Zephirantes
Governor
I finished this story today: it's like 29 pages in a text editor.
I have decided to publish it here at a controlled pace, like about 6 pages (the equivalent of this post that opens the thread) every two days, or something like that, to increase the 'engagement' of the reader.
So, I will completely publish it here in 'bout 10 days, no risk for the reader of following a storyline and not seeing the conclusion (sometimes it happens than the writer loses interest before finishing a tale).
Usually my stories can be a bit brutal and graphic despite their unsettling and cheerful atmosphere, with some exceptions (like this); this one is gonna an exception too, as I wanna focus more on the 'adjusting' process of a girl who has to be crucified, and less on what will happen to her.
Hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing the dialogues.
If you wanna talk 'bout it I'm more that happy to do so. I like discussing snuff stories, either mine or of other authors.
Cheers.
PS: Curiously, today a new thread has been started about executees going clothed or naked.
In all my stories but this one (the executee is electrocuted by some nasty conductive panties) I have only presented totally naked executees.
But in this tale here the girls to be crucified are given the choice of being nailed clothed or naked.
My female lead, Miranda, will surprise you by going technically covered in all her private parts (she has a rather conservative dad, James, you will know him), but with two twists: you will see that in some days.
- - -
PRE-CRUCIFIXION CRASH COURSE (PC3)
Miranda grips the steering wheel tightly, her heart racing as she pulls over at the blaring sound of sirens. The Sunday air is hot, almost suffocating, and sweat trickles down her back as she glances at the officer approaching her car. Officer Mick Sullivan, a tall man with a charming smile and twinkling eyes, tips his hat as he approaches. Despite the sternness of his uniform, his demeanor is cheerful.
"Good afternoon, young lady," he begins, leaning slightly toward her open window. "In a hurry to get somewhere?"
Miranda forces a smile, her big, doe-like eyes wide with nervousness. "I... I was just trying to get home before lunch," she stammers. "I didn’t mean to speed, officer."
Sullivan chuckles lightly, shaking his head. "Well, Miranda... speeding in front of Our Merciful Lady of the Holy Cross? On a Sunday? That’s quite the statement."
"Please," she begs, her voice trembling. "I didn’t realize. I wasn’t trying to offend anyone. Can’t you just give me a ticket or something?"
He straightens, pulling out a small notepad with an exaggerated sigh. "I’m afraid it doesn’t quite work that way, sweetheart. The law is the law. And in our lovely county, breaking the law—especially in front of the church—means facing the consequences."
Miranda swallows hard, her knuckles whitening on the steering wheel. "What... what kind of consequences?"
Sullivan’s smile doesn’t waver as he says, matter-of-factly, "Crucifixion, of course. Public, on the town square. For all to see. It’s tradition, you know. A spectacle to remind everyone to behave."
Her jaw drops. "C-crucifixion? You’ve got to be kidding!"
"Not at all," he replies, almost cheerfully. "Don’t take it personally. Plenty of young ladies find themselves in your position. And, hey, the church calls it a ‘merciful execution.’ That’s nice, isn’t it?"
Miranda’s voice rises in panic. "Merciful? How is nailing someone to a cross merciful?"
Sullivan shrugs. "Well, it’s merciful in that you get a choice about how you go up there. Fully clothed or... y’know, in the nude. Though I have to say, most people agree it’s better without clothes. Less chafing."
Miranda glares at him, her cheeks flaming. "I can’t believe this! There has to be something you can do. Please!"
He rubs his chin thoughtfully, pretending to consider. "Well, the best I can offer is to delay the date of your crucifixion by a couple of weeks. Gives you time to prepare, mentally and physically."
She blinks at him in disbelief. "Prepare? How do you prepare for something like that?"
He grins, clearly enjoying her discomfort. "Oh, we’ve got a whole program for that. Mr. Will Tombstone runs the pre-crucifixion course. He’s a real pro—been doing this for years. Teaches girls like you how to handle the pain, how to endure the public humiliation, even how to, uh... embrace the experience, if you catch my drift."
Miranda shakes her head, tears welling in her eyes. "I don’t want to embrace anything! I just want to live! I will take this case in court!"
