The Ultimate Christian Challenge

[brasileiro]

Here is the first bit of another story about voluntary whipping and crucifixion...enjoy!

The Farm​

By Cisne​

All I wanted was to get whipped!

I ended up getting a lot more than that.

Whipping—getting whipped and whipping others, especially gorgeous females—was an old longing of mine. It re-surfaced on my last birthday, when I turned 30. The problem is that my wife seemed to have an aversion to it, not so much as a witness but definitely as a victim and even more so as the one wielding the whip. She would not whip me! And that was that! I did, however, convince her that she might enjoy watching; the clincher was to say she might especially like to watch me getting whipped.

That left the problem of finding a venue. I consulted an old friend known as Wee Willy Winkie; he got that name because he was a short, skinny guy who, we discovered in college after chatting with some loose, flighty girls who used to hang around at our dorm parties, that Willy’s Winkie was anything but Wee. One floozy said his dick actually frightened her; she thought it was a joke, or a weapon, Willy had somehow attached to his crotch. Long story short…Willy’s Winkie was no joke.

Willy gave what would prove fateful advice.

“The place to go,” he said. “Is The Farm.”

The only problem…The Farm was in Mexico, a couple of hours drive from our home in southern California.

***​

We got there before noon. The Farm was everything Willy described—an array of adobe structures complete with alluring arcades and narrow, chapel-like windows off a mountain road. The scenery was spectacular—wooded hills, lush green and hay-colored meadows. Palm trees fluttered in groves around the adobe buildings. If you looked carefully, you could also pick out some of the unique “instruments” related to The Farm’s unusual mission, but I didn’t look carefully.

We were met by the manager, a man in early middle age named, appropriately enough, Mr. Christian. He gave us an abbreviated tour. It was all very friendly, a resort-like atmosphere, clean, trimmed, smiles everywhere. Staff were all dressed the same, just like Mr. Christian, in blue jeans, sandals, and black T-shirts with the words “The Farm” emblazon on front in fancy white letters with a little symbol below, which, to the casual observer, might look like a meaningless squiggle but which, on more careful inspection, could be interpreted as a whip.

“You made your reservation online?” Christian asked.

I nodded as we walked.

“You just want to be whipped?”

“Yes,” I said. I swallowed. I was nervous. I had no other words. My wife Christine was holding my hand. I felt her shudder at the exchange.

“Outdoors?”

“Yes.”

“Here we are!”

Mr. Christian smiled his friendly smile. We halted. We were standing next to a large, flat boulder. It gleamed white in the noonday sun.

“Have you followed the instructions given in your online reservation?”

I nodded.

“Good!”

Christian pulled a slim-line walkie-talkie out of his back pocket. He barked instructions. The device crackled. He smiled.

“Crissy will be over presently,” he said.

I nodded. I was more nervous than ever. I suddenly realized my moment had arrived. I had expected more ceremony, more delay, more time to think things over. The “instructions,” as it happened, were quite simple—the “guest” should arrive in the simplest apparel possible, in my case, jeans, a burnt orange T-shirt, and sandals. The instructions were very specific about not wearing undergarments. Soon, I would understand why.

Presently, the young woman named Crissy appeared. She seemed to be in her early 20s. She was petite, with short black hair in a pageboy cut with cute little curls poking out between her temples and her ears. She wore rimless glasses. She was dressed in the same uniform as Christian, except that a black leather cat o’ nine tales dangled from her belt. She was small-breasted and appeared bra-less; the vague outline of half-erect nipples poked through her T-shirt. She smiled broadly.

Christian explained: “We have a few rules here. One is that men are only whipped by women and women are only whipped by men.” He shot a glance at my wife Christine as if to say, “you see, my dear, it will be my pleasure to whip you; I hope you’re looking forward to it as much as I am.” Christine turned pale. Our host continued: “Of course, all whippings are administered against bare skin. You must be either naked or half naked.” He said this as if it were a cue.

There was a moment of silence. Then, I realized what I had to do. I tore off my T-shirt and handed it to Christine.

“Thank you, Mr. Swann,” said Christian. He maneuvered me expertly into position. It was not what I had expected. I knelt down before the flat white boulder, occupying a recess that had been carved out for the purpose. I looked around. The sun was high in the sky. There was a breeze scented by what smelled like cinnamon and sugar. The sun warmed my shoulders; the breeze tickled my chest. Then, Crissy took over. She stepped forward and, with two surprisingly strong hands, pulled down on my jeans until my belt dug into my hips; then, she gave another tug to the front of the jeans until the tips of my pubic hairs poked out.

“Take a few deep breaths,” Crissy said, in a soft, sexy voice. I did. It was invigorating, sensual. “Put your hands behind your head and rock your torso back and forth,” she instructed. I followed her orders. They made me feel naked, sexy all over; my penis began inflating; it turned more and more sensitive and engorged as I twisted my body, Now, I understood the no undergarments rule; my dick was rubbing up directly against the course fabric of my jeans.

“Are you ready for your whipping, Mr. Swann?” Crissy said.

“Yes,” I murmured.

“Then, I will whip you.” I could hear the swish-swish of the cat as she grabbed it off her belt and tested it on the ground. “Prepare to be whipped, Mr. Swann.”

Mr. Christian, with kind glances and gentle hands, directed me to lie across the surface of the boulder. Once I did so, I saw the leather straps embedded at a strategic point in the rock. I grasped them. My belly and my nipples were flush against the stone, but the surface was surprisingly smooth, worn down, I supposed, by generations of whipping victims. My crotch was hard up against the flank of the boulder, as if I were getting ready to fuck it. What I really wanted was to rip off slim, young Crissy’s flimsy T-shirt, suck her hard little nipples, pull down her jeans and, in the hoped-for absence of panties, fuck her right there on the smooth surface of that rocky monument to human desire.

Instead, I got whipped.

It began suddenly. The first stroke was mild but it came as a shock. I must have jumped. The second and third strokes were a little faster and a little harder. I shifted my torso and flexed my muscles. Later, my wife Christine would tell me I had “a sexy back.” Crissy picked up the pace. The strokes were harder. Occasionally, I endured a slight sting but mostly I felt a rough but invigorating massage. My whole body responded to the strokes. I rocked my torso back and forth against the smooth surface of the stone; my nipples hardened; I ground my crotch into the rough flank of the boulder.

The whipping ended as soon as it began.

Crissy passed her hand along my back. “Reddened, but no blood,” she said.

Mr. Christian bent down to look at me. “That’s it,” he said. “39.”

I released my grip on the leather straps and stood up. My wife was in shock. One hand covered her mouth as if to say, “unspeakable horror.”

I smiled all around. “That was great!” I said. “When can we do it again!”

***​

 

[brasileiro]

More of the unique delights of "The Farm."

We learned more about The Farm in the following days. It was located in Mexico not so much for tax reasons as anti-discrimination laws. It took some digging to find out why. The Farm’s owners didn’t discriminate in their guest lists because of race, gender, or ethnic background and certainly not because of sexual orientation. The Farm discriminated against the ugly! To get a reservation you had to be sent by someone, as we had been sent by Willy, and the someone had to vouch for at least a minimum of sex appeal.

Other things we learned: The Farm was expensive; it was also extensive. You could use it like a conventional resort, with gourmet meals, pools, trails for hiking and biking, and horses for riding. The one thing that was different from other resorts—guests could watch! They could watch indoor and outdoor torture sessions that went from routine whippings like mine up to and including nude crucifixions. Other attractions included training sessions in bondage and torture techniques as well as a video service. If you were narcissistic enough, you could get yourself flogged naked and have it videotaped for your friends and posterity.

There were a lot of rules. All tortures required partial or complete nudity. No costumes were ever used. Everyone came in street clothes, which were expected to be simple. Anyone who didn’t come with sandals was given a pair. There was method to the madness. Nudity was sexy; it also eliminated the risk of damaging fashionable garments. Simple attire made it easier to get naked in a hurry. Guests could watch the action, at will, or take part in scenes, but participation required a medical examination and a signed waiver. For certain scenes, tickets were sold to outsiders! Somebody was making good money at The Farm!

Crucifixions were especially complicated. There were age, weight, and height requirements and a waiting period after the medical exam. But they were also, in their way, festive. Everyone wanted to see one, especially since they were comparatively rare. Organizers would only conduct a crucifixion when they had three “candidates” and the threesome had to be mixed, either two women and a man, or two men and a woman.

The more I learned about The Farm the more hooked I was.

The problem was Christine.

***​

At first, Christine was horrified by our excursion to The Farm.

But, after a few days, she began asking me about it. I told her how exhilarating it was; I told her how you feel your naked body is being caressed by the whip but caressed with ten times the force of an ordinary caress; how you feel naked and sexy in every pore; how the impact of the whip is tingling, then exciting, and then orgasmic; I told her I’d do it again…and maybe other stuff too.

The latter thought made her shy away. But I also noticed something else. Lovemaking was more ardent; there was more pulling and pinching and scratching, more sweat, a little slapping of the naked buttocks, then a little slapping of the swaying breasts. She was getting used to the idea of mixing pain and pleasure.

Finally, one day, she shocked me by bringing home a bunch of cheap bondage gear. That night was her initiation. We took down some hanging ferns from ceiling hooks. Christine tossed her blouse aside and unhooked her bra. I clipped the cheap wrist cuffs to the hooks dangling from the ceiling. Soon, Christine was hanging from the hooks by her wrists; her long arms extended out at a wide angle; she was pale, a little nervous.

I was proud of her and I told her so. She smiled, the big, winning smile she had; she tossed her hair back; she was sweating and her hair had become matted around her forehead and neck. Christine was tall and thin. Bound to the ceiling hooks, she was nude from the waist up. She was breathing heavily, gulping air, laughing nervously, then shifting in her bonds. She leaned forward as if testing the limits of her bondage and the strange sensation of being stretched out half-naked, exposed, tingling with anticipation for a new kind of touch, a wicked touch, one that could alter her perceptions and, maybe, her life.

She kicked off her shoes and spread her legs. She was wearing a pair of smart designer jeans, with a wide blue belt featuring silvery holes and a gleaming metal buckle that clanked shut like the seatbelt on an airplane. I approached her. I caressed her taut, straining neck muscles; she shuddered at the touch, as she usually did; I ran my fingers along the delicate curve of her collar bone; her upper arm and the ball of her shoulder were rock hard, but the surface of her skin was soft; I took her breasts in my hands; they were liquid and, as she stood in the makeshift stockade, swayed more than I would have expected; I kissed and nibbled her purple nipples until she whimpered.

“Enough,” she whispered.

I backed away.

“Now, whip me, you bastard!”

I bowed ceremoniously: “As you wish, milady.”

It wasn’t much of a whip, just a half dozen soft leather strands and a wooden handle adorned with cheap metal studs, but it would do. Nor was I much of a whipper; I had signed up for exactly one lesson during our stay at The Farm. I began by strafing Christine’s back with rapid, repetitive strokes that got her rocking back and forth in place. I could hear her sighing and then whimpering. After a few minutes I stopped for a consultation.

“Was that too much? Am I hurting you?”

Christine looked at me as if to say, “now you’re the nervous one.” What she actually said was, “Frankly, I’m not feeling it much at all. Could you put a little more pep into it?”

I resumed my stance. This time, I really whacked her. She grunted and strained forward. I whacked her again.

“Is that alright?” I called.

“Yes…Again!”

I whacked even harder.

“Keep it up!” she yelled.

I began lashing at her back from left to right as fast as I could and with all the force I could muster. She leaned forward in her bonds with each blow; she grunted and whimpered, then she called out, first in a muffled voice, then loudly and boldly, “Whip me! Whip me, you bastard!”

I picked up the pace. Christine’s back was reddened but unbloodied. She worked her prominent shoulder blades and the small muscles of her lower back with each stroke; she strained forward until I thought the ceiling hooks would pull out and collapse in a rain of plaster. Now, she called out again. I strained to hear her; I thought she may have had enough. I was shocked when she screamed, “Whip me harder! Whip me, goddamit!”

I whipped as hard as I could until I was exhausted. Presently, I let the whip fall to the floor. I was breathing heavily and sweating profusely. I approached her. She was breathless; her chest and belly heaved; rivulets of sweat streamed from her hair and neck into the crevice between her breasts. I took her in my arms. Her whole body shuddered. She strained forward. I could hear the wrist cuffs jangle and tighten. She looked at me with wide, almost frightened, eyes. I expected her to call a halt…maybe even call a doctor. What she actually said, in a hoarse, breathless tone, shocked me.

“Whip my tits!”

I drew back. “What?”

“I said, ‘Whip my tits.’” She gulped and seemed to run out of breath. “I said, ‘whip ‘em!’ ‘Whip ‘em, goddam it!’”

“Sure.”

I began raking the strands of the whip across her breasts in slow motion. She leaned into each stroke. She kept leaning until her whole torso was hanging languidly from her bonds. Her chest heaved; her ribs formed shadowy steps against the translucent white of her skin; her belly shimmied from side to side as she rolled her hips.

“You can do better than that,” she whispered. She closed her eyes and flung back her head. I took a step back. Christine’s nudity was frank, proud, as if taunting the world to punish and use her. She seemed to say, “Whip me; fuck me; do whatever you want to me…just do it now!”

What she actually said was, “Whip my tits. Whip me hard.”

“Of course.”

I let go with a furious rain of strokes. Her body stiffened. Sweat flew off her chest with every lash. She strained her wrist bonds to the breaking point.

“Harder!” she yelled.

I slammed her wobbling breasts holding the whip handle with both hands.

“I said, ‘Whip my tits!’ you bastard!”

“I’m doing my best.”

“Whip my nipples off!” she screamed.

I whipped harder; I whipped as hard as I could. I whipped her breasts, her shoulders, her belly and her exposed hip bones. I whipped Christine until she started to rock back and forth on the balls of her feet and whimper and cry. I paused for breath. Christine threw her head back. She was panting. She drew a deep breath.

“I think that’s enough,” she whispered.

***​

Love making that first night was monumental; love making the rest of the week was non-existent. Christine would wake up every day with a big smile on her face then hobble to the bathroom. It took a week for the reddish glow on her skin to fade, along with the pains in her wrists, chest, and lower back. But every day she passed along the same message along with her infectious smile: “That was spectacular; when are we going to do it again?”

We made a reservation for a long weekend at The Farm.

The allures of The Farm were many.

We spent the first day taking classes. We learned you can swing a full-fledged bullwhip, wrapping it around your victim’s naked body, without causing the slightest bruise. We learned how they make those winning videotapes by using what is called Foley Sound, a computer program that can add a sharp “snap” or a subtle “shush” to each stroke of the whip as a scene unfolds. We even learned some play acting: how to “react” to a whiplash; girls toss their hair to the wind and stick out their tits; boys twist their bodies around and grunt.

The second day was reserved for a tour of The Farm’s many exquisite tortures. These included conventional pillars, posts and frames for whipping and flogging, along with the formidable whipping stone located in the front garden. We caught occasional glimpses of other couples using the facilities, usually assisted by staff. We received a brief lecture from Mr. Christian on the many different types of whips, including some instructive demonstrations on willing assistants. Most of the accoutrements were available at both indoor and outdoor venues, but there were some exceptions. Torture racks, for example, were all indoors. Crucifixions, on the other hand, occurred only at a special outdoor venue, complete with pillars and frames for scourging, and a gravel pathway leading to a bucolic clearing surrounded by palm trees and the ruins of adobe walls.

Christine favored the indoor dungeon, which was actually a large, sunlit room filled with The Farm’s unique equipment. People were using it as you would a gym; even the grunts and sighs were familiar. The difference was that nearly everyone was at least half naked. Fortunately, most of the users, and all the staff members, were healthy and fit; many, both male and female, were quite attractive.

I whispered to Christine: “I can see why just watching is worth the price of admission.”

