("`-''-/").___..--''"`-._ `6_ 6 ) `-. ( ).`-.__.`) (_Y_.)' ._ ) `._ `. ``-..-' _..`--'_..-_/ /--'_.' ,' (((' (((-((('' (((( K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N _________________________________________ WARNING! This text file contains sexually explicit material. If you do not wish to read this type of literature, or you are under age, PLEASE DELETE THIS FILE NOW!!!! _________________________________________ Scroll down to view text -------------------------------------------------------- This work is copyrighted to the author © 2011. Please don't remove the author information or make any changes to this story. All rights reserved. Thank you for your consideration. -------------------------------------------------------- Didi On The Cross: by Tarquinius Rex (address defunct) *** The emperor's soldiers have satisfied their brutal fill of your flesh. It seems as if almost every orifice of your body has been explored and reamed, then pumped full of their unwanted semen during the night. A soldier unties you from the wooden bench where you spent the night, bent over for their enjoyment. (M+/F, nc, rp, tor, oral, anal, gb, sn) *** The Scandal in the Temple of Isis "Lictor! Bind her hands, veil her head, and hang her upon the tree of shame!" "Isis... Isis..." you whisper numbly, while the Roman soldiers remove your clothes. Complete nudity is mandatory for scourging and crucifixion, yet these louts seem to move disjointedly. Your evening vestments, soiled yet hinting of a former radiance must fascinate them. Nevertheless, how are you able, considering the cloud of terror enveloping you, to wonder what will happen to these garments of lavender and purple? Most likely, your clothes, your final earthly possessions, will be thrown to their favorite drinking wenches. Your garments soon lay near the entrance of the cold dark room. You stand naked in the center, your wrists bound overhead by separate chains. A signal is given and your arms are pulled over your head until you are stretched just barely off the ground. Two more chains are wrapped around your ankles to large iron rings set in the floor, limiting the movement of your feet. Your thoughts run wild as you consider the hellish scene around you. You spy a mystifying number of cruel whips, hanging ghastly upon the stony walls. The greasy smoke from the oil lamps reduces your vision, but you hear soldiers behind you, planning crude arrangements for your body. You close your eyes and shudder, contemplating the past three days and your next three days, if you last that long. Your body tightens and flinches involuntarily. You recall watching other men and women, usually pitiless slaves or careless foreigners, experience the ultimate capital punishment: crucifixion. A crack races through the air and across your buttocks. Another crack from the opposite direction: two torturers. You scream as each lash flies in a regular pattern, crisscrossing, from your lower buttocks slowly along your spine and across your unprotected back. Your mind and body seeks salvation from the paralyzing pain. Your mind wanders back... to the spacious, urbane villa of Decius Mundus, seven days before. * * * Mundus often asked you to share his bed and the nights were full of passion and delight. Ever since his father had freed you, Didi, from slavery on his deathbed, you secretly desired to become the wife of Decius Mundus. All Rome held Decius Mundus in great regard, a knight, ranked very high in the equestrian order. One day, Mundus unexpectedly spurned your advances. Dismayed, you coaxed him with words, with alluring perfume and body paint, with soft sensuous caresses and sultry displays of your body. None of these had any effect; he continued to ignore you. Finally, Mundus confessed to you that he was in love... with another woman. You quickly recovered from the shock, and with the reflex thinking of the former slave girl still inside you, sorted skillfully through the possibilities you had at hand. You became his counselor and consoled him in his grief in order to learn all about this threat to your dream. A mixture of horror and laughter filled you when you learned the object of his desires was the Lady Paulina. Paulina, on account of the dignity of her ancestors, and by the regular conduct of a virtuous life, had a great reputation. She was also very rich; and although she was of beautiful countenance, and in the flower of her age when women are the most gay, she led a life of great modesty. She was married to Saturninius, who was in every way answerable to her in an excellent character. Mundus revealed how Paulina was of too great a dignity to be caught by gifts, and had already rejected them. You silently burned with envy as he described the abundance of presents, how her rejection only inflamed his love for her, and finally how he even offered to give her two hundred thousand Attic drachmae for just one night's lodging. Mundus