Tales 12

Tales 11

Tales Vol.9

Deep Waters

Tales NHSP 8

Challenge of Love

Tales Vol. 1

Coming of Age

In The Dark II

Breanne's Three - Chicago BDSM

The Society of the Golden Rose

The Silver Locke

Michael Alexander Stories

I Have Sinned

Breanne Erickson

I Have Sinned

It was a rather blustery, if warm, evening the night I wrestled with the heavy wooden doors.  They were intricately carved with geometric shapes, along with the expected religious symbols, each capped with a wrought iron handle.  The wind was pretty impressive and my shoulder length crimson hair seemed to have a life of its own, whipping around my head like a scourge.  My skirt was having its own problems as well and part of my difficulty with the doors stemmed from only being able to use one hand.  The other was firmly holding down the pleated blue plaid wrapped around my loins.

The door to the narthex, despite the late hour, was open.  I was expecting that.  Seriously, why would the front door of a church be locked?  Does God’s house close?  Realistically, I knew that it did, if for no other reason that to keep out the riff raff that were listening to a combination of temptation and perhaps a fallen angel.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m not really one of those believers.  Mankind can get into trouble all on their own without Satan being both coach and cheerleading team.  

I finally squeezed through the gap, wondering if it really had only been the wind or a higher power pushing me into the narthex.  As I smoothed my skirt back into place, I decided on the wind.  Why borrow trouble, right?  I caught sight of myself in the glass separating me from the nave, or seating area, of the church.  My hair had fallen into a rather pretty but wild wave down onto my shoulders, giving me a sort of messy, but really pretty look.  The white blouse I was wearing was tight, but not improper, though my curves were certainly emphasized by the bra I was wearing.  I looked like a Catholic schoolgirl, right down to the silly knee high stockings and loafers.

I took a deep breath and moved forward, opening the glass door.  As I expected, the church was empty.  A few lights were on, mostly in the apse where the giant crucifix was affixed to the back wall.  A few guttering candles flickered here and there, including the single red candle indicating the presence of the Lord.  I swallowed, wondering what I was doing, and dipped my fingers into the small pool of water standing in a basin at the door way.  

“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit,” I intoned softly and moved forward.   I glanced around the empty nave.  Rows and rows of benches, filled with missals and hymnals, the occasional miniature pencil lying forgotten on a padded seat.  I moved forward down the center aisle toward the altar.  As I approached the raised dais, I noticed one unusual piece of furniture sitting on the floor before the Lord’s altar.  It was a kneeler, a portable one, the kind used for weddings.  It was for a single person, complete with a pad to protect your knees and a sort of slanted table or lectern with a small shelf.  As I got closer I saw a book; a real book, not an electronic pad with the contents on a screen.  I suspected what it must be. With trembling hands I reached forward and pulled it out.  

Slowly I genuflected, going to one knee and making the sign of the Cross a second time.  Then I stepped up to the kneeler and sank down until I was on my knees.  There was a ribbon in the book and I opened it up to the marked page.  It was the Second letter of Peter and I found a single passage highlighted, which actually made me angry.  So few books were printed now that defacing one like this might be considered sacrilegious, and not just because it was the Bible!  

“To this you were called, because Christ suffered for you, leaving you an example, that you should follow in his steps.”

I read it aloud and my voice seemed to echo in the cavernous hall.  I swallowed, thinking about the words, their meaning, and how they related to me.  As it was, I never heard the man coming up behind me.

Suddenly my world went dark as a black hood bag went over my head.  A drawstring tightened around my neck and I screamed, hands going to my face.  It was difficult to breathe.  I jumped to my feet but arms had already gone around me and I felt hands pawing at my chest, tearing and ripping my shirt.  The buttons popped like popcorn, and I felt a waft of cool air touch my cleavage.  Then he was pressing something metallic against the slope of my upper right breast.  I heard a sharp hiss and the spot grew rather cold.  My arms suddenly felt leaden and my eyelids started to droop.  My mouth closed of its own accord, despite my still trying to scream.  Another Bible verse raced through my mind: “My God, why have you forsaken…” I folded in half, dropping down as my world slipped away into the darkness.  

