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I'm so excited!

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I hung, naked, from the two bloodied spikes. My arms stretched, my body streched. Two more spikes to come. I wanted them. I was naked. Bloody and torn. Almost naked. He came to me and cut the cloth that remained wrapped around my sex and my waist and pulled it free, pulling open again the wounds to my cunt. I felt thin streams of blood slide down my legs. I was now beautifully naked. Hanging, waiting, just my body and my cross. I wanted the two spikes. I wanted the hammer and the smashing of my feet. I looked down and watched my toes, hanging in space, waiting...
 
Pia said:
I hung, naked, from the two bloodied spikes. My arms stretched, my body streched. Two more spikes to come. I wanted them. I was naked. Bloody and torn. Almost naked. He came to me and cut the cloth that remained wrapped around my sex and my waist and pulled it free, pulling open again the wounds to my cunt. I felt thin streams of blood slide down my legs. I was now beautifully naked. Hanging, waiting, just my body and my cross. I wanted the two spikes. I wanted the hammer and the smashing of my feet. I looked down and watched my toes, hanging in space, waiting...
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Beautiful imagination. Well written:clapping:
 
Pia said:
He untied me. She helped me down onto the ground. She wiped my body, wiped my wounds, wiped my lips, stroked my hair.
He made things ready. I watched him. I felt so wonderful. He was making my cross ready for me.
She gave me water to drink. She whispered to me. I smiled. My body was in such pain.
He beckoned to her. It was time. She lifted me to my feet. I was unsteady. I blinked in the sun. My sight was not quite focusing. I blinked again. The cross was waiting for me.
I walked to my cross, to the cross beam. He stood waiting for me. I lay on the ground. He looked at me, as if to ask me if I was sure. I nodded and smiled. I was sure.
She bound my arms to the cross beam. He came to me and felt my body along the side, along the arm, to my wrist. He felt for the hollow in my wrist. She gave him the first spike.
He pushed it into the hollow, a tiny bead of blood forming. I felt the spike in my wrist. It was not pain, not yet.
He pushed harder, breaking the skin, pushing into my wrist. Now I felt pain.
I looked at him. He aimed the hammer. I held my breath. My body exploded. The spike was driven in. My back arched and twisted. I felt the pain so beautifully. I tried to breathe but couldn't. I gasped and shouted. I shouted 'No!' , I shouted 'Stop!'. I wanted him to strike the spike again. And again. Shuddering me into the wood. Shattering me into the wood. I looked down my arm at my bloodied wrist. My beautiful spiked wrist. My crucified wrist. My body.
He nailed me again. I was nailed to my cross beam. My legs beat the air. My body beat the air. My lungs screamed for them to stop. I wanted so much for them to continue.
I wanted them to lift me. To lift me to the post. To drag my heels through the dust to the post. My bloody body, lifted to the post. My hair in my eyes, my eyes staring, my mouth open, my breasts shaking. My legs. My legs. My body. My pain. My beautiful pain. I wanted him to nail me to my cross. To nail my feet to my cross. To crucify me. It was what I had always wanted. I had been so right. It was perfect. The pain made me cry and scream. I wanted to cry and scream. I wanted him to destroy me. I wanted to be on my cross, in my pain, hanging in my beautiful pain. I wanted to be up on my cross, my body nailed to my lovely wooden cross. My naked body. My bloody naked body. Nailed. Tortured to my cross. I wanted it to happen.
He pushed my back to the post. They had steps to stand on. They lifted my beam over me. I felt the nails pull on my wrists. They lifted me from the ground. I hung from my nails. I felt the nails tear into me. I felt my weight hanging. I felt my agony swell. I felt such pain. They lifted the beam to the top of the post and slotted it in and it fell and stopped and my body jerked and swung and I hung and swung and my body was held by my nailed wrists and my eyes opened wide and I looked at the place I was hanging and I looked down my body, down my legs, to where my feet hung in the air. I looked along my arms that stretched out to my cross beam. I swallowed my pain so fully. I wanted more. I wanted more. I felt myself grow wet. I wanted more. My pain was not enough. I wanted more pain. I wanted more. I wanted my beautiful pain.
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I nodded to him. I tried to speak, but the words were half-formed. I wanted him to carry on. I wanted him to finish my nailing. He smiled.
He held up two spikes, then threw one away. I knew. I was happy.
She came and took my trembling legs, every movement adding more sweet pain to my wrists and my stretched, bloody body.
She positioned them, my knees bent, on the post. She took a slender rope and bound my ankles, one foot layered over the other. He came and showed me the spike, offering it to my lips. I kissed my spike.
He pushed it against the upper part of my foot. I tried to pull away, but could not. I was so glad the rope was there. He pushed harder, the nail breaking the flesh, penetrating until it was against the bone.
"Ready?" he asked.
I tried to nod.
He took his hammer. One soft blow, just to get his aim, but enough to crack the bone. I arched in pain, gasping, sucking the air.
He struck again, harder, and again.
I felt the bone smash apart, I felt the spike push through my sole, push into the lower foot. I wanted to vomit, but could not. I could hardly scream.
I felt the spike in move through both feet. Strike. Strike. Dull metal on dull metal. Blood bubbling. My leg muscles in spasm.
I felt the spike move through my sole, move into the post. Strike. Strike.
I felt the pain ripple and tear through me. I watched him stand back to look at his work.
He nodded to her. She cut the rope free. Just me and my cross and my nails. I felt perfect. I felt like a work of art. I hung on my cross in my exquisite agony, more agony than I could ever have imagined. More beautiful agony than I could have dreamt of. I hung in my gorgeous pain, looking at my broken, tortured body. I was so unimaginably happy. I wanted this moment to last for ever, but it would not. My sweet cross was slowly beginning to kill me. As night would fall, so would my cross destroy me. I was dying. I was so blissfully happy to be dying like this, torn and whipped and bloody on my lovely, sweet cross.
 
