MaleDom FemSub Stories

of humiliation and punishment

  

  

Wednesday in Soho

 Maledom/femsub, bondage, humiliation, punishment, real-life  

   

   

   

    I felt a little nudge; I was sleeping on my left side while Mark curled up against my back. His right arm is draped along my side his hand cupping the curve of my bottom. He nudged me again. I could feel the hardness against my ass so I lifted my right leg a bit and let him slip in between. Mark let out a contented sigh as his little one slide across my moistening pussy lips. I squeezed my legs together not wanting to lose him while I opened my eyes and propped myself up on an elbow.

   

    "It's 9:30" I groaned knowing that on Wednesday nothing broke our routine. "All right luv, loosen up a bit and I'll put on the tea while you shower." I grudgingly released my grip on Mark and he hopped out of bed. I headed off to the WC. The shower was piping hot just the way I like it and in minutes my skin was bright pink and tingling. I soaped up rinsed off and then did up my hair with an herbal shampoo. It's a bit on the short side so I don't need to use a conditioner; I just rinse it clean. There was a tapping on the bathroom door. Reluctantly I turned off the water and stepped out of the shower. Mark was waiting there sitting on the loo with a cup of tea in his hand.

   

    " So much to do Luv." he smiles as he handed me my tea. He knelt down and with a fluffy white towel and began to dry me. This always made me feel a bit awkward. I mean he's not exactly my master, we all work together here, but in a way he sort of is. He's in charge; He's something more and something less than the boss of our little group. On days I work I certainly think of him as my master. Anyway I always get a little fidgety when he kneels in front of me on Wednesdays, Fridays, and every third Sunday. I lift one foot for him to dry, then the next. He rubs me briskly as he works his way up my legs and my breath gets a bit ragged. When he reaches my puss my trembling hands set my tea down on the sink. I raise my arms grasping the shower curtain rod behind me. The towel briskly brushes along my back, softly caresses my belly and lingers over my breasts. Then he becomes all business as he dries each of my arms and he finishes drying off my neck and face. He uses a smaller towel to dry my hair then applies a soft red lipstick to my lips.

   

    Mark sets the towel aside and brings out the razor. My legs I wax so that's no problem but Mark insists that he trim and shave my pussy and shave my underarms. I spread my legs wide as he sets to work. He 's very gentle, he shaves me clean along my outer lips, then, when he gets to my mound he clears the stubble away from the little triangle of hair he allows me. It's almost an inch above my hooded clit and seems to me to be an arrow pointing the way. Mark calls it my yield sign. After the shave he wipes the area with witch hazel gel to prevent any irritation. Once my puss is presentable I turn around and once again grasp the shower curtain rod and stand with my arms and legs spread wide. Mark quickly cleans away the stubble from my underarms. I shudder as the towel brushes gently against that sensitive skin, also I know what’s coming next.

   

    By now Mark is quite excited whether from all this intimate touching or the thoughts of what's to come He always uses me at this point. I never mistake this for lovemaking, though we have our share of that. I'm an actress and I know my role. This is pure and simple lust, I am only here for his use. The thought that I might object or even to consent to my own use is unimaginable, I've become simply his warm wet hole waiting anxiously to be filled. He pulls my hips back a bit so I'm slightly bent forward and steadily pushes deep into my slick entrance. I whimper out my own need. I know, right now, he cares not a fig about my desire. The fact that I want him deep inside me is merely an unnoticed, lucky coincidence. My hips rock back and forth as he frantically pumps into me. All to quickly I feel him squirting his seed inside my pussy. I groan in disappointment and squeeze with my muscles trying to cling his warmth, and strength; all I succeed in doing is wringing a final spurt from him as he pulls away.

   

    My poor pussy is left gasping at the cool empty air. His cum starts to trickle down my inner thigh He pulls my hand away when I reach down to staunch the flow from my poor abandoned puss. I really wasn't going to touch my throbbing clit but he prevents it anyway. I sob with frustration.

   

    With his need satisfied, at least for now, he is ready to have me dressed. I put on my leather sandals and then stand with my legs spread wide. A piece of linen two yards long that isn't even a hands width wide is wrapped twice around my waist. The end is tucked over in back and drawn between my legs. My throbbing clit grinds against the cloth as it is pulled up and over in front. Mark gives the loincloth a quick tug to make sure it's snug and that pulls it up between my pussy lips. I can feel the remnants of Marks cum dripping out moistening the cloth.

