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Subject: {ASSM} <Easter>"Passion Play" by Father Ignatius (M+F bibl caution nc oral va)
Date: Sun, 15 Apr 2001 04:10:04 -0400
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Passion Play
(M+F bibl caution nc oral va)

An Easter Story

(c)Father Ignatius, 2001


I'm in business and I mean to stay in business so it really
pisses me off when pretty girls think they can work off
their tab at my bar with a blow-job.  It has its points but
it doesn't pay the wholesalers.  These girls are like
prostitutes, I believe, who don't have the good business
manners to negotiate up front.  The price of the trick is
how much they can drink before you catch on and force a
sale--tactical selling, they call it at salesman school.

As a businessman, I think that stinks.  Success in
business, I believe, is a matter of strategic selling. By
that, I mean building up goodwill so your old customers
recommend you to new customers and keep coming back
themselves. Tactical salesmen get their sales--as a
businessman, I have to admit that--but they don't get
repeat business.  They have to seek out new suckers every
sale.  A good businessman learns to see tactical salesmen
coming and avoid them at if he can. If he can't, he gotta
have methods of working them out of his system.  I have my
methods and they work well for me and help me stay in

With peculiar appropriateness to my business methods, the
last time some chick tried blow off her tab (so to speak)
was the evening before the Easter long weekend. I was
behind the bar with Deon, my barkeep and bouncer. I was
standing by the till, same as always, keeping an eye on
things, same as always, when I saw an argument developing
between a couple at a table by the door.  Not regulars.
Never seen 'em before.  Or since, as it turns out, but I'm
getting to that.  The guy was obviously deeply angry and
she was working on him by playing it flighty--shrugging
offhandedly, waving her hands dismissively, smiling
contemptuously.  The "to hell with you, buster" treatment,
in short.  They'd been there long enough to drink
themselves into a really good argument and they had quite a
tab waiting.  I could just see it walking unpaid into the
street and it wasn't a pretty sight.

"We've got trouble there," I said to Deon, nodding in their
direction.  He picked up on them straight off and lifted
the hatch in the bar to get out and block the exit.  It was
too late, though.  With a "fuck this, fuck you, fuck it
all" gesture, the boyfriend rose and stormed out.  Good-bye
and good luck.  Have a nice life.

"Is there any trouble here?" I asked, materialising at the
girlfriend's side as she gazed, half-troubled and
half-triumphant, at the swinging doors.

I noted carefully that she carried neither hand-bag nor
wallet.  She was wearing a classic T-shirt, bright orange,
with no pockets. Unless she had folding money in the pocket
of her skin-tight denim jeans, she was broke and if she was
broke she was in trouble. She was probably in trouble
anyway. There wasn't space in what she was wearing for car
keys, house keys or even a credit card.  She turned to me,
trying to think on her feet.  She was too seated and too
pissed to do it well.

"Why, no," she said, "there's no trouble here."  She smiled
with that extra radiance that, in a customer, spells
trouble to the experienced businessman.  No customer needs
to be that nice.

"Would you like another drink?" I asked, "or would you like
to pay off your tab now?"

Panic flickered in her eyes, followed by a certain wily
triumph.  I'd be impressed if I hadn't seen it so often
before.  She was going to brazen it out.  No surprises.  I
could see it was going to be Plan A all the way.

"Thank you kindly, sir, I believe I will have another."

"Would you like to move on up to the bar for that?" I
asked, "You're looking a little lonely out here on your
own, right by the door."

"Oh, no thank you.  I'm fine.  I really am."

"I insist," I insisted.  "Come up to the bar.  Now, miss,
if you please ."

She was too guilty and too drunk to take umbrage fast
enough.  She fell for it.

"Oh, all right.  No harm in that, I guess."

