riwa
Governor
Note: I made small edits to punctuation. And I deleted one conjunction simply to start another sentence. I also broke up long paragraphs into shorter ones.
We begin by crucifying the victim. She struggles and squirms, of course, as we lay her down on the cross. She is young and very frightened. She is surprised when she sees that we approach her not with nails but with rope. With nails, there would be blood loss and shock. We tie her wrists to the cross because we want her to last. This is to be an endurance torture.
Next, we tie a strip of wet rawhide very tightly around her throat. This will grow tighter still as it dries until finally it begins to strangle her. This is one of the three asphyxiations that awaits our victim. She is eighteen years old and quite innocent; she has done nothing to deserve any of this. Because she is innocent, we must be supremely cruel to her.
Now we stand the cross upright, and she whimpers as her weight comes down onto her tightly bound wrists. (It would be far worse if we had nailed her to the cross, of course. But don't worry; she will soon be suffering tremendously.) The bottom of the cross's main pole fits into a hole in the floor of the empty swimming pool. The cross slides into place with a satisfying THUNK. Now our voluptuous beauty is crucified, and her torture can begin.
She is wearing a translucent blue tank top and an opaque blue g-string. We spray ice water onto her breasts from a plastic bottle for purely stylistic reasons. She moans softly, for she understands that we are transforming her into an object.
The wet blue fabric clings hungrily to her prominent round breasts. They press against the fabric and through it, rising and falling with each anxious breath. They are firm and braless, with large red nipples which have been rendered quite stiff by the icy spray.
Yes, her breasts are ample, even extravagant. But below them, she is all skin and bones. Her ribs jut out through tight fabric and tighter skin, and her belly is sunken. She knows the secret which all young beauties know, but which none will ever speak of: how to keep her breasts large and round and pleasing, while simultaneously starving her lower body to perfection.
She squirms invitingly on the cross, her bikinied crotch rubbing seductively against the sedulum. Her long, muscular legs strain towards the floor of the pool. But there is no chance that they will ever reach it. She is quite securely crucified, and will remain so for the brief duration of her life.
We leave her like this all day, and gradually she learns what pain is. Nothing in her young life has prepared her for it, and it overwhelms her. She breaks easily, as these tender teens always do.
Within hours she is sobbing and crying like a little girl, as the pain spreads from her wrists into her arms and shoulders, and then into her magnificent chest. She's not yet having much respiratory difficulty--at least not from the crucifixion. But the day is hot, and the sun beats down on her pale sweating flesh.
The rawhide strap tightens around her throat as it dries, squeezing gently, like a lover, like a serial killer. She chokes and gurgles. The sounds are far more erotic than the pathetic cries of pleasure which were the previous limit of her sexual vocabulary.
The leather at her throat teaches her the true meaning of concepts such as Sex and Woman. She is not strong--really, she is little more than a young adult. And so, she cannot even begin to resist this new truth.
We wait until the throat strap is dangerously tight. We let her get a real feel for the strangulation. Then we employ the spray bottle again, moistening the strap, loosening it. Her pale, teary blue eyes are full of gratitude, and we laugh; really she has nothing to be grateful for.
She soon learns this as she works her way through the sublimely sexual up-and-down motion of the crucifixion. Breathing is a constant struggle for her. As her muscles grow weary, she becomes aware that this is a fight she cannot win.
She endures a night of endless agony. We sleep soundly and return to her in the morning.
She is hungry, thirsty and barely able to breathe. Every muscle in her delicious torso is screaming at her. We decide that she has had enough foreplay. She's ready for the main event.
We step out of the pool and encourage it to fill with water. This takes several hours, during which time our lovely victim continues to suffer on her cross. Her soft, innocent blue eyes now fill with terror as she watches the water level rise.
The throat strap may strangle her, or she may asphyxiate on the cross, or she may drown. But no matter what happens, she will certainly die: in tremendous pain, alone and afraid, as beautiful bitches should die.
Her massive breasts quiver as she struggles on the cross. Her entire body is taut with pain. The torture is excruciating, a true success.
The water licks at her ankles and caresses her shapely calves. It rises past her knees to her firm, slender thighs. We wet her throat strap once more, determined that she not die too quickly. This time there is no gratitude in her eyes, for she understands now that it is a gesture of extreme cruelty.
The water finds her bikini-clad crotch, and she manages to gasp as the cold liquid touches her hot sex. She thrashes about in the water, splashing wildly, kicking her long legs. It is a futile fight, but she fights nonetheless, for she is young and desperate and foolish.