When I awoken the first thing I did was wince.  Blinking the crusted sleep tears from my eyes, I took stock of my surroundings.  I was in an empty room that appeared to be made of cinder block.  This in itself was unusual because rarely was cinder block seen, and it wasn’t even USED any more.  The crumbled remains of some sort of interior covering lay scattered along the floor in areas and I could smell the dust.  I sat up.  One of my shoes was missing and my blouse was in tatters.  My lace bra was still there, covering my more salient features, but I could see a bruise forming on my upper breast where the hypo-syringe had injected the knockout drug.  My vision was still a bit blurry and I had to rub my eyes a bit in order to get even a semblance of accuracy back.   Across from me was a door, a heavy wooden door and I slowly rose to my feet, smoothing down my skirt and using one hand to close my torn blouse.  It didn’t cover my chest very well.

The door was locked, and rather solid as well.  I pounded on it.  Then screamed.  There weren’t any windows and the only other opening was a dark vent that I would have had trouble fitting in if I had been three years of age.  After shouting myself hoarse and bruising my palm and shoulder while trying to force the door, I ended up in a corner, knees drawn up to my chin, tears streaking my dirty cheeks.  

I was left there for hours.  Thirst was the first thing I felt and I begged for water until I couldn’t speak out loud any more.  Hunger gnawed at my stomach.  I cried some more.  My mind wandered, wondering what was happening, how had this happened, and what was going to happen.  I dreamed of food, of rich meals of turkey with all the fixings, of golden cups of sweet tea and lemonade, and then of just bread and water.  And I prayed.  

It was early that afternoon when the door had opened.  The room stank. I had been forced to urinate in one corner and still needed to use a real toilet.  My vision swam a bit as I saw a man dressed in a tunic and purple robe, step into the room.  His hair was cut short, but he came forward to me, reaching out a hand and pulling me to my feet.  I tried to speak but he hushed me with a finger and a shake of his head.  He motioned for me to go through the door and I stumbled forward.

It was a courtyard; a classic Roman courtyard, complete with covered walkways open to the center.  Sunlight streamed down and the first thing I saw was a table, set up almost directly in front of my door.  On it was plates filled with bread and fruit, decanters of blood red wine, grapes, sliced meats, cheese, crackers, and bowls of cold vegetables.  A carafe filled with crystal clear water, ice cubes still totally visible floating in the fluid, attracted my immediate attention.  I rushed forward and literally grabbed the whole pitcher and lifted it to my mouth.

It wasn’t until I had parched my sore throat that I heard the laughter.  I lowered the pitcher and looked around.  Around me, all wearing similar attire was an assembly of men.  They ranged in age from the mid-twenties to the late fifties and they stood in small groups, arranged randomly, most standing in the shadows of the colonnade that surrounded the overly large atrium.  I glanced around, trying to fathom what they were laughing at, and then realized, it was me.

I looked down at myself.  Water had spilled down my chin as I had guzzled, turning the ripped and shredded cotton of my shirt transparent.  It hadn’t helped that my bra was also white.  I put down the carafe and covered myself, suddenly self-conscious.

“Do you need to use the restroom?” the man who had released me asked.

I nodded, a little afraid to speak.  

“This way,” he said.  I followed him as he led me back into the shadows of the colonnade and I passed a few of the other men.  They each watched me with hungry eyes and I shrank away into the shadows, hurrying after the one man who had shown me kindness.  Up a head there was another door and this led into an actual bathroom.  There were stalls and the man led me to the first alcove.  There wasn’t a door.  He stood there, looking at me expectantly.  

“Um… can I be alone, please?” I asked, still feeling the wanton eyes on my breasts.  The man in purple robes smiled patiently and gently, nodding once. He stepped to the door of the bathroom, leaving me in semi-privacy.

It was utter relief to use the bathroom and I stayed that way, my panties down around my ankles as I cleaned out my system.  The stall was equipped with toilet paper, which surprised me, and it took quite a bit of the precious material to clean myself.  Again, I felt wasteful, even sacrilegious to be using paper products in such a manner.  And frankly I have to admit that sonic scrubbers are so much more efficient and cleaner.

