Nailing Lisa

NAILING LISA

by Casanova X

The 19-year-old girl was knelt on the floor of the study clad only in the skimpiest of bikinis. The garment did little to hide her ample breasts and the thong bottom halved her bare and perfect buttocks.

“Please Mister Simmons,” Lisa wept pitifully. “I promise not to try to escape again. I’ll do anything you say. Anything at all.”

Mister Simmons looked up from his Times.

“Of course you will do anything I say. You are my property, young lady. I have always done whatever I wanted to you.”

“But my parents, surely they would object to snuffing me…”

           Unfortunately, you don’t understand the full import of the contract I signed with your parents or the substantial sum I paid them for you. It seems you were nothing but a problem for them as well. Whore that you were---drinking, drugs, and two abortions. They are through with you. And quite rightly, too, I might add.”

The girl sobbed softly. Mr. Simmons felt not the least bit of pity. He had dealt with many “troublesome” girls before. He had had the means and the money to do it, being the owner and proprietor of this sexual “playground” in the Nevada desert where the super rich and powerful came to play. Naturally, there were considerable rewards such as the use of this girl’s well-endowed and nubile young body over the last seven months. He thought she’d been adjusting rather nicely to her new role as a member of his slave harem for hire. That is, until she had attempted to run away. Mr. Simmons took the expensive cigar he was smoking out of his mouth and examined the burning tip before speaking.

“Do you have any idea how much I had to pay off the police chief for your stupid attempt at escape?”

“Mr Simmons,” the girl wept, her breasts heaving seductively in her bikini stop, “I’m so sorry. Please it will never happen again. I promise you.”

“You’re right,” Mr. Simmons said. “It won’t ever happen again. You will be scourged and crucified for my entertainment and the instruction of the other girls of my harem.”

“No,” the terrified girl said, throwing herself at his feet. “Please anything but that. Please no!”

Mr. Simmons was no longer listening. He pressed a button on the table next to him and two large men dragged the weeping, hysterical girl away to the whipping post in the courtyard.

The girl had been stripped of her bikini top and was now, except for the little triangle of lace barely covering her pubes, was naked in the blazing southwestern sun. She had spent most of her time at the ranch as an indoor slave and so her pale skin made her look particularly defenseless. Her wrists had been lashed together with a leather thong and attached to an iron ring hammered into the plain wooden whipping post. One of the men had also thought to bind her ankles together as well so she couldn’t move around much as she was whipped.

Mr. Simmons noted the crown of baby roses that had been placed around her blonde head. The roses only made the girl look sweeter and more innocent. You had to look closely to see how the thorns pressed painfully into her flesh. Mr. Simmons knew that one of the many girls who were now gathered in the courtyard to watch the scourging and crucifixion must have made the crown herself.  She had done an exceptionally good job.  Of course, he had no idea which girl it was. It didn’t make any difference. He expected excellence from all his girls. A girl was only brought to his particular attention when she had failed at some task or other.

And then he decided the punishment.

For attempted runaways, it was always death.

       A large powerfully muscled man stripped to the waist and wearing only leather pants and boots stood behind the girl and waited for a signal from Mr. Simmons.

       With a slight nod, Mr. Simmons initiated the whipping of the bound girl.

       The man let the long whip trail in the dust then with a well-practiced movement it suddenly leapt into the air, poised for just a moment, and lashed across the defenseless back of the nineteen-year-old girl. Lisa cried out with shock and pain. The heavily braided leather left a neat bloody diagonal wound on the white flesh that Mr. Simmons appreciated greatly. The assembled girls held their hands over their mouths but still they could hardly suppress a collective gasp of horror.  They knew as well as everyone that the punishment was forty lashes. There were still thirty-nine more to go. How could anyone withstand that much punishment?

       But Mr. Simmons knew that the human body—even the body of a frail, pretty nineteen-year-old-girl—had a tremendous capacity to bear pain and survive. He calmly counted off the strokes as the whip came down again and again over Lisa’s delicate back. The man with the whip had taken to his task with a rather grim sense of artistry. By the time he was finished, he made carved a neat cross-hatching on the white flesh of the young woman who had long ceased trying to hop away from the blows, her bound feet making that all but impossible. Instead, she resigned herself  to the pain, pressing her sweaty forehead leaning against the stained post, and clenching her pretty teeth against the endless pain. She tried to count the number of blows but the pain had been too much and she lost count again and again. In addition to the pain of the blows themselves, the sweat seeped into the open wounds and made her flesh feel as if it were on fire.

Now she just prayed for the whipping to be over.

Lisa was certain nothing could hurt worse than what she was experiencing now.

