Deborah On The Cross

The bright, red welts on the back of her legs, shoulders, and buttocks revealed that she had been whipped by one tall and one short man. Deborah was the only woman who would be crucified in this group today. She had carried the crossbar, her outstretched arms rigidly tied to it by heavy chains, through the streets of the city and up the hill by the roadside. Her clothing had long disappeared and she now wore only a narrow white ritual loincloth that barely covered her crotch. She also wore a hand-lettered wooden sign that hung heavily from the rings, which pierced each of her nipples. The sign read, "DEBORAH-- SLAVE SLUT--PITY ME".

A group of old women approached Deborah with the crowd pleasing paint and a goatskin filled with a mind-numbing potion. With the goatskin bag positioned slightly over her head and in front of her, Deborah shook back the long strands of her light-brown hair from her face. She gulped the potion lustily, hoping and praying for the numbness that would help her face her torture.

Three soldiers approached her as two of the ancient ones delicately unhooked the wooden sign from her nipple rings. The sign was quickly passed to one of the soldiers who walked over to the stake nearest the road, put up a ladder, scaled it, and then nailed the sign to the very top. Turning on the ladder and looking out over the growing crowd of onlookers, the soldier shouted, "Behold, Deborah the slave-girl! To be crucified for her insolence to her master! A strong body! Certain to provide a great spectacle!"

The old women began applying the bright red paint to Deborah's nipples. Actually a powder mixed with Deborah's own sweat to form paint; the same was used to great effect by the courtesans from Egypt. With long brushes, the old women stroked the fine red powder onto Deborah's sweaty nipples. The effect was quite dramatic as the paint highlighted her areolas and aroused nipples for maximum contrast. The old ones swirled the tips of their brushes around the edges of the slave-girl's nipples, deftly mixing the powder with her sweat until the powder had enough consistency to eventually harden into a bright red cake. Then, shaking their heads as the soldiers grabbed Deborah's beam, the old women backed away and left.

Turning her beam around until she directly faced the crowd, the soldiers went to work. One of them removed Deborah's loincloth, exposing her nakedness and tossed it to the ground. He then held Deborah's feet while the two other soldiers grabbed her beam on each end and roughly laid her down backwards.

The late morning sun was hot on Deborah's bare skin and blinded her temporarily. She did not see the executioner approach with his hammer and two long spikes. Feeling the point of the first large nail against her left wrist, Deborah turned her head just in time to see the first blow. A lightning bolt of pain surged throughout her body. Deborah screamed into the heavy air. Her breasts quivered, and her arms frantically tried to free themselves from the chains that bound them to the timber. The soldier who held her ankles curiously noted a golden scream of urine spilling down the inside of the slave-girl's legs. The executioner bent the nailhead up on the last blow, then after making sure she could not free herself, stepped over her naked body and nailed the other wrist.

Deborah's smooth, flat belly frantically expanded and contracted as she breathed in and out. The soldiers jerked her beam up cruelly, dragging her body in front of the designated stake. They quickly uncoiled the heavy chains that had bound her to her crossbar. As they proudly inspected their handiwork, Deborah leaned backwards against her pole, her arms pinned apart, her breasts exposed and thrust forward. The crowd moved in closer to view her panting, naked body, glistening with sweat. Deborah's head fell backwards and she could feel the warm path her blood made as it made its way down her arms and along smooth curves of her waist.

It was time to experience her final torture. The executioner carefully measured her body. As he did so he glided her hand methodically up and down her right side while grotesquely groping her cunt with the fingers of his right hand. Deborah, with the electrified nerves along the inside of her outstretched arms not yet dulled by the potion, did not move, but only continued breathing in short gasps. The executioner looked deeply into Deborah's eyes as he smiled and lifted his right hand to his face. He sniffed and licked his fingers then wiped his hand against her perspiring stomach. "I'm really going to enjoy watching this one seduce the stake with her writhing", he said to the soldiers. Then laughing, he ordered her stake be raised and her torture begin.

Deborah fainted briefly from the incredible pain as her bare toes left the ground for the last time. The nailing of the spike through the tops of her beautiful bare feet reawakened her and jolted her body forward until the spikes in her wrists restrained her fall. She was feeling the full agonizing torture of her cross. Hanging from her wrists and pinned through her feet, Deborah screamed, twisted, and writhed as she fought desperately to find some accommodating position that would ease the pain. Exhausted, she finally just let herself hang from her spikes.

Deborah jerkily looked up and around at the excited crowd extending to the road. She noticed they were not staring at the beauty of her dark, brown eyes and light-brown hair, but at her large breasts and exposed sex. Her head dropped and she looked down at her large, firm breasts and noticed the drops of blood and sweat collecting on her nipples. She watched the drops grow large and heavy until they fell, shrinking smaller as they fell down past the triangle of brown muff, past her smooth thighs, and down past the large spike in her feet.

As she hung, breathing became more and more difficult. The executioner had ingeniously spiked her to the cross in such a way that her legs were bent at the knees. Her feet were nailed to the beam at about the point where her knees would be positioned if she hung straight. This clever method of hanging victims to crosses was done for one reason and one reason only--it prolonged their suffering. The executioner knew that if he had hung Deborah straight, soon her breathing would become so labored she would pass out and die prematurely.

Deborah had witnessed executions on the cross before and knew what she must do. She remembered that the Romans watched in fascination as the crucified slid up and down their torture stakes, gasping for air like fish out of water. This they did until they were too weak to pull themselves up any longer, then they died. She knew to live, she would have to raise herself up.