She shot me a glance like she wanted to slap me. I almost said, “Go ahead, slap me. That’s what we’re here for!”

One contraption especially caught Christine’s attention. It was quite simple. Mr. Christian explained it: “We call it the ‘whip-and-fuck.’ It provides the ideal dose of carefully calibrated flogging with the maximum of sexual release.” He demonstrated: “The man, completely naked, lies down on this leather mat. He extends his arms over his head and grasps these straps, so that his body is fully stretched out. He is rampant. The female, also completely nude, kneels over the man’s pubis. She faces away from him. She inserts his penis into her vagina and begins to pump up and down. Now, she too extends her arms over her head, grasping these leather straps that hang from the ceiling. The nude bodies of both the man and the woman are now magnificently stretched out. Two assistants are called in, a young man and a young woman, both stripped to the waist. The young woman assistant kneels alongside the prone shape of the naked man. She begins whipping his chest and belly. The male assistant takes his position facing the naked torso of the writhing woman. He whips her breasts, her belly, even her thighs. The whipping goes according to what might be called ‘taste.’ You can ask for more or less, harder or softer, faster or slower.”

Christine listened to the explanation in wonder.

“Among other things, it’s wonderful to watch,” said Mr. Christian. “It’s a show of nudity in motion, complete with a climax.”

We made an appointment.

***​

 

[brasileiro]

Another bit of "The Farm."

In retrospect, I think Christine enjoyed the whip-and-fuck experience even more than our eventual crucifixion, extraordinary as that was.

We took the whip-and-fuck ride that same night. It gave Christine the chance to go completely nude for the first time in a torture scene. She even attracted a crowd! Without really meaning to.

We came to the dungeon clad only in bathrobes. We were met by Crissy and a young male assistant named Mack. Christine was excited; she was all smiles. We disrobed.

I was first off the mark, lying nude and fully stretched out on the mat. My erection developed quickly when petite Crissy pulled off her T-shirt, revealing the small but well-rounded breasts tipped by pink nipples I had imagined. She knelt next to me. We made eye contact. She smiled. Then Crissy began crisscrossing my naked torso with whiplashes. They stung a little.

Suddenly, Christine was on top of me and, just as quickly, I was inside her; she began pumping; it was slow and deliberate. She was juicy. I adjusted for the deepest possible penetration. Christine sighed with delight, like she always did. She had her back to me but I could imagine her broad smile, her hair, parted in the middle, cascading to her shoulders, the beginning of a warm glow to her chest, her breasts hardening with gooseflesh and her nipples jutting forward, in this case not to greet my eager tongue but, rather, a dozen leather tongues, dry, wicked, and insistent. I was proud of her.

My dick stiffened; I could feel the head flare and harden inside my wife’s juicy vagina as she slowly, methodically pumped. The sensitivity spread to my groin and then to my belly. I became aware that Christine was now being whipped. I looked at her slim, shapely back. She worked her shoulder blades and muscles as she leaned into each stoke; she shimmied her torso. It was clear to me that Mack was whipping her breasts. She called out. She raised her voice: “Whip me! Whip me! Whip my tits!”

I could make out, behind shirtless, whip-wielding Mack, that a small crowd had gathered. People were chatting, filming, taking photos. They were appreciating the nude sweep of my wife’s slim body, the sharp chin line of her profile, her matted hair, her outstretched arms and pale muscle tone, her wobbly breasts, the sexy curve of her skinny belly and the long, slim columns of her thighs…but it wasn’t a picture they were seeing; it was a performance—the little whips cracked and snapped; Christine alternated between breathless whispers and wounded cries of “whip me!…whip my tits;” her hair flung beads of sweat into the crowd as she shook her head from side to side; a damp, sexy scent filled the air.

Christine half turned to me. “Fuck me,” she whispered. Then louder: “Fuck me! Fuck me, damnit!”

This seemed to please the crowd. Mack picked up the pace of Christine’s whipping. There was scattered applause, flashing photos, excited chit-chat.

I glanced at Crissy. She smiled in return. Now, she directed her whip strokes exclusively to my nipples. The strokes were frequent, sharp, a little painful but they energized me. I arched my back; I offered my chest to Crissy’s whip. I looked at her; I drank in the full sweep of her girlish figure as she worked the whip. Her little breasts swung back and forth with each stroke. It was like I was fucking her and Christine at the same time. I whispered under my breath, “I wanna suck those little nipples, baby.” I don’t know if she heard me. Then, I said, loud enough to be heard: “I wanna fuck you, baby!” She heard that…but she must have assumed I was talking to Christine.

Suddenly, Christine stopped pumping. She yelled something to Mack, who ceased whipping. The crowd grew quiet. Christine bent forward; she seemed to be straining but then suddenly went limp in her bonds. The crowd applauded. I realized Christine must have had an orgasm. Crissy withdrew her whip and sat back on her haunches. I made a slight adjustment and pumped a few times with my pelvis. The orgasm gushed like water; it came again and again, each time with a flash of sensitivity that reached into my belly. Little Crissy dropped her whip and clapped her hands like a schoolgirl.

***​

 

[brasileiro]

Another stage in the crucifixion scene from "The Farm"


Christine described her whip-and-fuck orgasm as “the greatest ever.”

I concurred.

The question was how to top it.

We agreed there was only one way.

But we had to wait.

When the news came through, it was better than we could have expected. The Farm had agreed to schedule a crucifixion date not for three people but for three couples. Six people in all would be crucified outdoors, nude, in public, complete with stripping, whipping, and a procession, and we were first in line. Wee Willy Winkie told me I had “hit the jackpot.” He said, “You’ll be the lone male in your group of three. That means you’re going to hang there, totally naked, between two gorgeous girls, who will also be totally nude and writhing like strippers. Ditto for Christine. She’s going to hang, with those long arms and legs of hers, between two hirsute men. You can bet on seeing some hard-ons. You can bet on having one yourself.”

I wish I were a betting man.

The day affixed for our crucifixion was glorious, blue skies, a warm breeze full of the sweet smell of pineapple and cinnamon, birds flitting and chirping in the groves and arbors of The Farm and, faintly in the background, the clunk-clunk of workmen preparing the most bizarre and fascinating of tortures.

The morning of our crucifixion was entirely normal. Guests mingled, went about their business, ate lunch without even knowing who the chosen ones might be. Dress was casual for everyone; the banter was commonplace. After lunch, there was a change. Staff began hauling up banners. These fluttered and snapped in the breeze. They depicted a classic crucifixion scene, with three shadowy figures seen from behind nailed to crosses against a blue and white background with the words ‘The Farm’ emblazoned below. The staff began setting up rope lines from the parking lot to the crucifixion site.

At 2 p.m., as instructed, Christine and I approached the appointed site. We knew little of what to expect. That was deliberate.

Mr. Christian greeted us; he smiled his usual broad smile and told us to sit on the grass and wait. Then he went back to bossing his helpers.

I held Christine’s hand.

“What are they’re going to do to us?” she asked, a little nervously.

“I can only imagine,” I said.

“Are they going to nail us hand and foot?”

“Of course not. It’s in the waiver—no nails.”

“Maybe they meant fingernails.”

More people came to the grassy knoll reserved for what was described as “the stripping and whipping stage of the day’s crucifixion scene.” In all, about 25 people ended up sitting on the grass. I guessed that all six of the day’s lucky victims were among them, but, like us, anonymously. Later, I learned the others on the knoll were invited guests; they had paid obscenely large sums to witness nude crucifixions close up.

Presently, staff members set up a rope line near the knoll and more guests began filtering in, this time standing behind the rope. Altogether, there would be about 150 witnesses to our ordeal, all of them, in one way or another, paid customers.

“It’s weird,” Christine said. “What’s it like to be naked in front of all these people?” She was shivering a little, despite the mid-afternoon sun. I held her tight.

“It’s exciting!” I said, not quite convinced myself.

“Is it? I hope so. Once you’re hanging there like Jesus Christ there’s no going back.”

Yes, I thought, hanging from your wrists with your dick sticking out…and no going back. Maybe it’s worse for a woman with all those men watching your downy cunt bob up and down as you writhe against the wood.

At 2:30, church bells rang out. The sound was beautiful, evocative, and, in its way, reassuring. We were ‘holy,’ engaged in a ‘holy’ enterprise, nothing prurient or sexy about it at all. The crowd quieted. When the bells ceased, Mr. Christian stepped forward. He wielded a hand microphone.

“The Farm welcomes you all,” he intoned. His usual smile was absent. He was grave. “Today, for the first time, The Farm will crucify six willing subjects. They are all here on the grassy knoll. Please stand up!”

Christine and I stood up, along with four others.

“Please give them a round of applause!”

The applause seemed heartfelt. We sat down.

Christian turned to his helpers. “Staff? Ready?...Commence!”

There were 11 staffers, 12 including Christian. At the word ‘commence,’ all 12 pulled off their T-shirts and tossed them in a pile. There were six men and six women, all stripped to the waist. Crissy was among them. This time she was wearing her granny glasses. Her little breasts flitted from side to side as she pulled off her top. Mr. Christian approached the heap of black T-shirts. He pulled out a cigarette lighter and the pile became a pyre.

“I see,” Whispered Christine. “There’s no going back.”

Christian again addressed the crowd: “Ladies and gentlemen, you may film and take pictures. Please limit any expressions of emotion to applause only and treat today’s brave souls with the utmost respect…and now…let us begin…with the day’s first stripping and whipping.”

Christine squeezed my hand till it hurt.

“Will Christine Swann please come forward.”

Christine’s name was greeted with polite applause. Christine gasped. She turned to me: “I didn’t know I was first.”

“Christine?”

Christine stood up. She acknowledged the applause with a shy smile and ambled toward Mr. Christian. They air kissed. Christine was dressed in tight jeans, a striped T-shirt, sandals, and no panties or bra. She looked lovely. I was proud of her.

Mr. Christian once again spoke in grave tones. “Christine, before you are crucified, you will be whipped,” he said. “You will be whipped on your bare back.” Christine nodded. “Please remove your T-shirt and toss it into the fire.”

Christine acted with alacrity. Nude from the waist up, she made no attempt to cover her breasts. These had become enlarged, perhaps from nervous excitement; her nipples were already distended and purple.

“Christine, do you prefer the whipping frame for your whipping or the pillar?”

I could tell Christine had no idea what her host was talking about.

“The pillar,” she blurted.

Two helpers, a man and a woman, came to her side. They escorted her a few steps to a fluted marble pillar about four feet high. A hush fell over the crowd. The pillar sported a pair of old-fashioned iron manacles near the top. The helpers slid Christine’s wrists into the manacles and shut them with an audible clank. It was as simple as that. She stood there, bewildered. Her hair was already tangled and unruly. It streaked across her face. I could see beads of sweat forming on her brow. Her naked back curved to one side of the pillar. Her upper arms cupped her breasts, forming a deep, shadowy cleavage. She was shivering.

“Mr. Ross,” intoned Christian.

A short, young man with an affable face and an unusually hairy chest took his position behind Christine. He held a long, multi-pronged whip.

“You may commence, Mr. Ross,” said Christian. “You may whip Christine Swann 39 times across her naked back.”

“With pleasure, sir,” said the affable young man. Christine burst into tears. Without pause, Ross began flicking the whip across Christine’s back, at first slowly then picking up the pace. Christine swayed back and forth with each stroke. Suddenly, Ross grasped the whip with two hands and slashed it across Christine’s lower back, her hips and her shoulders. Christine stumbled, regained her footing, then slumped over the pillar. Ross advanced on her and pummeled Christine’s back first from one side and then from the other.

At length, Mr. Christian called a halt. “39,” he said. “Thank you, Mr. Ross.” Ross bowed and withdrew.

The host turned toward Christine, still slumped over the marble pillar. “Christine?”

She looked up at him, tears streaming down her cheeks, her chest smeared with sweat. Then, she smiled her broad, winning smile.

“Are you alright, Christine?”

She nodded. The iron manacles jangled as helpers released her wrists.

“Ladies and gentlemen, a round of applause for Christine!”

The applause was deafening. I was prouder than ever.

Mr. Christian motioned for Christine to sit on the grass. I stood up. We embraced. The crowd cooed its approval.

“Will Mr. Carlos Swann please step up?”

“Oh my God,” I whispered to Christine.

I received polite applause as I approached the forbidding figure of Mr. Christian.

“Mr. Swann, do you prefer the frame or the pillar for your whipping?”

I chose the frame.

“As you know, Mr. Swann, women are stripped to the waist to be whipped, but men strip naked.”

I nodded.

“Please throw your T-shirt into the fire, but you may toss your jeans to your wife.”

I complied. Two staffers escorted me to a simple wooden frame. Crissy was one of them. I was grateful.

At first glance, the whipping frame was nothing more than two tall pillars with a plank set between them. Closer inspection showed a more diabolical design. Iron manacles dangled on chains from the plank. Crissy snapped my wrists into them with astonishing speed. By operating pulleys set into the pillars, the manacles could be raised or lowered; they could also be slid from side to side so the victim’s arms could be hoisted straight up or separated at an angle.

Crissy and her male cohort, a Mr. Cobb, worked the pulleys. Soon I was stretched high and wide. They gave me a moment to catch my breath. I’m a bit taller than Christine; like her, I’m considered slim, if not downright skinny. We are both quite pale. My chest is nearly hairless. However, I work out regularly. I’m no poster boy, but I’m lean and, like Christine, I have good muscle tone. I hoped I was making a nice impression all nude, sweaty and stretched out in the afternoon sun.

I relaxed a bit in my bonds. The manacles squeaked like rusty hinges. There was enough play for me to be able to put one foot in front of the other so that my pose wasn’t rigid or cowering.

There is one part of my body most people don’t look at very often. I am, in fact, secretly proud of it. When fully erect, my penis seems to shoot out of my groin like a guided missile. Like me, it is comparatively thin but also comparatively long.

I took a deep breath. I looked at the expectant crowd. It made me a little frightened. I looked down. What I saw was an elongated but drooping appendage.

Mr. Christian piped up: “Crissy, are you ready?”

I looked up. Crissy was standing in front of me, with her hands behind her back. She was smiling faintly. Her granny glasses glinted in the sun. Her little breasts shifted. She was petite but her belly formed an alluring curve ending in prominent hip bones. She was so skinny I felt that, if I loosened her belt, her low-slung jeans would fall down. I imagined shapely thighs, a triangle of downy fur and a juicy, willing cunt. I looked down again. My dick was already at half-staff and rising. But then I glanced at Crissy again and my nascent erection faltered. She was showing off a full-fledged bullwhip to the crowd.

“Mr. Swann, are you ready for your whipping?”

I nodded. Crissy had apparently decided to stand right in front of me while she whipped my naked skin with a frightening looking device designed to discipline wayward cattle. I was determined to make it a staring contest. That, I decided, was the brave thing to do.

Crissy stepped back. Her windup was theatrical. With an audible swish, she flung the leather strip through the air until it wrapped itself around my waist with a thud. I was momentarily stunned but felt absolutely no pain. She jiggled the whip until it fell free from my hips, reeled it back in, then wound up again like a major league baseball pitcher. This time I decided to “react” to the whiplash. The leather strap wrapped itself around my chest. I twisted my torso and groaned. There was an audible gasp from the audience. Crissy picked up the pace. With a slap and a thud, she wrapped the whip around my chest, my belly, even my thighs. She just missed my dick a couple of times. That really would have hurt. Crissy had assured a raging erection with each sexy twist of her body.

I reacted to the crescendo of whiplashes by reeling and squirming. I sucked in my belly and stuck my chest out. I pretended to stare down my nemesis. I groaned and moaned. Once, Crissy caught both nipples in the same stroke and it really hurt but the overall effect was that of a rough, exhilarating massage or crashing into stiff ocean waves on a cool day.

