I Volunteer for Peak Erotic Fantasy

I knew I could trust Amanda not to screw up! Amanda is a big bossy girl, a Mighty White Gaia, but all in sexy proportions—long legs heavy but shapely, shoulders suitable for suspension of breathtakingly majestic mountains of breasts, a full face but with generous eyes, lips, cheeks in proportion—and simply cascades of chestnut brown hair. Sometimes we run together evenings and I know no one is going to bother me. That began to seem important after my near-rape and miraculous salvation in Central Park. Much less problem out here in the Hamptons, of course, but Amanda inspires me. If she can carry 200 pounds barreling up and down hills, past endless golf courses, and through beach sand, I can haul my lazy 115 pounds—well, maybe 110—beside her.

Just got to wonder what's in it for Amanda. She does like girls more than I do. Occasionally, she will impishly slip into the shower with me after a run. She will murmur: "Could I get a little tit-on-tit massage? Mine are so stiff they feel as though they'll fall right off." I give her a little, from time to time, her ridiculously meaty pink-orange crinkled nipples enveloping my soapy wet tits. She seems to like it. Once or twice on a special occasion, I sat beside her on the bed, holding my glass of cold Chardonnay, doing her clit with the Hitachi vibrator. I never saw a cannoli like hers, with the thick, swollen pink tube and the butting head straining out like a slimy lima bean. Whew, can she come!

Then, a couple of weeks ago, before we've even gotten our wind after a run to the Maidstone Golf Club and back on Friday evening, and I am thinking only about a cold Chardonnay at Rowdy Hall, she is hauling off her massively overworked, jumbo sports bra to reveal pink blimps, and saying. "It isn't that you can't find a guy you like, you're just jaded. Really jaded."

"What do you mean, jaded?"

"Well, 'jaded' means..."

"I know what 'jaded' means. What do you mean?"

"I mean no guy seems sexy enough to you because no guy possibly could live up to your kinky, peak-lust, psycho imagination."

As I am formulating my reply, she says, "Spartacus Slave Girl."

That's a story I published about my earliest virginal fantasies before I had any real sex. You can read it. A slave girl from a tribe conquered by Rome is pegged out naked and violated by an entire Roman legion. Finally, she dies. I got off on that fantasy hundreds of times because I was such a hot, totally naïve pussy I could not imagine enough sex, enough fucking, enough stiff dicks to satisfy me. Very mean to refer to it as 'psycho,' Amanda, dear. No buzz for you, for a while.

Amanda says, with some rather disturbing mind-reading, "And you still can't get enough crazy arousal and non-stop teasing..."

I hate arguments where I only can argue. I like to bring to bear what are called "fire-hose fuck" arguments. Nothing left of your opponent. Here, I'm momentarily stuck.

"Come here, I'll show you something you've never seen."

"I've seen everything." Ellen, that's frankly idiotic.

We are both nude, not quite dry, in the dim late afternoon light through Amanda's windows, two down-hanging pairs of tits—of very different dimensions—dangling in front of the computer screen.

Amanda declares: "It is horrifying, barbaric, unthinkable-and, also, blasphemous, irreligious, disrespectful..."

After 15 minutes, I am nodding agreement, staring down fascinated at yet another brief video, one of a seemingly endless variety of crucifixion scenes. Nice young girls with great healthy bodies and pretty faces, smiling, attached to a crude cross, hoisted skyward, to where the "crucifixion dance" begins: the naked woman's ceaseless, agitated, agonized twisting in her bondage, out-thrusting her breasts in desperate relief of her wrists, her long torso twisting and squirming, and then the sweat-wet cunt thoughtlessly thrust again and again at viewer to escape the awful weight of pain on the feet... and the face twisted as though in sexual passion, but actually gasping for breath through the stretched muscles of the chest, muscles that haul the tits high, wide apart...and so it goes on, the sweat gathering on the white skin of the chest, drops of sweat slicking the twisted pink-orange nipples...

I couldn't stop staring. Utter, awful exposure of each naked inch of the woman's body, exposure in a daze of agony that excluded all the initial mortification, the pretty faces almost blank as though drawn long with passion...now unaware of the increasingly arousing display below...aware only of the trigger points of pain in every joint...

"Want to be up there and see what it's like?"

Goddamn it. If there is one certain thing in my psyche it is that when I am exposed to an idea that fascinates me with its sheer bizarre impact on the viewer, I am not going to let it go. I will try...