Once I had finished, I stood up and attempted to do something about my shirt.  I ended up taking the torn ends and tying them together under my breasts.  It made me look like a tart, a slut, but it was the best I could do.  With a bared midriff and no shoes, I moved toward the hall.  My escort turned and smiled at me with appreciative eyes as he saw how I had handled my clothing problem.

“Could I have another drink of water?” I asked, “and maybe some food?”

“Of course.  We will return to the atrium.”  He turned and I followed.

I also looked around. I couldn’t see any exits from the colonnade and considering the spacing of the men I doubted I’d be able to make it far enough, fast enough, to escape.  I’m not an idiot.  These men were responsible for taking me, even if only one man had done it.  Besides, I was starving, still thirsty, and had no idea where I was.  When we got back to the table, I started looking for a weapon.  Unfortunately, the feast was finger food and I grabbed a few grapes as the man in the royal purple robe poured more of the water into a goblet and handed it to me.

I drank greedily, draining the cup and asking for a second, then third helping.  My thirst abated, I nibbled on food, my stomach clenching as it finally had sustenance.  Between bites I turned back to the man in purple.

“What’s your name?” I asked, my mouth filled with a crust of bread.

He smiled again.  “You may call me Pontius.”

I quirked an eyebrow.  “Is that like Latin or something?”

This time the laughter was much louder and came from several of the men.  They had moved closer while I was eating.  I glanced around nervously.

“What do you want with me?” I demanded, taking a step away from the table.

Pontius looked at me, once again smiling.  Then he turned toward the others, raised his hands, and said “it is time.”

I know now what it’s like to be cornered like a rat in a trap.  They came at me from all sides.  I was surrounded, but I still fought, trying to break through the grasping ring of hands.  They touched me everywhere, taking hold of my shirt and bra, ripping the cotton and lace from my body.  I felt my stockings yanked from my feet and lower legs.  My skirt was ripped and then tugged free.  My panties were last, a final barrier that covered my nudity.  Then they too were taken from me.  

I was held by the arms and legs, held aloft by their numbers.  We moved into the sunlight and I stared up at soft white fluffy clouds even as I was carried into the center of the atrium.  Four large wooden posts came into view, the tops fitted with pulleys and rope and then my weight was set atop some sort of stone platform, a rudimentary altar or pillar of some kind.  Ropes were tied to my wrists and ankles, biting into the skin and then the hands released me, shouted words of excitement as my naked and taut body was lifted skyward.  

The two posts at my feet were actually lower than the ones above my head.  It kept me at a slightly canted angle and I could see the table of food and drink and the man in purple robes.  The men surrounding me, each in toga and brilliantly colored robes, stared at my nakedness, seeing the shaved slit, the slight wetness of vulnerability, and my white creamy breasts exposed to the sun.  

Pontius strode forward, reaching under his royal purple cloak and extracting what could only be a whip.  My eyes widened in fear.  I pulled on my bonds as he shook out the heavy leather.  I cried out.  I screamed.  And then I prayed.  He came inexorably onward, even when I asked for a lightning bolt from the sky.  Nothing blasted him to smithereens.  He moved to my side, approximately eight or nine feet away, and lifted his arm, swinging.

The pain was indescribable.  It was molten rock poured upon bare skin.  It was a thousand jelly fish stings.  It was being burned and being frozen at the same time.  And that first stroke landed across both of my breasts, slicing into my nipples and leaving a bloody welt that beaded crimson.  I let out an inhuman scream as the pain exploded through me.  I started sobbing, my lungs heaving in ragged breaths that barely gave me the oxygen I needed.  I didn’t even notice that Pontius had handed the whip to one of the other men.

The second lash wrapped around my loins, curling underneath my buttocks to leave a line of fiery agony across both butt cheeks as well as my thighs.  My hips jerked wildly in pain as I let out another cry of anguish.  My body began to spasm as my overloaded nerves attempted to deal with the sensory input.  They had only just begun to cope when the third stroke was delivered by yet another man.  I could feel the cut stinging, the blood welling in a throbbing ooze.  I continued to jerk wildly for a moment, even as the whip was handed off again.  The fourth stroke was laid across my pudenda, once more leaving a welt on my ass.  I could feel the blood dripping.