Suddenly, it was over. I found myself panting. The crowd offered an encouraging round of applause. I looked down. Sweat was dripping off my shoulders and chest; the beads were falling on a rampant penis.

I rejoined my love on the grass. I was naked; she was half-naked; everyone else was fully dressed. Somehow, that didn’t seem odd.

There were four more whippings, two young men and two young women. To Christine and me, they passed in something of a fog. I took little interest in the men. I noted the two women but my attentions were directed toward Christine. She smiled but shivered; she hugged her knees with her long arms.

“Can you do it?” I asked her.

“I want to do it,” she answered, bravely.

“After it’s over, I’m going to make love to you,” I said. “It’s going to be the sexiest love making there ever was.”

My sentiments were genuine but, in my own mind, I expressed them a little differently. What I wanted to do that night was fuck Christine until her eyeballs bulged; and I’d beat up any hustling, hirsute young man who got in my way; while I was at it, I’d also like to peel off pretty Ms. Crissy’s clinging blue jeans, toss her granny glasses in the fire, grab her skinny ass and fuck her tight little cunt under the light of the full moon.

Such feelings put me in the mood for what was to come.

***​

 

[brasileiro]

Last bit of whipping and crucifixion story "The Farm."

Mr. Christian once again addressed the crowd. He was telling everyone about “the next stage” of the day’s sacred drama.

The sun was beyond its apogee. The birds chattered loudly in the trees. A cooling breeze brought a faint whiff of pine needles and pitch.

Suddenly, Mr. Christian was calling Christine’s name again.

She stood in front of him. She flung her shoulders back; she was smiling and confident; her bare breasts seemed to both invite and challenge him as master of ceremonies…or was it master of nails? I was prouder of her than ever; I was proud of those thrusting tits; I was proud of the white-tipped nipples bobbing under Mr. Christian’s pseudo-solemn nose.

Christian addressed my sainted, half-naked wife with fatherly deliberation: “My dear, accept this crust of bread and drink from this cup of wine.”

A helper stepped forward. Christine sipped the wine and ate the bread, little more than a fist full of crumbs. Two more helpers appeared at Christine’s side. They were carrying a length of timber about six feet long.

“This is your instrument of torture,” said Christian. “Take it!”

Christine bowed her head. The helpers loaded the timber shaft onto her shoulders. She grasped it at either end; she worked the small muscles of her back and her breasts swayed as she struggled to stand erect.

Christian addressed the helpers and pointed them toward a gravel path: “Crucify her!”

The trio began their solemn journey down the path.

Christian repeated the little ceremony for each of the day’s brave souls in turn. I admit I got a little queasy when he said, ‘crucify him!’, and realized he was talking about me. I found the length of timber heavier than I would have thought. I was naked but grateful for the sandals I was allowed to wear as I trudged down the path. My dick flapped back and forth as I walked.

The other end of the path revealed a whole new scene.

Two grassy mounds swelled up. The shirtless helpers patrolled them, at their feet more lengths of timber. The sight was unsettling. The crowd gradually filtered into the new venue. Eventually, 20 or so spectators would sit on the grass gazing up at the mounds and the wooden crosses that would soon adorn them. Other spectators stood behind rope lines. They were expectant, almost reverent, perhaps because of the little bread-and-wine ceremony invented by the diligent Mr. Christian.

Overall, the scene was bucolic, fringed by palm trees, in the background crumbling, but picturesque, adobe walls and a charming mission-style chapel with a bell tower. The sun was already dipping toward the horizon, perfect for a cool breeze, the slanting rays and sharp shadows of late afternoon, the light photographers and artists search and pray for; in short, perfect conditions to stretch six naked bodies onto wooden crosses, set them against the deep blue sky and watch them wiggle and writhe before a hungry, voyeuristic, dirty minded crowd of high-paying onlookers.

I was directed toward the far hillock. I mounted it. There, two helpers, Crissy and Cobb, relieved me of my burden. I was grateful.

But now I had the crowd to contend with…along with my own disturbing thoughts. Everyone in the crowd was looking at me. I was the first “brave soul” to mount the little hillock. I was stark naked. My instinct was to cover my flopping dick and inflamed testicles with my hands, but then I realized how absurd that would look. I didn’t quite strike a pose; instead, I tried to seem casual, standing on a grassy hill, absolutely naked, my dick sticking out part way, surveying a crowd of perhaps 150 gawkers.

Then, the thought struck me: behind me, Crissy and Cobb were preparing my cross…I could hear them…My cross! The cross they would use to crucify me naked like Jesus Christ! My thoughts turned morbid. Would they use nails? Would I die on the cross? The classic authors say you die on the cross from asphyxiation, not exposure or blood loss. So, maybe they wouldn’t use nails, but I’d die anyway! What if the pain were unbearable? Would I humiliate myself by having a panic attack and forcing them to take me down? Would I stick it out but still leave a bad impression? Maybe those other two guys, crucified next to my dear wife, would prove to be handsome, smiling brutes with impressive hard-ons; maybe they’d want to fuck Christine; they surely would, considering her shapely legs and the excited state of her bare breasts; maybe Christine would want to fuck them! My hard-on shriveled up as I reeled off the disastrous scenarios.

All of that changed when the rest of the circus parade showed up.

Two half-naked women bearing six-foot lengths of splintery timber mounted the little hillock where I had once ruled as king. Then, I remembered: I was king; I would occupy the Christ-like middle position in the crucifixion scene. The two other crosses would be positioned at a slight angle to the center cross; I would have a perfect view. Similarly, the two little hillocks were positioned at an angle to one another so the brave souls of one could gaze upon the naked figures of the other. I could set my gaze at will on the figure of my lovely nude wife struggling against her bonds; I could monitor the horny brutes surrounding her; or I could shift my attention to the two naked lovelies who would soon share my kingdom. In short: six naked souls hanging by their wrists from wooden crosses, all swaying breasts and flopping dicks, and I was king of the hill!

My immediate companions, the ‘good’ whore and the ‘bad’ whore who would be crucified naked to my left and my right, were a treat for sore eyes.

One was a slim black temptress, a tad below average in height. Her hair was short and slicked back, her features sculpted and delicate, like an Egyptian queen; she had hazel eyes but what most caught the attention of the crowd were her breasts; firm, cone-shaped and high on her chest, the Egyptian queen’s breasts were tipped by purple, lozenge-shaped nipples that begged to be pinched and sucked.

Her companion was Asian. Average in height, she sported short, black hair, razor cut into bangs; she had a heart-shaped face, with deep red lips and dark eyes that seemed inviting and sympathetic. Her breasts were pale and liquid with prominent pink nipples.

I was in love.

The two girls were still clad in jeans. They surrendered their burdens to the earnest helpers. They glanced at me and smiled. The Asian girl bowed slightly. I bowed back. I made no effort to conceal my proud manhood.

The pair stripped off their jeans without being asked. They tossed them into the crowd, which reacted with an ooh and an ahh and scattered applause. Both had strong, shapely legs and alluring patches of pubic hair.

Behind us, the helpers were securing our crossbeams to their respective crosses. The same clunk-clunk of tools could be heard from the neighboring hillock. I paid no attention to it. I was wholly absorbed by my little kingdom’s two new subjects.

The mood shifted when I heard Crissy’s voice, softer and sexier than before. “It’s time,” she whispered. My first thought was, “Wow! More tits to look at!” I turned around. Crissy, although alluring in her low-slung jeans, was holding a disturbing-looking length of rope. That was all I saw.

I approached her. I kicked off my sandals. I looked down. The wooden cross stretched out before me. She looked at me, not with cruelty, but determination. I forgot about her jutting little breasts. She pointed. I understood.

I sat down on the timber shaft. It was rough, almost like tree bark. Cobb gently pushed on my bare chest until I was lying flat against the wood. Crissy and Cobb worked fast. I was told to spread my arms along the crossbeam and to cross my ankles. With furious hands, they tied my wrists, slamming them flush against the grasping wood of the crossbeam.

Crissy said, “Shimmy your butt down a little.” I complied. Cobb placed a thin wedge under my ass cheeks; it clicked into a hole in the timber shaft. How clever, I thought. The wedge would allow me to rest my butt a little once I was crucified. Then, they tied my feet to the cross, with one foot poised on top of the other. Cobb adroitly inserted another wooden wedge into a hole in the timber so I could obtain a precarious purchase on the cross with one heal.

Cobb and Crissy withdrew. They surveyed their work. They seemed pleased. I was spread out naked on a wooden cross, with my arms opened wide like I was welcoming the world. My chest heaved. My dick was lying limp against my thigh. I didn’t care. I just wanted to survive.

I convinced myself not to panic. I told myself I looked sexy, that the crowd was about to behold a pale, skinny but fit young man, bound, spread out naked, and displaying…a deflated penis. How embarrassing!

I tried one more thing. I glanced to my right and then to my left. That did the trick. To one side was the bronze silhouette of my Egyptian queen. They were tying down her feet. I drank in the sight of her slim, dimpled thighs and prominent hip bones; she was stretched taut on the cross so that her belly was concave and her ribcage and breasts stood out; she looked at me with a mix of defiance and terror; I offered a wan smile. My Asian subject was calmer and more voluptuous. She seemed to be spread out on the cross like a lace curtain or a revealing cocktail dress. Her long legs were bent slightly at the knees. She had beautiful, sculpted feet. She was quite pale. Her arms were already spread wide along the crossbeam, revealing snow white skin and subtle muscle tone. The helpers were tying her down. She glanced at me and smiled. Her pink lips were the same hue as her uplifted nipples. I smiled back. In my mind, I decided I would worship the Asian goddess while I fucked the Egyptian queen.

Crissy knelt down beside me. She looked me in the eye. She stroked my hair with a free hand. Her expression was womanly and sympathetic. She leaned in and kissed me. I was in love…again.

“We’re going to raise the crosses now,” she whispered. “All at the same time.”

I steadied myself. The three crosses rose slowly; the ropes dug into my wrists; there was a smell of tree bark and the sound and scent of earth being turned over. I could feel my weight shifting downward as the cross reached its apogee; there was a disturbing thud as the upright hit home. Pain flared up in my wrists and arms; I took a deep breath and was thrilled to learn I could still breath. I looked down. I saw my chest and belly heaving; my dick, although I could feel it, was out of my line of sight; I could see my knees; I sensed that my legs were bent slightly. The view to my left and right was better…much better.

Both girls had long legs and they were thin in a way that left a gap between their thighs; each had a well-tended patch of pubic hair; the Egyptian queen’s was dark and mysterious; in the Asian goddess’s case, the hair was combed into an inviting triangle that contrasted with the pale flesh of her thighs and lower belly. Both girls were slim but shapely; they struggled against their bonds, shifting their weight, striking a pose that highlighted their prominent hip bones, forming long, sinuous curves in their bellies and making their ribs stand out like bronze or alabaster steps.

I could feel my manhood come alive again; soon, I could see it. I hoped the crowd could too. I felt as if I were flying, flying naked, with the wind in my hair, delicate female fingertips running up and down my chest, pinching my nipples until they hurt.

Beyond the fringe, stood three more crosses. My sight was blurred by sweat falling from my forehead, but I made out the proud figure of Christine and the stretched out forms of two naked men, one black and the other Asian. Each boasted an arrow-straight erection; each was gazing fixedly at my naked wife as she rolled her hips.

The Egyptian queen raised her head and looked at me. For a moment, her gaze seemed pitiful; then she gritted her teeth, which were small and white, and seemed to speak; I couldn’t make out her words; I tried to smile; I mouthed some encouraging phrases; the bronze queen nodded in appreciation, then she jerked her torso forward with a grunt and threw back her head; her breasts swayed as the small muscles in her neck and shoulders bulged.

I turned to the Asian goddess. Her head was bowed like the dying Christ. She hanged languidly from her wrists; her breasts were thrust forward proudly; the only signs of strain were the straightened lines of her abdominal muscles; she shifted slightly in her bonds, the keyhole of her navel winking open and shut; she rolled her hips until I could spy the dark, inviting patch of her love triangle. I longed to smooth down that pubic hair and separate those ruby labial lips; I imagined my Asian goddess squirming, then writhing in her bonds as I massaged her; she would moan, then cry, then burst into ecstatic shrieks; to me, that alone would be satisfaction enough.

I felt no dramatic pain, only discomfort. I decided to play act a bit. I threw back my head and twisted my torso with a grunt. I was rewarded by an ooh and an ahh from the crowd. My dick, proudly erect, flopped from side to side.

The crowd had turned reverent, but the pent up sexual excitement was palpable. Below me, a young couple sitting on the grass had begun gentle then increasingly agitated petting. The young man shifted his gaze from the writhing bronze queen to the statuesque Asian goddess while his girl friend stared fixedly at my dick, which ticked back and forth with Swiss precision. Presently, they unbuttoned their shirts. I could spy flashes of bare breasts and erect nipples. Other couples, with twilight coming on, lit candles. A gay couple, with a flash of pale buttocks, raced into some bushes. A few spectators, taking their cue from Mr. Christian and his helpers, began circulating among the crosses. A young girl kissed my feet. A middle aged woman patted my shins and seemed ready to stroke my dick with an uplifted hand but then apparently thought better of it. A younger woman, in business attire, gazed at my penis from below, moving on with a slight, but satisfying smile.

By dusk it was clear the six crucified souls had had enough. I could hear Christine crying out for water. The Egyptian queen was sobbing softly. I was afraid my Asian goddess was ready to faint or black out.

My torment was of a different nature. I thrust forward my pelvis, then shimmied my hips. My dick flapped against my thighs with a fleshy, audible thwack. Despite the discomfort and the sheer weirdness and audacity of the situation, my whole body, stretched out, exposed, tantalized by the sight of bare breasts, long sinuous arms and legs, and cunts at the ready, felt a glow of erotic expectation. My dick was ready to explode in a thick, milky torrent. I needed to pull down one of those writhing beauties, pet her luscious brown or snow-white skin, kiss her ruby lips, pinch the already inflamed nipples of her beautifully rounded breasts, re-assure her that everything would be alright, and fuck her eyeballs out.

It was then that the helpers began taking down the crosses.

They were slow and deliberate. It was a job for many hands. The crosses came down one at a time. Mine was last.

I was lying, still tied to the wood, when the Egyptian queen and the Asian goddess, holding hands, approached me. They smiled, bowed, and walked away. So much for pulling one down and fucking her eyeballs out.

I waited for help. Crissy bent down, whispered “wait a second,” and disappeared.

It was dusk. I became impatient. I was tied hand and foot to a wooden cross, lying on the ground, smelling the freshly turned earth, wondering what would come next.

Then, I heard a familiar voice. It was Christine’s. She approached my cross. She was smiling her broadest smile; she carried a towel and was drying the sweat from her chest and shoulders.

She bent down and untied by feet. “That will give you a little more play,” she said. “And so will I.” She giggled.

“I’m so glad to see you,” I said.

“I can tell,” she replied.

Christine faced me. In one swift motion, she tossed the towel on the ground, knelt over my groin, inserted my engorged penis into her vagina and began to pump up and down. Her vagina was slick, even runny; I hardly had time to appreciate her flopping breasts, with their inflamed, beak-like nipples, and her straining neck muscles. I made small adjustments with my hips, then felt the head of my penis flare and harden deep inside Christine’s vaginal canal; I came with a jerk, the full force of my pent-up sensitivity concentrated in the tip of my manhood; it was a flood, coming in burst after burst. I could hear the rasp of the ropes against my imprisoned wrists as I lurched forward; my chest heaved with breathless relief. I was panting.

Christine smiled her priceless smile. “Aren’t you glad we came?” she said.

-0-

 

[Vertical]

More on Ultimate Christian Challenge

Archived (never broadcast) interview with Greg Gregson, director of Ultimate Christian Challenge

Question. We’re here with Greg Gregson, the director of the cable TV show Ultimate Christian Challenge. Good morning, Greg! (Guest smiles, nods) Your show completed one season. Will it be renewed?

