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K R I S T E N' S C O L L E C T I O N
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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.
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This story was written as an adult fantasy. The author
does not condone the described behavior in real life.
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