She rose, swept her long, curly red-brown hair back over
her shoulder, and made her way to a bar-stool, swaying
slightly and concentrating hard, in the way of the
moderately drunk everywhere since the dawn of booze.  The
buzz of conversation in the bar dropped appreciably.  She
was something to see, especially swaying slightly.  The
T-shirt was keeping no secrets as it clung desperately to
her broad shoulders, to her full, deep, rounded breasts and
to her scooped-in waist.  I particularly noticed how deep
was the ravine in the small of her back.  There was a
dramatic, sweeping line from well-developed shoulders into
this ravine which led, in turn to firm, womanly buttocks
and full hips. "Boyish" was definitely not the word for
this one.  She was woman, all woman.  Not fat. Just the
classically-curved woman who, five thousand years ago,
would have had the Ancient Greek biting their chisels in
half as they queued up to sculpt her.

She climbed onto a bar stool and a hundred male eyes were
transfixed as she hooked the heels of her cowboy boots into
the rungs to left and right.  No maidenly, knees-together
stuff from this one.  I had a sudden deep, religious
sense--appropriate to the Easter weekend, no doubt--that
God made bar-stools so men could see what full-hipped woman
look like from behind and marvel at the glory of His
creation. Who knew?  Maybe some gallant would offer to pay
her tab yet.  She hadn't so much as a coin in her back
pockets, as all the world could see.

"What was it again?" I asked her, back behind the bar.

"Vodka, lime and passion fruit."

Yuck.  Well, I didn't have to drink it, just pour it.

"Will you be taking salt with that?"

"Why, no!"

Didn't think so.  I poured it, added it to her tab, put the
tab on the counter and the drink on the tab.

"Thank you kindly, sir," she said, slurring a bit and
overdoing the smile again.  She sipped.

"And thank _you_ kindly, miss, if you'd just settle up


"Well, see now, here's the thing..."

Oboy.  Here it comes, right on schedule.


"'Fraid we gonna have to come to some kind of 'rangement
here, you see..."


"Yes.  You see, my boyfriend--the one who just left--has
all our money.  I don't have a cent."  She laughed, caught
between pride and embarrassment.  "There's nowhere to put
money in an outfit like this, do you see?"

"Well, it certainly looks that way.  Fact is, though,
you've ordered drinks and not paid.  I'm sure we don't want
any trouble now, do we?"

"No, sir, we surely don't."

She waited hopefully for some helpful input but I offered
her nothing.

"Can I come back tomorrow and pay you?"

"Got any ID?"

She shrugged and waved a hand at herself.

"'Nowhere to put ID in an outfit like this'?" I guessed.
She nodded.

"No ID, no credit," I said firmly.


"No ID, no credit, no argument."

She laughed nervously.  "What do you want from me?  You
want I should wash dishes?"

"We don't serve food.  And we have a machine for washing

She was running out of options, the way they always do. She
looked over her shoulder, longingly, at the door.  She
wanted to make a run for it -- in those jeans? in those
boots? -- and only just now realised how clever I'd been to
move her from a table near the door all the way back to the

"We had a welsher once," I said conversationally, "Tried to
run for it. My barkeep Deon, here, laid her out with a
bottle and we locked her in my office 'til the police came.
She paid her tab eventually, so I was happy, but she
couldn't pay the fine so she got a police record and
community service scraping up road-kill."

"Is that a fact, now?" she asked, clocking Deon.  He's big.

"That's a fact.  But we said we don't want any trouble.
Didn't we say that?"

"Yes, sir, we surely did say that very thing.  Thing is,
though, I'm out of ideas here.  I don't know what to

She looked at me expectantly.  Hopefully.  Shame--she
didn't know better yet.

"Miss, I'm a businessman.  I'm in the business of serving
drinks for money.  If you're not offering money, we're not
in business.  It's not my business to tell young ladies
what to offer."

There was another pause.  I could see the wheels turning

"Well, Mr. Businessman," she said, combining exasperation
with bravado, "it seems the only option I have left is to
come round the bar and give you the business.  Huh, Mr.
Businessman?  What do you think of that?  Am I getting

Jackpot.  Be cool.

"Well, miss, if you prefer that to a night in the cells and
a court appearance in the morning, that's your choice.  All
I'm saying is that you better make your choice quickly
before I call the cops and make it for you."

She screwed up her face and nodded slowly.

"Well, you are kind of cute.  Like Barry Gibb, say, or Kris

"You don't say?  Most people say I look like Jesus Christ."

