lember
Magistrate
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Freshmen
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lember
Magistrate
The door opens. The most enthusiastic guys immediately jump out, as if yesterday’s events were just a joke to them.
“Come, Eliza,” says Peter gently. I recognize him from last night. I have no choice but to leave the truck. As I climb down, my party jeans, which were tight and designed to lift my butt, not to climb, cut into the left side of my pussy, reminding me how ill-suited they are for this moment. Hands reach out to help, but I pull back angrily.
“Don’t touch me!” I shout and jump down on my own. Anger surges as I recall the previous night’s freshman party, how out of hand it got, and how we ended up spending the night at the police station. The others seemed to be treating the whole thing, even the crosses, like some joke. They were so overwhelmed with toxic masculinity that they couldn't wait to wag their dicks in front of the sociologist girls going to class.
But when we stepped out, what we saw wasn’t funny at all. We’re surrounded by guards with trolleys full of ropes and straps, and in front of us, stretching along the walkway from the tram stop to the university’s Eastern Block, stands a row of mobile crosses. They resemble something from an execution I’d seen once, but they are different. My engineering mind notes that they’re designed to make people last hours hanging from them.
A gust of wind ruffles my hair. Students begin to gather and murmur, some pointing in our direction.
“Wow, crucifixion? Look, there’s a girl,” I hear some boys whisper.
“We should wait for it. Look at those boobs” one says, making a lewd joke. My face flushes with embarrassment.
“Ah, those big ones will be like your mother's as soon as they get their titslingers off.” -The other replied with a sneer.
Then, a commanding voice cuts through the chatter.
“Come and listen, rogues! Here’s what’s going to happen,” the man says, sounding like a primary school teacher. He looks barely older than us but carries an air of authority. “We’re going to line you all up and put each of you on a cross, one by one. No arguing, no delays. Whenever a guard point at you, you go to your cross and strip. And yes, that includes socks, no one is going to pretend of forgetting underwear, and not even the little lady over there.” He points directly at me, causing another flush of shame. Why he announces that he thinks I will be more reluctant?
“No jewelry, no glasses. You’ll be tied up just as you came into this world,” he continues, ignoring my reddening face.
“Especially the women, hopefully!” another guy adds with a smirk, eyeing my crotch in a way that expresses he would prefer to see it shaved when it`s time come. Someone elbowed him in the ribs.
I’m the only girl in this group of engineering students. I was always an outsider because of it, but I’ve never felt more alone among them than I do now. I crossed my legs involuntarily as I stood there alone in my fancy female clothes.
The officer continues, addressing us sternly, “When you’re up there, I don’t want to hear whining—‘I want water, I want my mom, scratch my balls.’ You hang there and behave. In four hours, we’ll get you down, you go for food, pee, and anything you want. Am I clear?”
There’s a murmur of assent from the group, but I keep my head down. This isn’t like the execution I once saw, where the girl was treated with dignity. If she wanted a drink, her lawyer would always bring her some water or anything that the prosecutor didn't object to or the execution judge approved. There was a dignity to it all, as she was gently helped to his death, so that she could take stock of his deeds and come to terms with the consequences.
Here, it’s all about humiliation, suffering alone on these mobile crosses, covered only by our own sweat, in front of the college I will spend my next five years.
“If you have any questions, you can ask them while tied to your place. We don't have all day!” -he finishes his speech, then turns to his men.
“Let`s go, make them fly!” -He orders them.
“Come, Eliza,” says Peter gently. I recognize him from last night. I have no choice but to leave the truck. As I climb down, my party jeans, which were tight and designed to lift my butt, not to climb, cut into the left side of my pussy, reminding me how ill-suited they are for this moment. Hands reach out to help, but I pull back angrily.
“Don’t touch me!” I shout and jump down on my own. Anger surges as I recall the previous night’s freshman party, how out of hand it got, and how we ended up spending the night at the police station. The others seemed to be treating the whole thing, even the crosses, like some joke. They were so overwhelmed with toxic masculinity that they couldn't wait to wag their dicks in front of the sociologist girls going to class.
But when we stepped out, what we saw wasn’t funny at all. We’re surrounded by guards with trolleys full of ropes and straps, and in front of us, stretching along the walkway from the tram stop to the university’s Eastern Block, stands a row of mobile crosses. They resemble something from an execution I’d seen once, but they are different. My engineering mind notes that they’re designed to make people last hours hanging from them.