White hot agony filled my vision as another stroke landed on my breasts, shredding them.  A sixth, then a seventh stroke fell and I began to see red, my vision blurring from the pain.  There was a shuffling as my eyes rolled and then I heard the whistle of the whip and the pain moved to my pussy as the leather impacted on the spread and vulnerable petals of my sex, slicing into my labia and leaving me screaming and bucking.  My arms felt as if they were being pulled out of their sockets.  Pain laced every movement, every twinge, and every spasm.  And the whip kept falling.

I had lost count, presuming I had even bothered.  But I heard Pontius’ voice calling out as they rotated through the crowd.  Every five or six strokes I was forced to endure another cutting impact on my sex.  I could never anticipate them, short of being lucky enough to have my eyes open to watch as Pontius would indicate to the next flagellator to move down between my legs.  These moments were especially hard on me, since they hurt twice as much.  Some men hit high, letting the thicker part of the bullwhip impact along my slit, driving into my clitoris, thus letting the thin cutting tip bite into my stomach.

Others however were more diabolical, flicking the whip with unusual expertise.  One stroke had me screaming with a line of fire starting at my kneecap, up my thigh, over both labia of my pussy and ending with the tip of the whip flicking against my clit.  So help me God, had he been allowed to hit me again I would have been willing to beg help of Lucifer himself.

They were chanting in Latin as the whipping continued.  I have no idea what they were saying.  I don’t speak Latin.  Who does except for that almost forgotten sect?  Plus there was the fact that by the time they reached thirty five I was out of my mind in scarlet agony, my body limp between strokes, hanging like a sack of dirty laundry.  Only the fiery burn of the whip roused me from my sobbing misery.

The last few strokes were delivered to an almost incoherent girl.  I was gone, mentally checked out, eyes tightly closed as I shuddered, my mind and body not even really reacting to the cutting whip.  Finally I was lowered, twitching, back onto the altar.  I was still spread open, the ropes pulling my limbs outward and away from my body.  I longed to curl up, to hug my blood streaked breasts, to curl into a fetal position and cry myself to sleep.  As my weight went from my arms and legs to my back, I lifted my head once to look down at my body.  Red welts crossed every part of me, many of them beaded with crimson pearls.  Streaks of blood were smeared across my breasts and it looked as if my labia had been sliced open as well.  I let out a whimpering cry and let my head rest on the hard marble underneath me.

I had not even paused to consider what was coming next, so terrible was my first ordeal.  So when Pontius stepped up between my legs, his thick cock exposed and extended, I didn’t have time to prepare myself for the rape.  I wasn’t lubricated, not even a little, but that didn’t seem to matter.  My blood was more than enough provide sufficient mobility through my sex and I felt him thrust deeply as if spearing me.  It hurt, but the first few thrusts of his cock did not drown out the deep agony of the lacerations to my breasts and bottom.  It wasn’t until his loins ground against mine, his hips thumping against me, that the wounds to my sex began to aggravate and the pain threatened to swallow me.

He came with eyes closed, face drawn in ecstasy, a feeling I did not share.  Pontius pulled his cock from my bloody hole and wiped himself on my thigh.  I shuddered with another uncontrolled series of sobs, only to feel another hardened cock enter me below.  The rhythmic thrusting set my body swaying and I felt fingers grab hold of my ankles.  The man between my legs, dumpy and heavy set with thick jowls used the leverage to penetrate deeper.  Then to my absolute horror I felt myself ripening, responding to the forced impalement with the beginnings of sexual lust.  I hated myself, shaking my head back and forth in fear and anger.  How could I?  How could my body betray me like this?  My thighs tightened as did my sex, and I felt myself lifting upward, meeting the pounding plowing blows with eager need.

He came before I did, but I was not disappointed.  A third man stepped up to violate me, driving his thick rod into my swollen hole with renewed energy.  This time I came, my body arching in exquisite bliss that clashed so terribly with what was happening.  As my body came down from climax, I sobbed tears of shame and my third rapist finished, adding another squirt of white cum to the frothing cream inside me.

Someone brought a cup and held it to my lips as the next cock penetrated into my body.  Over and over again I was ravished, taken by each man, and I suspect, by some, several times.  For hours I was bound and raped on the altar, eyes toward the sky.  Sometimes they were gentle, with long slow strokes that hid the unwholesome nature of my abuse and even brought me delicately back to the point of orgasm.  Some were brutal acts of power, uncaring of my physical self, the act of rape not one of sex, but of subjugation, putting me in my rightful place.  

