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The Fish Pond

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Everybody's being so complimentary, and I was convinced that I couldn't write a story, especially after reading some of the epics here. Got an idea for a very different second one last night..............
And so it goes. ;):D Welcome to the author's guild, Old Slave. You took your time, but it's been well worth the wait. Chapter 8 is great. It's a fresh new take on the theme, and the portrayal of humiliation is superb. Really enjoying this.

The high tech cross with the fittings and variable height is brilliant. I guess you really find out who your friends are, or aren't when you're crucified and people are allowed to do anything they want to you. I rather think that she'll feel differently about all of them, if and when she comes down.
:beer::beer::clapping:
 
9.

Morning. I’m thirsty. Do I get a drink? Jesus got one. God, it was cold last night. Shivering made the pain of the nails much worse. I wonder if I’ve lost much blood, can’t see any, but that collar thing round my wrist has tubes attached, to suck the blood away. It’s Ok to see a girl naked, covered in God-knows-what, obviously in severe pain, but you can’t show blood, it might scare the children. I guess that’s why they don’t want a virgin suffering this. Can’t see my feet, tits in the way. Never used to call them tits, always said breasts, crucifixion must do strange things to your mind.

Cross coming down, must be breakfast!!

Collegekids crossing the square, having a good look at me. One or two finger me, several more weigh my tits, practical biology class, glad to help.

Small squeezy bottle put to my lips, water I think though a bit sweet, I drink it all. “Do I get anything else?”

The cross goes back up, my question unanswered.

A little winged thing tickles my nose, I sneeze. Snot hangs down past my chin, I shake my head to try to dislodge it, all that happens is it clings to my lips. I try to blow it away but it gets inside my mouth. I lick my lips and heave. Plenty of flies on my cunt now. Yes, it’s not a pussy anymore either. For the love of God, just give me a free hand for ten seconds, drive the buggers away. I jerk my hips to try to scare them “She’s enjoying herself” I hear shouted from down below. If only they knew. I think about shouting back to them, but what’s the point? Nothing matters except the pain. And the flies.

The cross comes down. A posh-looking family are at the foot, looking up at me. Oh God, it’s the fish owners. They have a couple of picnic coolers with them. Going to have a meal in front of me, are you?

Lots of words of a derogatory nature from the posh adults, I let them wash over me: stupid cunt, fucking idiot, 48hours too good for you, servitude for life; plenty of crap like that.

A cooler is opened and a necklace of rotting fish taken out, placed round my neck, the stench is awful, I heave and a bit of vomit comes up, dribbles down my tits, drops out of sight. “The fish you killed”. I guessed as much. “Now we have a special one for you”, and he opens the second cooler, wisps of vapour come out, a frozen fish is removed. She holds some webbing, joined together. What the hell? The cross is raised till my cunt is at their shoulder level, and he starts playing with it. Then he pushes the fish against my hole “Hard frozen, the fins should dig in nicely” Damn and blast it, that hurts. She straps the webbing round my waist and between my legs, trapping it there. “It’ll start to ferment when thawed, should be an interesting feeling”.

The cross is raised. I vomit again from the fish necklace. I feel some of the vomit running down my legs, getting into the clamp thing that holds my nailed feet. Jam, shit, vomit, fish. A gourmet meal for the flies. At least the webbing pads the seat a little, though the pressure makes the fish move, bones stick in where fish bones shouldn’t go.

Another evening of louts from the pubs. Girls seem more prepared to get their hands on me than the lads, maybe they’re more used to shitty nappies, so my smell doesn’t put them off. Thankfully with the fish locked in my cunt I can’t be raped again. Doesn’t stop some wanker from coming all over me though.

The ants have found me now. Jam, shit, vomit, fish, cum. Once more, all I can think about is getting one hand free for a minute to get rid of the damn things.

Haven’t seen Peter today.

(tbc)
 
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The tradition has sadly died away. In the golden days of the Mafia if you received a wrapped fish it was time to get your affairs in order. Ironically it has Biblical ties ('fisher of men') those I doubt it was the soul they were after...

Now they just text you... (sigh)

Actually, in "The Godfather" it was an after-the-fact announcement rather than a warning. James Caan received a dead fish wrapped in Luca Brasi's bulletproof vest and then wrapped in newspaper to tell them that "Luca Brasi sleeps with the fishes." You can see the scene here:

 
9.

Morning. I’m thirsty. Do I get a drink? Jesus got one. God, it was cold last night. Shivering made the pain of the nails much worse. I wonder if I’ve lost much blood, can’t see any, but that collar thing round my wrist has tubes attached, to suck the blood away. It’s Ok to see a girl naked, covered in God-knows-what, obviously in severe pain, but you can’t show blood, it might scare the children. I guess that’s why they don’t want a virgin suffering this. Can’t see my feet, tits in the way. Never used to call them tits, always said breasts, crucifixion must do strange things to your mind.