A gust of wind ruffles my hair. Students begin to gather and murmur, some pointing in our direction.
“Wow, crucifixion? Look, there’s a girl,” I hear some boys whisper.
“We should wait for it. Look at those boobs” one says, making a lewd joke. My face flushes with embarrassment.
“Ah, those big ones will be like your mother's as soon as they get their titslingers off.” -The other replied with a sneer.
Then, a commanding voice cuts through the chatter.
“Come and listen, rogues! Here’s what’s going to happen,” the man says, sounding like a primary school teacher. He looks barely older than us but carries an air of authority. “We’re going to line you all up and put each of you on a cross, one by one. No arguing, no delays. Whenever a guard point at you, you go to your cross and strip. And yes, that includes socks, no one is going to pretend of forgetting underwear, and not even the little lady over there.” He points directly at me, causing another flush of shame. Why he announces that he thinks I will be more reluctant?
“No jewelry, no glasses. You’ll be tied up just as you came into this world,” he continues, ignoring my reddening face.
“Especially the women, hopefully!” another guy adds with a smirk, eyeing my crotch in a way that expresses he would prefer to see it shaved when it`s time come. Someone elbowed him in the ribs.
I’m the only girl in this group of engineering students. I was always an outsider because of it, but I’ve never felt more alone among them than I do now. I crossed my legs involuntarily as I stood there alone in my fancy female clothes.
The officer continues, addressing us sternly, “When you’re up there, I don’t want to hear whining—‘I want water, I want my mom, scratch my balls.’ You hang there and behave. In four hours, we’ll get you down, you go for food, pee, and anything you want. Am I clear?”
There’s a murmur of assent from the group, but I keep my head down. This isn’t like the execution I once saw, where the girl was treated with dignity. If she wanted a drink, her lawyer would always bring her some water or anything that the prosecutor didn't object to or the execution judge approved. There was a dignity to it all, as she was gently helped to his death, so that she could take stock of his deeds and come to terms with the consequences.
Here, it’s all about humiliation, suffering alone on these mobile crosses, covered only by our own sweat, in front of the college I will spend my next five years.
“If you have any questions, you can ask them while tied to your place. We don't have all day!” -he finishes his speech, then turns to his men.
“Let`s go, make them fly!” -He orders them.
lember
Magistrate
it's more a legal thing, guys went too far last night. It used to happen in workplaces, in front of pubs, stadiums, tram stops, so where the message should go.
where it goes? depends only on crucifies. There are no sadists here, only the relentless jurisdiction
lember
Magistrate
The reality of my crucifixion approaches like an express train. I never tried to imagine myself hanging on a cross, asking questions, like the
officer depicted it. Now, I am assailed by horrific images of myself, naked and addressing a man clearly better dressed than I am. I say goodbye to the illusion that it might just be my body there, my mind may preoccupied with the pain of hanging and the fatigue of clinging.
The group starts pushing me along, and I feel more and more eyes on me. I initially think it's just my nervousness, but I first catch the curious looks of the boys, then the lecherous screeches of the guards as they try to get closer, eager to win the pleasure of tying me to the cross.
Witnessin
g me as I pull down my pants, dropping the protective civility along with my bra. I transition from a human to a female who can be theirs while they bind me to the highness of the crossbeam. But they can't just start pushing toward me like monkeys. When they get close to a cross, they cannot avoid their duty. They have to choose a guy and drop a heap of ropes and straps on the ground to tie him up once he finishes stripping.
“Come with me, miss,” I hear from behind. I feel a hand on my back. So someone won. I close my eyes for a moment and imagine that my top is not between my back and his hand, just for mental preparation. I shudder. But he will touch me. And not just there. Actually anywhere he wants. He just have to wait for me to voluntarily undress for him.
“No, Elmer, not. I’ll take care of this one myself.”
"Elmer" steps back, looking disappointed, but I’m no less afraid. At least it will be the officer who crucifies me—someone with a shred of authority, maybe even some professionalism. Still, the reality that I’ll soon be tied up and exposed for everyone to see sinks in deeper.
There’s an empty cross waiting. I take a deep breath, bracing myself. My hands tremble as I grip the front of my top, trying to find the courage to tear it off. I’ve never felt so much fear in my life.
The actual movement is pathetically slow. I never thought I am such a coward. I see myself through the officer's eyes as my bare back and rising arms forms an eye-catching directional arrow towards my buttocks. I feel my low-waist jeans slide down slightly with the movement, showing him where the trench between my buttocks begins.