"Well, I guess you do, at that."

"I sure do.  I once played Jesus in a Passion Play that my
church put on one Easter."

"No kidding?"

"No kidding.  They even let me keep the cross, after. I
still have it.  It's in my office at the back of the bar.
My wife says it's too much for the house."

"I can see her point."

"You'll be able to see the cross if we have to lock you in
there while we wait for the cops to come."

"Well, the cross sounds interesting but the rest doesn't."

She took another pull at her drink and, putting it back on
the counter, said, "I guess I'll leave that there to rinse
out with bye-and-bye."

She rose and Deon raised the hatch so she could come around
behind the counter.  She walked with an embarrassed
strolling strut, like a little girl psyching herself up to
take a dare from a lot of nasty little boys in the school
playground.  If she still had her playground pig-tails, she
would have twirled them rebelliously.

Her eyes were focussed on me, trying to send the lying
message that she was cool with all this and so she didn't
notice that some of the regulars had suddenly started
paying attention to what was going down.  A few meaning
looks came my way.  A few raised eyebrows asked, "Are we
on, here?"  I nodded imperceptibly as I stepped back to
give her room to work, leaning forward against the bar on
my outstretched forearms, trying to look like a bored
barkeep waiting for the next punter to order a drink.

She sank to her knees and, as her head went out of sight, a
few of the regulars drifted up to the bar.  I could feel
her squirming into position under my belly.  One of the
regulars took over the girl's stool and leaned forward on
his elbows.

"It's Good Friday tomorrow, Jackie." he said.  "Are we
going to do Bad Thursday tonight?  The Stations of the

I'm a businessman.  Even as her head lifted my apron--Deon
and everyone at the bar gaped at the bulge--and I felt her
hot breath blowing through my jeans onto my crotch, even as
her hands ran up my jeans from the backs of my knees to my
butt, I said, "Maybe.  It depends.  Have we got enough
business to make it worthwhile?"

As one man, they reached for their mobile 'phones and
started calling their buddies to come on down to my bar for
a drink.  One of her hands was on my butt, the other was
cupping my balls. The bulge under my apron shifted to one
side and suddenly her mouth was playing the flute on my
thickening cock through the thick denim cloth.

I leaned forward, gasping slightly.  Everyone at the bar
leaned forward too, eyes bugging out.  I felt my eyebrows
go up and saw all theirs go up, too, in sympathy.  Or

"And would you gentlemen like to buy yourselves another
drink?" I asked, hoarsely.

They scrambled to place orders.  Deon moved about, pouring
drink.  I was otherwise occupied.  Her hands moved to my
belt-buckle and yanked at the leather.  The belt opened,
the button at the top of my zip was wrenched open.  One
hand held up the waist-band of my trousers while the other
ripped the zip down.  Two hands grabbed my belt above my
buttocks and pulled it down to my ankles, peeling the denim
off my legs like the skin off a banana.  There was a cheer
from the front row as my naked butt appeared in the mirror
behind me.

That's always a tricky moment, when they realise that
they're not invisible and that the whole bar knows what's
going on.  She froze while the message got through.  My
straining cock felt her gasp through my underpants and then
that she'd stopped breathing. Eventually, I sensed her
shrugging mentally and she yanked my underpants down to
where they caught on my trousers. There was another cheer
and a round of applause. Deon gave up serving drinks,
folded his arms and, grinning, leaned his hip against the
bar to watch the show.  I could see the bulge in his
trousers.  There were bulges the other side of the bar,
too.  I wondered if the girl under my apron could see what
she was getting herself into.

Maybe she didn't.  Maybe she did and it turned her on, for
she obviously decided to get into giving a good show. The
bulge in my apron bobbed as I felt her squirming around and
then the orange T-shirt appeared round my apron and her
hand draped it over my forearm like a sommelier's napkin.
There was laughter and more applause.  A hand reached over
the bar and flicked the T-shirt away.  It was lost to her
forever.  It turned up later, thumb-tacked to the ceiling
by unknown hands.  It's still there, a permanent reminder
to those who participated.