Cross coming down, must be breakfast!!

Collegekids crossing the square, having a good look at me. One or two finger me, several more weigh my tits, practical biology class, glad to help.

Small squeezy bottle put to my lips, water I think though a bit sweet, I drink it all. “Do I get anything else?”

The cross goes back up, my question unanswered.

A little winged thing tickles my nose, I sneeze. Snot hangs down past my chin, I shake my head to try to dislodge it, all that happens is it clings to my lips. I try to blow it away but it gets inside my mouth. I lick my lips and heave. Plenty of flies on my cunt now. Yes, it’s not a pussy anymore either. For the love of God, just give me a free hand for ten seconds, drive the buggers away. I jerk my hips to try to scare them “She’s enjoying herself” I hear shouted from down below. If only they knew. I think about shouting back to them, but what’s the point? Nothing matters except the pain. And the flies.

The cross comes down. A posh-looking family are at the foot, looking up at me. Oh God, it’s the fish owners. They have a couple of picnic coolers with them. Going to have a meal in front of me, are you?

Lots of words of a derogatory nature from the posh adults, I let them wash over me: stupid cunt, fucking idiot, 48hours too good for you, servitude for life; plenty of crap like that.

A cooler is opened and a necklace of rotting fish taken out, placed round my neck, the stench is awful, I heave and a bit of vomit comes up, dribbles down my tits, drops out of sight. “The fish you killed”. I guessed as much. “Now we have a special one for you”, and he opens the second cooler, wisps of vapour come out, a frozen fish is removed. She holds some webbing, joined together. What the hell? The cross is raised till my cunt is at their shoulder level, and he starts playing with it. Then he pushes the fish against my hole “Hard frozen, the fins should dig in nicely” Damn and blast it, that hurts. She straps the webbing round my waist and between my legs, trapping it there. “It’ll start to ferment when thawed, should be an interesting feeling”.

The cross is raised. I vomit again from the fish necklace. I feel some of the vomit running down my legs, getting into the clamp thing that holds my nailed feet. Jam, shit, vomit, fish. A gourmet meal for the flies. At least the webbing pads the seat a little, though the pressure makes the fish move, bones stick in where fish bones shouldn’t go.

Another evening of louts from the pubs. Girls seem more prepared to get their hands on me than the lads, maybe they’re more used to shitty nappies, so my smell doesn’t put them off. Thankfully with the fish locked in my cunt I can’t be raped again. Doesn’t stop some wanker from coming all over me though.

The ants have found me now. Jam, shit, vomit, fish, cum. Once more, all I can think about is getting one hand free for a minute to get rid of the damn things.

Haven’t seen Peter today.

(tbc)

Is this the messiest crucifixion in CF's history? :boaa:

Nonetheless, spellbinding stuff from OS! :clapping:
 
Collegekids crossing the square, having a good look at me. One or two finger me, several more weigh my tits, practical biology class, glad to help.

A woman stretched on a cross. Helpless and available. And no condemnation for those who want to have a feel. It's an invitation hard to refuse. Maybe some of those young men are touching a naked woman for the first time. Educational.

Girls seem more prepared to get their hands on me than the lads

I'm shocked, shocked and surprised
:p
 
10,

Second morning, another sodding cold night, and it rained a bit. Didn’t wash much of the dirt off me though. Is any part of my body not hurting? The holes in my wrists feel as if they’ve enlarged, there’s a bit of slack if I can stand the pain to move them. No feeling in fingers at all, though they still look the right colour. Daphne said no permanent damage, though she lied to me, so I guess I’m crippled now, I wonder if they’ll try to mend my body, or just let me suffer if I’m still alive, now the National Health Service is cutting back it’s services.

The fish stink worse than ever, I vomit a bit more, can’t have much left in me. Strange feeling in my cunt, sort of itching, burning, that other fish decomposing, I wonder what harm that will do, no chance of children? That assumes I’ll still be alive, of course. I feel a lot weaker this morning. How much longer? Only another………I realise my brain’s too fuddled to work it out. It is the second day, isn’t it? I only have to do two days, don’t I? When do you die on a cross?

Peter hasn’t been back. The bastard. I’m sure we could have sorted the row out, but it doesn’t matter now, I won’t survive this, the nails are drawing the life out of me.

More water. The guard’s wearing a face mask, for the smell. Up I go again. I’M SO, SO BORED. I’m not even twisting about as much, just sitting on this tiny rod, pain everywhere, even have to think about breathing.