It was a while. Maybe not as long as I imagined. Maybe an hour. Maybe two. I don't know.
My pain came in waves, surging and receding. I was so content. I willed the pain to come, I moaned, I willed it to go away. And it always came back, My pain was so good to me, never deserting me.
I felt the air on my torn body, slowly growing cooler as the day gave way to the evening and the sun grew large and red.
I watched her as she moved around the clearing. I reflected how beautiful she was and that we would never lie together again. I was sad. But I had chosen. I would have her in my mind to share with my agony. I was content with my choice.
I watched her gather brushwood for their fire.
I watched him come and go.
I waited.
I waited for the next torture. I knew it was not over yet.
And he came.
He came with a bucket and a soft sea sponge and he wiped my body and my face and my eyes. He wiped the dried blood from me, so that my skin shimmered in the evening light. The welts still released their pearls of red, fresh little streams on my smooth skin, running from my wounds, down my arms. Running from my wounds, down my legs. Running from my wounds, down my belly. I felt so beautiful.
He put down his bucket and took the stake he had been working on. It was as wide as a clenched fist and pointed at one end. He showed it to me. I knew what it was for. I wanted it in me.
He opened my cunt, opened it and stroked it where the saw teeth had cut into it. Stroked it until it was wet, then slowly, very slowly, edged the stake, which was short, maybe eighteen inches I thought, into my sex. Turning it slowly, dragging the soft folds of my sex with it. Adding a new layer of pain to my pain. Twisting, the pushing, so very slowly, Pushing. Pushing slowly but firmly. An inch. Two. Four. Seven. Into me, Into my womb, against my womb, through into me. Blood oozing from me, flowing from me. I knew this woud kill me. I felt this wonderful agony leaping inside me, insisting. Tearing into me, so very slowly. Then stopping. I thanked him. I could hardly speak. He went away. She came and looked at me, then turned her back. They left me.
 
