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Beauty of Crucifixion
A
number of qualities come to mind when I view a woman
crucified. The first is her own beauty; a cross
stretches her limbs and tightens her tummy. It thrusts
her breasts out, and often since she is raised a few
feet off the ground, her breasts are right at eye (and
tongue) level. If she is a little higher, then her pussy
is within direct licking range. Depending on the
arrangement, it either makes her perfectly symmetrical,
her arms spread wide, and her hips facing flat, her legs
laid long; or it directly exposes her sex to whatever
lust desires.
Second, I love to watch how a woman who is crucified
copes with the pain. Since the whole point of a
crucifixion is pain, you need a slave who not only can
handle the pain, but who can also internalize it. A good
slave lets the pain reverberate back out in a tortured
form of expression, either moans, or pleas, whimpers,
groans, or a writhing effect. The only part of the body
free to move, the head, is interesting to watch too. For
instance, I love to see how a slave's head turns and
looks over their various hurts, and how they eventually
shake their hair to accommodate one last degree of
personal control.
Third in the sense of qualities is control. The cross,
in one sense to me, represents a position of enforced
discipline. There were times when I've condemned a slave
to be crucified in order to punish them. There were
other times when I crucified them for no apparent reason.
At these times, aesthetics might be a suitable
explanation, if such is needed, but always below the
surface is that element of control. The control effect
consists not only of the period when the slave actually
feels the wood, but the period afterwards when I can use
the fear of going through the ritual again to change
their behavior.
During this phase, when the slave hangs on the cross, I
love to examine all the contrasts declared by the body
when set against the harshness of the cross. First, her
skin is soft, delicate, and warm; the wood is hard,
thorny, and cold. Second, her curves flow smoothly all
around, the richness of her face and eyes, the
loveliness of her breasts and nipples, versus the strict
linear phallic intentions of the pole. The rippling of
her muscles as she struggles against the bonds and
gravity also intrigue me. I like to see a slave writhe,
I want to see them struggle, I like when they inevitably
invite me to take them down by offering me their body
openly... and to that, I say 'no', 'fuck you' or rather,
"I'll let the cross fuck you". I like to degrade their
pretty or sophisticated features by letting them writhe
in agony and wallow in pain, despair, agony, and shame,
even perhaps watching as urine dribbles over the whip
marks of the insides of their thighs.
In fact, this is probably the most erotic and esoteric
side of the whole crucifixion for me: the contrast
between the 'hard' and the 'soft'. The pain of a Roman
crucifixion caused the victim to oscillate between
hanging from the spikes in their arms to standing on the
spike in their feet. From a short distance away, this
would appear to be a little dance, up and down, without
end, and infinitely dreadful. In other sense, you can
say that a slave is literally being fucked by a big
wooden dick for everyone to see. And worse of all, it's
their own strong leg muscles that do that fucking.
This leads to the second big phase of my interest in
crucifying women. During my radical feminist stage of
the mid-seventies, I often clashed internally over my
intense sexually dominant personality and my overt
equally intense struggle for equal rights for women.
Strangely enough, the feminists who I went to bed with
found this interesting, but one woman showed me a
reference that sent my head spinning. There was a
growing movement in the theoretical aspects of feminism
at the time to discredit any male influenced
philosophies. One of the criticisms made concerned the
sexual proclivities of famous philosophers. One theorist,
Mary Daly, postulated that all male philosophers
masturbated to the images of women crucified, and worse
yet, she actually had evidence from some of their wives.
After their deaths, their wives or archivists had
stumbled upon their personal collections of pornography.
Reels upon reels of black and white film from the early
parts of the century showed where these philosophers
had filmed grad students or lovers or even their wives
crucified in hundreds of positions.
Tarquinius Rex
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