Wednesday in Soho

I tell myself I'll be strong. I won't let these strangers shame me like the last time (and the time before, and the time before that….) I squeeze my eyes shut behind my blindfold, grit my teeth and lock my legs in position determined not to move. I jump a bit when someone wants to see how far he or she can jam his or her finger into my arse. 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 moisture begins to seep from between them. My pussy 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. I shudder and before I know it my arse 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; "Voracious slit," says an overly articulate man, and "Dripping 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 sweeping of fingers across my pussy and the constant poking have 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 on my knees 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 familiarized 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; the boys must know something is wrong. I whisper to Bruce that I need to Pee NOW! and 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 arse. "OK, you’re 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 arse.

"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 the 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 cross piece 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. A hardwood knob two inches in diameter caps it.

My ankles bump against the footrests 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. 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. A blow follows it 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. 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 a full 18 inches into the aperture that has been built into the stage, 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. In its truest and deadliest form, however, 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 its end. The sedile presses along the crack of my arse as I lower myself further. My legs fold and my arms support most of my weight. In this position I seem to be kneeling in mid air but still my legs are splayed wide and I still cannot 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 arse 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 some 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 breath 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 arse checks and presses me down as if to impale my bottom. In fact the knob of the sedile is forced half way into my arse 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 arse 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.