Her hands appeared on my butt and I could feel her cheek
against my throbbing cock.  Her thick, dark, curly hair
deliciously teased and tickled my inner thighs.  She
gripped and squeezed my buttocks in time with the music,
trying to get me into the rhythm. I was only to happy to
oblige. Deon reached across to the sound system and turned
up the volume and maxxed out the bass. The patrons started
clapping or knocking their tankards on the bar in time with
the rhythm.

But my cock still wasn't in her mouth and I was now 'way
past the point where this had become important to me.  I
reached one hand under my apron to grab her hair and
direct operations.  To my surprise, she grabbed my wrist
firmly and returned it to its place on the counter.

The audience made admiring "Hoo, hoo" noises.

"You go, girl," called out Vanessa, one of the regulars.
She has the sexiest dirty laugh in town.  "Watch it,
Jackie, you're in the hands of a control freak down there."

"I could do with being in the mouth of one," I gasped,
thrusting hopefully in time to the music, hoping to find
something good to thrust against.  Gusting hot breaths came
in rhythm, washing over my increasingly desperate cock.
Suddenly, she grabbed my balls, hard, with one hand.  I
froze instantly, through instincts of self-preservation.
The crowd craned forward, interested.  They couldn't see
what was going on because of my apron.  The other hand
wrapped around the base of my cock.

For long seconds, nothing happened and then I jerked and
clutched at the bar as her tongue swiped up the underside
of her cock, from her gripping hand to the throbbing tip.
And then, at last, I felt her lips, kissing the underside
of my cock, the tip of her tongue playing with the most
sensitive part, under the glans.  Oh, God, it was lovely!

And then she started sucking, hard, keeping the seal with
relaxed lips, sucking harder and harder 'til the tip of my
cock plopped suddenly into her lips and her warm, wet
hungry mouth enveloped me as her lips slid downwards.  My
cock pushed along the roof of her mouth and into her throat
as my whitened fingernails gripped the counter top.  I felt
my eyes crinkle and my mouth pull into a rictus.  My head
fell forward as a gust of breath exploded out of me.  The
audience stirred excitedly.

She released her grip on my cock so she could keep on going
down to the point where, lips clamped round the base of my
cock, panting nose crushed into my pubes, even I could feel
very firmly that there was nowhere further to go. Then she
started pulling back, sucking hard, the bulge in my apron
moving back towards the bar, as I remembered to breathe and
gulped air back into burning lungs.

"Oh, yes!" said the audience.  "You go, girl."

She pulled back until only the very tip of me was held
between her lips.  I didn't dare move for fear of falling
out.  I feared the slightest involuntary twitch would break
the delicious contact but it turned out I was in the hands
of an expert.  I felt fingers sliding between my legs, and
bent my knees helpfully to accommodate them.  As the
fingertips reached my perineum and started massaging, she
opened her lips and leaned into the ecstatic thrust she
triggered and suddenly I was back to where there was
nowhere further to go.  Oh, God.  Oh, God.  Oh, God.

She pulled back again and then her other hand re-appeared
on my butt and pushed me hard forward into my next thrust.
Between the hand behind and the hand burrowing between my
thighs, she rocked me backwards and forwards like a puppet
as I slipped in and out of that warm, wet, sucking hole.
Deon turned the music up louder again as she worked us back
into the rhythm, with the audience cheering and
foot-stomping along in time with us.  My head came up again
and I could feel the cheesy, gasping, ecstatic, triumphant
grin on it as Vanessa leaned over the counter for a warm,
sloppy kiss, to wild applause.

I was in heaven.  I felt I could go on forever, thrusting
into that sucking orifice, tongue flickering around my
cock--cradling, lapping, teasing.  I could feel my arms and
shoulders beginning to tire pleasantly as I did mini
push-ups against the edge of the bar--but she raised the
stakes by pressing a finger up against my anus.  As I swung
back, the tip popped through the sphincter and pushed me
forward again, buttocks clenched, eyes popping, audience

Each swing back drove the probing, prying finger in deeper
and the point came where my eyes gushed sudden tears in
response to a mind-blowing flood of pleasure.  I clenched
my eyes, threw my head back and roared in joy and triumph
as I exploded in her mouth, hips twitching convulsively,
all rhythm gone, squirting and squirting and squirting.
The crowd went wild.