I must have been nodding, in a daze, staring at that mesmerizing girl flesh, even the inner-most labia twisting as the hips writhe and the pubis is thrust forward ever-searching to relieve the agony.

Okay, here we go!

Just lean back, loosen your belt, stick your hand down, and watch the action on the big screen. Plenty dark, in here, no one is going to see the prairie dog burrowing own in your pants or panties, respectfully.

The scene opens...

The young woman is dressed in a rough brown robe that falls to her ankles. A cloth belt is cinched tight at her small waist. The big women on either side of her, with crushing grips on her upper arms, wear the garb of their religion, faces ovals framed in crimping cowls. The young woman walks rapidly, on her own; she will not be dragged; her small pretty feet with the mauve toenail polish are able to keep up. Only occasionally she stumbles on a root, a bruising stone, because her wrists are tied behind her back, under the robe, her feet are bare, and the path is littered with last autumn's dry leaves.

Suddenly, her guards jerk her to a halt.

Oh, my, what a pretty place to be crucified. In such good taste! A stretch of light-green sea oats, a farther rim of grey-white sandy beach, and then low, lapping bay waves of uncertain whitish green. This seascape is dotted with solitary evergreens and peopled by an occasional gesticulating grey skeleton of a weather-stripped tree. It is dry, but not desolate; the birds—flitting, skimming, soaring—seem to know that.

"Nice place, Amanda!" says the captive turning with a smile to the taller and decidedly bustier guard on her left. "It's crazy, though, Amanda! This looks just like the place my dad used to take my brothers and me for picnics and fishing. Absolutely deserted, miles from anywhere."

"Still is," says Amanda. "Told you it would be private. But you know, you're supposed to shut up. By now, you should be whimpering in terror. Do you have any idea what we're going to do to you, Ellen? You think this is a picnic?"

With that, the two guards abruptly almost lift their slender captive off the ground, dragging her forward, so that now the determined small feet are leaving a double-dragged trail in the soft sand. Where in hell is this cross, anyway? If it's on the beach, where every passing cabin cruiser, clamming boat, and cigarette mega-speed launch can see her writhing naked...

Okay, no. They are steering their steps into an indentation in the oak and sassafras woods, a clearing still by heavy sunlight, but sheltered from most of the bay. Nice going, a view of the bay looking out, but with privacy!

Ellen! The brutal, degraded Roman crowd is murmuring impatiently, jostling and cursing for a better view, laughing in anticipation of what is to come. They are waiting to watch you tied stark naked to the cross, your body writhing in its bondage, to see you pushing out first your wrenched-apart black-haired cunt, then shoving forward your pulled apart, uplifted, heaving tits with sweat-dripping nipples. Let's get to the moaning and that look of agonized passion on your pretty, lean face, your eyes rolling skyward in supplication as though fucked by Pain himself.

By now, the slender, cloak-shrouded young woman is entering the recessed sunlit clearing. Bright white sand for several yards, then forest on three sides, and, through a brief opening at the front, a long view on the diamond-glittering green bay. Can't over-emphasize the aesthetic aspect of the experience.

"Oh, no, Amanda! No! Not what we agreed! What the fuck are they doing, here?"

In a semi-circle on the sand are six young women in regulation Hamptons weekend garb: some in tight blue jeans and tank tops, some in bikinis, some in short-shorts and T-shirts. They stand at ease, hands behind their backs, perky young bosoms variously swelling forward, some long legs bare, a few faces smiling in friendly anticipation, but more with disturbingly tight looks of arousal, eyes glittering, wetted lips parted. All are gathered around a weather-beaten grey "T" of lumber, say 4X4's, in a traditional crux, cross, crucifix... A respectable one, more than 15 feet tall, with the tree's crosspiece some 12-feet high, so a girl's little feet at the base of her long nude body will twitch and writhe at least 6-feet off the ground.

"Where did you get all these girls...?" I am astounded; it is as though Amanda recruited six hot young girls I've noticed recently around town; they're all familiar to me—from the bar at Rowdy Hall, even the fucking bookstore! I whirl to Amanda in a panic. "You didn't say you were bringing anybody! The whole town is here!"

I can't believe this—all women I've noticed!

The protest is abruptly and very effectively cut off. A beefy female hand sweeps in an arc to slap the slender pretty face-just what the slave-girl script requires. The sound of the slap is shocking and the slight figure in the cowl screams in anger. We see, now, that she is a pale, dark-haired young woman, perhaps in her early 30's, with large smoldering dark brown eyes, a perfect straight nose, and full pink lips that seem unbearably soft. Now, those lips are slightly swollen by the meaty blow that shut her mouth.