   

    By now it's almost 10:30 so Mark sets off to the kitchen for a proper breakfast. The entire troupe is there, waiting. Brian is the best cook and almost always makes breakfast except on Monday's when he's the star of the afternoon show. Everyone is ignoring me. That's normal for whoever is going on stage, sort of a tradition. They all sit down to a proper English Breakfast of sausage, bacon, eggs, a sliced tomato, toast and tea. I sit alone on a stool in the corner with a cup of tea and nibble half heatedly on a ginger biscuit. My left hand descends toward my lap. I just need to adjust my loincloth a bit but before my fingers can brush against the front…" Stop that!" Mark snaps and all eyes turn toward me. I snatch my hand away like a guilty child and feel the heat flushing my cheeks.

   

    Mark sits at the head of the table to his right sit Brian, Bruce, and Robert (the three B's we call them though Robert hates to be called Bobby) Brian will be doing the evening show but he seems to be completely calm right now. On the left Alice and Jesse sit with my empty chair between them chatting about the weather and how the streets aren't very crowded for this late in May. It's almost 11:00 when they finish eating.

   

    I squirm in uncomfortable silence trying to derive faint pleasure by rocking back and forth as I perch on the edge of my stool with my eyes closed and my imagination stuck back in the bathroom. "I said stop it!" a hand clamps down on my shoulder. Mark is behind me now and he lifts me up off the stool. I drop to my knees before him but he keeps pushing me forward until I am on my hands and knees. " Now be a good girl and stay there." He says. I am completely humiliated, and fighting back tears of frustration but I stay exactly as he has placed me.

   

    Everyone else pitches in with the dishes. They carefully ignore me, working around me, as I remain stock-still. Once the kitchen is cleaned up they go off to get into costume. I wait on my hands and knees by the stool trying not to tremble.

   

    They return one by one in there resplendent little costumes Bruce and Bobby dressed as Roman soldiers with their plumbed helmets, armored chest plates, pleated leather skirts and sandals. The lads at the gay bars always tag along for a bit when they see those two march by. Alice and Jesse are dressed in demure white linen robes and sandals they will follow behind handing out brochures and explaining our little theater to the curious people who seem bold enough to be interested.

   

    Mark roughly pulls me to my feet and finishes dressing me. I hope he isn't really mad. He slips a short linen robe over my head. Its ragged hem ends three to four inches above my knees and barely hides my skimpy loincloth. My hands are tied behind my back with a wide strip of black cloth that will later be used as a blindfold. Finally a soft leather collar goes around my neck. It has two imbedded rings. Two rope leashes each about 6 feet long are clipped to the rings of my collar. Brian is off till six when he has to prepare for the evening show. Everyone else is ready. It's 11:20 on Wednesday and my stomach is twisting in knots

   

    "Good luck Luv" Mark says cheerfully sending me off with a peck on the cheek and a good-natured swat on the fanny. He heads off to set up the theater. Bruce and Bobby grab the rope leads and with a gentle tug they head me toward the door. The Girls each grab a stack of brochures and follow behind.

   

    Despite what they had been saying at breakfast there is a good size crowd on the street. So much so that we need to walk down the middle of the road the sidewalks are far too crowded. It seems a bit dreamlike; my belly tightens with each step. I am shivering though it is a hot sticky morning. We head down Meard Street then up Dean and Across Soho Square. The boys set the pace and it's entirely too slow for my taste.

   

    I'm an actor according to my union card and our license calls this performance art so the Bobbies don't hassle us anymore. When we were first starting out our daily victim would be carrying a crossbeam but there were complaints from some of the locals and tourist, which was too much for the local arts council. This is our compromise.

   

    As I said I'm an Actress but it takes very little acting skill to keep my head bent down and to blush as onlookers’ crowd around. We always attract a crowd. The girls hand out the brochures with an eye for the serious customer who can afford the £ 35 that the show costs. "See the passion of St. Rachel" (St Raymond on the printing when one of the lad's plays the lead) the leaflet proclaims. There is a brief description that leaves little to the imagination, pictures of the theater set up like a little chapel with pews enough for 90 paying customers. The final a picture of a life size cross in the sanctuary, no one hangs on it; no sense giving away the whole show, you know. There are directions to the "Theater of the Church of Saint Marks London Martyrs" In bold letters at he bottom of the flyer it says "Interactive Performance Art".

   

    They follow only a few feet behind me. I can hear most of what is said. " Will they use a real whip on her?" " Yes, of course, it's real and made of leather" "Will she be naked?" " Absolutely" " "do they use nails?" " Get real, It's theater." The chitchat goes on as if I weren't there. It is loud enough to be heard by all those within a dozen feet. I blush and keep my eyes averted studying the pavement as the procession plods onward.

    After crossing Soho Square we turn west on D'Arblay St. past the "adult" toy stores then south on Poland where the pubs are filling with some early lunch customers. We head west on Broadwick and down a bit of Marshall to Golden Square. By then we have collected quite a following so we head toward the theater. We're walking faster now; it's nearly twelve. I've done this a hundred times, quite literally, but still I'm a nervous wreck every time.