The crowd squirmed anxiously as they waited for her to move. She tried to stand on her spike and failed from the pain. After such several attempts, she began to also pull from her nailed wrists. Agonizingly, Deborah straightened her legs until her head was above the crossbar. Able to breath deeply for the first time since her torture began, she rapidly breathed in and out until the hot pain in her feet became to much to bear. The crowd cheered as she slid painfully down, her scourged back and ass chafing against the torture stake. It seemed as if time were eternal. "Shouldn't I be dead by now?" she thought dimly to herself.

The weight from Deborah's entire body, pulling from the spikes in her wrists, stretched her arms greatly. As the passing travelers stared at the many crosses from the road, their gazes focused immediately on Deborah's beautiful, naked body. The inverted curve of the hollow of her underarms, combined with the bright paint on the tips of her nipples, created the illusion of breasts twice their actual size. The motions of this woman on the cross, her pinned body on display for their pleasure, the painted nipples of her breasts signaling every gasping breath, and the sight of her total nudity created, among the watchers, an atmosphere of bloodlust.

Deborah turned her head from side to side in agony and shame, knowing she could not escape the gaze of the onlookers. She realized that every man in the crowd wanted to torture her exposed cunt with their throbbing cocks.

After what seemed to be all day, but in reality was only a few hours, Deborah became aware of the pressure in her bladder. The potion she had drunk earlier had done its job and certainly numbed much of her pain. However, it had now worked its way to her bladder and she knew she must somehow relieve herself on the cross. Embarrassed, Deborah tightly squeezed her legs together. But each time she pulled herself up to breathe, she could feel the urine dribbling between her legs. Finally, she spread her legs as much as she could and, staring numbingly across the jeering smiles of the crowd, released the trapped fluids within her bowels. She could hear the splatter the golden arc made as it struck the bare dirt below her. Deborah felt ashamed as she hung on her cross-- unable to clean herself according to the dictates of her faith.

The splashing sound of her urine increased her thirst. She had now hung in the hot sun for almost six hours. The potion was now wearing off. Her pain was intense and unimaginable--too great to bear. Deborah struggled to the top of her cross once again and cried in a hoarse voice... "Please! Someone, have pity on me! Buy me from this cross... I will serve you well!"

She knew that the rich would sometimes take pity and buy a man or woman from the cross. Perhaps someone would buy her, although she knew no one could outbid her master. She looked at her master for relief, even though it was he who had condemned her to this stake. Recognizing a look of certainty and determination in his eyes, she slowly slumped back down to hang from her wrists. Her enticing body, covered with sweat and blood, glistened in the hot sun.

Her master, thinking Deborah might die too soon upon her cross, summoned one of the soldiers. Instructions were whispered into the soldier's ear as Deborah looked on. She prayed her master had forgiven her and had issued the orders to have her removed from her torture. Her heart leaped with anxious anticipation as she watched the soldier walk over to other soldiers and issued a command. She could not hear what the command was, but watched as one of the soldiers picked something up and walked directly toward her. He held the object up, smiling as he did, and Deborah's stomach immediately sickened as she recognized the dreaded cornu. Deborah had seen men and women condemned to the cross given extra punishment by suffering the indignity of sitting on saddles shaped as animal horns.

The soldiers were already approaching with a ladder, the end of which was set against the top of the cross near Deborah's head. A soldier tossed the horn to the executioner who was smiling from ear to ear as he ascended the ladder. As he reached the top, he held the saddle horn below Deborah's face and said, "First, slut, I'm going to rape your cunt with this... Then I'm going to make you ride it into eternity."

Taking the horn by the blunt end, he poked the pointed end into her flesh along the inside of her thighs and slowly scratched parallel lines along her flanks. Then, he reached up with it and circumscribed the undersides of both her breasts. Stepping down a few rungs of the ladder, the executioner moved his face close to her sex. He immediately smelled the pungent odor of Deborah's musk scent mixed with violent excretions of blood, sweat, and tears.

Taking his fingers to her cunt, he spread the swollen lips surrounding her pleasure mound, revealing her secret moistness to the afternoon daylight. With linear up and down strokes, his tongue tortured her slender clit mercilessly. Her juices spilled between her thighs as she wagged her head back and forth in pained pleasure, inflamed with the conflicting passions of her incredible pain and torture, the humiliation of her naked flesh, and the sweet torture which was spreading throughout her loins like raging fire.

Forced to stand on her spike to breathe, the executioner's tongue followed her motions, constantly pressing and licking her clitoris. Her passion overwhelmed her awareness of public exhibition. Her nipples erected and displayed vividly as they stretched against the dried, red paint. Deborah panted as she prayed to her Goddess to give her strength.

Tilting his head back, the executioner looked up along her belly and breasts covered by grime, sweat and blood. Smiling again, he took the horn and began exploring Deborah's sex tunnel with it. Her moans increased, and she pulled herself up again to gather more air. Her breasts vibrated back and forth in the air as the probing horn expanded her sensitive vagina. Suddenly, with a force that over-powered the throbbing wounds in her wrists and feet, Deborah stood on her spike, thrust her breasts out and up, and shuddered violently from the sensations radiating from her loins. She had experienced her last orgasm.

The executioner asked for and was quickly handed a hammer and nails to finish the installation of the horn. He positioned the tip of the horn up, and after pushing Deborah to stand on her spike, nailed the base to the stake. Then, he spread her scarred ass cheeks apart and guided her anus slowly onto the horrid point. Now sitting a foot higher on the cross, Deborah could breathe freely. The pressure in her asshole, humiliating and throbbing, would support her through the night. Hungry and thirsty, physically and psychically raped, Deborah could exist yet another pain-filled day.

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