I lost track of time, of space, of even myself as I became a receptacle of sex.  The only pulse I felt was the unceasing thrusts of cock through my loins and as the sun rose and tracked across the sky I felt disconnected, as if I no longer belonged to the body that lay bound upon the altar, under the watchful gaze of God.  I imagined myself looking down upon that girl, her breasts and thighs streaked with drying sanguine scarlet, harsh cuts covering her body, while a line of men stood waiting for the one between her legs to finish.  She twitched with the pain, the ignominy of her fate, and with the occasional orgasm that filled her with humiliation.

It took me a long time to realize that it had ended.  My pussy felt as if it had been rubbed raw, tender to the point where even the slightest touch would bring tear filled agony to my face.  I was mindless, dazed from multiple orgasms, from pain, from thirst, and when I finally understood that my gang rape was finished, that there were no more cocks waiting to be driven into my hurting body, I almost thanked God.

I felt my feet and wrists unbound and then I was lifted from  the altar.  I couldn’t stand, not that they wanted me too.  Instead I was carried away from the posts and the altar, moved forward by a crowd of men who carried me.  Their robes flashed with deep colors, of crimson and majestic purple, of dark blues and rich golds.  My world spun and then I was deposited on the dusty ground, lowered gently, but with disdain.  Immediately I curled up into a ball, my body instinctively working to protect itself from the surrounding villains.  But then they turned, leaving me to my misery, to my shaking pity.

I was left to rest.  How long I do not know, but it seemed only minutes before Pontius once more came for me.  Two other men grabbed my arms, pulling me to my feet and I stumbled forward, toes dragging in the dirt as I was hauled forward.  I blinked, trying to understand what was happening, or what would happen, and I saw the assembled men, all of whom had known me carnally, sitting on what could only be the stone and leather padded benches of a coliseum like amphitheatre.  There was no altar, but instead a single wooden pillar.  A thick set of braided leather cords were secured near the top and I was set against the wood, my arms lifted and quickly bound until I was forced to stand on tip toe.  

I quivered, fearing another lashing, unwilling to take the bullwhip again.  But as Pontius spoke in fluent Latin, his two assistants approached with thick baskets filled with green vines.  I blinked tears and sweat from my eyes, trying to understand.  They donned thick leather gloves and then pulled long strands from the container and began weaving.  Soon they had formed a rope and as they approached me, holding their construct, I saw with terror the thorns.   Each one was no longer than my fingernail, but wickedly sharp.  I cringed, pulling back, but Pontius moved behind me and pushed me forward, forcing me to spread my legs and lean back against him, my hands bound high above and to the pillar to our backs.

I feared the thorns were to be placed between my legs, but this was not to be.  Instead they were wrapped around my chest, tied and bound tightly to my breasts.  I screamed as I felt the sharp pins dig into my soft flesh, tearing and puncturing my body.  Blood seeped down my stomach and with each new wrap I felt the burning pain surround me.  My back was not spared either, and when Pontius let me go, my face buried in my forearm, I didn’t realize that falling back against the pillar would send burning needles of pain up my back.

I was released from the pillar, but they kept my hands bound.  I reached to the thorns, but only managed to cut and score my hands as they laughed.  I was pushed, falling and then crawling forward, until I was guided toward two beams of wood, fallen on the ground nearby.

My heart thumped painfully as I realized that I too had my cross to bear.  It was easily eight feet tall and the crossbeam measured four feet wide.  Pontius ordered me, in an understandable tongue, to pick it up, to carry it.  I struggled to my feet.  I looked down at the cross and then burst into fresh tears.  I fell to my knees, sobbing.  There was no way I could carry it.  I hurt in more places than I could imagine.  How could I carry my own cross?

They spat on me and kicked me, but I huddled, curled up, the thorns tearing my breasts.  Blood dripped down my arms and my stomach, dropping with scarlet splatters into the dust.  Finally they realized that I wouldn’t do it.  That no amount of pain or shame could make me, and I was hauled to my feet and dragged forward.  I heard a grunt of exertion behind me and twisted my head to see a dozen or so of the robed men bearing my cross.  Their faces were a mixture of elation, of anger, of resolution.  And then we once again entered the courtyard.  