Oboy.  Arms on the counter, I rested my head on them while
I gasped back air into my lungs.  Admiring hands slapped my

"Way to go, Jackie!"

I felt her sucking and licking and cleaning my shrinking
cock.  A great little housewife, apparently.  I felt her
lift my underpants back up my thighs. She pulled them up to
the point where they were hooked under my balls and then
pulled my jeans up. She re-fastened the button and even the
belt but mischievously left my cock and balls hanging out
through the parted zip. With a proprietorial pat on my
rump, she emerged, red-faced and sweaty, from under my
apron to a standing ovation.

She faced the crowd, grinning broadly, arms above her head
with Nixon-style V-signs, breast jiggling enticingly as she
bobbed curtsies to the roaring crowd.  She grabbed her
drink and downed the rest of it in a single swallow.  I
reached under my apron to adjust matters while the audience
whooped and laughed.

"Where's my shirt?" she hissed at me out of the corner of
her mouth.

"Gone for good, I'm afraid.  Come into the office, I'll get
you a blanket or something."

I looked at Deon and nodded towards the office.  He moved
ahead of us, parting the crowd, and opened the door while I
guided her through.  We all three went in and Deon closed
the door on the rising, expectant buzz from the regulars.
He quietly turned the key, too.  She didn't notice.  She
was more worried about her naked breasts.

* * *

"Oh, there's the cross you mentioned," she said, spotting
it.  It wasn't hard to see.  It dominated the room, propped
in a corner.  "I really thought you were bullshitting about

"I never bullshit," I said.  "It's a genuine, for-real
crucifixion cross, from a genuine, for-real Passion Play. I
told you--I played Jesus when our church put in on. It's
genuine cedar-wood from the Holy Land, even.  Cost a bomb.
I've made some interesting modifications, though. And now,
Deon and I are going to show you how you get fixed to it."

She laughed.  "No, thanks.  I'll have that blanket now,

Deon ignored her and went and fetched the cross and laid it
on my desk.

"Jesus!" she squawked.

"Yes?" I said, but she didn't catch.

"What the fuck is that?" she cried, pointing.  It seemed,
crazily, that the cross had a pale cream erection, a very
erect one, set at a narrow angle, pointing up to the

"I was just getting to that.  It's an antique ivory dildo I
found in my grandmother's stuff after she died.  I got a
joiner to set it into the cross."

"What the fuck for?" she screamed, hugging herself across
her bare chest and backing away.

"It's for people like you who don't pay their tabs," I

"What?!  Fuck it, I just gave you the best damned blow-job
you'll ever have, you prick!  We're square, so give me my
shirt and let me out of here."

"Blow-jobs don't pay bills," I said.  "I'm in the business
of selling drinks and, if you welsh on your tab, I have to
find a way of selling more drinks to make up for it."

"Fuck you!" she screamed, twisting the door-handle and
rattling desperately.  She didn't even see Deon's hand
coming.  He smacked her face with the sound of a
rifle-shot.  She gasped, and staggered back from the door,
and from him, hand to a cheek suddenly fiery red.  She came
up against a chair as he back-handed her savagely on the
other cheek.  She fell backwards right over the chair.

As she scrambled to her hands and knees, he straddled her
back, grabbed a handful of that wonderfully thick, long,
dark, curly hair that had just finished teasing my thighs
to such good effect.  Drawing breath to scream for help,
she looked up, saw his big, meaty fist poised to smash her
face, and fell instead to terrified silence.

"This is what's going to happen," I said, "You're gonna be
strapped to the cross with that dildo up your ass.  You'll
discover later that it's a real life saver."

"No fucking way!" she gasped.  Deon's hand flicked out
again, another backhand, with her head snapping as her hair
yanked against his grip.  The resistance flowed out of her
and she burst into tears.  Deon stood up, pulling her to
her feet, and dragged her over to where the cross lay on
the desk. One each side of her, we picked her up, each
gripping an upper arm and lifting under the knee.  One each
side of the desk, we lay her on the cross.