And then they were back. It was almost dark. They had lit their fire. She came to me and felt the coldness of my trembling limbs, felt the skin stretched over my ribs, felt the blood, wet on my body. She smiled.
"It's time." she said.
I was sad, I was happy. I wanted to die. This way. This was what I had always wanted.
He came.
With a staff, a wooden staff.
I was ready. I was not ready.
He raised the staff and aimed and it flew through the air and crashed into my shin and smashed my shin and sent blood flying. I could hardly scream.
He raised it again and smashed the other shin.
He looked at his work.
I knew something else was coming.
He told her to get a box for him to stand on. He stood on it. His face was looking at mine, his eyes into my eyes.
He said something I couldn't hear.
He raised the staff and smashed my left arm, then before I could scream or gasp or know, smashed my right arm. He had broken me. I was broken on my cross. I would die quickly now, I knew. My agony was drowning me. I wanted to live, I wanted to die. I was in ecstacy.
She brought some brushwood that she had collected and piled it around the base of my cross. Not too much. Just enough.
He struck a match and lit a petrol-soaked rag and pushed it into the brushwood. It crackled. I felt the first hint of heat. And then the first lick of flames around my cross.
I watched them climb, I felt them wrap around my broken feet and legs and twist around me. I felt them consuming my skin and sending a million agonies flooding into my brain. I felt the flame grow and enter me, burning the bloody stake inside my sex. I felt my belly burning, I felt my breast become hot and begin to burn. I looked at my body burning. I felt the most awful, terrible agonies. More awful than any words could ever say. I felt my broken body melt and slowly burn. I felt the flames climb higher. I couldn't see them anymore. I felt my face and my lips and my eyelashes. I felt my hair lift from me. I felt my belly open in the heat.
I felt everything. I had wanted this. I had wanted to feel everything. To be on my cross. To see my own body broken. To be seen on my cross. To be destroyed and to suffer and to love my suffering. I felt it so deeply and for so long and then I felt nothing.
I had been so lucky.
 
Pia said:
I nodded to him. I tried to speak, but the words were half-formed. I wanted him to carry on. I wanted him to finish my nailing. He smiled.
He held up two spikes, then threw one away. I knew. I was happy.
She came and took my trembling legs, every movement adding more sweet pain to my wrists and my stretched, bloody body.
She positioned them, my knees bent, on the post. She took a slender rope and bound my ankles, one foot layered over the other. He came and showed me the spike, offering it to my lips. I kissed my spike.
He pushed it against the upper part of my foot. I tried to pull away, but could not. I was so glad the rope was there. He pushed harder, the nail breaking the flesh, penetrating until it was against the bone.
"Ready?" he asked.
I tried to nod.
He took his hammer. One soft blow, just to get his aim, but enough to crack the bone. I arched in pain, gasping, sucking the air.
He struck again, harder, and again.
I felt the bone smash apart, I felt the spike push through my sole, push into the lower foot. I wanted to vomit, but could not. I could hardly scream.
I felt the spike in move through both feet. Strike. Strike. Dull metal on dull metal. Blood bubbling. My leg muscles in spasm.
I felt the spike move through my sole, move into the post. Strike. Strike.
I felt the pain ripple and tear through me. I watched him stand back to look at his work.
He nodded to her. She cut the rope free. Just me and my cross and my nails. I felt perfect. I felt like a work of art. I hung on my cross in my exquisite agony, more agony than I could ever have imagined. More beautiful agony than I could have dreamt of. I hung in my gorgeous pain, looking at my broken, tortured body. I was so unimaginably happy. I wanted this moment to last for ever, but it would not. My sweet cross was slowly beginning to kill me. As night would fall, so would my cross destroy me. I was dying. I was so blissfully happy to be dying like this, torn and whipped and bloody on my lovely, sweet cross.
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Wonderful:clapping:
 
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