why the fuck did she stop?
“I . . . I don’t know what I could have done, honestly! I’ve been good . . . I’m not bad!” My words are breathy as I now clench my thighs together trying to preserve the feeling of her finger on me.
“Please, do not lie to me, Marcella,” Messaline says softy but with a serious undertone, as if she’s my interrogator, “there is no need now.” She begins to walk slowly around my cross, talking as she goes.
“You must be guilty of something. Why else are you here, crucified, and suffering so terribly?”
Again, I protest my innocence. “But I’ve done nothing to deserve this!”
“Ah ha,” Messaline replies accusingly, her face turning up towards mine as she comes back around to the front of my cross, “I have it! You were crucified by your lover whom you betrayed. Yes! That’s it, is it not?”
“No!” I insisted. “I betrayed no one! Certainly not my husband, my lover. How many times must I tell you that I’ve done nothing wrong!”
“Stop protesting your innocence, girl! What have you done? Think! Confession would be good thing right now. It would free you to admit that you are responsible for your crucifixion. It would justify your suffering this day.” Messaline makes several more circuits around my cross. Each time her hands brush against my legs as she circles. I hear the measured tapping of her heels on the patio bricks.
I respond, my voice rising. “Please! I have nothing to confess! I am innocent!”
Do I really believe that? I ask myself
Messaline continues. “Then why do you not say your safe word and get taken down. You have the power to end this suffering. Why do you choose to remain on this cross?”
Why, indeed? I ask myself. This was never supposed to last so long. Did I let Alex crucify me for real? If I say my safe word and everyone just laughs, then I will know. But if I say it and I’m immediately taken down, then my crucifixion will be over. I’m living my fantasy, in a way more real than I ever could have imagined. But what if it was real? Would I accept it? Or go insane as I screamed my life away in agony? I guess I remain on the cross because I simply want to. Though terribly painful and humiliating, it just feels so damn . . . sensual! The pain gives such pleasure, and the pleasure is paid for in pain. But I don’t want it to end . . . for now.
I start to reply to Messaline’s question but her voice coming from behind my cross cuts me off. “Oh, Marcella! Your beautiful ass is full of splinters. Alex should have used a better grade of wood. This cross is far too rough for you!”
I feel her hand on my ass and between my ass cheeks.
“Mon Dieu,” she gasps. Oh, these splinters are so big and buried so deep in your flesh. They must hurt you terribly!
Non?”
I had gotten used to the pain of the splinters until Messaline began to pull one out. It must have been fairly deep because I squealed with pain as it was withdrawn. She walks around and shows it to me.
“See? A very large splinter. Yes?” The sliver appears several inches long and red with my blood. Messaline makes a look as though she’s holding something unpleasant, then lets the splinter drop to the bricks. She then runs her hands up and down my right thigh, gently squeezing my flesh. “Oh, my dear, I can feel such tension in you. Your muscles are as taut as twisted ropes.” I tense at her touch.
What is she up to? I wonder as I feel the side of her hand pushing firmly into my vulva. Damn, she’s getting me very stimulated—very wet! She reaches up and brushes my nipple with her hand. The sensation sends an impulse of pure, yearning pleasure through me. I gasp. She squeezes my boob and rolls the nipple between thumb and forefinger. I begin to groan in pleasure. My body shudders as she continues. “Oh, please,” I beg, breathing deeply, “don’t tease me and then stop. Don’t leave me like he did!”
I hear voices from the others. “Look at the bitch spread her legs!” One of the men shouts. I think it’s Tree. “See, she wants to be fucked! She’s asking for it!” Another shouts out, Wragg, I think it is. The women now join the men, dripping wet from the pool and standing naked in front of my cross. They cheer and hoot with the men. I blush with renewed embarrassment. How can my own sex treat me so badly? Yet, I’m not upset with Messaline. Why not? I never gave her permission to touch me; she just did it! It was an assault upon my dignity! I was violated! She’s no different than the others. She’s only assaulting me in different ways. Still, to me, she isn’t one of them. She’s different, so very, very different from them!
I look down. Indeed, I am holding my legs further apart than they ever were before Messaline approached. Am I inviting her in, so to speak? Do I even have to say anything? Am I asking for her to violate me by opening my legs? Yes, I am! Dammit! I want her to touch me! My face grows even hotter as I try to ignore the vile, indecent taunts of the people on my patio. I’m just a shameless cunt, practically begging this beautiful woman to violate me further!
Messaline walks around my cross again, brushing my tensed, burning thighs with her fingers as she goes. Her touch is so soft, so sensual! My heart starts beating faster as a gentle warmth grows in my pussy and begins to spread outward. She stops in front of me and looks up, placing her hand between my thighs and running it slowly up to my crotch where her fingers slip into my cleft and separate my pussy lips. I shudder as she pushes her fingers deep into my vagina. I moan as the heat builds in me. My back arches and my breasts thrust forward, their nipples tumescent. They ache to be touched, to be fondled, to be kissed!
“Oh, you poor girl.” Messaline says softy and with degree of concern in her voice. “Some man has treated you badly, I can tell.” She withdraws her fingers; they glisten. She holds them up for me to see. “See? Your labia are swollen, and you are full of cum. So much cum!
Merde! This could not have been just one man! It is running out of you!”
“Yes, I see.” I answer breathlessly as my arousal increases. “No, it was just one man.” I was so humiliated earlier feeling Alex’s sticky cum on my thighs whenever I pressed my legs together. Everyone knew I had been fucked. But now I don’t care! Breathing heavily, I say: “It’s my juices, too. Your touch, it is so, so wonderful . . . ”
Before I can say more Messaline almost dismissively wipes her fingers on my thigh, then looks up at me. “Did he pleasure you too, or just have his way with you?”
“No, he raped me.” I blurted the words out, but as soon as I said it I took them back. Alex may have fucked me hard, without any affection and concern for me, but it was not rape. “No, no, it wasn’t rape.” I gasped, “He just fucked me, very hard, very . . . very hard. I wasn’t ready. I didn’t want him . . .”
Before I can finish Messaline raises her hand. “It does not matter, my poor, dear girl. A man pleasured himself with your body just to satisfy his lust, then left you unsatisfied. Yes?”
“Yes, he did. He cared nothing about me. I was just a piece of meat, to him.” The words pained me to say them, but it was true. The sticky mess between my thighs and my pent-up sexual tension is the evidence!
“Perhaps, as a condemned woman, he saw you as worthless, not deserving of respectable treatment?”
N'est-ce pas?
“Yes, of course. Why should a crucified woman expect anything else?”
“But you deserve better Marcella! Condemned or not.”
“It’s too late. I can only hang now. There is nothing else for me . . .”
“Oh? Perhaps not.” Messaline looks at me mischievously.
“Please, don’t tease me further. You would be no different from him.”
Keeping her mischievous smile Messaline pulls the straps of her dress off her shoulders and lets the silky fabric drop to her feet. She steps out of the dress, kicks it aside. Her full breasts bobble and sway on her chest as she wriggles out of her panties. She removes her hat and tosses it across the patio, then bends to undo her sandals. She straightens up, now completely naked, and steps into me. I feel her lips and tongue on my belly, just below my navel. Her tongue now traces a wet path down to my mons. She rubs her face in my pubic hair as I feel her fingers pushing deeply into me. I look down at the top of her head. She looks up at me. Her red lipstick is smeared. Her hand reaches for my breast.
“I never start anything I do not mean to end,
ma chère. Trust me.”
*