Disclosure: She said a few more things-omitted here, for the sake of the scene of the thoroughly subdued young thing.

"Strip her!" cries Amanda.

The young woman in the robe and cowl shrinks back, still held on either side. The blow to her face, the first slight pain, has cast a pall on the picnic atmosphere. They come at her, not only the two that escorted her to this deserted place, but the waiting by-standers. Some pairs of hands, frankly a bit too eager for the scenario, tear off her robe with such wild force that the naked body inside loses balance, twirls, and smashes down into the sand, wrists bound behind her. She is expressing herself forcefully. Maybe another slap in the mouth...

What lies naked and helpless is a tall, pale body with a startlingly pinched waist, but, from our view, flaring buttocks full and rounded, legs that are thrashing, long and strong. In a moment, the body flips over, sputtering up at the circle of grinning, giggling female faces, a definite anger in the pretty captive's indignant expression. But what pleases the viewers is that the breasts, small but slightly pendulous, seem full and ample in contrast to the wasp-slim waist. If the camera is in close focus, so we see the breasts only against the yardstick of the torso, this is a full-boob babe. They're going to dangle, shutter, and jiggle in enticingly stress before this day is done.

"They usually began by violating them if it was a woman or a young man," Amanda is explaining to her henchmen but also the slave girl. "By the time they tied her to the cross, she was pretty used up, and smeared with dirt and blood." Amanda had done her homework, as promised...

Shit! What enthusiasm! Do I bring that out in people? Some chick about 18, just out of high school, for Christ's sake, has shed her bikini bottoms, lowered her pooch onto my face, and is rocking her twat astride my mouth. Her hands are pulling my hair on either side of my head; she is shouting, "Do me!"

Just wait till I see this bitch again in the wine shop!

In another second, she is complaining: "Come on! Do me, Ellen, you bitch!" Then, she slaps my tits hard. I'm going to get her, for that. I suck hard. There is a clit somewhere in this oily, slippery, swollen mess. I lick. Who knows what is what in here?

"Ouch!" Another bitch has a fistful of my pussy hair and is lifting me! I've let it grow and it's so thick and black, now, everyone wants a handful. The young thing is hauling me open, her own bra already shed so her boobs swing forward as she leans over me with what looks like a roller pin in her hand! Her nipples are stiff little peaks in anticipation of reaming me.

"Uh!" I'll bet you guessed what comes next! Yup, there it is! "Uh!" Right up, all the way, painfully banging into the neck of my uterus. This girl is clueless about what a pussy is. It is JUST a pussy! Get it? Soft, six inches long, tender? What is this urge, even in girls, to hammer in a two-foot surveyor's stake...?

Okay, I've been graduated from the phase of everyone-who-wants-her-gets-her. The slave girl has been taken. Amanda's voice is directing the scene. When I am pulled up, I see I was lying only partially in sand. A smear of dirt on my cheek, one long one on the side of my breast and down to my tummy, dirt on my thighs around my pussy that from a distance looks like a bad shave.

Just a staggering step or two and slam, I'm down, again, totally naked on this bare grey 4X4 and the bare wood is hot on my ass and my back! Amanda said, back when we talked, "No nails! No ropes, either, 'cause your wrists are too delicate."

Thick black-leather padded cuffs on each of my wrists, hooked by two shiny clips to two eye-hooks at each end the cross piece, my arms long as they are stretched wide, so I feel my boobs being drawn upward and apart and my nipples, one scratched and partially smudged with dirt, erect in expectation.

Oh, God, what of those dusky slave maidens of Rome, stripped, beaten, dragging the cross-piece a mile or more, already nailed to it, to the fixed crucifixion post... Flogged all the way! And really raped!

Sorry, I'll be sure to read more. Too late to carry placards: "No more beautiful naked slave crucifixions. Elect Emperor Sanders."

Just one momentary delay. The cool wet neck of a jug is thrust between my teeth. I must drink the water or drown in it. I gulp and gulp, gasping, but they won't stop. Well, the great torture on the cross is thirst...

No more postponements. They're lifting it! Plunking the end right down into a hole; if they drop this thing, now, I'm broken into at least three pieces. But it's astounding: How are these babes so well organized? Heave-ho, and hot, dirty, banged-up Ellen goes right up there against a gorgeous blue summer sky for all to ogle!