A gull landed on my head, frightened me to death (Oh, that’s funny Judith, the least of your worries is being frightened to death). Do gulls eat dead people, you see them on rubbish dumps? It craps and flies away. Bit more shit doesn’t matter. Will an undertaker clean me up, or do I go straight in the incinerator? Why is there no-one to answer my questions?

I haven’t really thought anything except pain between two strikings of the town hall clock. That must mean my brain is dying. My hands and feet are dead, I can’t feel my toes wriggling. I don’t think I’ll survive, and anyway what’s the point? Mum doesn’t want me and I don’t trust Dad any more. Peter’s abandoned me. I’m only used to a quiet country life, couldn’t go back to Compton after this, and would hate living alone in this city.

I feel like dying. How can I speed it up? I’ve tried to just stop breathing but that doesn’t seem to work. Maybe if I make the nail holes bigger, I’ll lose a lot of blood. Pity I can’t see the holes, they’re hidden by this clamp thing, but if I jerk my arm really hard, it must open up the hole. Oh, fucking hell!! That hurt so much. Stop panicking, Judith, you’ll die soon enough. You’ve not had a bad life. Apart from the village bullies. And Mum’s never really liked me. And Dad’s always been a bit weird. And my last quality time with Peter ended in a row. I’m a fucking failure. I want to die, now.

I think I must have fallen asleep. That or lost consciousness. How can you tell? I’m bored and thirsty and hungry and in agony and I stink and I’m going to die.

Wow! What’s happening? I’m going backwards, it’s all over. I’m still alive. But I must be crippled.

I’m flat on the ground now, and people with masks are working on these clamp things. Ping, ping, ping, they are released. I try to move but cannot. I’m paralysed! Hands lift me away from the cross, my cross. I look at my right wrist. A bit of redness. No blood. No hole.

He sees me looking at my wrist. “No damage, darling. We don’t use nails. That hammer bit’s just for show. Bet you thought it was for real, most do. It’s good, ‘innit?”

I’m lowered onto a stretcher, my arms gently maneuvered down to my sides. The pain is just as bad, but different, more tingling. The fish necklace is removed, the straps round my waist and groin unlocked, and gloved fingers grovel round removing bits of rotting fish.

I stare up at the darkening sky, getting used to the idea it is all over. What now? Daphne had a mum and dad to collect her, but no-one’ll come for me. Peter has abandoned me, can’t blame him.

Peter looks down at me. “I’ve arranged a private hospital for you to recover, the NHS won’t treat you now, they call judicial damage ‘self-inflicted’”.

Peter’s here. He’s still talking to me. Looking after me. I can’t believe it.

“I couldn’t come up to the cross. I’ve not left the square since you went up, watching from a distance. I wouldn’t have been able to contain myself, seeing you suffering, I’d have attacked the guards and those pompous gits with the fish, tried to get you down, probably got myself killed or at least 20 years penal servitude for contempt of court. Then who would look after you when you came down? I heard what your mother said. So I went shopping as I told you.

“Judith, will you marry me, please accept this ring as a token of my love”

I had the strength to say “Yes”, but not to lift my hand to put the ring on. He lifted it, and gently slipped the ring on. I could feel him do it, the nerves aren’t ruined. He moved my hand up to my face so I could see it. White gold with a big diamond.

My hand still smelt of shit.

(END)
 
Romantic twist ending!

Now, I did expect that bit with the nails not being real, otherwise why use those clamps!

you’ll die soon enough. You’ve not had a bad life. Apart from the village bullies. And Mum’s never really liked me. And Dad’s always been a bit weird. And my last quality time with Peter ended in a row.

I’m a fucking failure. I want to die

When it comes to humiliation, I guess that's one of the toughest, everyone turning away, everyone you thought you had with you, suddenly reveals they couldn't really stand you anyway... feeling a total failure, even if you thought you didn't have a bad life, apart from this, apart from that, by now, apart from everything.
 
Romantic twist ending!

Yes, and a tantalising insight into the experience of the partner of family member who watches, unable to help. They see their loved one suffering, mocked, humiliated. How do they react? How do they cope? What goes through their mind and emotions. Peter could have been more openly supportive, but he didn't trust himself.
 
Well, alright. I guess I can make myself like Peter again a bit, but him staying away did cause more suffering for her. Of course, he'd have only gotten himself into trouble if he had tried to fight off the pub crawlers, so there really wasn't much of a choice for him. :confused:

A nice happy ending for a change. Great stuff. :)
:clapping::clapping:
 
Peter could have been more openly supportive, but he didn't trust himself.

Well, alright. I guess I can make myself like Peter again a bit

I agree, he's insecure, she's naive, doesn't bode well for a long and happy marriage.

Maybe when she's recovered, she'll get that longing for the exquisite pain again. Maybe he'll man-up enough to give her what she wants.

Then maybe the chance of a happy-ever-after.
 
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