The bright afternoon sun beat down on me and I was hurled downward to the earth.  Pain scored my body and I lay there, panting, willing it to all go away.  The cross was placed next to me, a concrete reminder of my coming agony.  I watched with tired eyes as they placed some sort of strange protruding rod in the cross.  I got a closer look a moment later as Pontius grabbed my wrist and physically dragged me over.  The rod was set perpendicular to the cross itself, twisted so that the sharp edges pointed up and down the main beam.  I pondered this, but then felt hands around my waist.  I was lifted and then pushed forward so that the cross itself was under my belly.

Hands took my wrists, pulling me tight and before I could respond, I felt Pontius’ prick again.  This time though he poured something on me, at the small of my back and it flowed down through the crack of my ass, burning and stinging as it touched the cuts and wounds of my loins.  I felt his shaft press against me, slipping through the wine, only to stop, not at my female opening, but at my bottom.  I cringed, twisting and crying out, but was held fast by his companions.  A sharp pain in my ass told me that he had penetrated, thrusting his hard cock into my rump.  The hard edge of the cross dug into my abdomen as I was sodimized, fucked up the ass.  The thorns shifted with each thrust and new streams of blood trickled down from my breasts.  My vision swam and I almost fainted.

Then it was over.  Pontius pulled out, laughing, directing the others.  I was once more pulled upward, but then tipped backward as others grabbed my ankles.  I screamed, knowing, understanding that I was to be crucified.  I was placed on the cross, thorns tearing my back to shreds as my arms were lifted and laid out along the crossbeam.  I was held in place, strong fingers with iron like grips held my wrists and ankles down and I felt the brush of that rough cut rod against my thighs.

Something cold and sharp was pressed against my left wrist.  Worse, someone stuck their fingers between my legs and began frantically thrusting them through my loins. I tossed my head violently, giving myself a sharp knock to the back of the skull as I quickly ripened.  There were cat calls and jeers and laughter and as the finger fucking grew more frenzied, someone began flicking my clit.  

When I came the hammer fell.  Blinding agony slammed into me, mixing with the orgasm in unholy combination.  Another physical blow came and another spear of white tipped pain punched through the sexual euphoria.  Fingers released my hands and I tried to pull my arms in, only to realize that they were stuck to the cross, nailed in place and bound as well.  I sobbed, far beyond the capabilities of dealing with my torment.  Once again fingers found my sex, working me.  A vibrator was produced and applied to my clitoris.  It took time, but eventually the pain ebbed to a deep throb and my body reacted as it was forced too.  When I came again they twisted my legs outward, pounding the nail sideways through my ankle and into the wood.  I screamed in brutal fury and they were hard pressed to even control my last free limb.  They bent it into place, then drove the nail through my flesh and into the cross.

My vision blurred and it wasn’t until they began to raise the cross that I began to understand the total cruelty of their torture.  My body slid down the cross as I was hoisted upward, set upright.  The thick cut rod between my legs suddenly bore my entire weight, driving deep into my sex.  My swollen and cut labia were pinched painfully between my cervix and the wood and I tried to pull myself upward.  Pain exploded in my ankles and my wrists and I was forced to lower myself down again.  Someone began touching my clit, rubbing and stroking the bright red nub until I thrust my hips forward, dragging it down and under, crushing it with my own body on the rod.

With my legs turned outward in an inhuman and violent version of the butterfly pose, my loins were on perfect display.  I couldn’t help myself as I rode their little version of a wooden horse, inflicting bruising pain on my labia and clitoris when forced to choose between supporting my weight on the nailed ankles and wrists or on my sex.  After mere minutes, I was rising and falling, my world a crimson tinged fury of heat and sex and suffering.  Pontius watched with a knowing grin and he held the vibrator to my clit, watching as the sexual stimulation made my distress deepen.

I came.  I don’t know how or why.  I just know that I did.  It wasn’t good.  It was horrible.  It was a mixture of things never intended, an unholy perversion.  Never was such suffering meant to be pleasureable.  My mind imploded, mixed up, strained to the breaking point.  My hips jerked wildly and I found myself WANTING the pain.  NEEDING to be hurt.  Pontius handed off the vibrator and one of the others stood there, tormenting the little nodule above my abused slit.

