Cycle
Guard
by Cycle
A set of black handcuffs are on the desk next to the computer I’m writing this story on. A set of black leg shackles lay next to them. It’s been a long time since I spent the weekend locked in their embrace and they may get used tonight. I’m thinking back to what happened a year ago. My first story here was complete fiction. But quite a lot of this story is true … it’s my personal Crux experience.
It started years ago as a child. Long before I learned about sex. I always liked shedding my clothes and finding various ways of restraining my wrists, legs and body. Then I’d struggle to get free. Then I’d do it again. It was back then that I’d loop rope around the frame of my bunk beds and hang from my wrists. I knew nothing about crux then. I knew it hurt. But somehow, I was drawn to it.
That was then. I gave it all up years ago as I attempted to fit in. But I never did. I went through several phases of buying handcuffs, chains and shackles. I’d use them several months. Then either hurt myself or become ashamed. I still remember all the places I dumped the hardware. Like a criminal, I’d stealthily dispose of the evidence and long for a normal life, with normal people, normal desires. It never happened.
I don’t even remember the first crux picture I saw, never made a religious connection. But to this day, I continue to be amazed that a symbol of execution is what people hold while they pray, revere and worship. If Jesus arrived in our time, the symbol could have been a noose, a gas chamber, an electric chair or a syringe. I know, sorry, I think too much.
Last year, when the last member of my family was claimed by cancer and I became truly alone in the world, I stopped throwing away the handcuffs. Then the cross came into my life. The picture of the woman on the cross at sunrise/sunset has burned itself into my memory. Then I saw a sample of the Alice video. I had to try it.
I’m too alone, too unacceptable to the world to ever try anything in public or with anyone. It’s always behind closed doors. Locked away from the world. Alone.
After studying pictures, I drew up my own plans. Bought the wood. The bolts. The rope. It was built a year ago. 6x6 hard wood. Standing eight feet tall. Nails of course were out of the question, but at night, when sleep is hard to come by, I sometimes wonder what nails would feel like.
So what kind of knot can you tie around your wrist that won’t do permanent damage? How to tie your feet? Back to the internet. The place where we all find out what we need to know. It may not be always be right, but at least it’s a starting point.
After a few dry runs … it’s time.
Six loops of heavy black rope around the wrists. Then tie another loop in the rope that can be tossed over the cross-beam and hopefully catch the hook screwed into the wood. I walk over to the base of the cross. The 6x6 rough wood upright and crossbeam dominate the room. No nails, but it’s still frightening. My heart rate begins to increase.
A small, three step ladder sits at the base. My last remnants of clothing come off. To the world, I know I’m disgusting. Tall, thin, pale. So no cameras are set up. This is for me. I sit on the step stool and look up at the cross beam. It’s high above me, but as a pathetic geek, I’ve done the math. I’ll be able to reach just fine.
One foot is placed on top of the other. The heel rests just on the opposite side of the lower ankle. Three loops around both feet, then one through both toes, around the ankle and under the bottom foot. A large loop is delicately balanced between my ankles.
It’s time …
Using my already roped hands, I push myself up. My bound feet barely clear the top step. I rest my heels on the edge of the step and slowly try to stand. The edge of the small step ladder digs into the bottom of my feet. I laugh. The pain is nothing compared to what I’m expecting. It’s not that I like pain. Pain hurts, but I continue on. I have to know what it’s like.
Standing up, I find my attempt to do the math has failed. The cross beam is a little too high. I edge myself closer to the rough upright. The rope around my feet allows next to no movement, but I’m able to inch closer to the cross. Looking up, I reach my skinny, pale arms up and grab the cross piece. Looking down, I see the step ladder’s handle. It’s a good three inches above the top step. Looking directly ahead, I let my fingers take my body’s weight and lift my bound feet.
The ladder’s handle is barely half an inch wide. I’m only able to rest one heel on it. More pain in my lower foot. I laugh again. Nothing like what I’m expecting as I slowly push myself up the last few inches. I’ve made it.