"Oh, you can, gal, but the judge’s schedule is so full, he won’t even consider your case before two months. And in two weeks you’ll be up on your cross,” points out the cop.
Sullivan leans in closer, his gaze dropping to her chest. His smile widens. "Well now, look at that. You say you wanna live but… your nipples are poking right through your blouse. Seems like your body’s got some ideas of its own. Maybe you’re a little more... excited about this than you’re letting on?"
Her hands fly to her chest, and she glares at him, mortified. "That’s not funny!"
He chuckles, unapologetic. "Come on, Miranda, don’t be shy. It’s perfectly natural. Happens to a lot of girls when they first hear about their ‘big day.’ The adrenaline, the nerves... maybe even a little thrill at the idea of being the center of attention. You’ll do great up there, trust me. You look like the type to put on a good show."
"A show?" she repeats, horrified.
"Oh, absolutely," he replies, as though it’s the most normal thing in the world. "It’s not just about punishment, y’see. It’s a community event. Families come out, kids get balloons, there’s popcorn... everyone loves a good crucifixion. And if you play your cards right, you might even last a whole week up there! Think of all the memories you’ll make."
Miranda stares at him, speechless, as he flips his notepad closed with a flourish. "Alright, sweetheart. You’re all set. Two weeks from now, report to the square. And don’t forget to sign up for Mr. Tombstone’s course. You’ll thank me later."
As he starts to walk back to his patrol car, she calls out desperately, "Wait! Officer Sullivan, please! There must be another way!"
He pauses, turning back with a sympathetic smile. "I’m afraid not, darling. But don’t worry. You’ll do just fine. And hey, maybe I’ll stop by on your big day to cheer you on. I hear petite girls like you make the prettiest crucifees."
Miranda’s legs feel like jelly as she watches him drive away, her world spinning out of control. She can still hear his cheerful whistle as his car disappears down the road. Two weeks. Two weeks until her body is nailed and exposed, her suffering turned into a public spectacle. She shivers, a mixture of dread and humiliation washing over her as the reality sinks in.
She parks her car in the gravel lot next to the old stone church, her heart pounding with a mix of fear and desperation. The grand spire of Our Merciful Lady of the Holy Cross looms above her, its shadow stretching ominously across the cobblestones. She hesitates, staring at the intricately carved wooden doors. Despite its serene exterior, the church now feels like a place of doom. Taking a shaky breath, she pushes the door open and steps inside.
The cool air of the sanctuary does little to soothe her racing heart. The scent of old wood and incense fills her nostrils as her eyes adjust to the dim light filtering through the stained glass windows. At the altar, Father Burnland, a stout man with a kind face and a booming voice, arranges a row of candles with care.
“Ah, good afternoon, my child,” he greets her warmly, clasping his hands together. “What brings you here on such a fine day? Have you come to seek solace in our Merciful Lady’s embrace?”
Miranda marches toward him, her voice trembling. “Father Burnland, I need your help. Please. Officer Sullivan just sentenced me to crucifixion. I—I don’t know what to do!”
The priest’s expression doesn’t falter. Instead, he nods, almost sympathetically. “Ah, yes. Speeding in front of our church on a Sunday, wasn’t it? Such a shame. But I’m afraid there’s little I can do now, my dear.”
“Little you can do?” she repeats, her voice rising in disbelief. “You’re a priest! This is a church of mercy! Surely you can appeal to someone, intercede on my behalf? This can’t be what the Merciful Lady would want!”
He tilts his head, as though pondering her words. “Ah, but you misunderstand, my child. The Lady is indeed merciful. It is her followers who... well, let’s say, have their own traditions. The crucifixion custom is ancient, you see. Those who commit crimes in front of this holy place must pay the ultimate price, I’m afraid, in an humiliating, painful manner…”
Miranda stares at him, her hands trembling. “But how can that be merciful? There’s nothing merciful about nailing someone to a cross and leaving them to die!”
Father Burnland shrugs, his expression serene. “That’s not entirely true. Many find clarity in their suffering, an acceptance of their fate. Anyway, it’s a beautiful and… sexy thing for us to witness, really.”
