By Louetta

This is part 7 of an 8 part epic of me being crucified
when I was 18 by my brother's college friends



So now I was crucified. I had been bound before with
my arms outstretched, sometimes on my tiptoes but
never before suspended like this, not since I was
little. I couldn't believe the pain. But in addition
to the pain in my limbs almost immediately I found I
could only take shallow short breaths. I didn't try to
act brave. I screamed and begged for mercy, for
release, for some kind of relief. Even the effort of
crying out made the pain worse. Now I understood why
crucifixion was chosen as a punishment, both by those
who would truly torture and those, like me, who wished
to be tortured. The shame, the pain, the horror, the
sexual excitement all combined to make it a truly
surpassing experience. There is shame and horrid pain
for the girl being tortured and sexual excitement for
both her and her torturers. And if done right I knew
it could go on for days.

And now I hung there. The cross became my altar, the
altar on which I was to be sacrificed in the hot sun.
The sun would burn my naked body, the thin strands of
wet rawhide which laced my arms and shoulders to the
cross would slowly tighten as they dried in the sun,
the heat and the sweat pouring from my body would
slowly dehydrate me and the weight of my body would
drag me further down until breathing became
impossible. And meanwhile, every inch of me was
offered to the eager crowd below me, my brown thighs
and back, the tender globes of my narrow white ass, my
soft heaving bosom, my taut stomach, the silken floss
that covers the plump hillock above the sensitive lips
of my hot young pussy.

I could feel the roughness of the wood on my back and
my ass. The heat of the sun on my soft, pale breasts,
thrust forward now, tempting mounds of sensitive flesh
topped by hard pink nipples, each pierced by its shiny
gold ring. My thinly muscled brown belly strained with
the effort of keeping myself erect to breath. My
thighs fought to hold me up. My bare white ass
trembled temptingly as I pulled desperately at my
bonds and begged for relief from the fire that
consumed every part of me. 

Barely I could make out faces in the crowd below me.
Some were simply curious to see this cruel but erotic
ritual, others eager to see my slender body, stripped
naked, bound, twisting wantonly, glistening in the
morning sun with the sweat of my struggles. I watched
my audience closely. The girls seemed entranced by the
suffering of my body while the guys were clearly more
interested in my nakedness, how my boobs moved, how
wet I was. And wet I was. I stared back at the crowd
come to see me tortured, most of whom I had never seen
before. It's different being naked for strangers than
for people you know. And different if the person
you're with is a lover or some guy you know who's
never seen you naked before. But I do enjoy being
naked for strangers and feel less self-conscious
knowing I'll never see them again. 

There's something very sexy indeed about being nude in
front of people and then later being clothed with
them, both of you knowing they've seen you in the
nude. And before hand seeing them when you are clothed
and you know and they know they will soon see you
nude. I love being with men who know they soon will
see me naked. Who wait expectantly, knowing the
mysteries of my taut young body will soon be revealed.
I love nothing better than to be bound naked before a
man to be tortured, no matter what the means. Having
them so close they can practically feel you sweat and
having the man torturing you talk to you while he does
so, telling you how much he admires your naked body
and what he is going to do to it and how long it will
take. 

The entire day had been an intense sexual experience.
The giving of my body to my torturers, the exposure to
the audience, my scourging, the procession to the
whipping frame and then to the cross, the drama of
being bound nude and raised up to hang fully exposed. 
I love being displayed naked and in agony. God help me
I loved every bit of it. Being bound, the tightness of
the ropes, the discomfort in my wrists and my arms and
my shoulders, the feelings of helplessness,
vulnerability, expectancy. The physical sensations of
being turned on, rock like nipples, the warmth and
moisture inside my loins. 

The agony of the crucifixion itself, surrendering,
submitting, sometimes faltering, forlorn, frightened,
struggling, shaking, crying, trying to summon my
courage to continue, the uncertainty of never knowing
quite how long I could last. The ecstasy of feeling
sexual pleasure like I'd never felt in bed with a boy
or a girl. As the clock ticked I felt my breathing
become more difficult, felt my heart beat faster, felt
the bite of the ropes around my limbs and the glory of
my naked body. My soft brown body with the snow white
breasts and ass, the pink lips of my pussy and the
warmth in my loins, knowing all the while what it
could do for me.

Crucifixion is the ultimate torture one can actually
endure and expect to escape unharmed and I had jumped
at the chance to experience it. I had found the
anticipation of being punished this way completely
terrified me. It was summer, hot and humid, the worst
time to do it. When the time had come to do it I was
fearful, sick at heart, desperate and all but caved in
emotionally while just being whipped. And when I went
to the cross the agony was unbearable. But deep down
inside I loved it. I loved the tingle in my loins and
the pleasure of my own nude body. The ropes hurt me
terribly. They were supposed to. I like to be hurt. I
want to be tied, to be completely, hopelessly,
abjectly helpless. My body responds to being the
victim. 