Greg: Probably not.

Q. Why not? Too controversial?

G. No. We live in a world where you can’t be too controversial; the more controversy the better. There were two problems with the show. One was that viewership fell after the initial shock value wore off. That’s how much crazy stuff there is nowadays on cable television! A show in which attractive young people strip naked to be tortured and displayed, and all in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, loses its shock value! The other problem was recruitment. As it turns out, it’s really hard to find people who want to take off their clothes for Christ.

Q. How many shows did you do?

G. Eight in all. We managed to crucify all the original cast members plus a few new recruits, 24 in all, over eight episodes. After that, it was either repeat with the same cast or invent some new Biblical torture. We voted to suspend the show.

Q. Thomas Christian, the host, claims the show was not in any way pornographic. What do you say to that?

G. Give me a break! Of course, it was pornographic! Sexy young people take off their clothes in front of a crowd; hunky guys try to whip the tits off beautiful girls; everybody gets pinned up and displayed naked before the world. If that isn’t sexy, nothing is!

Q. Is it true you were the only non-Christian on the set?

G. Me and my two assistants. The producers needed somebody who knew film technique and bondage rigging. Who better than a director of BDSM videos, which is where I come in. My assistants and I are not exactly angels.

Q. Did this cause any tensions on the set?

G. On the set, no; in my life, yes. On the set, everyone was very professional, which is also the case on any porno movie set anywhere in the country. You have to be. If everybody starts screwing everybody the work doesn’t get done. You can screw around later, on your own time. So we got along very well with these Christian crazies. I call them crazies but they were crazy in a nice way. I mean, people who get naked, who torture each other, and then sit down to pray together…what’s not to like? I think they liked us too. We were always very professional.

Q. What about in your personal life?

G. Something funny happened. I work with porn stars all day, the best in the business, but I long ago lost interest in fucking any of them, even the most voluptuous. But these were different. It’s a cliché, but they were fresh, honest-to-God, literally, fresh but at the same time very, very sexy. I went home every night wanting to rip the clothes off every single one of them. I came back the next morning with the same lust in my heart. I had to control myself.

Q. When you say ‘these’ you mean the females, right?

G. Yeah. I’m a committed heterosexual; they’re committed Christians. What a combination.

Q. What were some of the production tricks you used?

G. We did use a few, but not very many. For example, the victims would all show up without any undergarments. This helped speed things up. You can just rip their clothes off and start whipping them. We also had special flip-flop sandals made for each one, matching the exact color of their skin. That way they didn’t have to walk around barefoot. It keeps things moving. The crosses were custom-made, or at least custom-adapted, with a little footrest at just the right height and a little seat, called a sedile in Latin, so the victim could appear to be hanging but was actually pretty well anchored. These tricks provided a degree of comfort, if you can call it that, without taking away from the authenticity. The same with the rigging for the crucifixions. We made it look like rope but, under the rope, we used cuffs and metal hooks, which are more secure and safer for the one wearing them.

Q. What about in the filming and editing?

G. The ‘audience’ was composed mostly of paid extras. They sat around a lot eating sandwiches and drinking mineral water. There were a lot of edits. We made it look like the victims stayed crucified after they went up but, in fact, they were only up for a total of a few minutes each. We filmed different segments at different times of the day, but for just a minute or two each time.

Q. What about recruitment? Did you have any role in recruiting the cast members?

G. No, but I didn’t have to. Like I said, the producers were looking for ‘sexy’ right from the start and they knew what they were doing. Not a single cast member was overweight. How often does that happen when you pick 24 people from the general population? A couple of the girls were gorgeous. The rest looked better with their clothes off than with clothes on, which is the exception, not the rule; and remember, I speak as one who has been, both literally and figuratively, undressing women my whole adult life.

Q. Some have said you worked with the cast members to make things even more sexy.

G. I did and I’d do it again. Like I said, no matter what they say, the show was intended to be very erotic. The eroticism was diluted, or excused, by the religious angle but it was always there and it was intended to be there from the start.

Q. So you coached them?

G. Yes. We told the girls, ‘look, girls, stick your tits out; pinch your nipples until they’re erect; suck your belly in; when you’re tied up, take deep breaths that expand your lungs; that will also expand your tits and it makes your ribs ripple; sway from side to side; shift your hips. All these things are going to make women viewers think you’re Jezebels; they’re going to hate you but they’re going to want to be you. Meanwhile, you’ll drive the men crazy.’ We used more polite language than that but we got our point across.

Q. What about the men in the cast?

G. Only one piece of advice was needed. Keep looking at the gorgeous naked girl who’s being tortured next to you. Your dick will go sky high. They didn’t need much coaching.

Q. The Challenge involves a lot of whipping. How did you handle that?

G. There was also a whole lot of acting and a lot of editing. The whips were mostly soft. We trained the cast members in how to deliver a big windup but with almost no punch. We used sound effects. So you hear those whips whistling and then, crack and smack; well, the snap, crackle and pop was mostly Foley sound added in editing. The cast members, the ones being whipped, would ‘react’ to each blow with sexy shifting and shivering, and some strategic whimpering. Look at those girls swirling their hair around after each whiplash. Look at them grind their teeth and whimper and wince. Look at their tits flit back and forth. Mostly acting.

Q. Were there any embarrassing moments?

G. Yes. There was one guy who ejaculated from the cross. I thought it was great but the producers cut it. The guy was on the cross in the middle. He had this gorgeous blonde on one side, long, fluffy, almost white hair, rather flat chested but with big, elongated nipples and long legs, the kind that dimple easily and have a kind of sheen on them all the time like she’s a well-oiled sex machine. She kept rubbing herself, up and down the wood like the cross was fondling her and looking at this guy with ‘fuck me’ eyes. The girl on the other side had big, liquid breasts and projecting nipples. The guy kept looking from side to side like he was thinking, ‘my God, which one do I want to fuck more?’ Finally, he began to pump his own pelvis. His dick started to flop up and down and, all of a sudden, he was spewing all over the place. And we had to cut it!

Q. Were there other segments you had to cut?

G. There were. I could put together my own uncensored highlights. For example, take that girl whose skirt split open. She was being whipped. Her body was stretched, taut and her skinny thigh exposed. The camera picks up a visual cue, a highlight, along her thigh bone, like it’s saying, ‘here, in here, here it is; this way to the pussy.’ And, of course, she’s not wearing any panties. She’s tied up, all stretched out, her beautiful nudity is being whipped for our pleasure and her skinny naked thigh is pointing to her pussy as if to say, ‘take it, it’s yours.’ Doesn’t get sexier than that.

Q. What makes a woman so alluring when she’s tied up, whipped, crucified?

G. Like I said before, it depends how you do it. A little bit of mystery still helps. For example, we asked all the girls not to shave their vaginas. A completely shaved vagina leaves no mystery about itself. It’s not even beautiful. There’s a lot of so-called pornography nowadays that looks like a gynecologist’s journal. So we asked them to trim their pubic hair. That leaves a dark patch with just the suggestion of a mound or a slit underneath. It says, ‘cunt in here but you have to find it.’ The way she stands is also important. That’s why I favor the whipping trellis. She hangs down, suspended by chains. It gives her a chance to show off her curves. She can shift from side to side; if she’s slim, she can turn her abdomen into a long, rippling curve; she can stick her tits out. The whipping frame is only good for girls with big, liquid tits; the frame holds her body in place, making the breasts the center of attention; if she has interesting nipples, better still. Against the slip-slap of the whip, her body tenses but her tits wobble and bob and rotate; they take all the force from the whipping; the nipples become inflamed, giving the impression of a voluptuous woman desperate to get laid.

Q. Would you do it all again?

G. I’d pay them!

-0-

As I become more immersed in my crucifixion fantasy, scenarios like this one really appeal to me - I enjoyed it so much....until I got to the interview with the producers and you detail the production secrets. That kinda spoilt it for me - I was enjoying the fantasy and then suddenly felt let down. Great story though - I've read it a couple of times and just wanted to be there with the 'devotees'!

 

[Vertical]

Last bit of whipping and crucifixion story "The Farm."

Mr. Christian once again addressed the crowd. He was telling everyone about “the next stage” of the day’s sacred drama.

The sun was beyond its apogee. The birds chattered loudly in the trees. A cooling breeze brought a faint whiff of pine needles and pitch.

Suddenly, Mr. Christian was calling Christine’s name again.

She stood in front of him. She flung her shoulders back; she was smiling and confident; her bare breasts seemed to both invite and challenge him as master of ceremonies…or was it master of nails? I was prouder of her than ever; I was proud of those thrusting tits; I was proud of the white-tipped nipples bobbing under Mr. Christian’s pseudo-solemn nose.

Christian addressed my sainted, half-naked wife with fatherly deliberation: “My dear, accept this crust of bread and drink from this cup of wine.”

A helper stepped forward. Christine sipped the wine and ate the bread, little more than a fist full of crumbs. Two more helpers appeared at Christine’s side. They were carrying a length of timber about six feet long.

“This is your instrument of torture,” said Christian. “Take it!”

Christine bowed her head. The helpers loaded the timber shaft onto her shoulders. She grasped it at either end; she worked the small muscles of her back and her breasts swayed as she struggled to stand erect.

Christian addressed the helpers and pointed them toward a gravel path: “Crucify her!”

The trio began their solemn journey down the path.

Christian repeated the little ceremony for each of the day’s brave souls in turn. I admit I got a little queasy when he said, ‘crucify him!’, and realized he was talking about me. I found the length of timber heavier than I would have thought. I was naked but grateful for the sandals I was allowed to wear as I trudged down the path. My dick flapped back and forth as I walked.

The other end of the path revealed a whole new scene.

Two grassy mounds swelled up. The shirtless helpers patrolled them, at their feet more lengths of timber. The sight was unsettling. The crowd gradually filtered into the new venue. Eventually, 20 or so spectators would sit on the grass gazing up at the mounds and the wooden crosses that would soon adorn them. Other spectators stood behind rope lines. They were expectant, almost reverent, perhaps because of the little bread-and-wine ceremony invented by the diligent Mr. Christian.

Overall, the scene was bucolic, fringed by palm trees, in the background crumbling, but picturesque, adobe walls and a charming mission-style chapel with a bell tower. The sun was already dipping toward the horizon, perfect for a cool breeze, the slanting rays and sharp shadows of late afternoon, the light photographers and artists search and pray for; in short, perfect conditions to stretch six naked bodies onto wooden crosses, set them against the deep blue sky and watch them wiggle and writhe before a hungry, voyeuristic, dirty minded crowd of high-paying onlookers.

I was directed toward the far hillock. I mounted it. There, two helpers, Crissy and Cobb, relieved me of my burden. I was grateful.

But now I had the crowd to contend with…along with my own disturbing thoughts. Everyone in the crowd was looking at me. I was the first “brave soul” to mount the little hillock. I was stark naked. My instinct was to cover my flopping dick and inflamed testicles with my hands, but then I realized how absurd that would look. I didn’t quite strike a pose; instead, I tried to seem casual, standing on a grassy hill, absolutely naked, my dick sticking out part way, surveying a crowd of perhaps 150 gawkers.

Then, the thought struck me: behind me, Crissy and Cobb were preparing my cross…I could hear them…My cross! The cross they would use to crucify me naked like Jesus Christ! My thoughts turned morbid. Would they use nails? Would I die on the cross? The classic authors say you die on the cross from asphyxiation, not exposure or blood loss. So, maybe they wouldn’t use nails, but I’d die anyway! What if the pain were unbearable? Would I humiliate myself by having a panic attack and forcing them to take me down? Would I stick it out but still leave a bad impression? Maybe those other two guys, crucified next to my dear wife, would prove to be handsome, smiling brutes with impressive hard-ons; maybe they’d want to fuck Christine; they surely would, considering her shapely legs and the excited state of her bare breasts; maybe Christine would want to fuck them! My hard-on shriveled up as I reeled off the disastrous scenarios.

All of that changed when the rest of the circus parade showed up.

Two half-naked women bearing six-foot lengths of splintery timber mounted the little hillock where I had once ruled as king. Then, I remembered: I was king; I would occupy the Christ-like middle position in the crucifixion scene. The two other crosses would be positioned at a slight angle to the center cross; I would have a perfect view. Similarly, the two little hillocks were positioned at an angle to one another so the brave souls of one could gaze upon the naked figures of the other. I could set my gaze at will on the figure of my lovely nude wife struggling against her bonds; I could monitor the horny brutes surrounding her; or I could shift my attention to the two naked lovelies who would soon share my kingdom. In short: six naked souls hanging by their wrists from wooden crosses, all swaying breasts and flopping dicks, and I was king of the hill!

My immediate companions, the ‘good’ whore and the ‘bad’ whore who would be crucified naked to my left and my right, were a treat for sore eyes.

One was a slim black temptress, a tad below average in height. Her hair was short and slicked back, her features sculpted and delicate, like an Egyptian queen; she had hazel eyes but what most caught the attention of the crowd were her breasts; firm, cone-shaped and high on her chest, the Egyptian queen’s breasts were tipped by purple, lozenge-shaped nipples that begged to be pinched and sucked.

Her companion was Asian. Average in height, she sported short, black hair, razor cut into bangs; she had a heart-shaped face, with deep red lips and dark eyes that seemed inviting and sympathetic. Her breasts were pale and liquid with prominent pink nipples.

I was in love.

The two girls were still clad in jeans. They surrendered their burdens to the earnest helpers. They glanced at me and smiled. The Asian girl bowed slightly. I bowed back. I made no effort to conceal my proud manhood.

The pair stripped off their jeans without being asked. They tossed them into the crowd, which reacted with an ooh and an ahh and scattered applause. Both had strong, shapely legs and alluring patches of pubic hair.

Behind us, the helpers were securing our crossbeams to their respective crosses. The same clunk-clunk of tools could be heard from the neighboring hillock. I paid no attention to it. I was wholly absorbed by my little kingdom’s two new subjects.

The mood shifted when I heard Crissy’s voice, softer and sexier than before. “It’s time,” she whispered. My first thought was, “Wow! More tits to look at!” I turned around. Crissy, although alluring in her low-slung jeans, was holding a disturbing-looking length of rope. That was all I saw.

I approached her. I kicked off my sandals. I looked down. The wooden cross stretched out before me. She looked at me, not with cruelty, but determination. I forgot about her jutting little breasts. She pointed. I understood.

I sat down on the timber shaft. It was rough, almost like tree bark. Cobb gently pushed on my bare chest until I was lying flat against the wood. Crissy and Cobb worked fast. I was told to spread my arms along the crossbeam and to cross my ankles. With furious hands, they tied my wrists, slamming them flush against the grasping wood of the crossbeam.

Crissy said, “Shimmy your butt down a little.” I complied. Cobb placed a thin wedge under my ass cheeks; it clicked into a hole in the timber shaft. How clever, I thought. The wedge would allow me to rest my butt a little once I was crucified. Then, they tied my feet to the cross, with one foot poised on top of the other. Cobb adroitly inserted another wooden wedge into a hole in the timber so I could obtain a precarious purchase on the cross with one heal.

Cobb and Crissy withdrew. They surveyed their work. They seemed pleased. I was spread out naked on a wooden cross, with my arms opened wide like I was welcoming the world. My chest heaved. My dick was lying limp against my thigh. I didn’t care. I just wanted to survive.

I convinced myself not to panic. I told myself I looked sexy, that the crowd was about to behold a pale, skinny but fit young man, bound, spread out naked, and displaying…a deflated penis. How embarrassing!