Miranda’s fists clench at her sides, her cheeks flushing with anger and shame. “I don’t want clarity or acceptance! Please! I want to live!”
He nods sympathetically, stepping closer. “Of course you do. That’s natural. But the cross has a way of… changing perspectives. By the end, you may even find yourself grateful for the experience.”
“Grateful?!” she spits, incredulous. “For what? The pain? The humiliation? The slow, agonizing death?!”
Father Burnland smiles gently, as though speaking to a child who simply doesn’t understand. “Grateful for the chance to surrender everything—your pride, your fear, your body. It is a sacred moment, my dear. And I must say,” he gestures toward her trembling figure, his gaze briefly flicking to her chest, “you seem rather… attuned to the idea.”
Miranda follows his gaze and gasps, mortified to see her nipples visibly poking through her blouse. She crosses her arms over her chest, glaring at him. “How dare you?”
“Oh, no offense meant,” he says quickly, raising his hands in mock surrender. “It’s just… well, it’s not uncommon. Many young women in your position find themselves, shall we say, physically responsive to the thought of their impending ordeal. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Quite the opposite, really. It shows you’re embracing your role.”
Miranda’s voice shakes with fury. “I’m not embracing anything! I’m terrified! And you’re all just… so casual ‘bout it! You do enjoy watching people scream and suffer, don’t you?”
Father Burnland doesn’t deny it. Instead, he offers her a calm, almost paternal smile. “It’s not about enjoyment, my dear. It’s about tradition. The suffering of a crucified soul reminds us of our humanity, our fragility. And yes,” he adds, almost as an afterthought, “it does tend to… boost morale. Particularly when the condemned choose to face their punishment in the nude. The vulnerability, the rawness—it’s profoundly moving.”
Miranda stares at him in disbelief, her body trembling with a mix of fear and rage. “Are you all crazy here?” she wonders.
He sighs, almost wistfully. “Oh, my dear, that’s not fair. We’re simply people of faith, following the ways of our ancestors. You’ll understand one day. Or rather, you’ll feel it. The nails, the wood, the pain… it all becomes quite transformative.”
She takes a step back, her voice cracking. “I don’t want to transform. I don’t want to die!”
Father Burnland approaches her slowly, his tone gentle but firm. “None of us want to die, Miranda. But the cross has been chosen for you, and there’s no turning back now. It’s better to accept it with grace.”
Tears stream down her cheeks as she shakes her head, her voice a choked whisper. “Please, Father. I’ll do anything. Just don’t let them crucify me.”
He places a comforting hand on her shoulder, his grip surprisingly firm. “I wish I could help, but the sentence is final. All I can offer is my blessing and the hope that you’ll bring beauty and dignity to your suffering. Trust me, my dear, you’ll make a stunning crucifee.”
Her shoulders slump as despair washes over her. "You’re all insane," she mutters. "How can you live with yourselves?"
He smiles, unperturbed. "Oh, it’s quite easy. A strong moral framework and a love for tradition go a long way. Now, shall we pray for your soul?"
Her knees threaten to buckle as his words sink in, the weight of her fate pressing down on her like a leaden shroud. She stumbles out of the church, the priest’s parting words ringing in her ears:
“May the Merciful Lady guide you on your journey, Miranda. And remember—there’s nothing more divine than a soul laid bare, body and spirit alike.”
Miranda shakes her head and backs away, her voice barely a whisper. "No. I can’t do this. I won’t do this."
"Ah, but you must," he replies cheerfully. "It’s the law, after all. And who knows? You may surprise yourself with your resilience. A petite, toned young woman like you—why, you’ll look absolutely divine up there. The crowd will adore you and your slow, slow demise..."
Her breath hitches as the weight of his words sinks in. She stumbles toward the door, tears blinding her vision, while Father Burnland calls after her. "Remember, Miranda, the cross isn’t just your punishment—it’s your moment to shine!"
She bursts into the sunlight, gasping for air, as the cheerful hum of the church bells mocks her despair.