   

    Once we reach the theater the girls go right inside to make final preparations and then act as ushers. Mark has been manning the ticket booth in the lobby and the line stretches out the door. There seem to be about twice as many men as women and most of the women have arrived as part of a couple. I am guided through the lobby to the inner doorway leading into the theater.

   

    Bobby turns me so I face the wall. He unties my hands and allows me a moment to rub my wrists. After a few moments he pulls my right arm back and straps a leather cuff on my wrist. He repeats the process on my left wrist. He then raises both my wrists only to draw them together behind my neck. The collar on my neck is rotated until one ring is in front and one sticks out behind me. The metal clip that attaches the leash is clipped onto the two wrist cuffs. The end of the leash is tucked up over my bound wrists. I am turned once more to face our customers. With my hands bound behind my neck my elbows stick out to the sides. This causes my breasts to rise and jut out more prominently. The short robe I wear rises even higher on my thighs. I am made to kneel beside the door. Bruce uses his foot to nudge my knees further apart. I lean back resting my bottom on my heels and take one final look at the line of customers who have come to see me suffer. The man entering the theater stares at my skimpy loincloth, which is now revealed by the kneeling position I am forced into. Bobby takes the black strip of cloth that was used to bind my wrists and wraps it twice around my head before knotting it behind. I am blindfolded. I tense waiting for what will come next. The boys tell me they do it to make sure I can't see. I think they just enjoy making me flinch. I yelp when the front leash lashes cruelly across my upper thighs. Sometimes they strike a breast or across my belly, there's no telling where they'll strike. "No I guess she didn't see that one coming." Bobby chuckles.

   

    I'm the only one who uses a blindfold. I have it left on through the scourging and then for the first half-hour or so on the cross. Mark says I use it because I'm really a shy little girl who wants to hide from her inner slut. Maybe he's on to something there. By the time it comes off I'm sweating and panting like the proverbial bitch in heat. It helps me get into my role and the patrons seem to like it. It provides a little variety for the regular customers.

   

    Now I'm on my knees while the customers pass by on their way into the theater. I straighten my back pushing out my breasts. I grasp my left wrist with my right hand and try to cradle my bound wrists against the back of my neck. My elbows extend outward like stubby little wings.

   

    I can only imagine the thoughts passing through their minds as they await the show. I wonder how many of those sixty odd cocks are already stiffening in anticipation. Someone passing by lifts my chin and tussles my hair. It seems to be a gentle gesture but for some reason I resent it. "Bitch." I hiss under my breath though I don't really know if it was a man or a woman. The church bell (the real church two blocks away) is ringing noon and it's time to go in.

   

    When I'm blindfolded my hearing seems to improve and I can hear Mark. He's engaged in an animated conversation at the ticket booth. I pick up bits and pieces of the conversation. Mark saying "have to change" A male voice a Yank from the accent saying " £100 is almost $200 " and a female saying " …only one 10th anniversary. " I smiled to myself, whatever they were discussing I know Mark will probably agree because he's such a hopeless romantic I just didn't realize it would involved me so intimately. Mark and the American couple finally reached some sort of agreement and head into the theater.

   

    Someone behind me grabs me under the shoulders and pulls me to my feet. I'm a little disoriented with the blindfold but the hands turn me in the right direction then sweep down the curve of my body and give my bottom a friendly little swat.

   

    It's beginning and I take a deep breath. I try to swallow but my mouth has gone dry. The leash gently tugs me forward. My knees are weak and my legs wobble, as I'm lead slowly down the aisle. I strain to make out the anticipatory whispers that rise from the audience on either side but I can barely hear them over the pounding of my heart.

   

    I nearly stumbled on the first step up into the sanctuary but Bruce steadies me. I'm turned about to face the audience. Bruce is on my left but I can't hear Bobby on my right. It seems that Bruce is working alone now. One by one my sandals are removed, then the wrists are unclipped from the collar. I want to stretch my arms but I'm given no time as the robe is pulled over my head. The audience murmurs in admiration as my bare breasts are revealed. I shiver; I' m standing before these strangers in my blindfold and a skimpy loincloth. Bruce's hand closes on the front of my loincloth and with a rough tug it too is pulled free. The last vestige of modesty has been removed. After a pause of a few seconds the spectators break into applause.

   

    I am made to stand before them a few moments longer. I hear footsteps approach from my right. Bobby is back. Two pair of hands turn me around. My back is now to the crowd. My leather wrist cuffs are attached to the two ropes dangling from the ornate columns on either side of the sanctuary entrance. I feel my arms are being pulled up over my head, spread wide between the two high posts. The ropes tighten and I'm straining, nearly up on my tiptoes.