She was hardly thinking clearly enough to realize that the sooner the pain of the whipping was over the sooner she would have to face the far greater pain of the crucifixion itself.

But first she would have to carry her own cross to the small hillock at the end of the vast desert property.

       Lisa would have to carry the heavy wooden cross over five hundred yards to the place where she would be crucified. Two other heavily-muscled men dressed only in leather pants placed the cross on the girl’s left shoulder and told her to get moving. The other girls had been assembled on both sides of the path and had been ordered to shout out insults as Lisa passed by carrying her burden. Actually, it hadn’t been too hard to motivate them to mock and deride Lisa as they would be put on half-rations for the next two weeks, forced to double their hours of labor, and also be subjected to additional punishments as a “precautionary” measures. So it was that Lisa heard their taunts and angry obscenities as she made her way through the angry gauntlet of girls who hurled small stones and handfuls of sand at her as she passed.

       The cross was even heavier than it looked and its rough wood chafed terribly on her bare shoulder. But it was the anger in the faces of her former fellow slaves that hurt her now most of all. These girls—while they could never be her friend in the conventional sense of the word—were at least all in the same situation together. They tried to comfort each other when they could and even offered each other advice on how to get through the ordeals they regularly had to suffer. Now these very same girls were spitting and cursing her with genuine anger. Lisa felt hot tears roll down her cheeks. She was being abandoned by everyone.

       Suddenly, her knees buckled and she fell under the weight of the cross. She was able to throw her right hand forward just in time to keep from falling flat on her face. The men in the leather pants cracked their whips on her buttocks and the backs of her pale thighs. It took all of her strength but Lisa managed to shoulder the heavy cross and climb to her feet. She struggled in the heat, pelted by stones and insults, and fell several more time before she made it to the small hillock that would be the place of her final agony. She was so exhausted from her ordeal that she hardly noticed the men laying her on the wood, spreading her arms wide and binding them at the wrists and elbows with rough hemp.

       Mr. Simmons was sitting in a high chair overlooking the proceedings under a large umbrella. On either side of him, two beautiful girls in string bikinis were gently fanning stirring the air to cool him. The men in the leather pants looked up and he nodded. They each pressed the point of a nail just inside the wrist bone above the hemp rope and lifted their heavy mallets. Lisa opened her eyes just long enough to see the mallets fall and then squeezed her eyes shut on the pain that screamed from her open mouth. The men ignored her cries, raised the mallets and let them fall again, driving the nails deep into the wood beneath her pinioned arms. Lisa stared wildly to both sides, seeing the surreal sight of her arms nailed to the crossbar.

       The pain was excruciating and she tried to lift her legs in a kind of fetal position but the men in the leather pants were forcing them down pressing them against the wood. There was a small triangular wedge at the base of cross and they forced Lisa’s legs to bend at the knees so that the soles of her bare feet rested on the wedge. She tried to fight against their strength but it was useless. She felt their strong grip around her ankles as they placed her feet side by side and then felt sharp point of the nails against her insteps. She closed her eyes again as the mallets were raised and a moment later felt the blinding pain as the nails were driven through the tiny bones in her dainty feet. The mallets fell three times until it felt as if her poor feet were being literally crushed. Lisa moaned in agony but no one seemed to care. Finally, her bare feet were securely nailed to the wooden wedge.

       Above her head a sheet of paper that represented Lisa’s crime and confession scrawled in her own hand was nailed just above her head. It was more for the benefit of the other girls than for Lisa. It read, simply, “Escapee.”

       She moaned even louder as her cross was lifted and dropped into a hole that had been dug earlier in the center of the small hillock. Her body shook as the cross hit the bottom of the hole sending fresh waves of pain through her. The hole was filled in with rocks and earth and set properly and then the men in the leather pants stepped back, but not before one used a long knife to sever the strings holding the bikini slung low on her youthful hips. Lisa heard the jeers and mock cheers of the assembled girls as she was now displayed completely naked and nailed under the hot sun. From his chair, Mr. Simmons clapped slowly, his seat level with Lisa’s face so that he could see the thousand expressions of torture contorting her beautiful features.

       Lisa was now properly crucified and all that was left was the waiting.

       For all the pain she had already suffered, Lisa thought the worst was over. But she was wrong. The agony had only just begun. The pain in her wrists and feet were overtaken by the terrible struggle to breathe. She had to force herself up against the rough cross, her raw back rubbing against the splintered wood, all her weight on her nailed feet, just to sip at the hot stifling air. Each breath cost her so much energy and pain she dreaded the one to come. She sagged back down on the cross where a phallic shaped piece of wood protruded and seemed to allow her to take some of the weight off her feet. Really, the device was to keep the nails from tearing through the flesh of her hands. There was nothing merciful about this cross.