- - -
Miranda bursts through the doors, flushed and out of breath. Heads turn, and Tombstone raises a brow with an amused smile. “Well, well, our little speedster joins us at last! Welcome to your orientation for the show of your life—and your death!”
The community hall is packed, the sound of murmured conversations and nervous laughter filling the air. Rows of young women, all sentenced like her, sit on folding chairs arranged in neat lines. Some glance at her as she enters, their faces pale and anxious. Others whisper among themselves, their eyes darting toward the stage where a podium and a large wooden cross dominate the space.
Miranda hesitates, scanning the room. Every seat seems to be taken except one, right in the front row. She cringes inwardly but moves forward, her heels clicking on the tile floor. She can feel the stares as she sits, her cheeks burning.
A man steps up to the podium, his smile wide and polished. Will Tombstone, the county’s chief show manager, exudes the confidence of a seasoned performer. His sharp suit and slicked-back hair give him the air of a salesman, which, in a way, he is.
"Ladies, ladies, settle down!" he calls out, his voice smooth and commanding. The room quiets immediately. "Welcome to your pre-crucifixion course. I’m Will Tombstone, and I’ll be guiding you through this exciting and, dare I say, transformative journey!"
Miranda fidgets in her seat, her heart pounding. Exciting? Transformative? Is he serious?
"Now, I know some of you might be feeling a little apprehensive," Tombstone continues, his tone light. "And that’s perfectly natural. After all, what you’re about to experience is unique and, well, rather final. It’s something most people can only watch from the sidelines, but you—yes, you—get to live it!"
A murmur runs through the room, a mix of disbelief and nervous giggles. Tombstone spreads his arms, gesturing to the cross behind him.
"Let’s talk about what’s going to happen on your big day," he says, pacing slowly. "First, you’ll be nailed to your cross. Now, I know that might sound, uh, permanent—and it is—but let me assure you, being nailed doesn’t mean you’re dead. Oh no! It means you’re alive. Very alive. In fact, more alive than you’ve ever been before."
Miranda’s stomach twists, but she can’t tear her eyes away from him.
"You see," Tombstone continues, his voice dropping slightly, "the pain, the stress, the fear you’ll feel? That’s proof of life. Every moment you hang there, struggling and sweating under the sun, is a testament to your vitality. You’ll be performers, ladies. Artists of agony."
A girl in the second row raises her hand hesitantly. "Excuse me," she says, her voice trembling, "but… how long will we… you know, last up there?"
Tombstone grins, nodding approvingly. "Great question! It varies, of course, but most girls manage to hang on for a few days. Three, four, maybe even five. Some exceptional performers have lasted a full week!"
The room erupts into nervous whispers.
"A week?" Miranda blurts out before she can stop herself.
Tombstone turns to her, his smile never faltering. "That’s right, Miss…?"
"Miranda," she says weakly.
"Miranda," he repeats, his tone warm. "Don’t worry. With your petite frame and those… well, lovely features, I’m sure you’ll captivate the audience for days. Chances are you can survive suffering on your cross for a full week, even! You’ve got star potential, sweetheart!"
A ripple of laughter moves through the room, and Miranda shrinks in her seat.
"Now," Tombstone continues, clapping his hands together, "let’s talk about presentation. You’ll have the option to be crucified fully clothed, in lingerie, or completely nude. While the choice is yours, I highly recommend going au naturel."
Another girl raises her hand, her voice quavering. "Why nude?"
Tombstone’s eyes light up as though he’s been waiting for this question. "Excellent question! Being nude allows you to fully embrace the experience. It’s raw, it’s vulnerable, and it’s beautiful. Plus, it lets the breeze caress every inch of your skin. And let’s be honest, the audience loves it. There’s nothing quite as thrilling as a fully exposed, sweaty body glistening under the sun."
Miranda feels her face flush, her arms instinctively crossing over her chest. She glances around and sees other girls doing the same.
"Remember," Tombstone adds, leaning forward conspiratorially, "you’re not just dying. You’re giving a performance. This is your chance to shine, to leave a mark—pun intended—on everyone who watches you being slowly executed by the cross."
