Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
From: redragon@interserv.com
Subject: Helen On The Cross (MF, bdsm)
Date: 31 Oct 1995 01:31:30 GMT

			  Helen on the Cross
				  by
			       MISTRAL

	In the summer of `89, I enjoyed furious lovemaking and exotic
S/M rituals with a young beautiful woman, Helen. Helen scared me. Her
sexual intensity and devotion would be the envy of any Master but she
had a serious health concern, since she was a full blown diabetic. Her
light hearted mood and high energy level often suddenly evaporated
after a serious session in bed. She had been in and out of the
hospital for diabetic coma, had a detached retina requiring laser
surgery seven times, and constantly monitored her blood. Yet, Helen
told me that she had everything under control. If I expressed
moderation, she demanded harder sex, explaining her "joie de vivre"
with the amazing acknowledgment that she had seen Death up close and
He no longer scared her. She never wanted me to dwell on the
possibility.

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

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

	I told Helen that my special interest in S&M centered on
crucifixion. She listened, transfixed, as I explained my passion, not
for the prevailing S&M predisposition for the tame Greek St. Andrews
cross (X-type), but the barbarous Roman Tau cross (T-type).

	As with every woman I have had the pleasure to crucify, I had
to get over the religious issues of blasphemy, etc., explaining that
hundreds of thousands of men & women in ancient times had suffered on
the cross, not just Jesus.

	Then, I had to remove the visual images left by two millenia
of religious icons and paintings showing doe-eyed Saviours; since no
painter had ever seen an actual crucifixion, all the images she had
seen were grossly incorrect. Helen asked more and more questions, and
her eyes widened in horror with each answer. I could tell that the
thought of herself hanging on a cross, naked, for her Master, was more
than her twat could bear. It wasn't a matter of if she could perform
this, but when. We arranged to spend the next weekend at my house.

	The next Friday, we went shopping together for our dinner
ingredients and played in good natured adolescent fun. She laughed
knowingly when I came up to the checkout counter with a large dog
collar since she knew a collar of that size could not stay on my
cocker spaniel's neck. I, in turn, wondered why she bought a large
over sized T-shirt. We then drove out to my house in the woods through
the hot hazy humid dusk of a Florida summer evening.

	Since Helen required a special diet, our dinner was simple,
but sweet. Afterwards, we spent a quiet sensuous time caressing and
cuddling together.

	When it was dark, she asked to be excused. I knew she was
taking care of her medications for her diabetes and checking her
blood. After about a half hour, she returned wearing only the large
T-shirt, which she had ripped apart and safety-pinned into a typical
Gorean slave garment. It revealed her long naked legs, barely covered
her ass, and was obviously intended to be disposable. She kneeled in
front of me, lowered her head, and said "I am ready, Master. Crucify
me."

	I verified that her body was willing and capable of taking the
evening's torment, put the dog collar around her neck, blindfolded
her, tied her hands around her back and led her on a leash slowly
through the house to the garage. Once there, I untied her hands,
wrapped her wrists with ace bandages, and then retied her wrists over
her head to a rope from the beam overhead. I ordered her to drink a
large cup of water, explaining that I did not want her to dehydrate in
the sweltering summer heat. I then turned the crank for the rope until
only her feet rested on her toes. I asked her if she knew what came
next. In a half giggle, she answered "My scourging." Her amusement did
not concern me. In our previous bondage sessions, she often started
out light hearted, but I had seen her passions, and knew they were
waiting just under the surface. Soon, I would have not a I've-seen-
the-world-and-know-it-all girl but a lusty deep throated woman,
moaning and thrusting her pelvis in shameless abandon. I went over to
the work bench where I had set up the devices for her torture and my
pleasure. I lit many candles which cast a medieval glow inside the
garage. I picked up a handmade macrame whip, a large bowl of hot
melted red wax, and a wide leather belt and carried them to the center
of the garage where Helen was suspended. Her slave outfit now ended
above her waist revealing her small tight ass. I took the leather belt
and traced it along her smooth skin. Her body writhed slowly in
anticipation. She knew the scourging would be her first torment, that
the Romans used cruel, horrible whips, with pieces of bone, fishhooks,
and metal, tied and embedded in the leather thongs. She also knew
that the Romans ALWAYS preceded crucifixion with a scourging as a
merciful way of shortening a victim's agony on the cross. Even then,
she knew that victims often lasted for up to three days.

	She screamed as the first lash of the belt hit square across
her buttocks.

	Then a second, lower on the legs, a third across her thighs.
Straining at her bonds, she said "This really HURTS!", but Helen knew
by now she was only talking to herself. I continued to belt her lower
extremities and buttocks; the areas belted glowed red against her pale
skin. I rested and caressed her body gently with my hands and fingers.
Sweat was forming over her body and I forced Helen to drink another
cup of water.