Hours went by.  I begged for water between orgasms.  Someone held a sponge to my lips and I sucked greedily for a moment before spitting out what was clearly the tangy salt cream of cum. I heard laughter, and someone telling me that good whores swallow.  The torment of my clit continued even as I mashed myself up and down on the supporting rod.  I came again and my own meager juices were added to the sponge.  The second time they lifted it to my mouth I sucked with abandon.

As the sun set I began to lose consciousness.  Blackness edged my vision.  I no longer “rode” the cruel square set rod between my thighs.  My weight was on it directly, biting into my crotch as if my very bones had been smashed.  Everything hurt.  My eyes, my breasts, my back, my arms, my legs.  And worse, through it all, there was a need, a lust, driven by Pontius and his men, that had forced my body through orgasm after orgasm.  The very ignominy of it was wrong.  I turned my head up to the sky and spoke the words.

“My God, my God.  Why have you forsaken me?” I whispered.

Finally they let me be.  It had been over an hour since I was last able to rouse myself to cum and not even the gentle lapping of some man’s tongue against my clit had brought that sexual need back.  I hung limply, like a rag doll, eyes closed, just barely on the edge of awareness.  I sensed movement beneath me, but couldn’t bring myself to care.  I was beyond the limits of endurance.  I lived in the shadow of my mountain of pain, knowing that all I was, all I could be, was affected by that crushing burden.

“Once more,” I heard Pontius say quietly.  Something touched my clit and the incessant buzz of a vibrator filled not only my ears, but my loins as well.  I shook my head, or at least I tried to.  I was too tired to do more than whimper.  I forced my eyes open, glancing downward through the slit.  The man which thick jowls was standing just beneath me, working the purple tip of the vibrator against my clit.  Blood caked my stomach and my breasts.  Pontius stood off to the side, holding the spear.

More words in Latin came and then I was pushed upward.  I screamed as the weight of my body moved from my crotch to my feet, but it wasn’t as intense as before.  Something was shoved up into my pussy, something thick and soft and firm.  I was lowered back down and instead of biting agony, I realized that the weight of my body was being spread slightly.  I groaned as another vibrator started up and then it began to move inside me.

I realized that the dildo penetrating my sex was trying to work me to climax and that Pontius was waiting for that very ending.  I struggled against it, but my own nature and the diabolical and systematic movements of a machine designed to stimulate sexual function foiled me.  I found myself finding the strength to buck, to thrust forward, to lewdly present my hips, even as my clitoris was teased.  I could feel the orgasm coming, like a tsunami, or an earthquake, deep and foreboding.  It was not something to be welcomed, or enjoyed, but to be resisted, to be stopped, to endure.  The sensations came faster and harder and the pain I felt began to merge, to seep across the line between pleasure and anguish.  Like a crucible of molten passion, I opened my mouth and screamed as I approached climax.

And Pontius pressed the double pointed spear tip against my right breast, with my thorn pricked nipple between the electrodes, and pulled the trigger.  Electricity erupted into me and my heart thudded painfully as my entire body tensed, arching violently.

“It is finished!” Pontius shouted.

I exploded in orgasmic ecstasy.  Then my world went black.


I awoke feeling numb.  Carefully I lifted myself off the white sheets of the bed.  I was dressed in a loose nightgown and I took a moment to categorize the sensations I was feeling.  There wasn’t any pain, which surprised me, and quick check of my bosom showed the tell tale marks of a dermal regenerator.  Slowly, I touched myself, searching for bruises and cuts, finding none.  Finally my fingers slipped down between my legs.  I was wet, but the scents of arousal, of simple juices that come from normal and exquisite sex were all I found.  A part of my mind wondered why I was wet, especially if I had been unconscious, but it was a minor mystery and one I didn’t care much about. I still felt tired, but I took a deep breath of contentment.

The room was nothing special.  Whitewashed, small, square, with a small wooden cross mounted on the wall, a figure cast in pewter hanging grotesquely from the beams.  A small wash basin sat on a pedestal in one corner, and a large bureau filled the space along the opposite wall.  