My skinny, pale arms remain stretched along the cross piece. I look left, then right. Almost there. Gripping the cross tighter with one hand, I release the other hand and shake out the loop of the rope hanging from my wrist. Looking back, I attempt to sling it over the top of the cross piece and hope it’s long enough to catch on the hook I’ve screwed into the other side. A little short, but not too short. I try again. Failure. I try again. On the fifth try, the loop of rope catches the hook. Success!
I look the other way. Just like the first arm, the other takes five tosses of the loop of rope for it to slip over the hook on the back side of the cross beam. My arms are finally attached to the cross. I look straight ahead and realize my heart is racing. A layer of sweat now covers my pale, thin, naked body. I’m trembling just a bit too.
Looking down, my feet are still perched on the small handle of the step ladder, I briefly think I should kick it away. My family is gone. I’m truly alone in the world. I’m only somewhat successful in my career, and know I’ll only have just barely enough to survive, nothing more. And I’ll always be alone. Even with the despair of my terminal loneliness, I realize it’s not my time … yet. So I leave the step ladder in place.
Continuing to look at my bound feet, I realize that the heel that’s been supporting my weight is screaming in pain. I find myself laughing again. Nothing like what I’m expecting. Why is that so fucking funny, I wonder.
I look at one wrist, then the other. It’s time …
Slowly, I bend my knees and allow my wrists to take my body’s full weight. Pain in my wrists begins immediately. But I continue slowly transferring my weight. My arms are fully stretched out. Pain begins in my shoulders and my breathing quickens. Once my weight has been fully transferred to my wrists, I slowly pick my feet off the ladder and attempt to loop the rope that’s been delicately balanced between my ankles over hook screwed into the upright. It only takes one attempt to hook the foot rope.
I can’t breath! My pale, thin body is now covered in sweat. My wrists, arms and shoulders are screaming in pain. I look at my hands. They’re already an angry red. I look down at my feet which are also turning red from the rope tightly binding them together. They’re easy to see between my knees. I’ve tied my feet and positioned the hook so my knees are spread apart. Sweat rolls off my forehead. It covers my chest and my legs.
The pain in my wrists, my arms, my shoulders and my chest is nothing like I imagined. My heart continues to race. I can’t breath. I begin pushing with my legs. My thin, pale body rises a few inches. The pressure eases off my wrists, arms and shoulders. I can breath. Then the ropes tied tightly around my feet begin to cut into my skin. The rope between my toes begins to dig into my foot. My leg muscles begin to scream in protest.
Taking deep breaths, I look down at my nearly straight legs. Feeling the rope dig into my feet and the burn of my leg muscles, I look straight up and realize I’ve done my first Crux Dance. You can’t read more than two entries on Crux Blog or Crux Forum without reading about the Crux Dance. In-between desperate breaths, I manage a few staccato bursts of what might once have been a laugh.
As my breathing slows just a bit, the pain in my feet and legs becomes unbearable. I slowly allow myself to inch down. My back has been braced against the rough wood of the cross and as I slid down, I feel small splinters really are imbedding themselves in my skin. Another staccato burst of what might be a laugh. Just like the Crux Dance, you read about splinters tearing into the flesh of victims of the cross as they slide up and down.
I slowly transfer the weight back to my wrists. Pain like I never imagined returns. Breathing becomes almost immediately difficult. I try to shift from side to side. It’s an attempt to relieve the pain in one wrist, then the other. But it only makes it hurt more. And I still can’t breath. I remember a picture of Alice with her hips pushed out from the cross. I was sure she did it for our pleasure, but I try it anyway. No, it doesn’t help. I still can’t breath. The only thing that works is the Crux Dance.
Slowly, I push with my legs and my body rises a few inches. More splinters imbed themselves in my back on the way up. The ropes dig into my heels and in-between my toes as I gasp for breath. My heart is still racing and my body is still covered in sweat. But something has changed. I lick my lips and they’re completely dry. Amazing. Dehydration is already setting in.
As I breath deeply, I look out across the room. The walls are bare in my home. Normally, I’m asleep or at work and never at home. So why bother to put anything on the walls. My breathing slows as I remember one of the Crux pictures that I can’t forget. The woman on the cross at sunset. I wonder what it must have been like, nailed to a cross, outdoors, stripped, dying and seeing a sunset like that.