A wave of uneasy laughter ripples through the room.
I have decided to publish it here at a controlled pace, like about 6 pages (the equivalent of this post that opens the thread) every two days, or something like that, to increase the 'engagement' of the reader.
So, I will completely publish it here in 'bout 10 days, no risk for the reader of following a storyline and not seeing the conclusion (sometimes it happens than the writer loses interest before finishing a tale).
Usually my stories can be a bit brutal and graphic despite their unsettling and cheerful atmosphere, with some exceptions (like this); this one is gonna an exception too, as I wanna focus more on the 'adjusting' process of a girl who has to be crucified, and less on what will happen to her.
Hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing the dialogues.
If you wanna talk 'bout it I'm more that happy to do so. I like discussing snuff stories, either mine or of other authors.
Cheers.
PS: Curiously, today a new thread has been started about executees going clothed or naked.
In all my stories but this one (the executee is electrocuted by some nasty conductive panties) I have only presented totally naked executees.
But in this tale here the girls to be crucified are given the choice of being nailed clothed or naked.
My female lead, Miranda, will surprise you by going technically covered in all her private parts (she has a rather conservative dad, James, you will know him), but with two twists: you will see that in some days.
- - -
PRE-CRUCIFIXION CRASH COURSE (PC3)
Miranda grips the steering wheel tightly, her heart racing as she pulls over at the blaring sound of sirens. The Sunday air is hot, almost suffocating, and sweat trickles down her back as she glances at the officer approaching her car. Officer Mick Sullivan, a tall man with a charming smile and twinkling eyes, tips his hat as he approaches. Despite the sternness of his uniform, his demeanor is cheerful.
"Good afternoon, young lady," he begins, leaning slightly toward her open window. "In a hurry to get somewhere?"
Miranda forces a smile, her big, doe-like eyes wide with nervousness. "I... I was just trying to get home before lunch," she stammers. "I didn’t mean to speed, officer."
Sullivan chuckles lightly, shaking his head. "Well, Miranda... speeding in front of Our Merciful Lady of the Holy Cross? On a Sunday? That’s quite the statement."
"Please," she begs, her voice trembling. "I didn’t realize. I wasn’t trying to offend anyone. Can’t you just give me a ticket or something?"
He straightens, pulling out a small notepad with an exaggerated sigh. "I’m afraid it doesn’t quite work that way, sweetheart. The law is the law. And in our lovely county, breaking the law—especially in front of the church—means facing the consequences."
Miranda swallows hard, her knuckles whitening on the steering wheel. "What... what kind of consequences?"
Sullivan’s smile doesn’t waver as he says, matter-of-factly, "Crucifixion, of course. Public, on the town square. For all to see. It’s tradition, you know. A spectacle to remind everyone to behave."
Her jaw drops. "C-crucifixion? You’ve got to be kidding!"
"Not at all," he replies, almost cheerfully. "Don’t take it personally. Plenty of young ladies find themselves in your position. And, hey, the church calls it a ‘merciful execution.’ That’s nice, isn’t it?"
Miranda’s voice rises in panic. "Merciful? How is nailing someone to a cross merciful?"
Sullivan shrugs. "Well, it’s merciful in that you get a choice about how you go up there. Fully clothed or... y’know, in the nude. Though I have to say, most people agree it’s better without clothes. Less chafing."
Miranda glares at him, her cheeks flaming. "I can’t believe this! There has to be something you can do. Please!"
He rubs his chin thoughtfully, pretending to consider. "Well, the best I can offer is to delay the date of your crucifixion by a couple of weeks. Gives you time to prepare, mentally and physically."
She blinks at him in disbelief. "Prepare? How do you prepare for something like that?"
He grins, clearly enjoying her discomfort. "Oh, we’ve got a whole program for that. Mr. Will Tombstone runs the pre-crucifixion course. He’s a real pro—been doing this for years. Teaches girls like you how to handle the pain, how to endure the public humiliation, even how to, uh... embrace the experience, if you catch my drift."
Miranda shakes her head, tears welling in her eyes. "I don’t want to embrace anything! I just want to live! I will take this case in court!"