“No no no. Not yet, pussycat,” he says, stopping me as I start to undress too soon.
I’m embarrassed, feeling like a fool for jumping the gun. But it doesn’t matter—soon enough, I’ll be stripped bare, tied up, and crucified like everyone else.
“You need to follow me and wait. Come here, blond boy!” He turns away from me suddenly. “This is for you.” He gestures toward the cross I’ve already imagined myself on. He doesn’t give me a second more of his attention than necessary.
“So, here comes what everyone’s been waiting for!” The guy tries to joke, but it’s obvious that he’s nervous. He is new to public stripping too. Still, it’s easy for him. I seem more embarrassed by the sight of his genitals than he is by his own nudity. It’s like he’s particularly excited that I’m standing there watching.
Two guards quickly fasten wide velcro forearm clamps on his wrists. Meanwhile, the officer is already on top of the cross. There must be a narrow ladder on the back. The cross is a massive metal structure with a wide base. In the middle, about hip height, there’s a concave indentation. I assume it’s designed to allow the person a brief rest by sitting on it. The upper part of the indent is steep, then flattens to meet the beam, even reaches out a bit. Enough to thrust forward the hips if he wants to sit on it, but not as much to bother the back of the hanging man.
But rising from it is a steadily narrowing triangular ridge, topped by a small, egg-shaped metal knob. I discreetly scratch my bottom. It looks incredibly uncomfortable. If I’m going to use it, I’ll have to sit on it with my bare backside. If I press my buttocks against the upper, vertical part, it’s as flat as a chair, but the more horizontal I go, the sharper it becomes. At its horizontal section, the top is only as wide as a chair leg. The ball at the end is probably for not slip over.
“Clever.”
I didn`t see anything like this on the execution, but the cross used there was wooden, not metal, and held the nail that pinned the poor girl to it.
Here, each guard clicks a carabiner with a rope onto the guy’s wrist and throws the other end up to the officer. He threads them through a hoop at the ends of the crossbeam and tosses them back. The guards catch it and step back. At first, the guy looks surprised, but then his arms rise as more and more of the rope passes through the hoop attached to the cross. The guards start pulling with all their might, and the guy rises like a slaughtered pig in a meat yard. The officer moves with a strange, witch-like agility on the crossbeam. He ties the guy’s hands tightly with wider ropes, and once secured, unhooks the carabiners. The ropes they used to hoist him up fall to the ground as their job is done. The guy is now held firmly by the ropes the officer tied around his wrists. As the officer climbs down, the guards tightly bind the guy’s ankles and soles, then tie his legs together through a hole in the cross, fastening them to either side of the beam. He just blinks and makes funny faces, while his genitals hang, exposed like a sad, rotten sausage.
Meanwhile, the same scene is unfolding at several crosses ahead of us. The guards are hoisting the boys up in groups of three. We leave the first guy hanging and move to the next empty cross, repeating the process with another one.
I feel it’s unjust to leave him alone after we tie him up. The execution was a ritual; people gather to witness it moment by moment. Now it feels so automatic, so mechanical. Turn on the machine and let it work slowly on him.
Soon, I’m disgusted by the sight of the naked men hanging from the crosses, trying to catch my attention with jokes. I can almost smell the stench of piss left under their foreskins after their last careless urination, and smegma from their neglected genitals. I always try to hide behind the officer, but the crosses are lined up on both sides, and I can’t escape the sight.
“Now you,” I hear, and I realize the officer is looking straight at me. By then, I’ve convinced myself that it will never be my turn, so those two words hit me like a hammer.
officer depicted it. Now, I am assailed by horrific images of myself, naked and addressing a man clearly better dressed than I am. I say goodbye to the illusion that it might just be my body there, my mind may preoccupied with the pain of hanging and the fatigue of clinging. The group starts pushing me along, and I feel more and more eyes on me. I initially think it's just my nervousness, but I first catch the curious looks of the boys, then the lecherous screeches of the guards as they try to get closer, eager to win the pleasure of tying me to the cross.
Witnessin
g me as I pull down my pants, dropping the protective civility along with my bra. I transition from a human to a female who can be theirs while they bind me to the highness of the crossbeam. But they can't just start pushing toward me like monkeys. When they get close to a cross, they cannot avoid their duty. They have to choose a guy and drop a heap of ropes and straps on the ground to tie him up once he finishes stripping.“Come with me, miss,” I hear from behind. I feel a hand on my back. So someone won. I close my eyes for a moment and imagine that my top is not between my back and his hand, just for mental preparation. I shudder. But he will touch me. And not just there. Actually anywhere he wants. He just have to wait for me to voluntarily undress for him.
