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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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