The water soaks into her tanktop, and the thin translucent fabric sucks up against her pale skin. The water buoys her up as it rises, easing the tension in her arms and chest, making it easier for her to breathe on the cross. The water reaches her monumental breasts, lifting them up, caressing them, touching her proud red nipples and continuing on.
There are prayers on her lips. They will go unanswered, of course. We pause as the water reaches her shoulders.
I spend the afternoon toying with her. With most of her gorgeous body submerged, she is almost weightless. The action of the crucifix is greatly lessened. Now her attention returns to her throat strap, which continues to strangle her slowly.
I admire her twitching breasts, and the look of unbearable pain on her sweet young face. After about an hour of this, I wet down her throat strap once again and allow the level of water in the pool to fall. It drops below her breasts--cold water rolling off those firm, proud, hard-nippled tits.
I let the water fall down to her waist. Now a sizable fraction of her body weight is resting on her crucified wrists once again. I let her explore that pain for a while, squirming and struggling on the cross as she tries to breathe. Then I let the water rise once more, and allow the throat strap to take over.
She is in constant agony. But the precise nature of her pain varies. This prevents her from growing too accustomed to any single torture.
I keep her going like this for long hours; torturing her into the evening; letting the water rise and fall; letting the throat strap dry out and then wetting it down; letting her be strangled, then crucified, then strangled again, keeping her always on the very brink of terminal asphyxiation.
I decide to finish her only when I see that she has learned the central lesson of this exercise: that I could keep her going indefinitely like this, that I could give her a life of constant and endless pain.
Finally I allow the water to reach her neck, her chin. At last, it draws near her thin, red lips. She takes one last breath through her nose and then she is under. She is drowning, and all is right with the world.
It takes her long minutes to die. Her lungs are full and strong. She fights to the last, struggling, resisting, making a show of it.
She is splendid in her pain: slender, full breasted, submerged, crucified beneath the sparkling, glittering water. She is flawless and pristine; her agony has made her a goddess.
She arches her back on the cross, thrusting her proud magnificent breasts out, raising them up, asserting for the last time that she is a living (though not a breathing) creature, a vibrant, powerful organism. Then her lungs buckle at last, rebelling against their putative mistress, demanding air which is simply not present.
She inhales sharply. Her lungs fill with water. She is wracked with spasms; dying, doomed, desperate, she gives in to the inevitable at last. Her limp, crucified corpse floats lazily beneath the water, her vacant eyes staring up into the world she has just left.
We begin by crucifying the victim. She struggles and squirms, of course, as we lay her down on the cross. She is young and very frightened. She is surprised when she sees that we approach her not with nails but with rope. With nails, there would be blood loss and shock. We tie her wrists to the cross because we want her to last. This is to be an endurance torture.
Next, we tie a strip of wet rawhide very tightly around her throat. This will grow tighter still as it dries until finally it begins to strangle her. This is one of the three asphyxiations that awaits our victim. She is eighteen years old and quite innocent; she has done nothing to deserve any of this. Because she is innocent, we must be supremely cruel to her.
Now we stand the cross upright, and she whimpers as her weight comes down onto her tightly bound wrists. (It would be far worse if we had nailed her to the cross, of course. But don't worry; she will soon be suffering tremendously.) The bottom of the cross's main pole fits into a hole in the floor of the empty swimming pool. The cross slides into place with a satisfying THUNK. Now our voluptuous beauty is crucified, and her torture can begin.
She is wearing a translucent blue tank top and an opaque blue g-string. We spray ice water onto her breasts from a plastic bottle for purely stylistic reasons. She moans softly, for she understands that we are transforming her into an object.
The wet blue fabric clings hungrily to her prominent round breasts. They press against the fabric and through it, rising and falling with each anxious breath. They are firm and braless, with large red nipples which have been rendered quite stiff by the icy spray.
Yes, her breasts are ample, even extravagant. But below them, she is all skin and bones. Her ribs jut out through tight fabric and tighter skin, and her belly is sunken. She knows the secret which all young beauties know, but which none will ever speak of: how to keep her breasts large and round and pleasing, while simultaneously starving her lower body to perfection.
She squirms invitingly on the cross, her bikinied crotch rubbing seductively against the sedulum. Her long, muscular legs strain towards the floor of the pool. But there is no chance that they will ever reach it. She is quite securely crucified, and will remain so for the brief duration of her life.
We leave her like this all day, and gradually she learns what pain is. Nothing in her young life has prepared her for it, and it overwhelms her. She breaks easily, as these tender teens always do.
Within hours she is sobbing and crying like a little girl, as the pain spreads from her wrists into her arms and shoulders, and then into her magnificent chest. She's not yet having much respiratory difficulty--at least not from the crucifixion. But the day is hot, and the sun beats down on her pale sweating flesh.