“No, Elmer, not. I’ll take care of this one myself.”
"Elmer" steps back, looking disappointed, but I’m no less afraid. At least it will be the officer who crucifies me—someone with a shred of authority, maybe even some professionalism. Still, the reality that I’ll soon be tied up and exposed for everyone to see sinks in deeper.
There’s an empty cross waiting. I take a deep breath, bracing myself. My hands tremble as I grip the front of my top, trying to find the courage to tear it off. I’ve never felt so much fear in my life.
The actual movement is pathetically slow. I never thought I am such a coward. I see myself through the officer's eyes as my bare back and rising arms forms an eye-catching directional arrow towards my buttocks. I feel my low-waist jeans slide down slightly with the movement, showing him where the trench between my buttocks begins.
“No no no. Not yet, pussycat,” he says, stopping me as I start to undress too soon.
I’m embarrassed, feeling like a fool for jumping the gun. But it doesn’t matter—soon enough, I’ll be stripped bare, tied up, and crucified like everyone else.
“You need to follow me and wait. Come here, blond boy!” He turns away from me suddenly. “This is for you.” He gestures toward the cross I’ve already imagined myself on. He doesn’t give me a second more of his attention than necessary.
“So, here comes what everyone’s been waiting for!” The guy tries to joke, but it’s obvious that he’s nervous. He is new to public stripping too. Still, it’s easy for him. I seem more embarrassed by the sight of his genitals than he is by his own nudity. It’s like he’s particularly excited that I’m standing there watching.
Two guards quickly fasten wide velcro forearm clamps on his wrists. Meanwhile, the officer is already on top of the cross. There must be a narrow ladder on the back. The cross is a massive metal structure with a wide base. In the middle, about hip height, there’s a concave indentation. I assume it’s designed to allow the person a brief rest by sitting on it. The upper part of the indent is steep, then flattens to meet the beam, even reaches out a bit. Enough to thrust forward the hips if he wants to sit on it, but not as much to bother the back of the hanging man.
But rising from it is a steadily narrowing triangular ridge, topped by a small, egg-shaped metal knob. I discreetly scratch my bottom. It looks incredibly uncomfortable. If I’m going to use it, I’ll have to sit on it with my bare backside. If I press my buttocks against the upper, vertical part, it’s as flat as a chair, but the more horizontal I go, the sharper it becomes. At its horizontal section, the top is only as wide as a chair leg. The ball at the end is probably for not slip over.
“Clever.”
I didn`t see anything like this on the execution, but the cross used there was wooden, not metal, and held the nail that pinned the poor girl to it.
Here, each guard clicks a carabiner with a rope onto the guy’s wrist and throws the other end up to the officer. He threads them through a hoop at the ends of the crossbeam and tosses them back. The guards catch it and step back. At first, the guy looks surprised, but then his arms rise as more and more of the rope passes through the hoop attached to the cross. The guards start pulling with all their might, and the guy rises like a slaughtered pig in a meat yard. The officer moves with a strange, witch-like agility on the crossbeam. He ties the guy’s hands tightly with wider ropes, and once secured, unhooks the carabiners. The ropes they used to hoist him up fall to the ground as their job is done. The guy is now held firmly by the ropes the officer tied around his wrists. As the officer climbs down, the guards tightly bind the guy’s ankles and soles, then tie his legs together through a hole in the cross, fastening them to either side of the beam. He just blinks and makes funny faces, while his genitals hang, exposed like a sad, rotten sausage.
Meanwhile, the same scene is unfolding at several crosses ahead of us. The guards are hoisting the boys up in groups of three. We leave the first guy hanging and move to the next empty cross, repeating the process with another one.
I feel it’s unjust to leave him alone after we tie him up. The execution was a ritual; people gather to witness it moment by moment. Now it feels so automatic, so mechanical. Turn on the machine and let it work slowly on him.
Soon, I’m disgusted by the sight of the naked men hanging from the crosses, trying to catch my attention with jokes. I can almost smell the stench of piss left under their foreskins after their last careless urination, and smegma from their neglected genitals. I always try to hide behind the officer, but the crosses are lined up on both sides, and I can’t escape the sight.