A new kind of pain shoots through my feet. I look down and rope going under my foot and through my toes has torn the skin. As pain shoots through my foot, I instinctively release my leg muscles and begin falling. My wrists take the full force as my thin body drops. My head snaps, my chin hits my chest hard. More pain shoots through my whole body. I remember seeing stars.
My head remains down, my chin on my chest as pain bounces from arm to arm. I’m breathing, but I’m only taking shallow, quick breaths. My heart is still racing. I notice I can no longer feel my fingers. I try to look up at my hands, but my head has become heavy. I try to lift my head again and manage to look at my left hand. It’s an angry, deep red and I realize it’s time to end this before I do lasting damage.
I look back down at my legs and feet. My legs are still covered in sweat. My feet are red and throbbing from the rope. I see blood oozing between my toes and onto the wood at the base of the cross. I catch a glimpse of my sex. While climbing up on the on the cross, it was hard and firm. Now, hanging on the cross, with pain raging through my body, it’s no longer firm. Dropping my chin back to my chest, another laugh gurgles up through my throat. I remember reading the stories on Crux Blog about people nailed to the cross and being brought to sexual climax. No fucking way I think to myself. This hurts too fucking much. Another gurgled laugh. I’m saying fuck a lot more.
My breathing is becoming labored again and I remember I’ve decided it’s time to end this. I look back between my spread knees. A small shiny metal hook is a few inches above my bloody feet. All I have to do is lift my feet up a little more than an inch and free the loop of rope holding my feet to the cross.
I take one more look around. I look at my thin, pale arms and legs. I look at my chest, desperately trying to inhale and more importantly, exhale the CO2 that I know is building up in my lungs. As I look around, I remember the pictures I’ve saved in the encrypted folder on my computer. I close my eyes and remember the look on Alice’s face. This is painful and I must be the most pathetic sight. But the pictures captivate me. I had to know what it was like.
Now I know.
I close my eyes again. I may never pass this way again and I want to remember it. I want to remember what it felt like, what it looked like, what it smelled like. But a voice in my brain urgently tells me it’s time to end this. Permanent damage is being done.
I attempt to stand one more time. The staccato sound meant to be a laugh gurgles up through my throat. I wanted a Last Dance. Here I am, in self-imposed, torturous pain. I’m tied to a cross. I’m stripped naked. Worse, I’m probably doing permanent damage to my wrists, arms, shoulders and feet. And a sick joke comes to my mind. My sick sense of humor has got to be another reason why I’m single for life.
I push with my legs one more time. Pain shoots through my feet. More blood oozes onto the base of the cross from the ripped skin on my feet. But it’s the last Crux Dance and the pain doesn’t matter. As I stand as straight as my bound feet and legs will let me, I try to imagine what it was like for the pathetic, pale, thin person who really was nailed to a cross. What could have been going through his mind as he approached his Last Dance?
After my breathing slows, I once again begin lowing my body and allowing my wrists to take my body’s full weight. I feel just a few more splinters embed themselves in my back. Time to go.
Looking down at my feet through my spread legs, I tried to lift them the few inches needed to clear the loop of rope from the hook. My feet went up a few inches, but the rope remained looped in the hook. I let my feet drop as my breathing became strained again. My brief time on the cross had already sapped a lot of energy. My mouth is very dry and I noticed my body wasn’t as sweaty as it had been. It was really time to go.
Looking straight ahead, I concentrated on lifting my feet as high as I could. Once I felt I’d lifted them far enough, I pressed my lower back against the upright and attempted to push my feet away from the cross. I felt my feet move, but then suddenly stop. Looking down, I saw that my feet hadn’t moved up far enough and the loop of the rope was still firmly in the grasp of the hook. I released my leg muscles and my whole body shook as my feet dropped back into their previous position.
My wrists and arms were going numb. I can’t feel the pain in my feet from the rope tear. I’m not sweating any more. Looking past my split knees, past my feet, I saw the small step ladder that I’d briefly thought of kicking away before ascending to my final position on the cross. I attempted another staccato laugh, but couldn’t even manage a gurgle. I was in trouble.