realized even offers of wealth could not prevail upon her. He could not bear his misfortune, and he told you of his intent now to starve himself to death on account of Paulina's sad refusal. You grieved at this young man's resolution to kill himself, and realizing the gravity of his will, knew that he would accomplish this purpose forthwith. Your cunning slave mind, skilled in all sorts of mischief, gradually settled on a devious plan of action. * * * The pail of cold water, pouring over your face and down the front of your body washes away your memories, and drags you back into your world of pain. The skin all along the back of your body is crisscrossed with thick welts, most of which have a thin line of blood along the central ridge. The soldiers clean their whips methodically until the smaller of the two, goes to a wooden box, digging for knick-knacks and sundry items. You realize this is his "what if?" box, in which he throws every possible implement of suffering. He stops digging, holds two thin objects, almost transparent, in his hands and walks over to you. You hear your breath panting, as he puts his hand under your left breast, covered with perspiration. You watch as his fingers center on the nipple, pinching and rolling it. He admires the arousing red nipple paint you wear. Then you gasp as he pulls your left nipple straight out, takes a fishhook the size of his thumb, inserts the point directly underneath the nipple and straight up through the top side. He rolls the hook backward so that the point is now aimed straight towards him. Your body tenses from the needle, your fingers strain against the chains. He repeats the process for your right nipple, and now you hang, suspended, as they joke about your new body jewelry. Fishing string is threaded through the large eye of the fishhooks, each dangling an elongated pyramid, a simple lead fishing weight, by a finger length of string. Your breasts, tortured at their sweet points, rise and lower with each breath. You remember the now distant past, three days before. * * * Decius Mundus stopped his grieving and listened intently to your plan. You gave him your promise, knowing that you could certainly gain for him an evening with the Lady Paulina. His joyful response was hardly tempered when you told him that you wanted no more than fifty thousand drachmae to entrap this virtuous young woman. The money, however, was for not for the Lady. She could not be tempted by money. No, you would have to capture the Lady Paulina's soul. Both you and Paulina shared a devotion, the worship of the goddess Isis. Knowing this, you went to the temple of Isis and secretly met with three of her priests. You tried to persuade the priests, first by words, then by promises of sexual favors, but as you guessed, they did not fall for that. So, you offered the money: twenty five thousand drachmae in hand, and that much more when the plan was completed. You told them about the passion of Decius Mundus, and persuaded the priests to use all means possible to beguile the woman. Accordingly, the eldest priest went immediately to Paulina. When he was inside her residence, he told the Lady he desired to speak with her alone. In private audience, the priest related how the god Anubis, had fallen in love with her, sent him, and enjoined her to come to Anubis. She took this message in great joy and thought highly of herself upon this heavenly condescension. After the priest left, she quickly told her husband, Saturninus, of the message. She proudly described how she was to dine with, then make love to, Anubis. Saturninus, never questioning the chastity of his wife, agreed to her acceptance of divine intercourse. The Lady Paulina went to the temple that evening, and after she had dined, and it was the hour to sleep, the priests shut the great doors of the temple. In the holy part of the temple of Isis, Paulina waited in darkness. Then, Decius Mundus, who had been hidden inside a secret part of the temple, leaped out, adorned as the god Anubis, and enjoyed the full measure of the Lady's body and soul. All night long, she was at his service. After Anubis left, before the first light of dawn, and, before the priests (who knew nothing of this stratagem) were stirring, Paulina went straight to her husband. She told Saturninus how the god Anubis had appeared gloriously before her. Among her friends, also, she declared how great a value she put upon this favor. Paulina's friends partly disbelieved the whole thing. When they reflected on the divine aspects of it, they truly felt amazed at the tale. However, considering the modesty and dignity of the Lady Paulina, they had no reason for not believing it. * * * The emperor's soldiers have satisfied their brutal fill of your flesh. It seems as if almost every orifice of your body has been explored and reamed, then pumped full of their unwanted semen during the night. A soldier unties you from the