"Oh, you can, gal, but the judge’s schedule is so full, he won’t even consider your case before two months. And in two weeks you’ll be up on your cross,” points out the cop.
Sullivan leans in closer, his gaze dropping to her chest. His smile widens. "Well now, look at that. You say you wanna live but… your nipples are poking right through your blouse. Seems like your body’s got some ideas of its own. Maybe you’re a little more... excited about this than you’re letting on?"
Her hands fly to her chest, and she glares at him, mortified. "That’s not funny!"
He chuckles, unapologetic. "Come on, Miranda, don’t be shy. It’s perfectly natural. Happens to a lot of girls when they first hear about their ‘big day.’ The adrenaline, the nerves... maybe even a little thrill at the idea of being the center of attention. You’ll do great up there, trust me. You look like the type to put on a good show."
"A show?" she repeats, horrified.
"Oh, absolutely," he replies, as though it’s the most normal thing in the world. "It’s not just about punishment, y’see. It’s a community event. Families come out, kids get balloons, there’s popcorn... everyone loves a good crucifixion. And if you play your cards right, you might even last a whole week up there! Think of all the memories you’ll make."
Miranda stares at him, speechless, as he flips his notepad closed with a flourish. "Alright, sweetheart. You’re all set. Two weeks from now, report to the square. And don’t forget to sign up for Mr. Tombstone’s course. You’ll thank me later."
As he starts to walk back to his patrol car, she calls out desperately, "Wait! Officer Sullivan, please! There must be another way!"
He pauses, turning back with a sympathetic smile. "I’m afraid not, darling. But don’t worry. You’ll do just fine. And hey, maybe I’ll stop by on your big day to cheer you on. I hear petite girls like you make the prettiest crucifees."
Miranda’s legs feel like jelly as she watches him drive away, her world spinning out of control. She can still hear his cheerful whistle as his car disappears down the road. Two weeks. Two weeks until her body is nailed and exposed, her suffering turned into a public spectacle. She shivers, a mixture of dread and humiliation washing over her as the reality sinks in.
She parks her car in the gravel lot next to the old stone church, her heart pounding with a mix of fear and desperation. The grand spire of Our Merciful Lady of the Holy Cross looms above her, its shadow stretching ominously across the cobblestones. She hesitates, staring at the intricately carved wooden doors. Despite its serene exterior, the church now feels like a place of doom. Taking a shaky breath, she pushes the door open and steps inside.
The cool air of the sanctuary does little to soothe her racing heart. The scent of old wood and incense fills her nostrils as her eyes adjust to the dim light filtering through the stained glass windows. At the altar, Father Burnland, a stout man with a kind face and a booming voice, arranges a row of candles with care.
“Ah, good afternoon, my child,” he greets her warmly, clasping his hands together. “What brings you here on such a fine day? Have you come to seek solace in our Merciful Lady’s embrace?”
Miranda marches toward him, her voice trembling. “Father Burnland, I need your help. Please. Officer Sullivan just sentenced me to crucifixion. I—I don’t know what to do!”
The priest’s expression doesn’t falter. Instead, he nods, almost sympathetically. “Ah, yes. Speeding in front of our church on a Sunday, wasn’t it? Such a shame. But I’m afraid there’s little I can do now, my dear.”
“Little you can do?” she repeats, her voice rising in disbelief. “You’re a priest! This is a church of mercy! Surely you can appeal to someone, intercede on my behalf? This can’t be what the Merciful Lady would want!”
He tilts his head, as though pondering her words. “Ah, but you misunderstand, my child. The Lady is indeed merciful. It is her followers who... well, let’s say, have their own traditions. The crucifixion custom is ancient, you see. Those who commit crimes in front of this holy place must pay the ultimate price, I’m afraid, in an humiliating, painful manner…”
Miranda stares at him, her hands trembling. “But how can that be merciful? There’s nothing merciful about nailing someone to a cross and leaving them to die!”
Father Burnland shrugs, his expression serene. “That’s not entirely true. Many find clarity in their suffering, an acceptance of their fate. Anyway, it’s a beautiful and… sexy thing for us to witness, really.”