A set of black handcuffs are on the desk next to the computer I’m writing this story on. A set of black leg shackles lay next to them. It’s been a long time since I spent the weekend locked in their embrace and they may get used tonight. I’m thinking back to what happened a year ago. My first story here was complete fiction. But quite a lot of this story is true … it’s my personal Crux experience.
It started years ago as a child. Long before I learned about sex. I always liked shedding my clothes and finding various ways of restraining my wrists, legs and body. Then I’d struggle to get free. Then I’d do it again. It was back then that I’d loop rope around the frame of my bunk beds and hang from my wrists. I knew nothing about crux then. I knew it hurt. But somehow, I was drawn to it.
That was then. I gave it all up years ago as I attempted to fit in. But I never did. I went through several phases of buying handcuffs, chains and shackles. I’d use them several months. Then either hurt myself or become ashamed. I still remember all the places I dumped the hardware. Like a criminal, I’d stealthily dispose of the evidence and long for a normal life, with normal people, normal desires. It never happened.
I don’t even remember the first crux picture I saw, never made a religious connection. But to this day, I continue to be amazed that a symbol of execution is what people hold while they pray, revere and worship. If Jesus arrived in our time, the symbol could have been a noose, a gas chamber, an electric chair or a syringe. I know, sorry, I think too much.
Last year, when the last member of my family was claimed by cancer and I became truly alone in the world, I stopped throwing away the handcuffs. Then the cross came into my life. The picture of the woman on the cross at sunrise/sunset has burned itself into my memory. Then I saw a sample of the Alice video. I had to try it.
I’m too alone, too unacceptable to the world to ever try anything in public or with anyone. It’s always behind closed doors. Locked away from the world. Alone.
After studying pictures, I drew up my own plans. Bought the wood. The bolts. The rope. It was built a year ago. 6x6 hard wood. Standing eight feet tall. Nails of course were out of the question, but at night, when sleep is hard to come by, I sometimes wonder what nails would feel like.
So what kind of knot can you tie around your wrist that won’t do permanent damage? How to tie your feet? Back to the internet. The place where we all find out what we need to know. It may not be always be right, but at least it’s a starting point.
After a few dry runs … it’s time.
Six loops of heavy black rope around the wrists. Then tie another loop in the rope that can be tossed over the cross-beam and hopefully catch the hook screwed into the wood. I walk over to the base of the cross. The 6x6 rough wood upright and crossbeam dominate the room. No nails, but it’s still frightening. My heart rate begins to increase.
A small, three step ladder sits at the base. My last remnants of clothing come off. To the world, I know I’m disgusting. Tall, thin, pale. So no cameras are set up. This is for me. I sit on the step stool and look up at the cross beam. It’s high above me, but as a pathetic geek, I’ve done the math. I’ll be able to reach just fine.
One foot is placed on top of the other. The heel rests just on the opposite side of the lower ankle. Three loops around both feet, then one through both toes, around the ankle and under the bottom foot. A large loop is delicately balanced between my ankles.
It’s time …
Using my already roped hands, I push myself up. My bound feet barely clear the top step. I rest my heels on the edge of the step and slowly try to stand. The edge of the small step ladder digs into the bottom of my feet. I laugh. The pain is nothing compared to what I’m expecting. It’s not that I like pain. Pain hurts, but I continue on. I have to know what it’s like.
Standing up, I find my attempt to do the math has failed. The cross beam is a little too high. I edge myself closer to the rough upright. The rope around my feet allows next to no movement, but I’m able to inch closer to the cross. Looking up, I reach my skinny, pale arms up and grab the cross piece. Looking down, I see the step ladder’s handle. It’s a good three inches above the top step. Looking directly ahead, I let my fingers take my body’s weight and lift my bound feet.
The ladder’s handle is barely half an inch wide. I’m only able to rest one heel on it. More pain in my lower foot. I laugh again. Nothing like what I’m expecting as I slowly push myself up the last few inches. I’ve made it.