	Turning my attention to her slave outfit, I went behind her
and rent the back of it down the middle, exposing her long sinuous
spine. I caressed the sides of her body, down her long legs, up over
her thighs, her waist, and gently circled her nipples, hardening under
what remained of her garment. I then picked up the macrame whip,
dipped in it the melted red wax and lashed her ass. She screamed and
writhed for some moments after the stroke, her pelvis straining
forward to avoid the next lash. The next stroke fell across her back,
and I noticed her fingers straightening at the top where she was
bound. Another stroke splattered red wax across the back of her legs.
I continued methodically and rhythmically, watching, after each
application of the whip, the red wax slowly run down her skin until it
cooled and hardened. After her back, buttocks, and legs were covered
with wax, I stopped and relaxed.

	I stood in front of Helen, her blindfolded head hung forward
between her raised arms. I cut, tore, and pulled away the last
remnants of her cloth. Her breasts were gorgeous, her nipples pointing
upwards with each panting breath she took. I took clothespins and
gently put them on each nipple. She moaned and curved her long
stretched waist in a vain attempt to relieve the torture. Until now,
I had been able to keep all thoughts of sex out of mind by working
systematically at her punishment. I decided she was ready for my
pleasure. I stripped myself and located myself behind her. Taking the
leather belt in one hand, I put it across the front of her pelvis,
grabbing it on the other side. With my thumbs, I parted the cheeks of
her ass, found her moist tight pussy, and thrust my rock hard cock
inside.

	I cannot adequately describe the delights Helen gave me with
her twat! Perspiring in the summer evening, covered with dried red
wax, blindfolded, she nevertheless worked my cock over and over as I
pulled her waist towards me on each thrust with the belt. Helen came
again and again, her moans spiralling softly each time.

	Finally, I could hold back no more, and she milked my member
with exquisite control.

	I checked Helen's condition. She was weak, but told me she was
ok. I gave her more water to drink, although this time she did not
want it.

	Then I went over to my chair, sat down and watched her dangle
in the candlelight. Her body stimulated my desire to begin the
crucifixion, but I waited patiently, absorbed in her beauty.

	After about fifteen minutes, I announced her judgment.

	"Slave Helen, you have been condemned to be crucified for
insolence to your Master. You will carry your crossbeam naked to the
site of your crucifixion. There your hands and feet will be pinned to
punish them. You will be raised on the cross and you will hang, in
shame, before everyone to see. Only your Master can relieve you of
your cruel agony." Of course, in this role playing, Helen knew, unlike
Roman slaves, she would not have to endure long spikes through her
wrists and heels, but that I would make the actual event as realistic
as possible.

	I lowered her body, took the clothespins off her nipples, and
massaged her arms and breasts. With her leash attached again to her
collar, I led her over to the garage doors. I picked up her crossbeam,
a two-by-four about six foot long with strategically placed 1/2 inch
diameter holes through the beam every foot, and placed it on her
shoulders. Though the beam was not particularly heavy, I knew from
previous experience that women instinctively hunch their backs over
when they feel the weight of the crossbeam for the first time. I
lightly tied her arms to the beam and ordered her to stand straight.

	Standing there, a collar her only adornment, her arms
outstretched, I decided that she needed something special before we
went outside. I took a thick round painters brush and dipped it in the
hot melted wax. Her knees buckled, and her groin squirmed as I painted
her left nipple. I alternated between her nipples, letting one cool as
the other received more wax.

	Finally, her nipples were encased in thick red wax, hardening,
then cracking with each breath.

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

	Finally we came to the clearing.

	A 4 inch diameter pole stood upright, stark in the moonlight,
approximately eight feet out of the ground. I left Helen standing as I
arranged a small platform of wooden steps built for this purpose. The
upright post, which in practice the Romans always left in place, had a
4 inch block cut from the very top where the crossbeam would sit to
form a perfect capital T, the Tau cross. In addition, the Romans
usually had a way to support the weight of the victim. Since the
weight of the body on the arms cramps the chest, victims could usually
breath in but not breath out.

	When the slave could no longer tolerate the pain caused by the
nails in their wrists or arms (never the hands) or when the victim had
to relieve the cramp in their chest by breathing out, they would stand
on the nail in the feet or heels, pull themselves up by their arms and
relieve the pressure for a few moments until that pain became greater.