   

    The sanctuary is kept warmer than the rest of the building with two electric heaters. It's almost 27º C a little warmer than comfortable even for a girl who's naked. Still I'm shivering even as the sweat begins to form on my brow. My breath is coming in ragged gasps. The scourging is about to begin; we use two nine tailed leather cats with half-inch wide suede lashes.

   

    "Ever done this to a woman before? Bruce asked. " Never, My wife thinks she might want to try but…" It's not Bobby but a slow thick American accent, off to my left... "Right, well we're not trying to draw blood here or rip up her flesh." Bruce says calmly. I'm really starting to get frantic now. What was Mark thinking. "We just want to turn her back and bottom a bright rosy pink. Timings important now, so just follow my lead and strike when I give you the nod." Without further ado a cat slashes across my upper back. I gasp and twist to my left trying to escape the sting. I begin to count to thirty but it takes almost thirty-five seconds before I feel a tentative lash on the right shoulder. "A little harder next time " Bruce advises. Thirty seconds on the dot and Bruce gives me another smart whack with the cat. The Yank follows right on time and this time I can feel it. "Harder yet" Bruce orders and he waits his thirty seconds to demonstrate with a swat across my bottom I hop and yip in pain. The Yank delivers his blow on time and across my ass with enough strength to set me dancing on one foot. "Good one." Bruce observes.

   

    They lapse into silence working like a team though they’ve never worked together. I can count the lashes or I can count the time between them I've never been able to do both. I choose to count the time. What I do doesn't alter a thing for I'll be scourged for twenty minutes receiving forty lashes spaced thirty seconds apart. They work there way up and down my back as I twist and hop from foot to foot for the spectators amusement. By the time it is half over I've given up counting and just screech as the blows fall and sob as I wait for the next one. It isn't the most severe whipping you're likely to see but by the time it's over both my back and arse are on fire and I'm dripping with sweat.

   

    The cats are set aside. The ropes slacken a bit, and my arms are lowered enough to let me stand with my legs spread apart. I walk my feet backward a step and bend slightly at the waist leaning forward and grabbing hold of the ropes letting them take some of my weight. I'm in the same position I was in this morning when Mark used me, my puss feels exposed and needy. The two "Roman guards" take up their position beside me. I can hear the squeaks and rustling from the pews as the girls usher the assembly up the right hand aisle. As they pass through the archway on the right there is a sign. " Use Gloves! Hands Only!" Sitting along the altar railing are three boxes of disposable latex gloves (small medium and large). I can hear the snap of latex as the first person slips on a pair and then they reach me; hands, dozens of them, one after another, sometimes two, three, or four at once. A procession of hands too many to count. They wander freely over my body. I can't see them, nor do a thing about it if I could, all I can do is feel them explore. Some want to feel the heat of my whipped flesh through that thin layer of latex while others feel a need to give my throbbing ass just one more swat. I can feel cool breath on my burning back as someone leans over me to fondle my dangling breast and nipple. Other hands trace the strands of the whip marks across my bottom. Everyone feels the need to brush a lingering hand across my pussy's lips.

   

    I tell myself I'll be strong. I won't let these strangers shame me, like the last time, (and the time before, and before that….) I squeeze my eyes shut behind me blindfold, grit my teeth and lock my legs in position determined not to move. I jump a bit when someone's wants to see how far he or she can jam their finger into my ass. That's allowed as long as they don't try fisting me. (That's been tried before and it's one reason why the "Roman guards" stand at my side). I'm determined to stand there stoically accepting my fate.

   

    The people seem quiet as they reach out stroking, poking, and grabbing but their hands begin to commune with my poor throbbing body. They tell me of curious tongues, nibbling mouths and throbbing cocks wanting to plunge into my pussy from behind. My pussy lips thicken and moister begins to seep from between them. She can't help it. It's all those hands demanding, grasping, and fondling her, brushing over her, she can't take it. At first it's barely perceptible the slight tilt of the hips as my pussy pushes upward gradually opening to greet the next hand. Then my hips are rocking as the hands caress the length of her. I shudder and before I know it my ass is wagging obscenely and my clit is throbbing and my gapping pussy is nearly grasping at the fingers that stroke and probe. I'm so close nothing will stop me. Now I can hear snatches of comments as the line files past "Horny little bitch" says a female voice "brazen slut" says another "insatiable slit " says an overly articulate man, and "sodden cunt " from another rumbling male voice. I feel my face flush and I know it's at least as bright as my bottom but I no longer care. I concentrate on what the hands are telling me as I try to block out the other sounds. But a new problem is quickly developing. The constant sweep of fingers across my pussy and the constant poking has combined with the two full cups of tea that I had earlier.