“Now you,” I hear, and I realize the officer is looking straight at me. By then, I’ve convinced myself that it will never be my turn, so those two words hit me like a hammer.
lember
Magistrate
what is victory?
lember
Magistrate
“Okay,” I say, but I don’t move.
“Put your clothes on the ground, sweetheart,” the officer instructs patiently. I glance down the line of naked men, and I know I don’t want to be one of them. Excuses start flooding my mind: I’m beautiful, I’m delicate, I’m meant to walk around in fancy clothes, being kind to people, not stripped and tortured like an animal, like these people. But I know none of it matters. This is happening. I grab my top but can’t bring myself to pull it over my head.
“Oh, a drama queen again. I grow weary of these pussy shits,”, he sighs with resignation.
“One, two…” He counts, growing impatient. When I don’t remove my top by the count of three, he swiftly reaches out and grabs the zipper of my pants. I freeze, shocked by his intimidation and amazed by his dexterity. His hand is so close to my genitals, and I’m too stunned to pull away.
“You do it, or we’ll do it. Either way, you’re getting up there,” he says slowly, pointing to my cross with his other hand. This guy's sense of rhythm is amazing.
“I know, just…” I try to speak, but he cuts me off.
“Stop babbling and get out of those damn clothes.” He speaks slowly, his tone filled with condescension. Anger floods my chest, and I channel it into action. I slap his hand away from my pants, grab my top again, and pull it over my head finally. The rest follows quickly, as fast as tight, buttoned women’s clothes will allow. To fuel my anger, I mentally list everything I don’t want to show: This is my Minnie Mouse lingerie. I avoid low-cut dresses because of my ugly moles. This is my ass, heart-shaped without my skinny jeans. These are my breasts, without a push-up bra. There’s a birthmark where my left one hangs lower. And here’s the big birthmark on my left breast, like a third nipple. My vulva starts h
ere and ends here. This is the small patch of hair I don’t shave because of another birthmark. Here’s my anus, here I push out shit. I don’t do anal, but when I was a teenager, I once stuck a plastic shower pipe up there out of curiosity, feeling it twist deep inside until I could feel it pressing against my belly wall with my fingers. I wanted to prove myself that I was brave enough to accept alien things in my body beyond limits of fear, and haven’t done that again since I started having sex.
I finish undressing, my knickers landing on the pile of rags that used to be my clothes. My skin tingles nervously under the wind and the eyes that watch me.
I flinch when the clamps and ropes are fastened to my forearms. I realize I’m about to lose control of my hands, and my loose hair will hang in my face once I’m hoisted up.
“I need hair ties,” I say, my voice choking with tears. I desperately long for my clothes, wanting to grab them and cover myself again. My animal part strongly believes that it`s still possible now. He wants escape on every price. I know that covering myself with my hands only makes me look more vulnerable.
“I need a coffee and a new wife,” a guard quips. The other laughs.
“I need my hair ties!” I shout. I’ve been taught all my life that hysteria works, and to my surprise, it does. They let me go to where I dropped my jeans.
At first, the rope on my wrist won’t let me reach my back pocket. The guard doesn’t loosen it enough until I squat down, maybe distracted by my ass. When I tug on it again, he lets go, probably not even realizing what I need. I understand how much trouble I’m in now—how even the smallest freedoms depend on their whims.
I quickly tie my hair into two ponytails. I don’t want a bun to get in the way if I try to tilt my head back up there. I watch my breasts move as my arms work, seeing myself through others’ eyes.
“I’m ready,” I tell the officer, standing in front of the cross with my hand in front of me. "Then let`s fly,"he says, more to his men than me, and let me alone. I hear the ropes being fastened to the crossbeam, and soon I feel myself being pulled upward. There’s no one directly around me. Everything is happening through rings and mechanisms. The cross pulls my hands away from my private parts, then robs me of the ground for an unbearable, unknown length of time.
I hit the crossbeam with my back. My legs flail, searching for something to stand on. I don’t know how many angles I expose my bare vulva to before I manage to stop moving. Half the boys are still waiting for their crosses. I can hear their excited shouts below. At that moment, I would have stayed on the cross for an extra hour if it meant being tied up in private.
The pain in my shoulders grows unbearable as my arms are stretched level with them. The ache spreads to my lungs, but the men below keep pulling and pulling, as if trying to rip my arms from my body. My legs struggle again, trying to find purchase against the smooth vertical beam. I brace my feet on either side, spreading my thighs as if offering myself up for penetration.