As I hung there I felt the heat of the sun on my naked
body and it felt good. All I had to do was last until
the sun slipped noiselessly behind the tree line three
hundred yards in front of me. For now I welcomed it as
it warmed the gentle curve of my breasts, kissed the
pinkness of my nipples, caressed the smooth skin of my
belly, peaked at the smoothness of my bare white ass
as I struggled on the cross, tickled the softness of
my inner thighs, smoothed the downy runway of my cunt
hair and caught a hint of the pinkness of my cunt
lips. 

Now and then I began to fight. Of course I never put
up a real fight all through the entire day, except
when I was actually being whipped or on the cross.
Other than that I just let them do whatever they
wanted to me. A few times when I was younger and some
things were done to me against my will I have never
put up a fight. I want the stuff done to me. I've
tried simulated rape scenes but they don't work for
me. It's hard to struggle against people trying to tie
you to the bed when you can't wait to be tied. 
Today I would have preferred to be tied up first and
then slowly stripped. Just being strung up in a bikini
with ties provides plenty of tantalizing exposure of
the girl inside it and allows her little outfit to be
slowly removed at any time. Being slowly stripped just
before whatever is going to be done is one of the most
delicious parts of being tortured. 

Ever since I was could remember I rejoiced in an
ordeal such as this. Being stripped first to my
underwear, or a little bikini. Almost nude but not
quite. As much of me offered as possible without
revealing all of me. Keeping me as naked as possible
without preempting the coming ceremony of finally
stripping me naked. Then slowly, inch by inch, baring
my breasts and pulling my panties down to reveal every
sweet inch of me. To feel hands upon me, tickling my
moist little slit, moving slowly up over the tops of
my thighs, across my stomach to my breasts. My
breasts, soft, white, bared to the prying eyes of my
captors. Bared to whatever cruelty they saw fit to
visit upon them.

And I look forward to it, waiting, waiting, waiting
for the pain to start, terrified, trembling,
shivering, perhaps weeping with the fear, the fear of
what is to come. Struggling, struggling against my
ropes, feeling them cut into my soft white skin.
Hearing the call of my body. Waiting, waiting, loving
every minute, loving the soft breeze over my naked
body, the heat of the air, the slight heaving of my
chest, the quickening of my pulse, the hint of sweat
across my forehead, under my arms, beneath my boobs,
in the soft crease of my tummy, between my thighs. 

Then finally it starts. It is difficult to describe
the joy of being tortured. Hung naked and tortured.
Really tortured, with no mercy. The waiting is over
and they torture you mercilessly. The anticipating is
done and the reality is here. And nothing quite equals
the reality. Nothing quite equals the thrill as every
inch of you burns. You struggle helplessly against the
ropes that hold you tight. Your body twists and turns
wantonly under the instruments of torture as you try
desperately to escape. 

And the best kind of torture is the one you know you
cannot escape. The one done with no safe word, no
chance for mercy, no hope of reprieve. Just like that
first time, the first time I was stripped naked in the
woods and my nude body whipped until my bare ass was
red and raw and my tits were on fire with the pain
inflicted by the lash across the tender white flesh.
And all the while I pleaded for mercy that I knew
would never come. That was the day that made me. It
was warm that day too and I was bound and stripped
naked in the sun. There was no embarrassment in it for
me. In fact my whole body purred. Being naked had
plugged my body into some socket and I was humming on
high. I didn't know why I liked it but I knew I did
and as I grew older my interest grew with my body. 

That day I first felt the power that my body gave me,
a daisy fresh girl, as they gazed in wonder at my
nakedness. The whiteness of my bare chest, the soft
fold of my stomach, the gentle curve of my ass, my
long silken legs, the gentle sheen of tiny golden
hairs on my body catching the light, full lips parted,
hair disheveled. I loved being naked and I loved being
helpless. I loved every second of it. And now I know
the best orgasms I have ever had, have been with
lovers, boy or girl, who understood the effect being
helpless has on me, helpless while I give myself
freely, wantonly, joyfully, all of me, letting myself
be taken.

And today I hung naked on a cross. Slowly the heat of
the sun dried the wet rawhide and tightened it around
my bare limbs. I'm tied with a single strand, a single
strand they know will cut into the skin against the
bones of my wrists and the sinews inside my elbows and
where my biceps meet my shoulders and where my
shoulders meet my chest. A small refinement of
cruelty. And slowly the rawhide did its job. I'd been
tied for less than an hour and already the rawhide had
begun to cut into my soft flesh. 

I lay my head back against the post and prayed for
some relief, knowing there wouldn't be any until the
sun set below the trees. I hung there helplessly
sobbing, almost wishing I would just die there. In
addition to the searing pain in my arms and shoulders
and chest and my stomach, my ass was now so sunburned
that the pressure of the cross against it hurt
mercilessly as well. 

Every time I tried to lift myself up to breathe the
pain became worse. The heat of the sun on my nude body
began to make my mind wander. And still it went on and
on, every minute a hell of pain and suffering. Some
people have been crucified for days and still they
lived on. Many people lasted several days even though
they had been nailed to the cross, instead of tied
with ropes. But I would not have been able to last for
days. The hot sun, the flogging I had endured before
being put to the cross, my being a girl were all
beginning to be my undoing. 