wooden bench where you spent the night, bent over for their enjoyment. They push you to the center of the room again, and while you stand naked and defiled, a crossbeam is put upon your shoulders. Your arms are held out, behind and over the top of the beam, as the soldiers wrap chains to hold them. While you bear this heavy wooden beam, a soldier expertly wraps a long white cloth between your legs and around your hips. He has fashioned for you a crude loincloth, adding a little modesty for the procession to the cross. Laughing, the soldiers tug one more time on the weights dangling from your bleeding nipples. A fresh company of soldiers forcibly turns you around, sending the weights spinning under your breasts. A soldier barks at you to walk forward through the gates to the streets outside. Frozen in fear and pain, you do not move until a whip dances on your back. Slowly, you carry your beam outside, wincing at the bright morning light of the summer sun. Crowds lining the streets hoot and holler at the spectacle. Are these your neighbors, even your friends, you wonder? Where is Decius Mundus? Won't somebody help you, a half naked woman, frightfully scourged, nipples tortured by hanging lead, carrying the instrument of her final torture, to the most dreadful of punishments designed by man? The painful wounds of your scourging throb intensely; your back and legs scream to stop walking. The hesitant pace of your march causes the weights to jerk at your nipples, highly visible due to the residue of nipple paint and blood oozing from the entry points of the hooks. You gaze into the faces of the crowd as you walk by: crying children, forced to look at your example by their reproving mothers; drunks and beggars, enjoying the free entertainment; wide-eyed men, envying the satisfaction of the soldiers on the night shift. As you leave the gates of the city, you raise your head and view the scene on the hill, toward which you move closer and closer. The spiny vertical stakes populate the hillside, with people scurrying around and between them like ants amongst blades of grass. The unfortunate crucified souls still living occasionally wiggle. They writhe spasmodically, to the top of the pegs they are fastened to, gasp for air, then moan hoarsely as they slide back into their grave delirium. You reach your destination, the last point where the dirt of the Earth-Mother touches your feet. Soldiers unchain your arms, remove your beam, and mechanically begin their preparations. You gaze falls on three of the four crosses closest to the intersection of the two main roads of Rome. The pain-racked bodies of the priests of Isis are nailed to these three dead trees. The fourth cross is for you. * * * Since the clever execution of the carnal plan, love blossomed blissfully for you. Decius Mundus was fully satisfied and he beamed with pride at his own performance. As he held you in his arms again, you secretly hoped that now he would entertain the possibility of marriage to you. If you could arrange the unlikely match of a god and a woman so skillfully, anything was now possible. However, the noble honor and equestrian rank of Mundus could not contain this mischievous contrivance. Three days after the otherworldy coupling, Mundus met Paulina by chance in public. All Rome buzzed with the brazen words Decius Mundus spoke to the Lady Paulina that day. You heard second and third hand, in abject horror, what Mundus bragged, "Ho! my Lady Paulina, you saved me two hundred thousand drachmae. You could have added greatly to your family's coffer. But I do not have to give you money, for you service me these days at my own request." Paulina listened in shocking amazement as he continued boasting. "You reject me in an instant if you think of me as Mundus. It does not matter now. I don't care about using that name anymore since I rejoice in the pleasure I reap when I wear the name of Anubis." You heard about what transpired after he left, how the Lady Paulina turned livid, right there in public, tearing all her garments to shreds. She went directly to her husband and told him of the horrid nature of this whole affair, begging him to avenge her honor. Saturninus immediately went straight away to the emperor Tiberius who quickly ordered a detailed investigation of this matter. The imperial investigators were ruthless and soon uncovered the shameful happenings about the temple of Isis. Tiberius himself judged the priests and their testimonies were found wanting. He ordered them to be crucified, the temple of Isis destroyed, and her statue thrown into the river Tiber. The soldiers came and arrested you. That evening, you stood beside Decius Mundus, before Tiberius Caesar and his court. Trembling in your evening clothes, you watched in awe as the emperor banished Mundus from Rome, but with no other punishment. Tiberius Caesar exclaimed that the crime committed by Mundus was done out of the passion of