I tried one more thing. I glanced to my right and then to my left. That did the trick. To one side was the bronze silhouette of my Egyptian queen. They were tying down her feet. I drank in the sight of her slim, dimpled thighs and prominent hip bones; she was stretched taut on the cross so that her belly was concave and her ribcage and breasts stood out; she looked at me with a mix of defiance and terror; I offered a wan smile. My Asian subject was calmer and more voluptuous. She seemed to be spread out on the cross like a lace curtain or a revealing cocktail dress. Her long legs were bent slightly at the knees. She had beautiful, sculpted feet. She was quite pale. Her arms were already spread wide along the crossbeam, revealing snow white skin and subtle muscle tone. The helpers were tying her down. She glanced at me and smiled. Her pink lips were the same hue as her uplifted nipples. I smiled back. In my mind, I decided I would worship the Asian goddess while I fucked the Egyptian queen.

Crissy knelt down beside me. She looked me in the eye. She stroked my hair with a free hand. Her expression was womanly and sympathetic. She leaned in and kissed me. I was in love…again.

“We’re going to raise the crosses now,” she whispered. “All at the same time.”

I steadied myself. The three crosses rose slowly; the ropes dug into my wrists; there was a smell of tree bark and the sound and scent of earth being turned over. I could feel my weight shifting downward as the cross reached its apogee; there was a disturbing thud as the upright hit home. Pain flared up in my wrists and arms; I took a deep breath and was thrilled to learn I could still breath. I looked down. I saw my chest and belly heaving; my dick, although I could feel it, was out of my line of sight; I could see my knees; I sensed that my legs were bent slightly. The view to my left and right was better…much better.

Both girls had long legs and they were thin in a way that left a gap between their thighs; each had a well-tended patch of pubic hair; the Egyptian queen’s was dark and mysterious; in the Asian goddess’s case, the hair was combed into an inviting triangle that contrasted with the pale flesh of her thighs and lower belly. Both girls were slim but shapely; they struggled against their bonds, shifting their weight, striking a pose that highlighted their prominent hip bones, forming long, sinuous curves in their bellies and making their ribs stand out like bronze or alabaster steps.

I could feel my manhood come alive again; soon, I could see it. I hoped the crowd could too. I felt as if I were flying, flying naked, with the wind in my hair, delicate female fingertips running up and down my chest, pinching my nipples until they hurt.

Beyond the fringe, stood three more crosses. My sight was blurred by sweat falling from my forehead, but I made out the proud figure of Christine and the stretched out forms of two naked men, one black and the other Asian. Each boasted an arrow-straight erection; each was gazing fixedly at my naked wife as she rolled her hips.

The Egyptian queen raised her head and looked at me. For a moment, her gaze seemed pitiful; then she gritted her teeth, which were small and white, and seemed to speak; I couldn’t make out her words; I tried to smile; I mouthed some encouraging phrases; the bronze queen nodded in appreciation, then she jerked her torso forward with a grunt and threw back her head; her breasts swayed as the small muscles in her neck and shoulders bulged.

I turned to the Asian goddess. Her head was bowed like the dying Christ. She hanged languidly from her wrists; her breasts were thrust forward proudly; the only signs of strain were the straightened lines of her abdominal muscles; she shifted slightly in her bonds, the keyhole of her navel winking open and shut; she rolled her hips until I could spy the dark, inviting patch of her love triangle. I longed to smooth down that pubic hair and separate those ruby labial lips; I imagined my Asian goddess squirming, then writhing in her bonds as I massaged her; she would moan, then cry, then burst into ecstatic shrieks; to me, that alone would be satisfaction enough.

I felt no dramatic pain, only discomfort. I decided to play act a bit. I threw back my head and twisted my torso with a grunt. I was rewarded by an ooh and an ahh from the crowd. My dick, proudly erect, flopped from side to side.

The crowd had turned reverent, but the pent up sexual excitement was palpable. Below me, a young couple sitting on the grass had begun gentle then increasingly agitated petting. The young man shifted his gaze from the writhing bronze queen to the statuesque Asian goddess while his girl friend stared fixedly at my dick, which ticked back and forth with Swiss precision. Presently, they unbuttoned their shirts. I could spy flashes of bare breasts and erect nipples. Other couples, with twilight coming on, lit candles. A gay couple, with a flash of pale buttocks, raced into some bushes. A few spectators, taking their cue from Mr. Christian and his helpers, began circulating among the crosses. A young girl kissed my feet. A middle aged woman patted my shins and seemed ready to stroke my dick with an uplifted hand but then apparently thought better of it. A younger woman, in business attire, gazed at my penis from below, moving on with a slight, but satisfying smile.

By dusk it was clear the six crucified souls had had enough. I could hear Christine crying out for water. The Egyptian queen was sobbing softly. I was afraid my Asian goddess was ready to faint or black out.

My torment was of a different nature. I thrust forward my pelvis, then shimmied my hips. My dick flapped against my thighs with a fleshy, audible thwack. Despite the discomfort and the sheer weirdness and audacity of the situation, my whole body, stretched out, exposed, tantalized by the sight of bare breasts, long sinuous arms and legs, and cunts at the ready, felt a glow of erotic expectation. My dick was ready to explode in a thick, milky torrent. I needed to pull down one of those writhing beauties, pet her luscious brown or snow-white skin, kiss her ruby lips, pinch the already inflamed nipples of her beautifully rounded breasts, re-assure her that everything would be alright, and fuck her eyeballs out.

It was then that the helpers began taking down the crosses.

They were slow and deliberate. It was a job for many hands. The crosses came down one at a time. Mine was last.

I was lying, still tied to the wood, when the Egyptian queen and the Asian goddess, holding hands, approached me. They smiled, bowed, and walked away. So much for pulling one down and fucking her eyeballs out.

I waited for help. Crissy bent down, whispered “wait a second,” and disappeared.

It was dusk. I became impatient. I was tied hand and foot to a wooden cross, lying on the ground, smelling the freshly turned earth, wondering what would come next.

Then, I heard a familiar voice. It was Christine’s. She approached my cross. She was smiling her broadest smile; she carried a towel and was drying the sweat from her chest and shoulders.

She bent down and untied by feet. “That will give you a little more play,” she said. “And so will I.” She giggled.

“I’m so glad to see you,” I said.

“I can tell,” she replied.

Christine faced me. In one swift motion, she tossed the towel on the ground, knelt over my groin, inserted my engorged penis into her vagina and began to pump up and down. Her vagina was slick, even runny; I hardly had time to appreciate her flopping breasts, with their inflamed, beak-like nipples, and her straining neck muscles. I made small adjustments with my hips, then felt the head of my penis flare and harden deep inside Christine’s vaginal canal; I came with a jerk, the full force of my pent-up sensitivity concentrated in the tip of my manhood; it was a flood, coming in burst after burst. I could hear the rasp of the ropes against my imprisoned wrists as I lurched forward; my chest heaved with breathless relief. I was panting.

Christine smiled her priceless smile. “Aren’t you glad we came?” she said.

-0-

Great story...wish I could have found a group like that in real life when I was younger! I'm really enjoying your stories.

 

[brasileiro]

Cool! Thanks so much!
More to come...always on the 'consensual' side.

 

[brasileiro]

... here is another consensual torture, whipping, and crucifixion story...

Crucified for My Sins​

By Carl Ryder

I was crucified when I was 21.

I was naked.

I hung from the crossbeam by my pale, skinny wrists while managing a precarious balance on the upright with one heal.

I was beardless then, sallow, awkward and innocent. My hair, in a thick, unruly pageboy, flopped and whipped in the wind; I was powerless to brush it away from my eyes and lips.

I was alone on the cross, stretched out, naked.

Two other crosses lay on the ground. The appropriate straps, ropes and wooden sedile and footrest were scattered about but, intended for my ex-girlfriend and her girlfriend, they would remain unused on that sunny but windy day in the western Maryland hills so many years ago.

I hung from my cross before a small group. The group was mixed in every sense—men and women, black and white, young and old, with every sexual preference in view. A couple of the men were shirtless. The women had been asked to show up in white. Most complied. Some sported fetching linen peasant skirts and blouses. Mixed in many other ways, we were united in two things: hope of escaping the big city rat race for a day, and delight in witnessing young people being crucified naked.

There was just one problem—I was the only one on the cross that day. My ex and her new girlfriend had backed out at the last minute. They had watched while I was stripped naked and whipped on my back. My ex applauded but the new girlfriend, plainly horrified, turned away dumbfounded from the scene.

Now, I languished alone, hanging naked and stretched out on the wood.

I felt no pain, only the awkwardness and strain of bondage. I could turn my head and follow the long, angled line of my skinny arms to their anchors at the end of the crossbeam. I could not look up. When I looked down, I could see my own heaving chest and distended nipples; I could make out a dark mat of pubic hair and a long, stiff penis wavering in the breeze like a weathervane.

At first, I could not look out; I could not gaze at the crowd. The idea filled me with horror.

I knew I was a spectacle. And the knowledge shamed me. I was a skinny white boy with long, floppy hair. I was sweating. The mid-June sun was picking out the beads of sweat from my bare chest like mirrors. My belly was taut, heaving and concave. I must have looked sickly, like a dying Roman slave crucified for some petty crime. I wanted to cry, adding tears to the dripping sweat.

I would not look at the crowd, but I could hear them. I listened distractedly. At first, I imagined laughter and disdain. When there was a silence, I took it for indifference.

But then I began to pick out distinct comments. They were intriguing. At length, I determined to look out at the crowd. There was an audible gasp when I raised my head as if they had imagined me dead only to be shocked at a sign of life from the pale, nude figure stretched out in every detail of muscle and sinew, including a flopping erection, hanging from the wood.

The faces were curious, sympathetic, some admiring.

A shirtless, middle-aged man with a beard said, “He looks like an El Greco. He’s pale, ascetic; his body is slightly twisted. It’s a lovely scene.”

“But El Greco didn’t paint male nudes,” someone said.

“He would if he saw this one,” said the man with the beard.

“He’s a brave soul,” said a woman in cotton peasant skirts. Her voice betrayed both awe and pity.

“A tortured soul,” said her companion, a young black man with a studious face and glasses.

“He’s beardless,” said the middle-aged man. “In a Crucifixion, El Greco would have cast him as the Good Thief.”

“Yes,” said the young black man. “He is unselfconscious. He’s not trying to shield his groin by shifting his hips or clutching his thighs. He wants us to appreciate his nudity…all of it”

“Indeed,” said the middle-aged man. “He seems to revel in it!”

These were not my sentiments at all. I decided, however, to embrace them. I took a deep breath, tossed my head from side to side, and thrust out my skinny chest. My body twisted painfully and I groaned. My dick flopped from side to side, slapping audibly against my thighs.

“Did El Greco ever paint erections?” a voice said with a laugh. I recognized the voice--and the laugh--as my ex-girlfriend’s.

“No,” someone said. “But he never saw one like this!”

The comment brought scattered applause. The crowd, I realized, was showing its appreciation…for my dick! This was something I had never thought of before. A man, after all, has little basis for comparison. My dick, it suddenly occurred to me, might be something precious, something, perhaps, out of the usual, an object of delight and pride--my dick, the dick I had employed every weekend for a year to fuck my girlfriend, a dick once used in private—a secret dick--but now exposed, clean, straight, naked and pulsating, for the crowd to inspect and marvel at, a regular prick attached to a pale, skinny, flop-haired boy of 21. Who would have thought?

My ex emerged from the crowd. She was accompanied by her new girlfriend, a young black woman with short, straight hair and an oval face. They approached the cross. The new girlfriend had offered one concession to this day-of-days, the day of the triple crucifixion reduced by trepidation to a single twisted male figure hanging naked from the cross as sunset approached—she had bared her breasts, the only woman that day to do so.

My ex looked up at me. She smiled. She put her hand around my swaying dick; she began a deft massage quickly lubricated by seeping seminal fluids. I gazed at the half naked black girl standing next to her. The girl was slouched and distracted. She was a bit plump for my taste but her breasts stood out proudly, shadowed and bronzed by the setting sun, her elongated nipples purple and stiff.

I leaned as far forward as my bonds would allow. I felt my knees buckle but my heal held its purchase on the narrow footrest. I fixed my gaze on the new girlfriend’s frank nudity, the curve of her breasts, her dark, expressive nipples. My ex was adroit. At the critical moment, she maneuvered her companion to face the cross squarely. When I spewed, it was in white watery jets that drew zig-zags across her breasts. At first, she screamed, then hopped like a child, then laughed.

The crowd applauded.

One crucifixion that day was, after all, enough.

***
...more to come​

 

[brasileiro]

... adds to "Crucified for My Sins"...


I never went back to the farm in the Maryland hills. I spoke rarely to my ex and finally lost touch. I forgot I had ever been crucified.

More than 20 years passed, years filled with marriage, divorce, a confused daughter, hard work that eventually turned lucrative, and lots of conventional sex.

Then I joined “The Club.”

The Club was informal, secret, and exclusive, everything I could want. It was dedicated to one object only—"pleasuring the cock.” Men were members because they sought that pleasure, occasionally from one another but mainly from women, as the highest form of self-realization, the ultimate reward from the pursuit of wealth--better than love, more noble than knowledge. Women joined out of curiosity, money, or lust.

There were a few rules. A woman’s place was to give pleasure. It was a man’s right to give it back, or deny it, as the occasion or the mood might decree. Men chose the means. There were few limits. A lavish estate in eastern Maryland was available at will. There was a penthouse apartment in Annapolis overlooking the marina, a farm in northern Virginia. Members used these facilities to create elaborate settings—a Louis Quinze bedroom, a Victorian brothel, a Medieval dungeon.

Women, however, were not abused. On the contrary; they were elevated to the status of erotic saints and, occasionally, goddesses. A woman member could, at will, decline any invitation or refuse any favor. A man’s only power over his women was to deny them pleasure. A man could bind and torture a female member, but only with her permission. More often than not, it was the other way around; many a man was strapped naked to the whipping post at the Maryland estate, his back and buttocks bullwhipped by a bare-breasted Valkyrie in leather riding boots and clinging britches.

Women also had the right to complain. If the Masters of the Club agreed, a male member might be disciplined, often with some deliciously erotic punishment presided over by the women themselves and eventually resulting in even more pleasure than usual for “the cock.” Women were never disciplined under the rules. At worst, they were shunned, eventually dropping out.

I loved it.

There were limitless possibilities.

One of them went by the name of Christie.

Christie was introduced to me by a Master.

He phoned me one day. “Come down to the farm Saturday,” the Master said. “Someone wants to meet you.”

“Really?” I asked. “Why me?”

“I shared your profile.”

“And?”

“She expressed an interest…Let me put it this way—I get the feeling she wants to be tied up and then…dealt with…in whatever fashion you might choose.”

I agreed to meet her.

Saturday, I found the Master at his farm in Virginia. There were a few other members, male and female, lounging about, drinking, playing cards and smoking. It was quiet. The atmosphere was more like the Reform Club than a sex retreat.

“Here she comes,” said the Master. “I suggest you take your shirt off.”

I complied.

Christie bounded into the common room, full of youthful verve. She was average in height, with short, dirty blond hair and a Nordic face. She started talking immediately; it was pleasantries, eccentric observations, and personal comments, trifles I can hardly remember. She had dark red lips which remained parted after every phrase, her upper lip slightly curved and, sometimes, quivering as if waiting for a kiss.

I made no attempt to interrupt.

Finally, she said, “Let’s get started?”

“Started?” I asked.

The Master nudged me. He took my shirt. He handed me a set of old-fashioned manacles like something out of the Spanish Inquisition and a cat-of-nine-tails with a studded handle. He led us through sliding doors to the patio, where more members idled in the afternoon sun. They hardly looked up. We crossed a lawn as soft and green as a golf course.

“Here,” he said.

We halted in front of a sturdy oak. Next to it was a picnic table shadowed by a stand of oak and birch trees. Dry leaves scudded across the table in a light breeze. I whiffed a scent of freshly turned earth. High in the trees, sparrows bustled and trilled.