   

    Normally I would have used the loo while the others dressed; today I was forced to wait in the kitchen. I have a desperate need to pee. Thoughts of release fade. Now as the line of hands continues to file past me I'm no longer seeking them out. I'm squeezing my legs together and urgently trying to avoid the probing digits. I vaguely wonder if these last few people in line feel cheated. In any event my bloated bladder keeps me from cumming. At last the 90 odd pair of hands have paraded past me and familiarize themselves with my body. I really don't know how long it took. It seemed to go on forever but I'm not sure it lasted much longer than the flogging. I'm sweating and squeezing my legs together and the boys must know something is wrong. I whisper to Bruce that I need to Pee! NOW!! he grunts. I can imagine the grin that's spreading across his face. This hasn't happened to me for a long time, and never so early in the show.

   

    The leather cuffs are freed from the ropes and my arms drop to my side. Bruce and the other man each grab me under a shoulder and hustle me into the sanctuary and up the four steps to where my cross lays waiting. The cross is lying flat supported off the floor by five wooden blocks Three along the vertical beam and one at each end of the cross beam. It's about eight inches off the ground but quite stable. I'm clenching my legs together begging them to wait, not to put me on the cross yet. I'm sure the audience thinks it's all part of the act. I fall to my knees in front of my cross. A few drops of pee escape and I squeeze even harder. "Don't you dare piss on the rug." Bobby hisses at me. He has replaced the American, a small comfort but I'm too distracted to think about it now. He pulls me up by my shoulder and rocks me backward until I'm squatting on my heels. Bruce shuffles forward and slides a ceramic basin between my feet. It bumps against my ankles and I spread my legs wider so he can slide the basin forward. I blindly reach forward to steady myself. My hands find the base of my cross's vertical beam. . I feel a light slap on my ass. "Ok your over the bowl," Bobby says to me. "Now pee". Far away I hear the muffled sound of a church bell striking one.

  

   

    I squat, naked, blindfolded, balancing over a bowl I can't see. I can feel the eyes of 90 people boring into my back watching me and waiting for me. Nothing happens. "We haven't got all day, girl. The show must go on." Bruce growls. Still we all wait. I need to pee desperately but nothing is happening no matter how hard I try. I get a sharp swat on the ass "Pee damn it!"

   

    Bruce gives me another brisk smack; he seems to be enjoying it. I'm becoming so frustrated that tears are soaking into my blindfold. While Bruce continues to yell and slap at my abused bottom Bobby brings my right hand up to his mouth and with his tongue licks in circles around my pinky finger. Bruce lands another blow on my bottom and then Bobby pulls my finger into his mouth suckling on it as he coats it with his saliva. Bruce has stopped yelling but I tensely wait for the next slap. Then Bobby is blowing warm air on my moistened finger. The warmth and moisture loosens something in my mind and my body relaxes. The loud tinkling of my pee falling into the basin seems to echo through the silent theater. The tinkle becomes a splashing torrent and I sigh contentedly, I hope the bowl is big enough. Another flush of embarrassment washes over my face as I think of the staring audience. I lower my head and all I smell is my own urine as it splashes into the basin. With a few final squirts I'm done. The boys stand me up and while one takes the bowl away the other uses my discarded loincloth to wipe me up. I've splashed some pee on my thighs and bottom and he's quite thorough wiping me. My puss grinds against his hand. I've been whipped and thoroughly humiliated. It's now time to begin the main event. I take a deep breath as they stretch my arms wide. They turn me around again so I'm facing the audience. I straddle wood of my cross a foot on either side. They hold my arms outstretched as they walk me backward.

   

    We each have our own cross and mine is a familiar old friend. It is stained a dark cherry that contrasts well with my pale skin. The vertical beam is a four by six-inch piece of clear cedar over nine feet long with a footrest on either side. The crosspiece is a five and a half feet long four by four piece of cedar. It joins the upright in a smooth mortise joint a foot below the top. Two and a half feet below that my sedile protrudes from the upright. It is a hardwood dowel an inch and a half in diameter and juts out six inches. It is capped by a hardwood knob two inches in diameter.

   

    My ankles bump against the foot rests and I step over them. The two Roman guards pull me down onto the wood. They each take control of a wrist. First the wrist cuffs are attached to the crossbeam, and then rope is bound over them hiding the leather from view. I slip my hands through the metal handles that are bolted onto the crossbeam. As I curl my fingers around the handle a dark square tab of Iron protrudes between the third and forth fingers. This gives the illusion of a nail head driven through the palm as the fist clenches over it. We used to use theatrical blood packets squeezed between the fist and handle but they are sticky and quite a mess when you're being stroked and fondled by a hundred curious onlookers My arms are firmly attached, I'm the prisoner of my cross.