love. Thus, Tiberius could excuse this behavior for a Roman knight. But for you, Didi, the former slave girl, there was no family, no title, and no claim to property that would alleviate the injuries caused to the reputation of Lady Paulina. Since you were the occasion of the perdition of the priests, you, too, must be crucified. * * * As you look up at their crosses, you notice the cruel agonies of the priests. Each of the four crosses stands on a corner of a busy intersection outside the gates of the city. The eldest priest hangs silently on the cross diagonal from where your stake rises. He is close to death and the soldiers have hammered a large spike straight into the wood for him to sit on. His arms are nailed out straight to either side and his feet are nailed to the upright just under his buttocks through the heels so that his knees point to the cross on his right. The priest on your left hangs crucified in typical fashion, arms nailed in a wide-open angle above the head, knees bent towards you. His feet also are nailed through the heels, one over the other, so that he can stand as if on a narrow ledge. The youngest priest, across the street from you is crucified in the same fashion, but with his knees pointing to you from the right. Both scream whenever they pull themselves up to relieve their cramped chests, to slide back down and hang by their pinned wrists. Only their heads move, as they moan in utter futility for their mothers. The soldiers pull you back into reality and offer you a drink to numb your senses. Lifting the bowl, the chains around your wrists jangling, you gulp as much as you can swallow, barely able to stomach the strong bitter taste. Then the soldiers drag you by your arms to begin the crucifixion. The soldiers pull a tall stake completely out of the ground and fasten the beam you carried on to the top. Another rips off your loincloth, so you stand naked again, this time in the hot morning sun. They throw you down, reopening bloody wounds upon your shoulders. Your arms are quickly chained straight out to the side. Through the haze of the pain created by your scourging and pierced breasts, you know your immediate fate is being manufactured to fit your body. Roman executioners love to add variety to their crucifixions. Your head hangs off the top edge of your stake. You strain to lift your neck to see the soldiers at work. One brings a basket of nails and mallets and goes to work fashioning small crossties of wood, to prevent your wrists and feet from pulling off the spikes. You can hear the hammer strikes starting the points of the nails into the wood and out the other side. Another soldier carries a small sinister saddle with a horn mounted at the end. A centurion opens his writing tablet and stands beside your nude prostrate body, chained to the cross. "Didi, a freed slave girl of the house of Mundus, you have been condemned by the emperor Tiberius to be crucified, naked before the people, for the crime of perdition. Your body is to hang here as a sign to all such evildoers and workers of mischief. The emperor, the gods, and the people of Rome condemn you for your idle wickedness." With a nod from the centurion, soldiers pull your hands straight out, stretching your shoulders cruelly. You feel the points of the nails press into the hollow points of your delicate wrists. Suddenly your body heaves as the mallets hammer the spikes through, pounding and pounding until the wooden ties press hard against your throbbing wrists. You shake your head, buzzing with instant insanity, trying to escape this violent madness as the soldiers remove the chains. Two soldiers grab your legs by the ankles, lifting them high in the air, spreading and revealing your most private parts. The soldier carrying the saddle inserts the horn into your anus and forces it in until your butthole will take no more. Then he nails the base of the saddle securely to the stake. The soldiers then force your knees to bend, your legs forming a flattened diamond. They position your heels, one on top of the other, just below the base of your saddle. You can feel your pussy lips parting as they flatten your knees apart, but broken by the pain along your arms, you are unable to resist. The last soldier, taking the third piece of wood, an iron spike already started through it, begins pounding away with giant rhythm, driving the slender point through both heel bones and into the dead tree trunk. The pain is white hot in intensity, incomprehensible in meaning. Never have you tolerated this much pain. The pounding continues until you feel the wooden crosstie squeezing your feet together. Then they pick up the three ends of your cross, your head and hair hanging off the end, and while you scream, almost upside down, they carry the cruel engine to the hole by the road, insert the bottom of the upright stake and push the cross up until it falls into the rest of the hole. A loud roar of