The Master turned to Christie. “I think you’ll like the feeling of the bark against your skin…your naked skin…it’s soft and slightly damp. You’ll feel a chill at first. Considering your present mood, I imagine that will excite you, especially your nipples.”

Christie smiled; she cupped her hands. “I’m already excited!”

The Master turned to me. “You can affix the manacles at whatever height you choose,” he said. “There are hooks in the tree going all the way up. You can practically hang her from her wrists if you want.”

Christie glanced at me as if dangling from a tree trunk with her feet off the ground was all she could desire in the world.

“That will not be necessary,” I said.

“Splendid,” said the Master. “I’ll leave you to it.”

This last statement was not entirely true. The Master ambled back across the garden, only to take up position in a lawn chair and studiously observe the unfolding scene.

Christie stripped. She tossed articles of clothing onto the picnic table until she was stark naked. She held out her wrists like a criminal surrendering to the bailiff.

“Ready?” she asked.

I gave her what must have been a quizzical look. She dipped her head, directing my attention to her outstretched arms.

“Ready,” I said. I snapped the manacles around her willing wrists.

“I can’t wait!” she said.

I turned her around so she was facing the tree.

“Oh no,” she said, emphatically, “I want to face you! I want to see you; I want to see you whipping me.”

“As you wish.”

Christie rested her back against the tree trunk. She gave a squeal of delight. I pulled her arms high over her head and clipped the manacles to iron rings.

“Higher,” she whispered.

I released the manacles. I stood on tiptoes to find the next highest rung. I fumbled with the creaky iron cuffs. My chest brushed against her naked skin.

“There!” I said, with a hint of pride.

I stepped back. I regarded her. I had not really seen her until now. She had been a dizzying riot of adolescent patter and anarchic motion. But now, for a fleeting moment, she was still.

Christie’s feet barely touched the ground; her toes curled over the damp tree roots. Her legs rose like straight, white columns to a V-shaped pubic-patch edged and trimmed like garden moss. I sensed she was straining, even struggling, against the iron bonds, but then she suddenly tossed her hair and smiled.

I tried to return her smile, but I couldn’t. I was in awe. Perhaps, I showed it.

Christie’s belly was flat, her navel a dark slit. She was pale, her skin seemingly translucent. Her breathing was slightly labored, making her sternum and ribcage stand out with each breath. Pinned high over her head, her arms were slender and inviting. But these were merely details, the framework surrounding a goddess-like attribute—pale teardrop-shaped breasts with shadowed curves, breasts that swayed as she drew breath, the crest of each breast crowned by a pink, oval-shaped aureola. I felt compelled to lean in. Each nipple boasted a proud ring of tiny points, like small inner nipples, surrounding a stiff white center. I longed to kiss those breasts and lathe and bite their forbidden buds.

Christie pulled me out of my revery.

“Whip me,” she whispered.

“I can’t,” I said.

“Why not?”

“You’re…you’re too…I would rather kiss you…but…”

Instead of kissing her, I touched her swelling chest. I ran my fingers up and down her ribs; my touch was light, brief, even fleeting, but she gave a start that sent her iron bonds jangling. Her breasts firmed with gooseflesh, her nipples jumped and swayed; they seemed to become even more erect than before.

She looked at me. She parted her lips. I massaged her neck with one hand. She sighed with restrained anticipation. I could not whip her; I could only kiss her. She closed her eyes. I kissed her on the lips. She whimpered. She thrust forward her lips and tongue with damp, reckless passion; I matched her zeal, shaping my lips to hers, lashing her tongue with mine in a kiss that was many kisses, a kiss that renewed itself with each new thrust of hardened lips and darting tongue. I could hardly break off; when I did, I applied my lips to her neck with the same lusty resolve; I limned her prominent collarbones and ran my hands up and down her heaving chest.

Christie sighed. Her body shifted as I kissed every soft, prominent curve. She tried to say something but her voice was a ghostly whisper.

I looked up.

“Whip me,” she whispered, and then turned away.

“I can’t.”

“Whip me…whip my tits.”

“I won’t.”

“Whip me!”

I stepped back. Her chest heaved; a rivulet of sweat formed between her breasts. Her body swayed as she gripped and struggled with excitement against her bonds.

“Whip my breasts,” she repeated. Her voice was edgy. “Whip me or I’ll complain. Then, I’ll have you whipped. I’ll do it myself. I’ll whip your nipples off. I’ll whip your prick! Whip me, goddam it! Whip me, you prick!”

This last salvo was as unexpected as it was persuasive.

“If that’s what you want,” I said. “But it’s rather odd. If I don’t abuse you, you’ll accuse me of abuse and have me abused.”

“Yes,” she said with unmistakable vehemence. “And you’ll deserve it!”

“On the contrary,” I parried. “I look forward to it. Abuse me as you will.”

“You mean you’re not going to whip me now?”

“I do not mean that at all,” I said. “I will indulge you.”

“Good,” she said. “And I hope you enjoy it. Aim for the nipples.”

This I was most reluctant to do. Christe’s nipples were the most shapely, perfect and alluring I had every seen. I wanted to tell her that but I felt constrained. I would have to indulge her. I had given my word.

I picked up the cat-of-nine-tails. It was less threatening than it looked. I tested it on the ground and then on the back of the oak tree. Christie flinched as the strands slapped against the bark.

“Change your mind?”

She shook her head and thrust out her chest. She closed her eyes. “Now,” she said. “Now!”

I slapped the whip across her hips and belly. She grunted. She rolled her hips. It was a light touch.

“Harder,” she said. “Harder and faster.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” I offered.

“Hurt me,” she said. She thrust forward her chest again. This time, the iron manacles jangled; tree bark slipped to the ground.

I whipped her belly again, this time with force. I picked up the pace until the slapping whiplashes came in a regular tattoo that attracted the attention of loungers on the patio. Even the birds chattered more loudly. The smell of sweat mixed with the raw bark and the turned earth. The sun beat down.

Christie shifted and whimpered. She looked up; she stared it me; it was a fierce, angry glare. I knew what it meant. I didn’t wait for her to speak. Her chest was heaving like a long-distance runner. Sweat flew off her face each time the whip bit into her skin.

I adjusted my aim. I brushed the strands across her chest, then whipped her with increasing force and speed. She twisted her body. She heaved and grunted with each whiplash. Her guttural sighs and shifting hips and breasts became orgasmic. I aimed for her nipples. I whipped them until her breasts began to sway and then rotate.

I stopped when her head drooped and she seemed to dangle from her bonds. I was afraid she had fainted. I tossed the whip onto the picnic table. I approached her.

I caressed her cheeks. She looked up. She offered a wan smile. “Fuck me,” she said. She was momentarily breathless. “Fuck me on the table.” She made an effort to catch her breath. “Spread me out across the table with my ass sticking out,” she continued. “I want to feel my tits against the wood.” She grinned, an eager, schoolgirl grin. “I want you to fuck me from behind…fuck me…fuck me fast and furious.”

“Madame,” I said, with all sincerity. “It would be an honor.”

“Yes,” she said, in a dreamy voice. “Spread across the table.”

“With pleasure,” I responded. “For once, uniting the words ‘lie’ and ‘lay’ in the same act.” I’m certain my observations went over her head.

I tossed the whip, unhooked the manacles, and swept Christie’s discarded clothing off the tabletop.

Christie stood down from the tree trunk. She stretched her long limbs. She searched her chest and belly with her hands as if measuring for damage. There was none. Her skin was flushed but unbroken. She smiled.

She looked at me. She ran a cold hand through my hair.

“Thanks,” she said.

“The pleasure was all mine.”

Christie spread herself, belly down, across the surface of the picnic table. She extended her arms until she could grasp the other end with both hands.

“Fuck me,” she said.

“I will,” I answered. I fumbled with my belt.

“No,” she said. “Stay with your jeans on.” She spoke in a whisper. “I want to feel the denim against my bare skin. Rub it in; rub your jeans against my naked skin. I want to feel it. I want to feel it rough. I want to feel the belt, the leather and the metal of the belt. I want to feel naked.”

“I’ll do my best” I said.

“Take your dick out. Stick it in my slit. Stick it…ram it…I want to feel it. I want to feel the metal teeth of the zipper. I want to feel the metal teeth tearing at my skin. Rip me. Tear me. Fuck me!”

I lowered my zipper. I adjusted my shorts as one does preparing to urinate in a public men’s room. I took out my dick. Christie shook her buttocks. I approached her. I searched for her slit with my hand. It was slick. She whimpered. I inserted my penis. She gave a shudder. I penetrated her until I felt the denim, the leather belt, and the metal teeth of the zipper rub up against her skin. A low, raw sigh issued from her lips. I pressed my body against her buttocks; I rotated my hips as I withdrew and then penetrated again and, with increasing force, again and again. I made sure the sharp metal and the rough denim edged and scratched her skin with each thrust. She gave an “ooh” and an “ahh.” She whimpered. Her body shook. The whimpers turned into cries.

“More,” she said. “More! Fuck me! Fuck me, goddam it!”

The crowd on the patio was looking on.

I picked up the pace.

“I’m going to come,” I said.

“My too!”

Christie was breathless.

I held her by the hips with both hands. I made one last thrust. I burst within her in four or five milky jets. Christie’s torso rose from the tabletop; she propped herself on her elbows; her nipples brushed the wooden slats with an audible shush. She squealed with delight.

On the patio, the onlookers applauded.

***
... more to come​

 

[brasileiro]

...Adds to "Crucified for My Sins"...

In the excitement of that first encounter, Christie made me promise her something.

I withdrew from her dripping slit. She turned herself over so that the fullness of her nudity was spread out along the tabletop; her chest heaved; her neck and shoulders gushed with a ruddy glow; her abdomen was a long, slender curve ending in the even more alluring curves of her hip and thigh. If I had once been seen as an El Greco twisting naked on the cross, she was a pale, shapely Goya, relaxed, satisfied, comfortable in her voluptuous nudity. She was smiling at me, at peace with herself and the world. What I saw was beauty in both body and soul. My dick started to inflate again.

“Promise me…” she whispered.

“Anything,” I answered, innocently.

“Promise me I’ll be your one and only.”

“I promise.”

It was a promise I couldn’t keep.

I was no longer the sallow youth crucified and writhing at 21, of course. I had filled out some, but I was trim. I was bearded with grey flecks; but I was still a prick, a genuine prick in every sense, the kind of prick who drives it home three times in a row, the prick who cajoles secretaries and seduces assistants, cheats on his girlfriends and wives, then celebrates with drink, a cigar, self-satisfying revelry…and more sex, as much sex as possible, as much as anybody could stand.

I was a fool to make promises to Christie; she was a fool to ask.

There were more encounters. They were private, outside the bounds of The Club. I even managed to remain monogamous…for a time.

But I broke my promise a few weeks later.

It was a different Master, this time, who led me down the path to perdition.

The Master invited me to his estate on Maryland’s Eastern Shore. The site was notorious for its Medieval dungeon.

The Master’s words were oddly familiar. “There’s someone here wants to meet you,” he said. “She seems to like your profile.”

I should have taken his introductory words as an omen, but I was middle-aged and foolish.

“Sure,” I said. “I think you mean the dungeon.”

“Yes,” he said. “She seems to be an enthusiast.”

I first saw Kaitlan playing tennis. It was a warm July 4th weekend. She was dressed in whites, all long arms and legs, fit, tanned, and energetic with short, dark hair that would have been boyish except for cute curls behind the ears. She didn’t see me.

Later, we met in the Master’s lounge, a warm but rustic, lodge-like salon with stone walls and a fireplace. Kaitlan, the Master and I sipped sherry. Kaitlan was dressed for both simplicity and provocation. She wore faded jeans that were tight and low-slung around the hips, a wide leather belt with a chrome shield for a buckle, and a tennis shirt with red and green trim. The stamp of broad, already erect nipples showed through her V-neck.

There was the usual small talk. Kaitlan was buoyant. Her eyes danced. She was looking for adventure, she said, “adventure and inner knowledge.” She was quite adamant that sex was a pathway to “the inner self.” But she didn’t use the word “sex;” instead, she said “erotic experience” or “eros.”

I wanted to say the vagina served the same purpose for the penis but I held my tongue.

The Master stood up.

“Speaking of pathways, let me show you,” he said.

We followed him down two landings of circular stone steps.

“Voilà!” the Master intoned.

He switched on the lights. A long, windowless room stretched out. The lights were flickering orange filaments designed to mimic torches. They lent an innocent, funhouse atmosphere to the space. There was a faint smell of salt water. Piped in music—what sounded like a string quartet—was barely audible. The room’s unique implements were mostly in shadow but one or two stood out against the patchy stone walls. These included a polished-wood cross of conventional design but not tall enough for a proper crucifixion, rather a device for spreading and securing the arms while the victim stood waiting for his, or her, punishment; one could imagine tongs, a branding iron, or the whip.

Kaitlan rushed to the cross. She embraced the upright, a smooth, maroon-colored four-by-four anchored in the stone flagging. She turned to me in delight.

“This one,” she said. “I want this one.” She made it sound like picking a new car at a showroom.

I couldn’t contain myself. I laughed. “Do you like the color?” I offered.

“The color? No,” she said, dryly. “I’m attracted to the length…and the thickness.” She caressed the wood with eager tenderness. Her eyes shone. Kaitlan, I decided, had all the zest of Christie plus a dash of humor and a touch of intellect, albeit of the New Age variety.

“At this stage,” the Master said. “I withdraw.”

He bowed. He turned to me and whispered, “If I were you, I’d take off my shirt,” and then disappeared up the narrow stairwell.

I whipped off my shirt. I located cuffs--another set of clanging iron manacles--nearby. I found the rack where the whips were kept. I turned.

Kaitlan had taken off her blouse. She was fiddling with her jeans.

“No,” I said. “Leave the jeans on. You look good in them. Just…take off your shoes; barefoot…naked except for jeans…that’s how I want you.”

“Sure.”

I decided not to touch her…not yet. Instead, I would order her around, make her feel captive, introduce an element of coercion that would open the sweat glands and sear the nerves. The sting of the whip would bring heightened sensation…and intensified pleasure…to us both.

“Here,” I said. I tossed her the manacles. “Put these on.”

Wordlessly, she complied.

I chose a stock whip with black, soft-leather strands. I tested it on the flagging. The snap of the whip was followed by a sharp, hollow echo. Kaitlan jumped at the sound.

“You know where to attach them,” I said. I pointed to each end of the crossbeam. “You can do it yourself.”

The manacles presented the simplest of designs. Wrists encircled, a single ring was enough to affix each cuff to hooks in the crossbeam. Kaitlan bound her right hand to the wood in a swift, graceful motion; she had to stretch her torso to reach the other end of the wooden beam but managed to hook the metal ring on the first try.

Kaitlan looked at me. She did not smile. She did not show pride or defiance. There was a hint, not of fear, but of anticipation. She was ready. She expected pain but hoped for pleasure. I could only hope to oblige her.

But first I had to touch her.

Kaitlan stood with her bare feet apart. Her legs were long and shapely. Her jeans were slung so low they exposed her hipbones. Touching her was irresistible. I ran one hand along her belly. Her skin was hard. I brushed the shadowed hollow of her navel. She shuddered. Her belt buckle dug into the skin of her lower abdomen, a taut, rolling underbelly. I slipped my hand behind the buckle. There were no panties. Kaitlan had come prepared. She would twist and groan against the onslaught of the whip while the coarse denim would massage her pelvis. She wanted pleasure and pain and she knew how to get it.

I couldn’t resist the temptation to dig deeper with my hand. I brushed past her generous pubic-patch to find a vaginal slit that was already damp. I initiated an awkward massage.

I looked at her.

She turned away. Flush against the wood, her profile was sharp and almost boyish. Sweat had begun to form at the tips of her short black bangs.

“More of this later,” I said. “I’m going to whip you now. Do you want me to whip you?”