The first step is always to strap the upper arms to the
horizontal cross-piece.  I held her shoulders down firmly
while Deon got the broad, leather straps we use.  They're
very wide, like bodybuilders' belts, and soft, so they
don't cut into the flesh too much.  This freed me to take
her shoes off and hold her feet together while Deon undid
her jeans and pulled them down.  She screamed and kicked
but this just helped get them off.  He tore her panties off
by brute force while she writhed around.  This inevitably
brought her ass-hole into intimate contact with the dildo.
She froze in terror.

This is always the hard part.  We pulled her knees up hard
against her breasts and lifted her under her lower back.
Predictably, she reacted by pushing her knees forward again
which was exactly what we wanted.  Her back bowed, her
stomach came up and she flinched and struggled as she felt
the dildo between her buttocks.

"You have two choices," I rasped.  "Relax and go with the
flow or be beaten to a pulp before it happens anyway."

Whimpering with pain, she allowed us to force her down onto
the dildo.  It would have been easier if she'd relaxed, but
she didn't.  On the other hand, it would have been easier
if we'd used some sort of lubricant, but we didn't.

Once they have the dildo up their ass and the arms strapped
down, they're not going anywhere. The wrists also get
strapped down, to keep the arms straight and for the
traditional look of the thing.

When she was firmly planted, Deon applied a ball-gag. If
you don't do this quite soon, they get time to think and
then start screaming for help.  Deon is quite adept with
ball-gags.  He enjoys selecting a size one bigger than the
girl can possibly cope with and demonstrating that in can,
in fact, be forced in.

As I strapped the gag tightly behind her head, Deon applied
the all-important waist-strap, wrenching hard to pull it
very tight.  She grunted in pain and tried to gurgle a
complaint through the gag.  I smacked her face for her.

"Shut up, bitch.  He's doing you a favour.  We've found
that, after a few hours, the lower back arches into a bow
and most people haven't got the stomach muscles to recover
from that.  From all appearances, it's excruciatingly
painful.  Believe me, this is the easy way."

We also strapped the neck firmly back, using a thick,
studded dog-collar, so the girl can't look down.  This
isn't necessary to keep her on the cross but it sure as
hell does look sexy.

We don't bind the legs at all but we do have a crown of
thorns.  She winced and whimpered as Deon forced it on.

* * *

"Now, you listen to me, bitch," I said.  "This is the easy
option.  You will recall that Our Lord was nailed to His
cross.  We haven't even broken your skin.  He was also
scourged beforehand but, like I say, we haven't even broken
you skin. Yet."

Her eyes were rolling and she was truly terrified. Despite
what I said, some of the thorns had pierced her forehead
and there were a few trickles of blood to show for it.  She
wasn't in a position to know better or to argue, though.

"What's going to happen now, you welshing bitch, is that
you're going to help this bar sell drink to make up for
what you and your boyfriend didn't pay for.  When we're
done, you're going to fuck off our of here and never come
back.  Okay?"

Frantic nodding, frantic efforts to speak through the gag.

"Shut the fuck up, welsher.  When we're done, you're going
to fuck off out of here, and you are not going to the cops
or any such thing.  For one thing, there will be no
evidence. You will be blindfolded, you will not be able to
see anyone who does anything to you and you will have no
witnesses. It will be your word against mine and, if you
try anything, I will have you for defamation.  I will have
you.  Got that?"

More nodding.  Deon blindfolded her, making a proper job of
it with a broad band of back leather knotted tightly in

"Once you're out of here, if you get out alive, the thought
might occur to you to go to the cops anyway and lay a
charge.  So hear this: if you do, you'll have to provide
the cops with your name and address and I have friends at
the station. Right now, I don't know who you are or where
you live.  If you're smart, you'll want to keep it that
way. Right?"

Vehement nodding.

"And, if you put us to the trouble of finding you, we will
bring the cross with us and we will show you what it felt
like for Our Lord to be scourged and nailed to the cross.
You think about that before you get silly ideas."