   

    One of the men swings a wooden mallet striking against the bolts at the top of the right hand handle. It is done strictly for show and makes a satisfying clang. I scream on cue jerking and twisting my torso as my feet flail helplessly. After four or five blows they turn their attention to my left hand and the process is repeated. I imagine the audience squirming in their seats as they listen to the hammer blows mixing with my screams.

   

    The men move down my body easily capturing my feet. They stretched my legs down toward the foot of the cross. I feel my body slide down the cross until my crotch is firmly pressed against the sedile. Only then do they bend my legs pushing my feet up toward the footrests. The footrests of my cross are two wooden blocks bolted to the sides of the upright. They are planed to a 45-degree slope away from the upright. The front half of an open toed sandal has been nailed to each one. My feet are slipped into these half sandals and bound to the footrests with rope more rope wraps around my ankles fixing them tightly against the upright. My legs are now fixed in an obscenely open position with my feet pointed outward. It will still allow me to push up and down with my legs but it is quite impossible to close my legs. One of the men straddles my legs. Grabbing my left calf he gives it a tug checking my bonds then he checks the right. The mallet rises and falls smacking against the side of the left footrest. It is followed by a blow to the right side. The hammer blows fall in rapid succession alternating from left to right. I cry out and squirm seductively on my cross. After about ten blows to each footrest the hammer is set aside. He moves off to attach the chains to the ring at the top of my cross.

   

    My cross weighs over 300 pounds when I'm attached. It is pulled upright by using a series of pulleys and a hand cranked winch. The top of the cross slowly rises off its supports and the foot dips down to rest on the floor. I'm not exactly sure why but this is the one part of the entire scene that makes me very nervous. As the cross slowly rises the crossbeam is lifted free of the blocks and begins to wobble from side to side. My body begins to slide downward and I try to press myself back against the wood. I lick my lips and try to swallow but my mouth is drier than chalk dust. My arms shake and my legs tremble as I try to press my body back into the wood. It is as if I hope to find some safety in the embrace of my cross.

   

    The winch turns and the cross continues to rise. My weight begins to transfer from my back to my feet and I cling to the handles trying to keep myself steady on the shifting wood. Soon I feel the sedile firmly planted between my legs and the cross is completely upright. In fact the cross is swinging free as the entire weight is held aloft on the ropes and chains attached to the upright. The cross seems to sway forward and backward as the men line it up with its slot in the stage. The hand crank reverses and the cross slowly descends into the aperture that has been built into the stage. It descends a full 18 inches into the slot in the floor, half of which is a metal jacketed opening in the cement floor beneath the stage.

   

    My cross is planted, I'm trapped, as ensnared as any ancient prisoner crucified and displayed before a lustful crowd. The beginnings of panic flicker in my head and I nurture them. I begin to test the strength of my bonds. I rise up on my legs pushing forcefully against the footrests. I throw my body's weight twisting to the left then to the right. The cross vibrates like a straining lover but doesn't sway. I lower myself gingerly onto the sedile allowing it to bear most of my weight. I raise and lower my hips trying to find a less uncomfortable position but in the end must hold myself up with arms and legs. I slide all the way back on the sedile pressing my back hard against the upright. My breath comes in ragged gasps. I try to close my knees but my feet are splayed and my bound ankles are held tight against the upright so I lack the flexibility to bring my knees together.

   

    The cross is a male instrument. It holds one open, presses into your flesh, proudly displays its captive trophy. The erect sedile is of course only too phallic, as is its cousin the cornu. But in it's truest and deadliest form it was about opening and penetrating flesh. The cross is rarely gentle with its lovers.

   

    With a sigh I slide forward on the sedile slipping my pussy up and over the smooth knob at it's end. The sedile presses along the crack of my ass as I lower myself further. My legs fold and most of my weight is supported by my arms. In this position I seem to be kneeling in mid air but still my legs are splayed wide and I still can not close my knees. The sedile is pressing into the small of my back. I can only maintain this position for a few moments then I raise myself back onto the sedile. The spectators murmur impatiently, they want to touch.

   

    It is much harder for the men of course. Health regulations require that they wear a rubber. The show requires them to remain erect for over three hours while being tormented and teased. They all use cockrings and desensitizing creams. I begin to rub slowly across the sedile's knob as I think about my male companions. Brian and Bruce each have their crosses equipped with a cornu. These blunted horn shaped pegs allow them to take some weight off their arms and legs but only if they surrender their ass to the relentless cross. Alice uses a cornu too though she has no interest in anal sex when she is not writhing on her cross.