The ropes keep pulling even after my arms are completely horizontal. I feel like two men’s full weight is being driven into my shoulder blades. I can’t understand why they’re doing this.
“Stop pulling!” I scream.
A rough male hand suddenly strokes my temple.
“I’m here,” the officer says, his voice low. I’d forgotten he was waiting at the top of the cross. His shadow passes over me as he climbs above my right arm, looping the rope around my wrist over and over again, dozens of times. When he finishes, he swings over to the other side. His thigh muscles bulge under his trousers, but all I can see are his muscular buttocks. I feel a tightness in my chest, perhaps from the strain in my upper body. My legs fold up as I try to prop myself on the cross.
“Done!” he announces, bored, and I feel the vibrations in my back as he climbs down, leaving me alone. There’s no more tugging on my arms, only the weight of my own body lifting my taut muscles.
The two guards who had been pulling the ropes now gently grab my ankles, signaling that they’re about to tie them down. They spread my legs to either side
They pull my legs to the sides of the beam, tying them together through a gap. My thighs part, and I realize I can't spread them any further while I'm bound like this.
"What's up, kids? Time to work!" the officer says, entering my line of sight, clapping his hands. They start to strip a boy in front of the cross opposite mine. His name is forgettable—something boring like Thomas or Tim, I can't recall.
My feet are secured. The two guards look up at me one last time, one of them practically burying his eyes in my exposed pussy before reluctantly leaving me alone. I realize it`s ready. It will be like this. I'll have to struggle with this terrifying weight, in this totally inadequate position for hours, and anyone can just come and watch it as long as he wants.
“Put your clothes on the ground, sweetheart,” the officer instructs patiently. I glance down the line of naked men, and I know I don’t want to be one of them. Excuses start flooding my mind: I’m beautiful, I’m delicate, I’m meant to walk around in fancy clothes, being kind to people, not stripped and tortured like an animal, like these people. But I know none of it matters. This is happening. I grab my top but can’t bring myself to pull it over my head.
“Oh, a drama queen again. I grow weary of these pussy shits,”, he sighs with resignation.
“One, two…” He counts, growing impatient. When I don’t remove my top by the count of three, he swiftly reaches out and grabs the zipper of my pants. I freeze, shocked by his intimidation and amazed by his dexterity. His hand is so close to my genitals, and I’m too stunned to pull away.
“You do it, or we’ll do it. Either way, you’re getting up there,” he says slowly, pointing to my cross with his other hand. This guy's sense of rhythm is amazing.
“I know, just…” I try to speak, but he cuts me off.
“Stop babbling and get out of those damn clothes.” He speaks slowly, his tone filled with condescension. Anger floods my chest, and I channel it into action. I slap his hand away from my pants, grab my top again, and pull it over my head finally. The rest follows quickly, as fast as tight, buttoned women’s clothes will allow. To fuel my anger, I mentally list everything I don’t want to show: This is my Minnie Mouse lingerie. I avoid low-cut dresses because of my ugly moles. This is my ass, heart-shaped without my skinny jeans. These are my breasts, without a push-up bra. There’s a birthmark where my left one hangs lower. And here’s the big birthmark on my left breast, like a third nipple. My vulva starts h
ere and ends here. This is the small patch of hair I don’t shave because of another birthmark. Here’s my anus, here I push out shit. I don’t do anal, but when I was a teenager, I once stuck a plastic shower pipe up there out of curiosity, feeling it twist deep inside until I could feel it pressing against my belly wall with my fingers. I wanted to prove myself that I was brave enough to accept alien things in my body beyond limits of fear, and haven’t done that again since I started having sex.I finish undressing, my knickers landing on the pile of rags that used to be my clothes. My skin tingles nervously under the wind and the eyes that watch me.I flinch when the clamps and ropes are fastened to my forearms. I realize I’m about to lose control of my hands, and my loose hair will hang in my face once I’m hoisted up.
“I need hair ties,” I say, my voice choking with tears. I desperately long for my clothes, wanting to grab them and cover myself again. My animal part strongly believes that it`s still possible now. He wants escape on every price. I know that covering myself with my hands only makes me look more vulnerable.
“I need a coffee and a new wife,” a guard quips. The other laughs.
“I need my hair ties!” I shout. I’ve been taught all my life that hysteria works, and to my surprise, it does. They let me go to where I dropped my jeans.