The rawhide strap tightens around her throat as it dries, squeezing gently, like a lover, like a serial killer. She chokes and gurgles. The sounds are far more erotic than the pathetic cries of pleasure which were the previous limit of her sexual vocabulary.
The leather at her throat teaches her the true meaning of concepts such as Sex and Woman. She is not strong--really, she is little more than a young adult. And so, she cannot even begin to resist this new truth.
We wait until the throat strap is dangerously tight. We let her get a real feel for the strangulation. Then we employ the spray bottle again, moistening the strap, loosening it. Her pale, teary blue eyes are full of gratitude, and we laugh; really she has nothing to be grateful for.
She soon learns this as she works her way through the sublimely sexual up-and-down motion of the crucifixion. Breathing is a constant struggle for her. As her muscles grow weary, she becomes aware that this is a fight she cannot win.
She endures a night of endless agony. We sleep soundly and return to her in the morning.
She is hungry, thirsty and barely able to breathe. Every muscle in her delicious torso is screaming at her. We decide that she has had enough foreplay. She's ready for the main event.
We step out of the pool and encourage it to fill with water. This takes several hours, during which time our lovely victim continues to suffer on her cross. Her soft, innocent blue eyes now fill with terror as she watches the water level rise.
The throat strap may strangle her, or she may asphyxiate on the cross, or she may drown. But no matter what happens, she will certainly die: in tremendous pain, alone and afraid, as beautiful bitches should die.
Her massive breasts quiver as she struggles on the cross. Her entire body is taut with pain. The torture is excruciating, a true success.
The water licks at her ankles and caresses her shapely calves. It rises past her knees to her firm, slender thighs. We wet her throat strap once more, determined that she not die too quickly. This time there is no gratitude in her eyes, for she understands now that it is a gesture of extreme cruelty.
The water finds her bikini-clad crotch, and she manages to gasp as the cold liquid touches her hot sex. She thrashes about in the water, splashing wildly, kicking her long legs. It is a futile fight, but she fights nonetheless, for she is young and desperate and foolish.
The water soaks into her tanktop, and the thin translucent fabric sucks up against her pale skin. The water buoys her up as it rises, easing the tension in her arms and chest, making it easier for her to breathe on the cross. The water reaches her monumental breasts, lifting them up, caressing them, touching her proud red nipples and continuing on.
There are prayers on her lips. They will go unanswered, of course. We pause as the water reaches her shoulders.
I spend the afternoon toying with her. With most of her gorgeous body submerged, she is almost weightless. The action of the crucifix is greatly lessened. Now her attention returns to her throat strap, which continues to strangle her slowly.
I admire her twitching breasts, and the look of unbearable pain on her sweet young face. After about an hour of this, I wet down her throat strap once again and allow the level of water in the pool to fall. It drops below her breasts--cold water rolling off those firm, proud, hard-nippled tits.
I let the water fall down to her waist. Now a sizable fraction of her body weight is resting on her crucified wrists once again. I let her explore that pain for a while, squirming and struggling on the cross as she tries to breathe. Then I let the water rise once more, and allow the throat strap to take over.
She is in constant agony. But the precise nature of her pain varies. This prevents her from growing too accustomed to any single torture.
I keep her going like this for long hours; torturing her into the evening; letting the water rise and fall; letting the throat strap dry out and then wetting it down; letting her be strangled, then crucified, then strangled again, keeping her always on the very brink of terminal asphyxiation.
I decide to finish her only when I see that she has learned the central lesson of this exercise: that I could keep her going indefinitely like this, that I could give her a life of constant and endless pain.
Finally I allow the water to reach her neck, her chin. At last, it draws near her thin, red lips. She takes one last breath through her nose and then she is under. She is drowning, and all is right with the world.
It takes her long minutes to die. Her lungs are full and strong. She fights to the last, struggling, resisting, making a show of it.
She is splendid in her pain: slender, full breasted, submerged, crucified beneath the sparkling, glittering water. She is flawless and pristine; her agony has made her a goddess.
She arches her back on the cross, thrusting her proud magnificent breasts out, raising them up, asserting for the last time that she is a living (though not a breathing) creature, a vibrant, powerful organism. Then her lungs buckle at last, rebelling against their putative mistress, demanding air which is simply not present.
She inhales sharply. Her lungs fill with water. She is wracked with spasms; dying, doomed, desperate, she gives in to the inevitable at last. Her limp, crucified corpse floats lazily beneath the water, her vacant eyes staring up into the world she has just left.