   

    Bobby has a simple block mounted on his upright to rest his butt on between his struggles. He is also the only one of us that did not really volunteer for the job. His Mistress had approached Mark about having him crucified in public. Mark explained to her that we're all card carrying union actors and we have a theater license to protect. They eventually worked out a deal; She sold Bobby to Mark for the right to invite up to 4 guests to the show twice a week for a few months. Mark got Bobby a union card and put him to work. Bobby was heartbroken at first but did as he was told, after two years he has become one with our little troupe and seems much happier about his life. He is paid the same as any of us and he even stands up to Mark now and then if he thinks he's being slighted. He is certainly the one crucified male in our group who is most comfortable with the women stroking and teasing him as he struggles on his cross. Sometimes when the show is over we ladies will gather around him and take turns tickling his sack and stroking his pulsing shaft to see which one of us will bring him off. When his cross is lowered onto the blocks we will take turns squatting over his crucified form riding his erection until he cries out.

   

    "Hump it bitch!"

   

    The crude shout snaps me out of my reverie and back into my own predicament. I am panting and sweating furiously. I feel my arms trembling from the strain. I have bent forward as far as possible and my breasts are swaying from side to side as I try desperately to work the knob of my sedile into my hungry pussy. Even with my hips bent forward as much as my cross lover will allow I can do little more than rub myself over the knob. I groan in frustration. The rigid sedile just juts straight out and I cannot work the shaft inside of me. With a sigh of resignation I straighten and slide back along my sedile. I wince in pain, as my blindfold is yanked away pulling a few hairs off with the knot.

   

    With the blindfold gone I blink into the brightness. Sweat blurs my vision and runs down my nose, a drop forms at the tip of my nose waiting to fall. I need someone to mop my brow because I'm unable to brush the sweat away. I shake my head sending droplets flying in every direction. I finally raise my head and try to look out at the audience. My vision begins to adjust and the shadows slowly come into focus. Most are too busy ogling my writhing nakedness to even notice or care that my blindfold has been removed. Their eyes just don't stray above my breasts. They are oblivious to me as a person I am merely an object of fascination and yearning. The very air I breathe is thick with desire and lust. As my eyes roam the rows of pews I come across a few who will acknowledge me. The American who was allowed to whip me is still wearing his borrowed robe. His wife of ten years has her head in his lap busily bobbing up and down while his half-open eyes lock on mine. There is hardness and a longing in them that makes me shudder. I look away. Two rows back and to the right a woman squirms in her seat her hand disappearing into her skirt. Her eyes stare deeply into mine with a desperate desire. I don't know if she wants me, or wants to be me, but again I am the one forced to look away blushing deeply. There are others though not that many who will look into my eyes and every time it is I who must look away.

   

    The girls have started to escort the audience up to the sanctuary again. Row by row the pews empty and begin their journey up the right hand aisle. This time I will not have the anonymity of a blindfold. I will see them and all that they will do to me. I have forgotten to breathe and I draw in a sharp breath. I am terrified. The first person is putting on her fresh pair of gloves. She seems so completely normal. If she wore a camera around her neck and a sun hat she would be a screaming caricature of a tourist. As she stands before me I notice just how petite she really is. She can't be over five feet she reaches up but can barely brush the tips of her fingers against my panting breasts.

   

    The man behind her notices her difficulty and roughly grabs me by the hips. He slides me forward on the sedile until he has pulled me completely free of it and my body drops a full foot. The woman thanks him politely as her hands caress my now accessible breasts she tweaks my nipples and leans forward as if to kiss my belly. Bobby quickly places a hand on her chest restraining her and she moves on. The man who so unceremoniously dumped me off my sedile is next in line and he takes advantage of my newly exposed position to stroke lovingly at my slit as the sedile pokes into my lower back. I push upward trying to regain my seat and he seems willing to help lift me back onto the sedile. The next one pulls me forward on the sedile and grasping my hips in both hands opens my ass checks and presses me down as if to impale my bottom. In fact the knob of the sedile is forced half way into my ass and it provides me with enough support while exposing my pussy to the wandering hands. He is satisfied and spends some time stroking my breasts and puss. The line moves on each one spending a minute or so caressing my exposed body. I respond with gentle moans as my pussy once more moistens and my clit peaks out at the line of hands.

   

    A few still want to inflict pain with a slap at my ass or a pinch of my more sensitive flesh. At times like this I hate pain! I know that sounds a little strange coming from a girl that makes her living being whipped and crucified a couple times a week but it's true. I don't like pain. There is nothing erotic about it. I just endure it and try to get past it. The slaps and pinches drive me back from the edge while the strokes and gentle probing spur me on. Some want to stroke my arms or neck or along my inner thigh but most lack such subtlety and concentrate on my breasts and pussy.