She looked at me wide-eyed, black pupils swimming in a milk-white sea.

“Are you ready to be whipped on your bare skin?”

“Whip me,” she whispered.

Kaitlan tugged at her wrist bonds. Her arms were long and slender; a faint blue outline of veins mapped her forearm; she rotated her shoulders, straining the taut muscles of her neck and upper arms. Without shifting her stance, she rolled her hips to one side so that her abdomen and chest formed an S-curve, making her navel a black squiggle and turning her hipbones into white spikes.

I hesitated. I couldn’t help it. Kaitlan had spread herself out in a way so fulsome and alluring, so frankly and temptingly naked, that I had no choice but to drink in the sight of her nudity in all its captive glory. She was naked—although technically only half naked—and hanging from her wrists. She was panting. Her chest heaved. She was ready for me and I could do anything I wanted to her—I could whip her into a flailing, tearful frenzy; I could rip off her jeans and fuck her until her eyes rolled…she was chained to a wooden crucifix, after all, helpless but eager. I could do anything…I could even gently caress her cheek and kiss her on the lips.

Instead, I massaged her neck with one hand while gripping the whip with the other. Then, I rolled my hand over the ball of her right shoulder and grasped the sinuous muscle of her upper arm. At first, she purred with anticipation then a subtle hiss escaped her lips and she flinched with pain.

“You have arranged yourself with your back against the wood,” I whispered. “I did not ask you to do this. Is it deliberate?”

She nodded.

I kissed her neck and shoulders with short, nibbling smacks.

“It’s more common to be whipped on the back,” I said.

“I know,” she whispered.

“Good,” I said. “I admire your courage. I will whip your belly, your bare breasts and your hips. It will hurt more that way.”

“I hope it does.”

I stepped back. Kaitlan raised her head proudly and closed her eyes. Her breasts swayed. They were fuller than Christie’s, more liquid and mobile, the nipples dark, peaked and centered. She was ready to be whipped. She wanted to be whipped. She wanted me to whip her wobbling breasts, whip them until they slapped and rolled, whip them pink, whip their splayed, purple nipples into fiery spikes.

I tested the whip on the stone floor. Kaitlan half jumped but she kept her eyes shut.

I decided against further preliminaries.

“Now,” I said.

I whipped her hips and belly with quick, forceful blows. At first she cried out; straining against her bonds, the iron manacles rasped and jangled; then she whimpered, laboring to catch her breath ahead of each new stroke. The whiplashes echoed in the chamber with sharp, metallic claps. A faint smell of sweat arose.

I stepped back after the initial assault. Kaitlan’s head drooped.

“Had enough?” I asked, making my voice sound as grave as I dared.

She shook her head. Beads of sweat flew off her hair and chin. She looked up.

“Whip me!” she said, breathless. She thrust out her chest, rattling her bonds and straining her arms and shoulders. “Whip me!”

“As you wish.”

I unleashed the full force of the whip on Kaitlan’s outthrust breasts. She turned her head to one side, her cheek flush against the unforgiving wood of the upright. I aimed for the bold, upturned nipples; I sometimes hit them both with the same stroke, squashing her breasts like dough. Kaitlan squealed. She tried to cry out but the words were jumbled by her labored breathing and a mist of spittle.

I did not let up. I wrapped both hands around the whip handle for a fresh and even more forceful assault, lashing Kaitlan’s ribs, her curved, heaving belly and her roiling hips. She cried out, this time managing a searing hiss.

I lowered the whip. My chest was heaving as violently as hers.

Kaitlan turned to me with a malevolent leer.

“What’s the matter?” she wheezed. “Can’t take it?”

She was panting.

“More?” I managed.

“Do it!” she screamed. She had seemed drained but now, suddenly, she became a screeching bird of prey. “Whip me! It’s what you want, isn’t it? To whip a naked girl? Whip her! Whip her breasts! Whip her cunt into a frenzy! Whip her…and fuck her. Fuck her with the whip! That’s what your dick is, man! A whip! Isn’t that what you do when you fuck somebody? You whip out your dick? So whip it out! Whip my tits with your prick! Whip me! Whip my cunt!”

I tried to control my breathing. I was dripping sweat. I searched for the right words. I looked Kaitlan in the eye. I saw both the sweating warrior of straining muscles and swollen breasts and the boyish girl reaching out for life, love, and a touch, just one sweet touch, to calm the battered body and heal the troubled soul.

I tossed the whip. It rattled on the stone flagging. I approached the racked, panting figure on the cross. I ran my hands through her matted hair. I cocked my head. I kissed her. She responded with a fierce, animal lust, biting my tongue and devouring my lips. I spread my arms over hers in a bizarre, double crucifixion. I pressed my naked torso against hers. I massaged her pelvis with mine.

“Fuck me,” she whispered into my ear. “Fuck me right here.”

I stripped off her belt. I pulled down her jeans. She kicked them away. The belt buckle clanged on the stone flagging. She was naked. In a moment, so was I.

I cradled her right leg in my arm, exposing the trimmed, moss-like V of her pelvis. Her legs were skinny but taut with muscle tone; the femur was prominent, thrusting her vagina away from her pelvis, making her sex seem all the more glistening and available. Kaitlan let her head droop deep into her chest in a sign of resignation; she released her tensile grip on her bonds so that her body sagged forward and her breasts swayed gently from side to side.

I knew what it meant. With my free hand, I massaged her runny slit. She sighed, then moaned. I located her engorged clitoris. Her body twisted. I leaned my head toward her chest. My lips found her splotched, battered nipple. I lathed and shaped her nipple with my tongue while I massaged her pelvis with my free hand. She raised her head. She let out a grunt and then a series of moans as her body shuddered. A stream of milky serum spurted from her slit.

Kaitlan turned to me with a dreamy smile. She closed her eyes. “Now, fuck me,” she whispered. “Fuck me right here…” She paused for breath. “Fuck me while I’m still hanging from the cross.”

I maneuvered to face her. With my free hand, I lifted and cradled Kaitlan’s left leg. Her body slid a few inches down the smooth surface of the wooden upright. She grunted. I could feel her slit against my groin. I had to reach with both hands beneath her thighs to insert my penis. I pushed forward until Kaitlan’s body was flush against the upright. Pressing my torso against hers was enough to pin Kaitlan to the wood, leaving play for my pelvis to thrust and twist. It didn’t take long. Kaitlan’s body shuddered again as my groin massaged her clit and I flooded her with a dozen milky spurts.

I quickly became aware of the awkwardness and discomfort of our unique sexual position, one I’m sure is not covered in the marriage manuals. We disengaged. I unhooked Kaitlan’s bonds and we collapsed on top of our discarded clothing.

Kaitlan curled up next to me. She stroked my chest and nibbled at my ear. “I dreamed of this,” she whispered. “I dreamed of fucking on the cross. I dreamed of being crucified naked while getting fucked until my eyeballs rolled. Thank you.”

***
... more to come ...

​

 

[brasileiro]

...Adds to "Crucified for My Sins"...

Kaitlan had been even more intense than Christie. I was grateful to them both and I was grateful to The Club.

The Club, however, was to prove my undoing.

More encounters with Kaitlan followed as I found myself juggling multiple calendars—work as a financial consultant, my ex-wife and adolescent daughter, Club meetings, at which I satisfied myself as an onlooker only, and private—separate--liaisons with Christie and Kaitlan. I was careful not to hint at “another woman.” I knew how foolish that was since both Christie and Kaitlan were still Club members, even if rarely seen at sessions.

It couldn’t last.

It didn’t.

On a hot August afternoon, I received a letter. It was from The Club Masters. I opened it, expecting a rate hike. The letter was addressed to me personally. It was formal, featuring a printed letterhead in gothic type. It was a summons.

The letter opened: “Greetings! You are cordially invited to a Crucifixion…your own…”

Various details followed, including venue--the Master’s farm in Virginia. I knew the specific spot, a kind of grotto well into the woods. “There,” the invitation continued, “You will partner with fellow Club members Christie and Kaitlan for the Crucifixion.”

That, at least, sounded promising. I imagined the scene—crucified naked in front of the grotto, a splendid Biblical-like setting, with myself in the center of the traditional triad, the writhing bodies of two lovers to my left and right, their crosses angled to provide ideal lines of sight taking in their roiling hips and thrusting breasts. Later, I would fuck them, or, better still, they would fuck me back on the ground, with my wrists still tied to the wooden crossbeam, stretched out, helpless, with my dick, slick with seminal fluid, sticking straight up to the heavens, ready for pussy, one after the other, first Christie, crouching, purring into my ear, her big pink nipples brushing my chest, wiggling my dick into her cunt, riding it for a sweet minute; then Kaitlan, spreading her long body across mine, grasping at the crossbeam with her hands, kissing me, slipping my dripping prick into her pussy, then gyrating--easy, smooth, slow--until I flood her with milky jets of cum.

The pain and pleasure would be all mine.

There was only one snag. This crucifixion--my crucifixion--was officially tagged “punishment in consequence of a complaint.” (At least they knew the kind of punishment I liked.)

The complaint, as with all such matters under Club rules, had been brought by a woman, or women. There was no defense…and no recourse. Those were the rules. Just as men had absolute power to deny pleasure to women, the women members had broad authority to press complaints and prescribe penalties…and it was all done in secret. A woman could be whipped and screwed by a man who then walks away whistling. A man could be convicted in the Star Chamber and never be told until the day of punishment.

There was always, of course, an alternative—resign. Then, all is forgiven and all is forgotten, but never to set foot on Club premises again.

That, for me, was no alternative at all. I was too much enthralled by The Club and its myriad activities, even this one. I had been crucified before…and liked it.

I would, I decided, go through with it.

The date was set for early September.

***
... one last segment still to come ...

 

[Georg]

Wow, why haven't I read these stories (other than the modern crucifixion) before? The perfect combination of non-traumatic crucifixion of young men and women of different races together! What could be more erotic?!

 

[Georg]

The Ultimate Christian Challenge gives guys and girls the knowledge of original sin. They hang naked on crosses, experiencing the shameful pain of crucifixion, because they want to enjoy each other's orgasms.

 

[Georg]

How I would like to stretch the pleasure of the crucifixion of three couples in the story "The Farm". It all starts as a game, but gradually the pain becomes quite severe, and it's so long before sunset! Muscle tension pumps naked bodies with pain with every breath, but you still have to fight for pleasure. Crucifixion guys can tease a girl and cheer each other up with conversations. He shares the feelings of his own crucifixion and the fantasies that led them to the cross. In the end, each of them will understand that for their dirty desires they have a real feeling of a real execution on the cross. Enjoying the pain and humiliation of each other, they will show all the most shameful things, because they are already crucified anyway, even if only before sunset. They will be taken off the crosses alive and well before it gets dark - that's all these three men and three women need to know. They continue to live in shame, crossing the threshold of the club over and over again, which means they deserve a new crucifixion, as long as their bodies are capable of arousing desire.

 

[brasileiro]

...here is second to last segment of "Crucified for My Sins." ...

It was sweltering at the Virginia farm under clear skies. “Festivities” began at mid-afternoon after a light lunch, and a glass or two of sherry. The atmosphere was convivial, as if nothing special were planned. I began to suspect my fellow members didn’t even know who the day’s victim might be. There was a good turnout, maybe 30 or more members, both men and women. As I circulated the grounds, I saw no sign of Christie or Kaitlan.

After lunch, the Master took me aside. He gave me a private tour of the venue. There would be two scenes. One would take place in a grassy clearing surrounded by beech and oak trees. Spectators would keep a respectful distance but without barriers. The only prop was a craggy white rock about three feet in height. It left me puzzled. A gravel path led through some brush to a second site, the infamous grotto, featuring a clay-colored rockface that looked out over another grassy clearing, this one as green and manicured as a golf course. I was heartened, but also a little panicked, by the sight of three wooden crosses on the ground. Each cross was different. There was a classic Latin cross, a T-shaped tau cross, and the pitiless X of Saint Andrew’s. So there would be three crucifixion that day, after all.

At three o’clock, the Master approached me in the lounge. He handed me a blue T-shirt with a symbol for The Club emblazoned on the front.

“Put this on,” he ordered. “I’ll take your dress shirt.”

I complied.

The Master walked me to the grassy clearing. Behind me, I could hear a loudspeaker announcing the day’s “event,” with members invited to approach the well-known torture venue.

The Master directed me to stand next to the craggy, white rock. “Wait here,” he ordered.

The Master walked off to the side.

Gradually, guests gathered in the clearing. I recognized many. I smiled. Some seemed surprised to see that I was the day’s victim. Others appeared amused. I rested my hand on the surface of the white rock; it was warm and sandy. I was alone…center stage…the star of the day’s entertainment…but I didn’t know my lines.

Guests were dressed in what I would call “smart casual.” It was like a Sunday outing—informal but still worthy of making an impression. We were, after all, in public. That’s where I would be tortured—in public. I decided I needed to put on a good show.

Presently, the Master stepped forward. The clearing had become an outdoor stage. There were about 20 guests in front of us, some standing only a few feet away.

The Master cleared his throat. “Mr. Ryder has been summoned here today because of a complaint,” he began. “As a consequence of this complaint, the Masters have determined on the need for punishment. Mr. Ryder will be whipped and, stripped naked, crucified.”

I bowed my head, as if ashamed of my condemnation.

“Mr. Ryder,” the Master said. “Your shirt.”

I whipped off my blue Club T-shirt. Now, the Master held two of my shirts draped over his forearm.

It felt good to be half naked. It felt especially good to be half naked in front of an admiring, if somewhat bemused, crowd. I had come prepared for the day’s events. Now shirtless, I wore only sandals and a pair of rugged jeans with no undergarments. I know what it’s like to be stripped--the faster the better—and I liked the feeling of the raw denim against my groin. Amid expectations of both pain and pleasure, my dick began to inflate.

The Master continued: “Mr. Ryder’s partners today will be Ms. Christie Stewart and Ms. Kaitlan Graham.”

At this, Christie and Kaitlan swept into the arena. Each wore jeans, sandals and a blue Club shirt. They were smiling. There was scattered applause.

I was, at first, heartened. Christie and Kaitlan were attired as I way—ready for punishment, ready for a bare-back whipping, or worse, and then the Via Crucis and the naked crucifixion. And I would be the hero, hanging nude from the crossbeam of the Latin cross, in the center of the tableau, with a naked Maya to each side, one writhing on the tau cross, the other splayed out on the X of Saint Andrew.

But something bothered me—why were they smiling?

I soon found out.

The Master called for Christie and Kaitlan to surrender their T-shirts. This they did gladly. Their magnificent breasts tumbled out as they whipped off the skimpy garments. They took up positions, not next to me, but next to the Master, who tossed his collection of shirts into a pile, knelt down, flicked his cigarette lighter and set the little mound ablaze. Christie cupped her hands in glee. Kaitlan glanced at me with a wicked leer. The crowd gasped, then burst into applause.

My fate, I now realized, was sealed.

The Master slipped away.

Kaitlan approached me. She turned me to face the rock. “Press your body against the surface and extend your arms,” she commanded.

I complied. I turned to face Kaitlan…and the expectant crowd. I could hear Christie behind me. She was pacing; she was fiddling with something.

“Why am I here?” I whispered to Kaitlan.

“I’m no supposed to tell,” she offered.

“But you will, anyway, won’t you.”

“Yes.”

“Well?”

“Deceit,” she said. “You fed us a line so you could have us both.”

“Sorry.”

“Men!”

“I deserve to be punished for that?”

“You deserve to be crucified for it!”

I was half standing and half bent over the rock. Its surface was surprisingly smooth. I pressed my belly and my bare chest hard against the cool stone. It was arousing.

Behind me, Christie was testing a whip, first against the ground and then against the mute sides of the white stone that was our only fixed prop.

