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Subject: Helena on the Cross
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Helena on the Cross

By Tarquinius Rex

"Lictor, bind her hands, veil her head, & hang her upon the tree of shame!"


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The End of Helena On The Cross

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