	Then they would slide down to hang again. The Romans could
prolong the agony by a variety of cruel measures, up to the whim of
each executioner. Sometimes, a large single nail would simply support
the slave's buttocks, other times a saddle, but often times an animal
horn would be fastened so that the sharp tip of the horn probed the
anus. Whatever the method, the Romans were experts at the art of
pinning human bodies in extreme positions to the torture stake.
Helen's pole had a narrow bare seat from an old ten-speed bike which
could be tilted in any angle and inserted at several points along the
upright stake depending on the victim's height. I pointed the seat
down so it provided minimum support, then judging Helen's body
proportions, put the saddle about four feet from the ground.

	I went over to Helen, laid her down flat on the pine needles
covering the ground, and quickly went to work. The ropes which bound
her to the crossbeam were untied and her arms stretched out to the
proper position. I arranged her arms in a 45 degree Vee and instead of
wrapping the rope around the beam, I tied a thick knot in one end,
threaded the long end through the proper hole on the beam, and
fastened her wrists snugly.

	After she was fixed to the beam, I raised her roughly and
dragged her backwards to the stake. I then walked her backwards up the
steps (which have enough room for two, if you're careful), positioned
her astride the narrow seat, and pinned the beam to the top of the
stake. I stepped off, took her right foot and placed it atop a metal
rod which projected through the stake at right angles about a foot off
the ground and tied it to the stake. I repeated the process for the
other foot, removed the steps, reached up and removed Helen's
blindfold, and stood back.

	Helen now felt the full agony of crucifixion. In the bright
moonlight, I could clearly see the dark wax which covered her nipples
move up and down with each breath. Her white skin glowed against the
narrow dark wood she was now married to.

	As I walked around her, she turned her head to see until her
raised stretched arms blocked her motion. I walked behind the cross
viewing and caressing the cheeks of her naked buttocks pressed against
the upright. I went over and sat on the steps, watching her slow
movements from the side as she explored the limits of her predicament.

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

	I took out a vibrator and went to stand in front of her cross.
She looked down at me as I considered her private parts. Her bush was
dark and hairy, her legs slightly parted, and I imagined that if it
was daylight, I would see my white milky semen oozing from her cunt. I
applied the vibrator to her clit and she tensed her body, then lifted
her head and moaned.

	Finally, she asked me to stop.

	"Master, I must pee. Please let me down."

	"No. You've been crucified. You're in public and out of
necessity must perform bodily functions for all to see and hear." She
moaned again but knew it was useless to ask again. I stepped back a
few feet as she lowered her head, spread her knees, and began to
urinate from the cross.

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

	I turned and walked back to the house, leaving Helen in her
agony alone. When I returned about fifteen minutes later, I knew she
might think an hour had gone by. I stood in front of her pussy,
smelling the mixture of musk and urine. Numb, Helen watch as I started
to clean her twat with a wet hot cloth. Immediately, the cross shook
as she writhed in shameless pleasure. Her deep moans turned to softly
whispered pleas.

	"Please, Master. Lick me. Lick me down there."

	I looked up at her, her face shadowed by the curtains of hair
hanging around all sides of her head. I reached up and felt her
nipples, twisted them one more time, then parted her pussy lips, and
began to lick her clean twat. She strained at her fastenings, her
knees spreading wide. I took the vibrator and traced it up and down,
laying it along her clit, then probing inside her vagina, and back to
her exposed clit. I watched as she wagged her head ceaselessly from
side to side, then straightened her body as the first orgasm came.
Each time she stood, she would then slide back down as she greedily
spread her legs for more.

	I began to use my tongue again, licking her juices up over her
clit. She moaned and wailed, then stopped, thrust her vulva forward,
widened her knees as much as possible and said,

	"Master, it's yours. My pussy is yours. You can have it,
Master, forever. It's yours. Please take my pussy, take it. You can
do whatever you want with it. Forever, Master... " Her words trailed
off into a moan.

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

	I went back to the steps, sat down, and waited in the quiet
evening about forty-five minutes as Helen hung silently on her cross.
I have rarely seen a more beautiful woman, in the moonlight, truly
statuesque.

	Afterwards, it was clear that her cross had brought Helen to
the limits; possibly too close, considering her health. On the way
back, I wrapped a small blanket over her shoulders, carrying her part
of the way, until she felt capable of walking. She slept soundly that
night, and the next morning, we made beautiful love.

	Sadly, Helen's health became, despite her greatest assurances,
too much of a concern for me. I had seen during office hours and
leisure hours, the random effects of her diabetes. She took judicious
care of her physical health, but I could not get out of my mind that
one day, our activities, while windsurfing, bicycling, or making love
might cause blindness, or worse. I just did not want to be responsible
for that. Imagine the headlines in this Mickey Mouse world if one of
our S&M episodes ended with her dead on a cross I had built for her.

	I knew that with Helen, and her zest to do it all before the
end, it wasn't if, but when.