At first, the rope on my wrist won’t let me reach my back pocket. The guard doesn’t loosen it enough until I squat down, maybe distracted by my ass. When I tug on it again, he lets go, probably not even realizing what I need. I understand how much trouble I’m in now—how even the smallest freedoms depend on their whims.
I quickly tie my hair into two ponytails. I don’t want a bun to get in the way if I try to tilt my head back up there. I watch my breasts move as my arms work, seeing myself through others’ eyes.
“I’m ready,” I tell the officer, standing in front of the cross with my hand in front of me. "Then let`s fly,"he says, more to his men than me, and let me alone. I hear the ropes being fastened to the crossbeam, and soon I feel myself being pulled upward. There’s no one directly around me. Everything is happening through rings and mechanisms. The cross pulls my hands away from my private parts, then robs me of the ground for an unbearable, unknown length of time.
I hit the crossbeam with my back. My legs flail, searching for something to stand on. I don’t know how many angles I expose my bare vulva to before I manage to stop moving. Half the boys are still waiting for their crosses. I can hear their excited shouts below. At that moment, I would have stayed on the cross for an extra hour if it meant being tied up in private.
The pain in my shoulders grows unbearable as my arms are stretched level with them. The ache spreads to my lungs, but the men below keep pulling and pulling, as if trying to rip my arms from my body. My legs struggle again, trying to find purchase against the smooth vertical beam. I brace my feet on either side, spreading my thighs as if offering myself up for penetration.
The ropes keep pulling even after my arms are completely horizontal. I feel like two men’s full weight is being driven into my shoulder blades. I can’t understand why they’re doing this.
“Stop pulling!” I scream.
A rough male hand suddenly strokes my temple.
“I’m here,” the officer says, his voice low. I’d forgotten he was waiting at the top of the cross. His shadow passes over me as he climbs above my right arm, looping the rope around my wrist over and over again, dozens of times. When he finishes, he swings over to the other side. His thigh muscles bulge under his trousers, but all I can see are his muscular buttocks. I feel a tightness in my chest, perhaps from the strain in my upper body. My legs fold up as I try to prop myself on the cross.
“Done!” he announces, bored, and I feel the vibrations in my back as he climbs down, leaving me alone. There’s no more tugging on my arms, only the weight of my own body lifting my taut muscles.
The two guards who had been pulling the ropes now gently grab my ankles, signaling that they’re about to tie them down. They spread my legs to either side
They pull my legs to the sides of the beam, tying them together through a gap. My thighs part, and I realize I can't spread them any further while I'm bound like this.
"What's up, kids? Time to work!" the officer says, entering my line of sight, clapping his hands. They start to strip a boy in front of the cross opposite mine. His name is forgettable—something boring like Thomas or Tim, I can't recall.
My feet are secured. The two guards look up at me one last time, one of them practically burying his eyes in my exposed pussy before reluctantly leaving me alone. I realize it`s ready. It will be like this. I'll have to struggle with this terrifying weight, in this totally inadequate position for hours, and anyone can just come and watch it as long as he wants.
lember
Magistrate
I attempt to adjust myself in the ropes. My position doesn't change much; only the tension shifts from my shoulders to my back and thighs. I can feel the gap behind my buttocks, and when I try to sit back into it, it cuts into me uncomfortably. I sink back down, deciding not to fight it. It`s bad, but I cannot do anything against it anyway. It`s just hanging, cannot make harm if they do not want to. They want me to fill my punishment and then they let me go.
I lower my head, trying to think of something else, anything to make time pass. I watch people in skirts and trousers hurrying toward the university. Pant legs disappearing into polished boots.
Occasionally, I hear the groans of the boys going through the same ordeal to my right I just went through. At first, the exposure bothers me more than the slow, relentless torture device pulling my body. With my legs strapped wide to either side of the beam, I can't lock my knees fully. It feels as if I'm being continuously violated by the hundreds of eyes watching me. The pressure of the beam against my bare bottom is also as if the cross raped me, in front of everybody coming and going.
I understand the point: to make me feel shame over my public nudity. And I do feel ashamed. I can't shake down the image of myself that I’ve cultivated over two decades—always shaped by the expectations of others. How much of myself I should reveal, what I should conceal, how my body should appear, how much of my figure I should suggest, what shape my breasts should take. The cross exposes every part of me, every flaw, showing my true form to everyone watching.