More time passed with more suffering. Pain seemed to
come to my naked body in waves and each time I tried
to brace myself to fight it. Every passing moment
brought more and more suffering. Every moment the
strain in my arms and shoulders increased. Every
breath was now an effort. My muscles seemed to be on
the point of tearing apart with the strain of trying
to support my body weight. First my arms, then my
shoulders then the muscles above my tits, then in my
stomach gradually begin to weaken. Soon I could no
longer hold myself up but would hang there limply.

I tried to keep my breathing steady. I had to
concentrate on it but as the pain in my muscles
increased it became harder and harder. By the end of
the second hour the pain in my limbs had been replaced
by a dull ache. My body slowly began to go numb,
bringing me closer to the time I would no longer be
able to pull myself up to breathe. My muscles and
joints began to stiffen. I had more and more
difficulty pulling myself up for air. But I knew I
could hold on. A half hour at most as my friend the
sun sank slowly but steadily in the west.

I felt the searing pain as my body weight took hold,
the ropes tightened and slowly the weight of my own
luscious little body began to squeeze the life out of
me while I struggled mightily, helplessly,
desperately, almost futilely to lift myself up to get
enough air. And then came my undoing. They told me I
must suffer in that last half hour the way girls on
the cross have always suffered just before the end.
They took from me the one thing that was keeping me
alive, the little piece of wood upon which my shins
rested was removed.

I screamed, I cried, I begged for mercy but it did not
good. I tried desperately to clench my legs against
the post so I could push myself up and get some air.
And for a few minutes it worked. But slowly my legs
began to weaken. Slowly I could no longer get a hold
on the pole. Slowly the muscles in my thighs began to
burn with the pain. And slowly the pain turned to
numbness, my fear turned into fog, and as I weakened
more and more I slowly drifted to the very edge of
this world, toward another, toward the blackness that
would surely come when I could no longer breathe. 

In the last half hour I suffered terribly, every inch
of my slight brown body simply a conduit for pain.
Slowly, slowly I was being tortured to death. Every
minute seemed like an eternity. I begged for help with
my last breath. I sank lower and lower on the cross as
my muscles gave way. With a desperate effort I pushed
myself up just enough to raise my body and admit
enough air to continue living for another minute. Now
I was no longer aware of the crowd. I was no longer
aware of being nude. I was only aware of the pain and
the agony of slowly suffocating to death. 

My breath hardly came at all now. My eyes tried to
focus but more and more I was aware only of suffering.
I began to break down. Whatever composure I had had
now dissolved.  I sobbed uncontrollably. Now I could
not raise myself to breathe and what breaths I could
mange were hardly worth the effort. There was no
respite from the pain. My head sank onto my chest. At
length I was not aware even of breathing. Without even
realizing it I had stopped trying. The sky grew dark
around me. 

I felt the blood pounding in my head. My soft slender
body hung wantonly in mid air, every naked inch of me
crying for relief, from the searing pain, the
increasing numbing of my limbs, the desperate struggle
for air, the lack of blood to my brain, the dimming of
my senses, colors gray, sounds a hollow rush. I felt
the soft approach of darkness, then flashes of light,
then more darkness, then a strange quietness, a
feeling of peace, relief from the excruciating pain
and then I drifted off to nothingness. A final
quivering of my naked body and then nothingness. All
that was left was my naked body hanging limply from
the cross in the heat of the late afternoon.

Once again I had passed out. According to my contract
this meant they had to take me down and they did. They
tell me I was out about five minutes, which is kind of
a long time to be passed out. In any case by the time
I slowly began to emerge from the haze I was laying on
the ground but was still bound to the two by four that
had formed the horizontal half of my cross. I was
still stark naked.

They were trying to untie me but the rawhide had dried
almost solid in the hot sun and they couldn't undo the
knots. It was just like after the whipping, getting
myself untied was harder than getting myself tied. But
that's always the way. Lots of guys want to tie up a
naked girl but find one wants to untie her. Hmm. Thank
God for that. There was more arguing, more f words.
Finally they just cut me free. They lifted me off the
cross and I lay there in the grass for a few more
minutes, still nude, just supporting myself on one
elbow, enough to take some water from my helper. 

After a while I sat up. My helper gave me some more
candy bars to eat and a few minutes later I began to
perk up a little. Since eleven that morning I had only
had the two candy bars she had given me after the
whipping and I was starving and weak. It was now about
seven thirty. The sun was just disappearing behind the
trees at the other end of our little playground. That
was the sign to end the game anyway so I only missed
finishing my ordeal successfully by a very few
minutes. 

I wanted to go home. I was tired, hungry and
physically hurt. Since I didn't have anyone special to
curl up with here I'd rather go home and curl up
there. They produced a stretcher on which to carry me
to the cars and I took advantage of it. My girl helper
had my clothes and, for once, I was thoroughly tired
of being nude so I stood up long enough to put on my
underpants and my shorts. I put my arms inside my
shirt and stuck my bra into my waistband. My arms and
shoulders hurt so much there was no way I was climbing
into a bra. I lay down on the stretcher and two of the
guys picked me up and we started down the hill. 




  
College Boys7 On the Cross