   

    It is like a medieval pilgrimage, the faithful traveling from great distances to our little church for a chance to lay hands upon the holy relic that my body has become for them. Before the first row has returned to their seats I am hopelessly enthralled. I twist and turn to expose my panting body to the faithful. My shameless pussy weeps her desire onto my already slick sedile. I raise myself on trembling legs to thrust my pussy at the audience as they slowly file past me. One man bends to sniff and I all but plunge myself against his face. My guards now must restrain me as well as the overly enthusiastic members of the audience. When it becomes clear that I have but one desire the cruel remarks begin again but I pay them no mind. I am now moaning and groaning as I shamelessly plead for release the leering line continues past me. Each one obliged to run their hands across my body. Some (mostly women) seem determined to tease and torment me; others (mostly men) wanting to be the one that push me over the edge. I continue to be pinched, and patted, slapped and stroked.

   

    A petite redhead stands before me smiling wickedly. Her thumb gently scrapes through the moisture between my pouting lips then reaches under me and impales my bottom. I groan as she brings her right hand up taking my clit between thumb and forefinger and slowly coaxing it out.

   

    I screech in agony as fingernails pinch into me. I know she must have drawn blood. Bruce pushes the woman away from me but she shrugs him off simply standing back and allowing the next in line to step forward. My tear filled eyes see a knowing smirk on her face. Tears are rolling down my cheeks as a tall man with sandy blond hair takes her place. He fixes me with his slate gray eyes and I cannot turn away.

   

    " She will pay for that." He tells me with calm assurance. I glance at her again and see a look of fear wash the smugness off her face. I am glad. They must be a couple, which is why she is waiting for him. He reaches out with an upturned left hand. Gently his palm cups my mons. A finger stenches out along the crevice of my pussy, lovingly stroking it in a gentle forward sweep. All thoughts of pain and terror are swept away and I begin to grind myself against the proffered palm. As My motion becomes more vigorous the finger slips into me. I groan and begin to work my hips up and down. He keeps his hand pressed against me. All of the frustrations, the desires, desperate need and yes even the pain of this long day are building to a sharp point. A second finger slips into me pressing outward widening my already distended lips. A low guttural groan begins to climb several octaves as my lungs slowly empty. A third finger slips in and my tears flow. A thumb softly strums across my throbbing clit and I burst. I am emptied of everything as I helplessly pump down on the triad of fingers filling me. My wants, desires, and needs simply flow out of me into his upturned palm. The world begins to narrow and darken but I can't think of anything. My cross vibrates with my release and I am his.

   

    "Breath!" some small corner of my mind screams and for a panicked moment I am sure I've forgotten how. Finally with a gasp my lungs begin to refill. The fingers have withdrawn I wonder if they have been expelled by the spasm that shook me to the core. I open my eyes and see the tall blond standing before me. He is smiling complacently. His left hand still cupped below me holds a small puddle of my secretions. He raises this to my nose and I can do nothing but inhale. I am truly emptied, released, beyond caring nothing can matters now. With another rasping breath I steady myself on my cross.

   

    My arms and legs are exhausted and I lower myself onto the sedile. The man who has done this to me still stands before me. The line behind him is getting restless. They want their turn with me. He isn't finished though; He dips three fingers of his right hand into the puddle of moisture that he cups in his left. Carefully he draws a moist line across my belly. My belly shudders in response. He then traces circles around my nipples and brushes lines along the underside of my outstretched arms. My body twitches and jerks with each touch of those moistened fingers. I was wrong. I wasn't beyond caring. I am being anointed with my own essence. He is determined to show me I can still blush. He turns at last and casually sweeps his left palm across the redheads face. She glares at me with pure hatred. If looks could drive nails I would never leave this cross. He grabs her by the arm and they both returned to their seats.

   

    The line continues but I am barely aware. I remain perched upon the end of my sedile open and uncaring while the end of the line files by. They seem to want to punish me now as more of them pinch and slap my tender flesh than caress it. It is well after three when the line finally ends and the Audience is thanked for their participation. Mark reminds them that they can purchase souvenir photos in the lobby. Those that had paid the extra ten pounds come forward to have their picture taken with a real live crucified damsel. A couple one on either side their arms entwined across my naked rump. A young man resting his head against the side of my chest while he throws an arm around my waist. Lovely photos for the scrape book on the coffee table and no doubt a few will end up on the net.

   

    I am exhausted when they finally lower my cross and release me. I spend a few minutes resting in place catching my breath. Eventually Mark comes and helps me up. He has brought me a change of clothing, while I'm done for the day and can head home and rest he has an evening show to prepare for.

   

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