My ankles aren't moving much. More cuffs and eye bolts. The bottoms of my feet are flat against opposite sides of the upright. My split thighs go outward in opposite directions, then, at the knees, my calves slant in to come together at my feet—a nice diamond shape, with my pussy at its apex, opened. Yikes, this is exposure! The Romans saw public exposure, being stripped in public, as intensely humiliating, mortifying. No Roman citizen, only enemies of Rome, or Roman slaves, could be crucified. And Roman citizens of all levels waited in crowds with bated breath to witness the utter humiliation that they themselves dreaded.

Here we are, Ellen. Great plan, Amanda! Wrists beginning to hurt, but elbows and shoulders worse, twisted. Nice, my boobs are really lifted, widely separated. Already, in the brutal sun, there is a bright sheen of sweat on my pale white chest, between my tits. Those always too big red nipples are twisted, crinkled, puckering out; already, they are gleaming with sweat. Sweaty drops on them about to fall. Nice!

What a view. I gaze over the sea oats, the rim of sandy beach, across the white-green bay littered with glittering diamonds. Difficult to get a good lung full, here. Got to heave myself up, take some weight. The dance of crucifixion begins.

"Yow!" Amanda, you bitch! She is down there gazing straight up, with a huge grin on her face. Her heavy-duty bathing suit top is gone and from here her huge parted breasts seem to jut out about a foot. I can see the big aureole pulled almost flat by the weight of the boob. She holds a long spear in her hands with a kind of dildo for a tip. Good tool, know it well from the crucifixion videos. Just to be expected. Just as the victim is entering the stage of dazed despair and agony that never will end, slam! Up the helpless pussy.

Yeah, but remember it's just your good buddy, Ellen, Amanda, and she isn't here to die, remember? It's just a pussy, Amanda, not a wild boar that you're spearing! I only briefly feel the blunt thing nosing in my bush, tickling me—could use more that, Amanda, right there on the clit—and then, zap! She rams it up so I squeal and rise on my bound ankles to escape the assault on my womb. There is loud clapping, cheering; I slowly become aware of it because the frantic pace of the up and down jabbing dildo, bonging my cunt again and again, is distracting. She IS going stop, isn't she? Sometime? I know I am yelling at her, but the small crowd is much louder.

My hips are starting to jerk back and forth, now; my pelvis is churning my pussy around and around; my head is thrown back; I am breathing hard, my tits rising and falling. This thing is so big that with every thrust and withdrawal, it is dragging on my clit, teasing it. Not quite fast enough...not quite consistently enough...My eyes are shut, willing progress...

"She's fucking herself!" calls out one refined young thing in a delighted voice and there is a round of catcalls. Christ! Amanda is destroying my cunt without quite making me come; I'm using the last strength in my thighs to lift myself away, to raise my belly, but it's jolt, jolt, jolt and I can't hold myself up, anymore.

Something goes black. Did I faint? Because next thing I know, I'm aware again of the scene, but it is late afternoon, the sun much lower in the west, its rays softening. I quickly notice two things. Something has been attached to the cross, right under me, between my spread thighs where I lifted myself as high as my exhausted muscles could manage. Right between my legs, at that height, is something now holding me up-a little seat? I read about that...a sedile, they called it... supporting the victim, prolonging death...But this not a seat; it is a kind of rod, a jutting perch for a bird.

My whole crack has come down on it and split in two. It is a triangle of wood attached to the cross between my thighs. I must have collapsed on it. I feel the edge of the triangle cutting up into my soft folds, slicing the labia, pinning my crushed clitoris under my weight...

I shout in panic, protesting. What is this thing doing to my cunt? And why am I not squealing agony, heaving myself off my torture seat, relieving the crushed flesh? But no, it is not painful. In fact, I notice that my arms don't hurt, either. Maybe I'm dead—or almost.

Nope, not that, either. Even as I wake up, I am riding like a wild woman on the cutting blade immovable between my cunt lips. I should start weeping at this final penetration of my softest womanhood, except it feels so good! It saws up into me, but I am jerking myself on it. SO good! Shameless! Fucking myself six feet above the ground, where...

OMG. Awareness number two. Now there are men down there, too, half a dozen guys I know from around town. In various states of nudity; yum-yum, look at all those nice heavy cocks smoothly arching from their hairy bellies! What the fuck can possibly be happening...

Amanda! She's the one I need! Goddamn it! I see her wide grin down there at my feet. The same massive knockers jut. Then I notice that one hand, then another, gently rubs the big top surface of her tits. What is this? She moves under me only slightly; sometimes something glistens on one of her big fleshy shelves; she rubs there. Men and woman alike, cheering and hooting! Then it comes to me!