I picked up the little wooden dais we use on these
occasions. It's a little platform about six inches high and
about two feet square to get Joe Average Patron to the
around the correct height.  Tall patrons have to squat a
little, maybe do a little lifting.  Shorter patrons have to
go on tippy-toe a little.  But we don't get complaints.

Deon picked up the cross and its naked, fleshly burden as I
unlocked and opened the door. There was cheering and
applause from the patrons as Deon manoeuvred his
awkwardly-shaped load out into the bar.  The crowd parted
to let us through to the gents' restroom.  High up on the
wall is a hook, a big one, the kind that the abattoirs use
to hang carcasses on.

Grunting with the effort, Deon lifted the cross until the
ring at the top slipped over the hook.  He lowered her
gently to the point where she was hanging straight from the
hook. The cross wasn't quite flush with the wall and there
was some slight swaying.  She hung from the arm-straps, a
wonderful sight, all tall and stretched out, gazing blindly
straight over our heads.  God, it was sexy.  I felt myself
getting hard again and, out of the corner of my eye, I saw
Deon adjusting his crotch.  He was shifting around,
restless with anticipation.

I put the little dais down and slid it into place under her
dangling toes.  Her chest heaved as her laboured breath
sounding in her nose.

"Before I leave you alone with Deon to start the ball
rolling," I said, "there's something I have to tell you
about the nature of crucifixion.  Many people don't
know--but I bet you aren't one of them right now--that how
you die is by suffocation.  Your diaphragm usually does
most of your breathing for you.  You will just have
discovered that, when you are in the position you are in,
the diaphragm is quite unable to function effectively. Your
only way of getting air into your lungs is by using the
intercostal muscles between your ribs.  They are not
accustomed to working without the diaphragm and will
rapidly become tired."

Her breathing became even more frantic and I paused to
admire the movement of her magnificent breasts.

"I seriously suggest that your conserve your strength. When
the intercostal muscles eventually become too exhausted to
function--and this they surely will do, not matter how hard
you try--you will suffocate.  This is completely
inevitable. The less your muscles work, the less you can
breathe.  The less you breathe, the more starved of oxygen
your muscles will become.  It's a game you cannot win."

We saw her struggle to control her breathing.

"Very good, my dear.  I can just tell that we are going to
have to start a book on how long you will last.  I'm afraid
I've been a little mischievous, I must admit.  The picture
is not as bad as I've painted it.  You may have noticed,
before we blindfolded you, or you may recall from pictures
of the crucifixion, that there is a small shelf on the
cross--you might be able to feel it behind your knees--upon
which you may rest your heels and take some of the strain
off your chest."

Her heels flailed desperately and, after a few false
starts, she managed to get her heels in place and,
straining her thigh muscles, she was able to take some
strain off the straps at her upper arm that supported most
of her weight. Suddenly able to use her diaphragm, her
chest heaved while she snorted desperately through her nose
to catch up with her breathing.

"It's not all roses, of course, my dear.  For one thing,
the gag ensures that you are quite unable to breath through
your mouth.  But you have discovered this for yourself. I
do hope you don't catch a cold, hanging there naked in this
cold bathroom.  A case of the sniffles right now would be
most desperately inconvenient for you."

She moaned pleadingly through her nose.

"Hush, now, my dear.  You got yourself into this, you know.
Speaking for myself, I don't mind a bit but you will have
also just discovered that it's just about impossible to
keep your knees together when you're like that."

In a misplaced fit of modesty, she jerked her straining,
sprawling thighs together.  Her heels immediately slipped
off the inadequate little shelf she'd just discovered and
she flopped back into the hanging position, shrieking
nasally as her weight was taken by the upper-arm straps and
by the ivory dildo up her ass.  Tears flowed freely down
her cheeks.

"Don't blubber my dear.  You really, really, really can't
afford a blocked nose in your situation.  I commend your
wisdom in taking the appalling strain off your thigh
muscles.  They, too, will approach exhaustion and you will
come to find yourself grateful for my foresight in
supplying a dildo to help take your weight in that fashion.
Although, if you ever get down alive from there, you won't
be able to sit down for a month of Sundays."