About an hour later the door opened and I watched as Timothy Leahr entered the room.  His black suit and white Roman collar seemed oddly old fashioned and I had to remind myself that this man claimed to represent a dying church.  

“How do you feel?” he asked politely, gently, as if he actually cared.

I took a deep breath.  “All right I suppose.  How long has it been?”

He smiled warmly.  “Three days of course.  There was some minor damage to your right tibial nerve and it needed a bit more attention.”  He pulled up a chair and sat down.

“Thank you for taking care of me,” I replied gratefully.

Leahr shrugged.  “It was part of the contract,” he said, but then smiled. “Besides, there were… benefits… to being your caretaker.”

I stared at him, my earlier wetness no longer a mystery. I wondered how many times while I was recuperating he had fucked me.  Could it possibly have been enjoyable?  I had been totally unresponsive.  Would there be pleasure from taking a girl who lay there like a limp doll?  I took a deep breath and pushed the sheet and coverlet aside.  He watched as I swung my legs out of bed and stood up.  As I did, I caught sight of a tiny scar on the inside of my right wrist.  I blinked and brought my hand upward.

“What’s this?” I demanded, rubbing my fingers across the scar.  I knew what had happened.  I had the memory of the nail piercing my skin.  But the dermal regenerator shouldn’t have left a scar!  My eyes quickly located a similar mark on my left wrist.  I lifted my foot. Sure enough, my ankle had the same scar.

Leahr smiled warmly.  “Think of it as a mark of achievement.  It’s not every girl that can say they were crucified for our Lord.”  His eyes narrowed.  “But he said unto them, except I shall see in her hands the print of the nails, and thrust my hand into her, I will not believe,” he whispered.

My eyes narrowed.  “I don’t think you’re quoting that correctly,” I muttered.

Leahr shrugged.  “It doesn’t matter.  No doubt you will add this escapade to your growing collection of adventures.  You are already one of the top earning sanctioned nympho humiliation pain sluts in this hemisphere.  Won’t having physical proof of your endurance be worthwhile?”

I whirled away from him and jerked open the top drawer of the bureau.  Inside was exactly what I expected; a change of clothes.  Ignoring his presence, I stripped out of my nightgown.  My bare breasts were smooth and whole, without even a tiny scratch to show where the bullwhip or thorns had scored me.  I grabbed the pants out of the drawer and began pulling them up, when Leahr’s arms encircled me, his hands cupping my breasts, thumbs and forefingers lightly pinching my nipples.

“Do you really want to leave so soon?” he asked roughly, his voice tight.  He rolled my nipples firmly between his fingers and I felt the sudden surge of lust between my legs.  My body screamed “yes! Let him have you!” but my brain was still angry.  Permanent marks were NOT allowed and I had no idea if another application of the dermal regenerator would remove them.  Scar tissue wasn’t ideal for molecular re-cohesion.  

I shrugged my shoulder backward, dislodging him.  “I think you’ve had enough.  Besides, this isn’t in the contract.  If you want more, contact my agent.”  Technically, my repeated rape while recovering wasn’t in the contract either, but it wasn’t like I had actual proof.  Leahr took his hands off me and stepped backward.

“All right.  No worries,” he said.

I finished dressing, including my high heels.  When I was ready, I gave Leahr a dark look and shoved open the door.  He followed, his shiny patent leather shoes gleaming.  I stormed down the hall and pushed on the door, only to find myself once more standing in the narthex of the church.  I looked to my right.  The soft candle light, and altar, and the crucifix itself stood at the far end of the church, looming like a dark thundercloud on the horizon.  I turned away, quickly crossing myself.

Leahr’s eyes widened.  “Wait.  Are you a…” he started to ask, not only startled, but concerned.  I cut him off with a look.

“And forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.  And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil…” I whispered.

His scowl was dark and his visage narrowed.  “I see.  A true beliver.”

I shrugged and headed for the door.

“We’ll be in contact with your agent, Ms. Erickson.  Our ‘Passion’ isn’t the only ceremony we will need a willing sacrifice for,” Leahr said.

As I left, I looked back over my shoulder at Timothy Leahr, or perhaps I should think of him by his other name, the assumed one. The one I knew well.

Pontius Pilate.