approval from the watching crowd is the last sound you hear before blacking out. When you regain consciousness, you are staring into the sun, your head hanging off the back of the cross. You feel the extreme contortion of your limbs, and the pressure point inside your ass, your arms knotted and strained by the nails pulling your wrists out to the ends of the beam. The pain is so real, your nerves scream for relief. Moreover, your feet, your precious feet have been pierced through the heels by that hideous iron spike. Absorbing all pain, you lift your neck up, so you can look upon your broken body. You fall forward until the horn in your ass catches you, together with the three nails. Your matted hair frames your face as you gaze downward upon your nudity. Your breasts, spread by the tautness of your arms, point upwards and outwards. You stare at the cruel pointed fishhooks that transfer the load of the weights to your nipples. The weights swirl and twirl with your breathing, twisting your damaged nipples this way and that way. Your gaze focuses on your sex, never before seen in public, and you notice how the spreading of your knees opens the pink interior of your pussy, letting the hot intense sunlight sear it like raw meat tossed on a heated grill. Runny white semen slowly oozes from your open pussy down your spread-open crack and onto the probing horn in your asshole. You gaze, in hypnotic transfixed wonder, at your clitoris, publicly displayed for all to see. You try in vain to flex something in rhythm, trying to match body movements in unison with the shocked waves of shameful sensations flooding that prominent and throbbing button of nerves. Your feet, dirty and pitiful, are held together by that single cruel spike, just underneath your buttocks. You scream in pain as you try to move and find that you can only wiggle your toes, the pressure of the wooden bar preventing you from moving your legs. You realize that just as you have surveyed your splayed sex, so has everyone else traveling through the busy intersection. You jerk your head up, and look around, slowly with great effort. A cacophony of sounds riots in your ears; a mixture of foreign tongues, women clucking about the justice you richly deserve, the screams of the men nailed to the other crosses. Soon, you become aware that your cross is the tallest of the four. Gradually, it dawns on you why the soldiers crucified the others so peculiarly: the priests have the pleasure of dying while watching your spread open nakedness. Your head drops down only to stare at your bloody body and your privates. As your crime exposed the dignity of the Lady Paulina to one man, so yours is to be displayed to all men. Your head bounces jerkily as you look towards the other crosses. The old priest moves slowly, green excrement falling to the ground. The other priests continue their moaning, able to move their heads only with minimal effort, wagging side to side in agony and shame. Occasionally, they stare at you for a few moments and you wonder if their purple penises, grossly swollen, dripping bloody urine, can stand erect, engorged in lust for your helplessly displayed sex. You look at the crowd and notice older men pointing out the parts of your body to adolescent males. Foreign women cluck in horror while their men chastise you in strange tongues. Distraught devotees of Isis throw rocks until the soldiers threaten to hang them as an example. You hear cheering from some when you realize you are urinating. The water stream falls to the ground, mixed with blood, in front of you. Your tears fall onto your breasts, mix with the sweat and blood and dust of your body. Slowly, they wind down to your nipples, stinging the piercings you have endured, then collect and drip from your nipples past your bloody feet, hitting the ground at the foot of your cross. * * * Poor Didi, the freed slave-girl of the house of Mundus, you still hang crucified, naked and writhing, and waiting in shame. Can anyone release you from your endless agony upon the most vile of mankind's engines, the Roman cross? Is the Lady Paulina out there amongst the crowd, or is she standing on her portico justly savoring your crucifixion from a decent distance? Her sacred temple defiled and destroyed, where is Isis to save you from this most terrible of fates? Whatever happened to Decius Mundus? Couldn't a brave Roman knight such as he claim you and take you alongside him into exile? Do you deserve to die this way, Didi, crucified for love? END Adapted from Book XVIII, Chapter III, The Antiquities of the Jews, by the secular Jewish historian, Josephus. The events detailed here occurred about 30 CE in the city of Rome. ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ This story was written as an adult fantasy. The author does not condone the described behavior in real life. ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ Kristen's collection - Directory 69