There was no prelude; no little speech; no warning. Suddenly—whack—a single-strand leather whip slashed across my upper back. I twisted and moaned. Whack! Whack! Whack!—the whip cracked back and forth across my back. I gasped but I kept my arms stretched out to maintain the illusion of being chained. Whack! Whack! Christie attacked my shoulder blades.

It hurt…but I liked it. It aroused me. I stretched my torso. I took a deep breath. Whack! Each new stroke made my dick stiffen. I pressed my groin against the hard surface of the rock. The raw denim and the cold stone massaged my dick as Christie picked up the pace of her earnest, rhythmic whipping. I could hear her snarling under her breath. I imagined her breasts swinging with each stroke. When I looked at Kaitlan she was sneering. The blotches of her wide nipples had turned purple. She was enjoying the sound of the whip as much as I was. She was enjoying my grunts and moans. I was enjoying the sight of her breasts swaying with each new stroke of the whip against my naked back. It was glorious! My prick stiffened even more.

I had lost count but soon enough the strokes reached the Biblical allotment of 39.

Kaitlan signaled for me to stand and face the crowd.

I complied. I was sweaty and a bit ruffled. There was a warm round of applause and even a few calls of “bravo.” I offered a deep bow.

The Master stepped forward.

“Mr. Ryder will now be crucified,” he said, in a matter-of-fact tone. “He will carry his cross down the gravel path to the grotto. There, he will be stripped of his remaining garments, bound to the wooden cross at the ankles and wrists, and raised high for all to see in his nakedness and shame.” After a brief pause, the Master added, “You will find seating and refreshments at the grotto.”

What?

I was a little taken aback. I was going to hang naked from a plank of wood, with my head bowed and my dick swinging in the breeze (I hoped) before a crowd of swells dressed for a Sunday outing. They would look at me with a critical, and probably amused eye, while I looked at them (through a fog) while they sipped champagne.

From what I could gather they would, at least, be denied the sight of my two cohorts being similarly stripped, whipped, shamed and hoisted into the air. But then so would I.

The crowd began to disperse.

Christie and Kaitlan approached me. They smiled. At first, I thought they were trying to be nice, even conciliatory, but then Kaitlan pointed toward the gravel path. I squinted. Two burly stagehands were lugging the big Latin cross in my direction. They wore jeans; they were shirtless. They were also considerably younger—and fitter—than I was. I immediately understood the purpose of their presence. They would stand beside my erect cross like modern versions of Roman spear-carriers. Big, burly, barrel-chested…the two guards would attract more female attention than I would. The thought made my dick deflate.

The stagehands placed the cross in the crook of my shoulder. Without thinking, I wrapped my arms around the wood. One of the stagehands grabbed the far end of the upright and we started moving.

It wasn’t far, and it wasn’t long.

Christie and Kaitlan were already there when I stumbled into the grotto. I surrendered the heavy cross to them. One of the burly stagehands grabbed me by the shoulders and turned me toward the crowd.

At first, I was a little shocked, then amused, and finally apprehensive. The crowd had swelled to 30 or more. People were standing and chattering as if at a garden party. Waiters circulated with trays full of champagne glasses; they emerged, laden with bubbly, from a festive white tent. Facing the grotto were two banks of chairs decked with ribbons and carnations like a wedding reception.

Behind me, I could hear Christie, Kaitlan and the stagehands fussing with the “props.”

A thought suddenly struck me—if Christie and Kaitlan were not going to be crucified but there were still three crosses, then what were the two spares for? I turned to look at my erstwhile girlfriends. They smirked. I soon realized—all three crosses were for me. Was I going to be drawn and quartered?

The Master stepped forward. He faced the throng. He called for order.

There were murmurs from the crowd, laughter fueled by drink, and the sound of shuffling as spectators took their seats.

The Master was becoming impatient. I hoped he wouldn’t take it out on me. Finally, he called for Christie and Kaitlan to “bear witness to the day’s condemned.” They joined me gladly. We locked arms. We smiled. At least I was in the middle—one shirtless man smiling and pleased with himself on the arms of two busty lovelies. It was a cue for spectators to take photos.

The Master called for order…and silence. Christie and Kaitlan melted away.

“Mr. Ryder has been condemned,” the Master intoned. “Today, he will be punished. You will bear witness to his degradation!”

Suddenly, Christie was at my side again.

“Mr. Ryder,” the Master commanded. “Remove your remaining garments and hand them to Ms. Stewart.”

I complied. Soon, I was stark naked. I made no effort to conceal my groin from public view. It was not, in any event, a very impressive sight.

Christie turned me around. I found myself gazing at the forbidding presence of the Saint Andrew’s Cross. It was fully erect. I guessed it to be a work of artisanship. The surfaces of the wood seemed rough hewn but, on closer inspection, proved to be finely worked and polished. I longed to touch it although my true desire, of course, was to see Christie or Kaitlan chained naked and writhing on its outstretched arms. Instead, I would be the one chained and writhing.
--more to come--

 

[brasileiro]

...and here is last segment of "Crucified for My Sins"

Christie led me to the place of my torment. I turned and faced the crowd. I bowed. I spread my arms and legs to match the gradients of the cross. Christie cuffed and bound my wrists while Kaitlan anchored my feet to the ground. I was spreadeagled—my full frontal nudity exposed to the whispering throng. I could barely see beyond my hips. I could smell my own sweat. My chest and belly were stretched to the point where breathing was hampered. But I liked the feeling! The stretching turned my skin sensitive; and I was stretched everywhere and naked everywhere. It was like skydiving in the nude, or receiving a dozen lovers, each one clawing and grasping, all at the same time.

Christie and Kaitlan were about to claw and grasp at my torso too, this time with a half dozen leathery fingers each. They took up positions to my left and right, just as I had fantasized, but they were not bound and writhing on the wood; rather, they brandished a pair of cruel-looking, multi-stranded whips.

“Do your best…or worst…” I gasped.

“We will!” said Christie.

Whack!

Christie streaked my bare chest with a whoosh and a crack. One strand caught my right nipple. It hurt but it was also exhilarating.

Whack! Whack! Whack!

My tormentors began a drumbeat of strokes, Christie whipping my chest and Kaitlan my belly.

My chest began to heave; I leaned into the strokes, stretching my skin even more. In truth, I was thirsty for the sensation. The whips were soft leather. Christie and Kaitlan play acted the role of cruel lictor with an angry snarl and a whirling windup, but the strokes produced only a mild snap, brushing my skin like an arousing caress. I play acted too—twisting my torso, crying out, shaking my head. I could hear an “ooh” and an “ahh” from the crowd with each lash.

There was a pause in the rain of blows. My dick had inflated some but was still pointed toward the ground. My executioners had been careful to avoid flogging it.

Kaitlan, whip in hand, approached me. She cupped her hand under my chin. “We have to so something about that dick, don’t you think?” she said.

I nodded, pretending to be fearful and exhausted.

“Oh, so you’re not taking it well, are you?” Kaitlan added. She must have known our little conversation was a crowd pleaser. I could hear the murmurs of feigned concern and prurient interest.

“On the contrary,” I said. I raised my voice, so the crowd could hear. “Harder! Faster! Whip me, you fucks! That’s what you’re here for! Do it!”

Kaitlan smiled. “We’ll save your dick for later.”

“It will be my pleasure,.” I reposted. Unfortunately, at the time, I didn’t know what she meant.

Kaitlan grabbed my flagging prick and began stroking it. She turned to the crowd with a glance that said, “You should see this.”

It didn’t take long for a full-blown erection to take shape. Kaitlan stepped back as if to say, “Behold the phallus!”

My dick was stiff and slightly curved; it swayed in the breeze. I worked my hips and stretched my body to make it stick out all the more. Kaitlan gave it what appeared to be a sincerely appreciative glance.

Whack!

Whack!

There was another round of raucous whiplashes to my torso that set my dick to rotating. This, I gathered, had been the intent. The effort was a crowd pleaser; the “oohs” and “ahhs” grew louder.

Christie and Kaitlan finally tossed their whips aside; they stood in front of me, hiding my suffering, naked image from the crowd like self-serving actors in a stage play, joined hands, and bowed to appreciative applause.

I gave a sigh of relief. My punishment had been exhilarating, to be sure, but a trial nonetheless. Christie and Kaitlan released me from my bonds. I had to admit I was stiff, even a little weary.

Worse was to come.

And I should have known it.

There would, after all, be three crucifixion that day—all mine!

Christie led me the few steps to my next station of the crosses. This time, my instrument of torture would be the fearful tau cross.

Kaitlan pointed to the object lying on the ground. I knelt; I feigned a crowd-pleasing prayer; Christie and Kaitlan stood aside to let the spectators see me as I offered my sacrifice to the heavens.

I took my place on the cross; I spread my arms. The two ends of the crossbeam were set on cinderblocks to facilitate binding but that meant there was no place to rest my head. Welcome to the tau cross!

Kaitlan knelt next to me. Her presence reassured me…at first…but suddenly, she forced my arms up and over the crossbeam until my elbows were behind the wood with my hands clutching awkwardly for purchase. Soon, the two burly stagehands were at work tying my hands and shoulders to the beam with hemp as my head lolled painfully from side to side.

Moments later, the stagehands were raising the cross, plunking it into a cement-rimmed hole. I was crucified! With no backing for me head, I found myself staring up at the sky. My wrists and elbows ached. My chest was thrust both forwards and upwards; it was hard to breath but it was easy to sweat.

Meanwhile, my torturers had neglected to bind my feet. This, they accomplished with rough haste, leaving my left heal pinioned to the upright with my right foot, precariously tethered to the left, wavering in the breeze.

But the tau cross was short. My groin was at eye level. Christie and Kaitlan must have sensed that my ability to sustain the twisted, tortured position imposed by the cross was limited.

They worked fast. Kaitlan grasped my flagging prick in her hand. She massaged it into a credible erection. Given my distorted position, it must have been sticking straight out. I could hear Christie laughing under her breath; she was fiddling with something; I couldn’t see it, but I quickly divined its shape, its strength, and its purpose. It was a small, soft, multi-pronged brush whip. Without warning, she was whacking my dick with it. This time, for my part, there was no play acting. I contorted my body; I gasped and wheezed as I begged them to stop, but I’m sure no one heard me. My elbows erupted in fiery pain. I could hear the hemp rasping as I struggled against the onslaught of lashes.

Oddly, however, my dick became even more aroused! I could feel the hydraulic pressure building in the shaft, the hardening of the prickhead. I rolled by hips in readiness for a creamy explosion…which is when Christie called a timely halt to the whipping.

In the end, I was relieved. I could save it for later…and, boy, was somebody going to get it later! Either a baby-maker deep into the uterine tube or a gob-smack dripping off the nipples!

I gasped for air. The stagehands rushed in. Within moments, I was on the ground again. I could hear a smattering of applause.

But there was one last test.

I was ready for it.

I had, after all, carried the cross from one place of punishment to another. Now, I was ready to be crucified on it.

I was eager.

The stagehands made quick work of it. This time, there was a narrow sedile offering relief to my buttocks and a footrest for my weary heals. I could support my head.

“Ladies and gentlemen, Mr. Ryder will now be properly crucified,” the Master intoned.

The stagehands tied my wrists to the crossbeam and my ankles to the upright; they raised my cross and punked it expertly into its carefully prepared silo. My nude body rocked and wavered as it struck home, but I held my head high. The sweat dripped from my hair and cheeks.

“Let’s give Mr. Ryder a round of applause!” the Master said.

The crowd responded in kind. Many stood as they applauded. I tried to look out at them, naked, proud, unbowed, but my eyes were veiled by sweat.

…and I remembered…

Of course, I was no longer the tortured, writhing figure conjured up by El Greco, more like the beat-up carcasses pictured by modernists Lucien Freud and Francis Bacon. But I still liked it! It still made me feel viral, alive, and sexy!

As before, I could barely see beyond my heaving chest, but the whole experience felt invigorating—the gentle breeze caressing my torso, my skin taut and receptive to every shift and touch of my body, my arms outstretched and ready to receive not mankind but womankind with exquisitely chafing fingernails, deep kisses, bare breasts, and aroused nipples, even the rasp of the ropes against my bound wrists, but most of all my loose, wavering manhood, visible to all, within easy reach of that universal siren of swaying breasts and mossy cunt I had conjured in my dreams…I was ready…I was ready for her…I was ready to fuck her or any reasonable facsimile.

But I was beginning to tire; I let my head droop. To my surprise, Christie and Kaitlan, rather than the burly stagehands, had taken up positions guarding my cross. They looked up at me…admiringly…or was I mistaken?

In any event, it made me proud. They were lovely…bare-breasted in form-fitting jeans…Christie’s pink nipples stood out…Kaitlan’s breasts swayed in time to my swinging prick.

It was time.

Now, it was Christie and Kaitlan putting their naked backs into the job of pulling down the cross, with tender care for its victim.

Presently, I was on the ground. I must admit I breathed a sigh of relief, but my two lovelies didn’t release me from my bonds immediately.

The Master stepped forward. He was speaking to the crowd in a conversational tone. “Is there a volunteer?”

There was some back and forth between the Master and various spectators. Then, I heard the Master laugh with pleasure. “Wonderful!” he said. There was more back and forth and scattered applause. I sensed that spectators were taking their seats again. The show wasn’t over yet.

What new torture was in store for me?

Christie and Kaitlan stepped aside, giving the audience an unobstructed view of my still naked form spread out on the wood.

But now a new figure entered the scene. She was a petite Asian woman with short, stylized hair, discreet diamond earrings that danced in the light of the setting sun, and a pouting, heart-shaped mouth. She was dressed for the business world—black, knee-length skirt, white shirt with ruffles, and black pumps.

She kicked off her shoes and strode up to the cross. She stood over me with a commanding stance, staring down at my prone figure. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. With deliberate, business-like manners, she unbuttoned her blouse, handed it to Christie, unhooked her bra, tossed it to Kaitlan, and dropped her skirt. Then, in a single adroit maneuver, she shimmied out of her panties, tossing the heaped up skirt and the panties to the side.

I had no name for her; no name was mentioned, no word uttered. I decided to call her Kim. To me, she was Kim the Naked Stranger, Kim with the lean, athletic torso, the long, smooth legs, the pert breasts with pink, white-tipped buds, and a heart-shaped mouth which, I knew, would taste like peaches on a hot afternoon once I kissed her hard on the lips.

Kim knelt down. She felt for my dick. It wasn’t hard to find. She spread her body over mine until her breasts brushed my chest and the tip of her nose touched mine.

“This is from the girls,” she whispered. “A little gift.”

I tried to nod but was constrained by my position.

“After this, you have to choose,” she said.

“I understand.”

“I hope you do,” she answered and, with that, fitted her runny slit over the engorged head of my cock and pressed down.

Kim did all the work. I was, literally, in no condition to help. My only contribution was a stiff prick that grew stiffer with every jaunt of Kim’s groin and hips.

It didn’t take long. I signaled with a groan and Kim slowed to take in each of what felt like a dozen separate orgasms.

With my dick still in her slit, she raised her torso. The sight of her shapely chest and belly made me want to fuck her all over again. I could feel my prick inflating. So could she.

Kim smiled. “That’s enough, Big Boy,” she said.

I told her I was grateful…and I was.

Kim stood up. Christie threw her a bath towel. Kim wrapped it around herself, faced the crowd, and bowed to warm applause.

I could hear the sound of spectators leaving the venue. They were, I was sure, satisfied customers.

Christie and Kaitlan began to unfasten my bonds.

“So,” said Christie. “Which one?”

“Which one what?” I retorted.

“Which one of us are you going to take home?” Kaitlan chimed in.

Neither seemed genuinely anxious to hear my answer.

With their help, I stood up. I felt drained but happy with myself, with the day, the experience, with baring my soul before God and Man…and Woman.

“I’m going home alone,” I said. “Thank you for setting me free.”

-0-