My skinny, pale arms remain stretched along the cross piece. I look left, then right. Almost there. Gripping the cross tighter with one hand, I release the other hand and shake out the loop of the rope hanging from my wrist. Looking back, I attempt to sling it over the top of the cross piece and hope it’s long enough to catch on the hook I’ve screwed into the other side. A little short, but not too short. I try again. Failure. I try again. On the fifth try, the loop of rope catches the hook. Success!
I look the other way. Just like the first arm, the other takes five tosses of the loop of rope for it to slip over the hook on the back side of the cross beam. My arms are finally attached to the cross. I look straight ahead and realize my heart is racing. A layer of sweat now covers my pale, thin, naked body. I’m trembling just a bit too.
Looking down, my feet are still perched on the small handle of the step ladder, I briefly think I should kick it away. My family is gone. I’m truly alone in the world. I’m only somewhat successful in my career, and know I’ll only have just barely enough to survive, nothing more. And I’ll always be alone. Even with the despair of my terminal loneliness, I realize it’s not my time … yet. So I leave the step ladder in place.
Continuing to look at my bound feet, I realize that the heel that’s been supporting my weight is screaming in pain. I find myself laughing again. Nothing like what I’m expecting. Why is that so fucking funny, I wonder.
I look at one wrist, then the other. It’s time …
Slowly, I bend my knees and allow my wrists to take my body’s full weight. Pain in my wrists begins immediately. But I continue slowly transferring my weight. My arms are fully stretched out. Pain begins in my shoulders and my breathing quickens. Once my weight has been fully transferred to my wrists, I slowly pick my feet off the ladder and attempt to loop the rope that’s been delicately balanced between my ankles over hook screwed into the upright. It only takes one attempt to hook the foot rope.
I can’t breath! My pale, thin body is now covered in sweat. My wrists, arms and shoulders are screaming in pain. I look at my hands. They’re already an angry red. I look down at my feet which are also turning red from the rope tightly binding them together. They’re easy to see between my knees. I’ve tied my feet and positioned the hook so my knees are spread apart. Sweat rolls off my forehead. It covers my chest and my legs.
The pain in my wrists, my arms, my shoulders and my chest is nothing like I imagined. My heart continues to race. I can’t breath. I begin pushing with my legs. My thin, pale body rises a few inches. The pressure eases off my wrists, arms and shoulders. I can breath. Then the ropes tied tightly around my feet begin to cut into my skin. The rope between my toes begins to dig into my foot. My leg muscles begin to scream in protest.
Taking deep breaths, I look down at my nearly straight legs. Feeling the rope dig into my feet and the burn of my leg muscles, I look straight up and realize I’ve done my first Crux Dance. You can’t read more than two entries on Crux Blog or Crux Forum without reading about the Crux Dance. In-between desperate breaths, I manage a few staccato bursts of what might once have been a laugh.
As my breathing slows just a bit, the pain in my feet and legs becomes unbearable. I slowly allow myself to inch down. My back has been braced against the rough wood of the cross and as I slid down, I feel small splinters really are imbedding themselves in my skin. Another staccato burst of what might be a laugh. Just like the Crux Dance, you read about splinters tearing into the flesh of victims of the cross as they slide up and down.
I slowly transfer the weight back to my wrists. Pain like I never imagined returns. Breathing becomes almost immediately difficult. I try to shift from side to side. It’s an attempt to relieve the pain in one wrist, then the other. But it only makes it hurt more. And I still can’t breath. I remember a picture of Alice with her hips pushed out from the cross. I was sure she did it for our pleasure, but I try it anyway. No, it doesn’t help. I still can’t breath. The only thing that works is the Crux Dance.
Slowly, I push with my legs and my body rises a few inches. More splinters imbed themselves in my back on the way up. The ropes dig into my heels and in-between my toes as I gasp for breath. My heart is still racing and my body is still covered in sweat. But something has changed. I lick my lips and they’re completely dry. Amazing. Dehydration is already setting in.
As I breath deeply, I look out across the room. The walls are bare in my home. Normally, I’m asleep or at work and never at home. So why bother to put anything on the walls. My breathing slows as I remember one of the Crux pictures that I can’t forget. The woman on the cross at sunset. I wonder what it must have been like, nailed to a cross, outdoors, stripped, dying and seeing a sunset like that.