"Look, there's a chick!" I hear someone shout. I know they're talking about me. Immediately, I wonder what exactly they mean and who these jerks are. It’s easy to spot them—two boys who don`t say anything as they pass by, only glancing up briefly at the exact angle where nothing is hidden. My animal instincts sharpen, sensing the danger in my vulnerability. I hear everything around me, and every word about my body feels like a lash. Even the women have notes. Why they shouldn`t, they were the most cruel in high school too.
"Where’d she learn to trim like that?"
"Any guy who`s into that dairy stuff deserves it." -Another refers to my breasts, which are clearly bigger than hers, even with her bra, which adds a bit.
"Goddamn right! t’s not about being big—it`s about being well-shaped!" They laughed with satisfaction.
And dozens of notes come.
"Poor thing!" "Eh, my girlfriend's got bigger." "We should check behind. She’ll show something from either side eventually." "Though, how long do they hang them up there?" "Too saggy for my taste." "Think she can feel her fingers?" "Looks like a candy shop is open!" "That nipple seems to be staring at you." "Look, she’s even got makeup on." "I’ve got two back-to-back lectures. How long is she going to be up there?" "Yeah, but this type is tight inside." "Do you see that last year’s model jeans at her feet?" "Do you smell that?" "What’s that dirt under her armpit?"I glance at my armpit, ashamed that I was listening.
"You decided not to care!" I remind myself and return my head to its original position.
Imagine being punished for a minor offense were the punishment is being tied to a cross for a set amount of time. Of course your body hurts- it was designed to hang that way- but you are completely naked as you hang there. Anyone can buy a ticket to see whoever is on the crosses. They can make whatever lewd remarks and you can do nothing but yell at them- if you had enough air your lungs to do so. Years later, you will still have memories of the pain you felt...
...but their remarks never fade!
thecuriousone
Tribune
Is she the one chosen freshman from this year who is not let down?
lember
Magistrate
no, it will be another girl
lember
Magistrate
someone will approach her
lember
Magistrate
I feel an intense heat, even though I'm not wearing a single piece of clothing. Sweat bursts from my pores in an instant. I realize I haven't been able to relax at all. My muscles are constantly working to relieve the burden of my weight from my diaphragm, distributing it evenly across the rest of my body. The crown of my head itches. Fat drops of sweat are forming on my forehead, and I realize I won’t be able to wipe them away. Only my head is free, and I reach for my hand with it, and obviously I`m not able to. With every movement, the drops begin to flow, and I try to position my head in such a way that the saline onslaught from different angles avoids my eyes.
“What’s she doing, shaking his head like that?” -A girl asks his boyfriend in curious terror.
“I don’t know. Everything else is restrained, so I guess that’s why.”
I can’t believe I have to deal with this for four hours straight. I try to tilt my head forward, hoping the sweat still pouring from me will drip onto the ground. Most of it lands on my chest, but some stubborn and viscose drops still aim for my eyes.
“I’m about to drip, too.”
“Don’t be an asshole!”
I tilt my head back to let the annoying liquid flow backwards.
“Look, that suits her better. Less sagging, and they look rounder!”
It works—though instead of running down my back, the drops roll to the side, and my neck and collarbone have to decide whether to send them to my armpits or my breasts.
“I’d still lick a few of those drops off.” I don`t even know if the same boys are talking below me or they went and another came.
I shudder as one trickle tickles its way down my ribs. I catch a sympathetic glance from someone nearby, but I really don’t want to make eye contact with anyone fully dressed.
-”Did you see how she`s shaking them?” Am I really just two boobs?
"How long are four hours? How many minutes have passed?" I try to shift my focus. "This isn’t what I should be thinking about. What do I do next? I deserve an apple martini." But that’s not helpful either. I cannot be impatient here and now.I adjust my weight on my feet, trying to relieve some tension from my arms without moving too much. But inevitably, I sink back into the same position. My mind starts drifting to where else I could try to rest my butt against the beam. But then, I visualize my bare bottom again, and that is especially pointless to think about that. "Did they go behind me to check out my ass?" I wonder, then dismiss it as unimportant too.
“Do you think they will wave to us?"
"Don't be cruel!"
"Not with their hands, you know what I`m saying?"
"Or so. Well, shake your hips a bit, then maybe."
"So you also think it`s sexy?” - The girl forgets the spectacle and jumps on the potential compliment, smoothing the front of her tight pants with both hands. She probably just picked them up from a thrift store. I can just see her ass now from where I am docked. I remain alone again with my cross for a while.
