WARNING: The following fiction contains material for consenting ADULTS ONLY, and
only in communities accepting such material. If scenes of forced torture leading
to crucifixion offend you, please do not read further.
Your cooperation in requesting the author's expressed permission before using
this fiction elsewhere is strongly appreciated.
Thank you.
F.
Cruel Sport
A shock of straw blond blurred the viewfinder's gaze. He adjusted the
scope for the distance. Crosshairs sharpened the profile. Reminiscing on his
part in last night's gang bang, a smile slowly creased his cheeks as he squeezed
the Remington 30.06. trigger. Before he did, the lean target disappeared from
the magnified view. Schyerl Tiburon screamed as the boulder behind her exploded.
Splintered rock sprayed in all directions. Her six-foot body tucked and rolled.
Rolling back to her bleeding bare feet she sprang forward, and out from the
shooter's aim.
With a jerk the trap grabbed the ankle. Escape no longer proved an
option
Scared, naked and now hanging upside down; The morning wasn't getting
any better. Branches from the tree creaked. Leaves shuddered. Some fell. Above
tree leaves and the sky made dizzy spirals. The two brief flaps corded around
her waist now fluttered over part of her stomach and the small of her back.
Schyerl's other leg, the one whose ankle was not trapped by the rope, angled
outward. A light breeze underscored the obvious; by one leg she hung, obscenely
exposed.
Those alongside the shooter congratulated his marksmanship. Chuckles
even came from those without the benefit of high-powered optics for yards away
for all could see. The shining limb pointed upward, announcing a clear signal
that their elusive human prey was no longer so elusive. The shooter's aim had
served them all well.
A splash of water reawakened her senses. Sputtering, Schyerl found
herself upright once again, yet her ankles and wrists were not free. Blinking
away the remaining wash of salty water, she twisted but was held between two
tall posts. She rattled the binds, but they held just as fast as the trap had in
its own way.
Adults standing before her looked like those dressed for a costume
party. "Welcome back. Glad you could join us for our little Passion Play." The
one closest tossed away what was left of a soaked leather bag of water. He and
all of them were outfitted in ancient Roman soldier garb. Behind the plumed
helmets she could see enough to recognize that these were last night's miserable
rapists and today's costumed hunters.
The shocking blow winded. What felt like lengths of barbed wire winded
and ripped at her back. Schyerl Tiburon yelled and thrust forward in an attempt
to escape this newest evil. She gasped and choked. Head and hair flew back. One
in front with exqusite timing waited for just such a moment and swung. Schyerl
screamed out. Lacerations tore at her chest as it thrust out. Sweat flew. This
time, her body arched concavely. More fire burned across her spine. Reflexively,
her neck bent back and breasts jutted for a second time. Again the proffered
front was struck. The back and forth motion continued with the scourging,
various body fluids splattering with every strike.
The two men hit at their bucking target until little flesh was left
uncut. They stopped to refresh themselves. Only then did they care to notice the
spread-eagle female slumped before them, wild contortions stilled. Head lowered;
chin resting on her upper chest, tendrils of darkened blond hair lankly sticking
over bleeding wounds she dripped, battered and unconscious.
"Wake her again, and put this gown on." The garment was really something
more someone would wear at night, a wrap over a negligee. Two swift slaps swung
her face from side to side. She moaned as straps holding her wrists and ankles
to the two posts were undone and she was freed from between the whipping posts.
The gauzy material of the dressing gown hid little. Color dyed plumes from two
gleaming helmets swayed as men struggled to hold her up and slip each hand into
a long sleeve. Everywhere the thin material touched flesh seemed to glue. The
sheerness of the gown became more transparent as it melded with skin. Rounded
tops of scourged breasts matted to the flimsy fabric. Ravaged nipples pointed up
the material as if still uncovered. Lashes showed as shadows until weeping welts
unfocused their distinction. Smears began to hide details. The helmet plumes
eased their frantic waving. With a deep gap between the gown's lapels left open,
a belt cinched around her waist.
They stood alongside in case she was not able to stand on her own.
"Bring her along..." Their precaution proved unnecessary. One of them shoved
her.
Others appeared as she plodded along. Through tangles covering her
downcast face she could make out a small group of women. All of them were young,
and all wore wispy clothes like the gown she was given, theirs' being much
shorter, and cleaner. The women huddled in a group as she approached, giggling
and pointing. Schyerl Tiburon forced herself to take one more step, but the
burden across the back of her shoulders proved too great. Arms wrapped around
the wood beam were no help in breaking her loss of balance. Both legs buckled.
Knees hit first. The others watched but did little to prevent her fall.
They stood closer now, to each side as she was pulled back to her feet.
Schyerl could make out most of their details. All looked pretty in a whorish
sort of way. All continued to giggled, though some clearly were hesitant over
her condition. Two had long brunette hair, a tall redhead stood watching, and
two others were natural blonds. Their skimpy clothes made to look like short
togas also were see-through. More than one cupped a hand over her mouth in
apparent dismay.
The man who did most of the talking faced her. His costume looked more
regal than the rest. Schyerl wearily stared back at onyx eyes inside the golden
helmet. She could see no more mercy in their malevolence than when she was raped
last night. "Strip her!" He stepped back and two men came from each side.
What was relief from the weight of the wood being lifted off turned to
fresh pain as the gown was torn away. Fresh scabs bonded by fabric and welts
shattered in the undressing, reopening old lacerations.
"Cummon you girls. Let's enjoy", cheerily said the lumbering faux
soldier. The two blonds started to protest. One elbow was grabbed and a beefy
arm hugged the turquoise-clad waist of another.
The stripping of Schyerl Tiburon had revealed more tortures that tended
to offend even the prostitutes' sturdy moral turpitude. A consensus was quickly
reached: the premium compensation paid for participating in this kinky event
made such gross torture unacceptable. That and their portly costumed john's
size. One of blonds gamely grabbed a half-filled bottle of Chardonnay on the way
to one of the picnic blankets.
Her screams muted to mere groans. She could not remember how long she
had hung from the cross. The nailing and the trauma that went with it filled
pages best left unturned. She thirst. Breathing became all important. Waning
strength increased the challenge to savor each tiny gasp. Only occasionally
would sharp pains now emerge from her numbed and nailed feet and then force
louder cries. Especially when she needed to press down to rise up for that
much-needed gulp of air.
He removed the gilded golden helmet with the fancy scarlet plume rising
from its crest and deeply sighed as he lounged between two whores on the spread
blanket. He French-kissed one of them, sipped some wine and pointed with his
glass to the crucified. "It was a bit of work and I'm whupped. But is she worth
it or what?!"
On the ground all were interrupted by another strangled cry from the
crucified. The tall nude's muscles writhed and flexed one more time. Glistening
with sweat and blood, her face a grimacing map of determination and agony,
Schyerl Tiburon once more strained to inch along the upright. Predictably, she
would frantically exhale and inhale as her arms became level. Dimly heard by her
were the toasts and cheers from the picnickers. Gasping for breath would not
take long before the inevitable slide back down. From nailed wrists she would
then hang, knees bent and thighs obscenely open.
Glad they were not subject to such cruel sport, and vowing never to be
whatever the enticement, the young women on terra firma quickly distracted the
men's attention back to them. With a hand unsteady for a variety of reasons a
statuesque brunette refilled her john's drink.
The day sunk deeply into late afternoon as Schyerl Tiburon's torture
continued.