A new kind of pain shoots through my feet. I look down and rope going under my foot and through my toes has torn the skin. As pain shoots through my foot, I instinctively release my leg muscles and begin falling. My wrists take the full force as my thin body drops. My head snaps, my chin hits my chest hard. More pain shoots through my whole body. I remember seeing stars.
My head remains down, my chin on my chest as pain bounces from arm to arm. I’m breathing, but I’m only taking shallow, quick breaths. My heart is still racing. I notice I can no longer feel my fingers. I try to look up at my hands, but my head has become heavy. I try to lift my head again and manage to look at my left hand. It’s an angry, deep red and I realize it’s time to end this before I do lasting damage.
I look back down at my legs and feet. My legs are still covered in sweat. My feet are red and throbbing from the rope. I see blood oozing between my toes and onto the wood at the base of the cross. I catch a glimpse of my sex. While climbing up on the on the cross, it was hard and firm. Now, hanging on the cross, with pain raging through my body, it’s no longer firm. Dropping my chin back to my chest, another laugh gurgles up through my throat. I remember reading the stories on Crux Blog about people nailed to the cross and being brought to sexual climax. No fucking way I think to myself. This hurts too fucking much. Another gurgled laugh. I’m saying fuck a lot more.
My breathing is becoming labored again and I remember I’ve decided it’s time to end this. I look back between my spread knees. A small shiny metal hook is a few inches above my bloody feet. All I have to do is lift my feet up a little more than an inch and free the loop of rope holding my feet to the cross.
I take one more look around. I look at my thin, pale arms and legs. I look at my chest, desperately trying to inhale and more importantly, exhale the CO2 that I know is building up in my lungs. As I look around, I remember the pictures I’ve saved in the encrypted folder on my computer. I close my eyes and remember the look on Alice’s face. This is painful and I must be the most pathetic sight. But the pictures captivate me. I had to know what it was like.
Now I know.
I close my eyes again. I may never pass this way again and I want to remember it. I want to remember what it felt like, what it looked like, what it smelled like. But a voice in my brain urgently tells me it’s time to end this. Permanent damage is being done.
I attempt to stand one more time. The staccato sound meant to be a laugh gurgles up through my throat. I wanted a Last Dance. Here I am, in self-imposed, torturous pain. I’m tied to a cross. I’m stripped naked. Worse, I’m probably doing permanent damage to my wrists, arms, shoulders and feet. And a sick joke comes to my mind. My sick sense of humor has got to be another reason why I’m single for life.
I push with my legs one more time. Pain shoots through my feet. More blood oozes onto the base of the cross from the ripped skin on my feet. But it’s the last Crux Dance and the pain doesn’t matter. As I stand as straight as my bound feet and legs will let me, I try to imagine what it was like for the pathetic, pale, thin person who really was nailed to a cross. What could have been going through his mind as he approached his Last Dance?
After my breathing slows, I once again begin lowing my body and allowing my wrists to take my body’s full weight. I feel just a few more splinters embed themselves in my back. Time to go.
Looking down at my feet through my spread legs, I tried to lift them the few inches needed to clear the loop of rope from the hook. My feet went up a few inches, but the rope remained looped in the hook. I let my feet drop as my breathing became strained again. My brief time on the cross had already sapped a lot of energy. My mouth is very dry and I noticed my body wasn’t as sweaty as it had been. It was really time to go.
Looking straight ahead, I concentrated on lifting my feet as high as I could. Once I felt I’d lifted them far enough, I pressed my lower back against the upright and attempted to push my feet away from the cross. I felt my feet move, but then suddenly stop. Looking down, I saw that my feet hadn’t moved up far enough and the loop of the rope was still firmly in the grasp of the hook. I released my leg muscles and my whole body shook as my feet dropped back into their previous position.
My wrists and arms were going numb. I can’t feel the pain in my feet from the rope tear. I’m not sweating any more. Looking past my split knees, past my feet, I saw the small step ladder that I’d briefly thought of kicking away before ascending to my final position on the cross. I attempted another staccato laugh, but couldn’t even manage a gurgle. I was in trouble.