Whimpering in pain, she scrabbled her heels cautiously back
onto the stupid little shelf, no longer trying to keep her
knees together.  Her splayed thighs, shaking with strain,
framed her exposed twat.  Sweat glistened on her abdomen
and glistened in her pubic hair.

"How fast you learn, my dear.  Keep moving the strain
around; you'll last longer that way.  I'm sure the
gentleman will appreciate that.  Another plus point: I'm
sure you can depend on some of them to help carry your
weight, albeit temporarily.  Deon, for example, is right
here, ready to give that very thing a go.  Aren't you

He grunted, animal-like, and strode forward onto the dais.
He grabbed her thighs roughly and ground his denim-clad
pelvis into her cunt.  She shrieked, as far as you can
shriek through a ball-gag, and writhed around.   Sure as
shit, her heels slipped right off the silly little shelf.
Deon took her weight by gripping her thighs and forcing his
crotch up into hers.

"Thank you, Deon.  You may step back now."

He dropped her and again she fell until jerked to a halt by
her upper arms and abused, ivory-pierced ass-hole.  Again,
the heels scrabbled back onto the shelf and again she
strained up on her inadequately-supported heels until her
thighs were shaking with the strain.

"You know, you're getting really good at that.  Now, last
thing before I leave you to Deon's tender mercies, is the
question of whether you get down alive from there.  The
deal is, you get down when there's not one man left in the
pub who wants to fuck you.  And, as we speak, there's a
queue outside the door, all jealous of Deon because he gets
to go first, who are 'phoning their buddies to come to my
bar and help pay off your tab.  It's going to be a long,
rough night, honey.  But that's enough from me. Over to
you, Deon--I have a bar to run."

* * *

As I closed the door behind me, I heard the sound of Deon's
zipper coming down.  I pushed past the queue and got back
behind the bar.

"Sorry for the delay, folks," I said, "but we're back in
business now."  I started serving drinks.  Behind me as I
worked was the wall of the gents' restroom.  I could hear
the thump-thump-thump of the cross knocking against my
plaster as the welsher began paying off her tab.

I'm going to have to do something about that hook. The
cross shouldn't thump like that.  It should hang flat
against the wall.

"You know, Jackie," said Vanessa, coming up for a refill,
"you should get a guy up there once in a while, for the
sake of we ladies."

"You never know your luck, Vanessa," I said.  "Uh-oh."

I'd noticed Officer Stanley in the doorway.  We're on his
beat and he had clearly picked up the unusual crowding and
the air of excitement.  He's a good cop, which is both good
and bad.  But he's also human.

"Hey, Officer Stan," I said, "How're they hanging?"

"Is everything okay here?  I'm wondering if we have a code
violation of some sort, with all these people.  What are
they so excited about, anyway?"

"Why, Officer Stan, everything's fully under control here.
They're excited because it;s a holiday weekend, I guess.
Would you like a drink?"

"Don't bullshit me, Jackie.  And no drink while I'm on
duty.  Something's going on here.  What is it?"

"Well, Officer Stan, maybe you'd care to go freshen up a
little and then maybe we can talk you into having an Easter
drink on the house."

I nodded towards the restrooms.  He gave me an odd look but
went to check up anyway.  The queue melted rapidly away
into nothing at his approach.  Stan passed Deon coming out
as he went in.  Deon never lasts long the first time.  He
gets too excited.

Stan was in the gents' restroom a long time. When he came
out, his coat was on inside out, looking odd but concealing
that he was a cop. He came and sat at the bar, took his
badge out and laid it, face down, on the counter.

"Well, officer, you surely look a lot more happy and
relaxed than when you went in there.  How about that drink

"I've decided I'm off duty," he said. "So call me Stan,
stop talking about that drink and let's be having it.  And
it's not on the house either.  I pay for my drink."

"Now isn't that just the damnedest shame?" said Vanessa.

"Here you go, Stan.  Cheers.  A Happy Easter to you."

"And to you, Jackie.  And to you."

* * *

And that's how we deal with tactical selling in my


Thank you for reading me.  I would be pleased to hear from
you, at, about whether or not
you liked my story, and why.

The Stories of Father Ignatius are to be found at

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