Miranda’s fists clench at her sides, her cheeks flushing with anger and shame. “I don’t want clarity or acceptance! Please! I want to live!”
He nods sympathetically, stepping closer. “Of course you do. That’s natural. But the cross has a way of… changing perspectives. By the end, you may even find yourself grateful for the experience.”
“Grateful?!” she spits, incredulous. “For what? The pain? The humiliation? The slow, agonizing death?!”
Father Burnland smiles gently, as though speaking to a child who simply doesn’t understand. “Grateful for the chance to surrender everything—your pride, your fear, your body. It is a sacred moment, my dear. And I must say,” he gestures toward her trembling figure, his gaze briefly flicking to her chest, “you seem rather… attuned to the idea.”
Miranda follows his gaze and gasps, mortified to see her nipples visibly poking through her blouse. She crosses her arms over her chest, glaring at him. “How dare you?”
“Oh, no offense meant,” he says quickly, raising his hands in mock surrender. “It’s just… well, it’s not uncommon. Many young women in your position find themselves, shall we say, physically responsive to the thought of their impending ordeal. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Quite the opposite, really. It shows you’re embracing your role.”
Miranda’s voice shakes with fury. “I’m not embracing anything! I’m terrified! And you’re all just… so casual ‘bout it! You do enjoy watching people scream and suffer, don’t you?”
Father Burnland doesn’t deny it. Instead, he offers her a calm, almost paternal smile. “It’s not about enjoyment, my dear. It’s about tradition. The suffering of a crucified soul reminds us of our humanity, our fragility. And yes,” he adds, almost as an afterthought, “it does tend to… boost morale. Particularly when the condemned choose to face their punishment in the nude. The vulnerability, the rawness—it’s profoundly moving.”
Miranda stares at him in disbelief, her body trembling with a mix of fear and rage. “Are you all crazy here?” she wonders.
He sighs, almost wistfully. “Oh, my dear, that’s not fair. We’re simply people of faith, following the ways of our ancestors. You’ll understand one day. Or rather, you’ll feel it. The nails, the wood, the pain… it all becomes quite transformative.”
She takes a step back, her voice cracking. “I don’t want to transform. I don’t want to die!”
Father Burnland approaches her slowly, his tone gentle but firm. “None of us want to die, Miranda. But the cross has been chosen for you, and there’s no turning back now. It’s better to accept it with grace.”
Tears stream down her cheeks as she shakes her head, her voice a choked whisper. “Please, Father. I’ll do anything. Just don’t let them crucify me.”
He places a comforting hand on her shoulder, his grip surprisingly firm. “I wish I could help, but the sentence is final. All I can offer is my blessing and the hope that you’ll bring beauty and dignity to your suffering. Trust me, my dear, you’ll make a stunning crucifee.”
Her shoulders slump as despair washes over her. "You’re all insane," she mutters. "How can you live with yourselves?"
He smiles, unperturbed. "Oh, it’s quite easy. A strong moral framework and a love for tradition go a long way. Now, shall we pray for your soul?"
Her knees threaten to buckle as his words sink in, the weight of her fate pressing down on her like a leaden shroud. She stumbles out of the church, the priest’s parting words ringing in her ears:
“May the Merciful Lady guide you on your journey, Miranda. And remember—there’s nothing more divine than a soul laid bare, body and spirit alike.”
Miranda shakes her head and backs away, her voice barely a whisper. "No. I can’t do this. I won’t do this."
"Ah, but you must," he replies cheerfully. "It’s the law, after all. And who knows? You may surprise yourself with your resilience. A petite, toned young woman like you—why, you’ll look absolutely divine up there. The crowd will adore you and your slow, slow demise..."
Her breath hitches as the weight of his words sinks in. She stumbles toward the door, tears blinding her vision, while Father Burnland calls after her. "Remember, Miranda, the cross isn’t just your punishment—it’s your moment to shine!"
She bursts into the sunlight, gasping for air, as the cheerful hum of the church bells mocks her despair.