       She was in her third hour of agony. Mr. Simmons had retired inside for a lunch of cold shrimp and white wine while the rest of the girls were required to watch Lisa suffer under the sun. They were growing angrier and angrier that she would not die so that they too could get out of the scalding heat. Lisa felt their hatred and didn’t understand why they felt no pity for her at all. Didn’t they understand that she was afraid to die? Didn’t they care at all? Her pale unprotected flesh was now burned red by the sun. Her body was covered with a sheen of sweat and her hair was a blonde matted tangle of perspiration and blood from her crown of thorns. She would give anything for a drink of water. She had tried to ask for one several times but her requests were only met with jeers and obscenities.

“Die you stupid bitch,” they shouted in unison. “Die!”

Lisa could hardly hold her head up any longer and she let it drop over what had once been her magnificent body. It was ruined now. The spikes in her wrists and feet had seen to that. She watched the blood trickling down between her bare toes to the dry earth at the base of her cross and wept.

       It would all be over soon.

       But not soon enough for the girls who used to be her friends.

Mr. Simmons returned from lunch and looked resplendent in a fresh suit of white linen. His slave-girls fanned him after he took his high chair of honor beside the cross.

       “Well Lisa,” he said calmly, sipping something lime-colored from a tall glass of crushed ice. “Have you had enough?”

       Lisa could hardly muster the strength to push herself up on her bruised feet. Still, her body refused to die, even if her mind realized the futility of trying to survive. She scrunched her toes and shimmied up only to receive another mouthful of hot arid air. She heard in Mr. Simmons question an end to her suffering and possibly the only show of mercy she would have ever receive from him. Most likely, she thought sadly, he had just grown bored with her. Either way, Lisa had definitely had enough of this torture.

       Mr. Simmons watched Lisa struggle to speak.

“She’s trying to say something,” he called out. “Microphone, please.”

One of his men lifted a pole with a microphone at the end and held it in front of the dying girl’s cracked lips.

“Yes,” Lisa managed, her voice dry as the sand that stretched for miles around her. Each word cost her so much precious breath. “But Mr. Simmons…my body….”

       “What about your body Lisa?” Mr. Simmons said impatiently. “What is it you’re trying to say? Out with it.”

       Lisa forced herself up on her tortured feet one last time to gasp for air.

       “My parents…” she gasped, “will you give my body to them…to be buried…”

       Mr. Simmons laughed. “What would your parents do with your dead body, you silly girl? Do you really think you deserve a decent burial? Besides how would your parents explain that their daughter died of crucifixion? I’m afraid your parents had no use for you alive or dead. That was part of the contract. I paid dearly for you and I’m rather disappointed I have to snuff you. Still, I will sell your body to a certain individual who procures beautiful dead girls like yourself. I don’t ask him what he does with them. That’s his business. But I should still stand to make a small profit. Now if you're ready…”

       Lisa dropped her head. Her body shook with sobs. She realized that no one cared about her anymore.

       No one at all.

       She deserved to die and now she wanted to die more than anything.

       She was not surprised to see her friend Pam step forward with a long spear. Pam looked angry and miserable for having been kept out in the sun for so long and there wasn’t the least trace of mercy in her face. Nor was there the least trace of compassion in the way she shoved the razor-sharp point of the lance between Lisa’s ribs puncturing several vital organs. The tip of the spear was barbed did almost as much damage on the way out as it did going in and Lisa felt herself bleeding inside.

       She lifted her head one last time to thank Pam but saw the ugly look on her once best friend’s beautiful face and heard her angry words:

       “Fuck you bitch! Die!”

       Lisa tried to say she was sorry but the words had turned to blood which poured from her open mouth. Her head fell forward and once again she founder herself staring at her once pretty bare feet, nailed cruelly side by side, blood dripping from her toes. But the blood was also running down her side from the spear-wound between her ribs. And the blood from her open mouth was splashing her pretty breasts. Lisa suddenly lost control of her bladder and felt the warm piss streaming between her thighs. It ran down her legs for what seemed like minutes, the golden urine  momentarily washing the blood off her toes. She heard the laughter of the girls and felt deeply ashamed at having wet herself. But she knew her humiliation was fast coming to an end. In spite of the heat, she had begun shivering all over and with one last effort not at all of her choosing she lifted up on the cross to draw one last breath, her head facing the clouds, her mouth gaping.

       But no air filled her lungs this time.

       And she slid back down the cross and sagged forward.

       Only dimly was she aware of the applause of the girls gathered around the hillock where she’d been crucified.

       Her last thought was that for the first time in her life she had done something right.