- - -
Miranda bursts through the doors, flushed and out of breath. Heads turn, and Tombstone raises a brow with an amused smile. “Well, well, our little speedster joins us at last! Welcome to your orientation for the show of your life—and your death!”
The community hall is packed, the sound of murmured conversations and nervous laughter filling the air. Rows of young women, all sentenced like her, sit on folding chairs arranged in neat lines. Some glance at her as she enters, their faces pale and anxious. Others whisper among themselves, their eyes darting toward the stage where a podium and a large wooden cross dominate the space.
Miranda hesitates, scanning the room. Every seat seems to be taken except one, right in the front row. She cringes inwardly but moves forward, her heels clicking on the tile floor. She can feel the stares as she sits, her cheeks burning.
A man steps up to the podium, his smile wide and polished. Will Tombstone, the county’s chief show manager, exudes the confidence of a seasoned performer. His sharp suit and slicked-back hair give him the air of a salesman, which, in a way, he is.
"Ladies, ladies, settle down!" he calls out, his voice smooth and commanding. The room quiets immediately. "Welcome to your pre-crucifixion course. I’m Will Tombstone, and I’ll be guiding you through this exciting and, dare I say, transformative journey!"
Miranda fidgets in her seat, her heart pounding. Exciting? Transformative? Is he serious?
"Now, I know some of you might be feeling a little apprehensive," Tombstone continues, his tone light. "And that’s perfectly natural. After all, what you’re about to experience is unique and, well, rather final. It’s something most people can only watch from the sidelines, but you—yes, you—get to live it!"
A murmur runs through the room, a mix of disbelief and nervous giggles. Tombstone spreads his arms, gesturing to the cross behind him.
"Let’s talk about what’s going to happen on your big day," he says, pacing slowly. "First, you’ll be nailed to your cross. Now, I know that might sound, uh, permanent—and it is—but let me assure you, being nailed doesn’t mean you’re dead. Oh no! It means you’re alive. Very alive. In fact, more alive than you’ve ever been before."
Miranda’s stomach twists, but she can’t tear her eyes away from him.
"You see," Tombstone continues, his voice dropping slightly, "the pain, the stress, the fear you’ll feel? That’s proof of life. Every moment you hang there, struggling and sweating under the sun, is a testament to your vitality. You’ll be performers, ladies. Artists of agony."
A girl in the second row raises her hand hesitantly. "Excuse me," she says, her voice trembling, "but… how long will we… you know, last up there?"
Tombstone grins, nodding approvingly. "Great question! It varies, of course, but most girls manage to hang on for a few days. Three, four, maybe even five. Some exceptional performers have lasted a full week!"
The room erupts into nervous whispers.
"A week?" Miranda blurts out before she can stop herself.
Tombstone turns to her, his smile never faltering. "That’s right, Miss…?"
"Miranda," she says weakly.
"Miranda," he repeats, his tone warm. "Don’t worry. With your petite frame and those… well, lovely features, I’m sure you’ll captivate the audience for days. Chances are you can survive suffering on your cross for a full week, even! You’ve got star potential, sweetheart!"
A ripple of laughter moves through the room, and Miranda shrinks in her seat.
"Now," Tombstone continues, clapping his hands together, "let’s talk about presentation. You’ll have the option to be crucified fully clothed, in lingerie, or completely nude. While the choice is yours, I highly recommend going au naturel."
Another girl raises her hand, her voice quavering. "Why nude?"
Tombstone’s eyes light up as though he’s been waiting for this question. "Excellent question! Being nude allows you to fully embrace the experience. It’s raw, it’s vulnerable, and it’s beautiful. Plus, it lets the breeze caress every inch of your skin. And let’s be honest, the audience loves it. There’s nothing quite as thrilling as a fully exposed, sweaty body glistening under the sun."
Miranda feels her face flush, her arms instinctively crossing over her chest. She glances around and sees other girls doing the same.
"Remember," Tombstone adds, leaning forward conspiratorially, "you’re not just dying. You’re giving a performance. This is your chance to shine, to leave a mark—pun intended—on everyone who watches you being slowly executed by the cross."
A wave of uneasy laughter ripples through the room.
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