For once, we were going to see something interesting. The club had been lagging recently, some new members, some good parties and experiences, but nothing really new.

Two new members had volunteered for crucifixion, something that had not happened in a long time. There had been a buzz in the membership with increased interest in most everything the club did, from its dungeon nights, to its weekend "getaways". The ripple effect had been marvelous, reenergizing the activities.

One member, a guy, had been talked in to the ritual. I wasn't involved with it, but I heard he was hot enough to join the group he had been willing to take the plunge, when promised he would be crucified next to a rather pretty young woman. It just goes to show how naive some people can be, he actually thought he might have the time and energy to observe his partner on the cross.

The girl though.... now this was something special. I interviewed her when she first came to us, and she was unusual, to say the least. Medium height, long black hair, a cute young face with a small mouth and a slightly turned up nose. A thin frame and clothes that almost hid the muscle underneath, as well as almost perfectedly formed breasts. She was a wonder, beautiful, elegant, enthusiastic. But what really made her special was her attitude. She wanted to be crucified. It had been her wish for some time, and the prospect of having found a group of people that might actually satisfy her kink was exciting to her. There was a freshness to her attitude, a desire and willingness that made me think we might actually be able to revitalize the club.

And so, after being passed through the usual checks by the commitee, it was scheduled. A special weekend, out at the remote farm owned by the club for these special, private events which needed to be hidden from prying eyes. Everything was thought out and prepared for, from the comfort and enjoyment of club members to the suffering of the two victims.

I arrived at the farm in the early Saturday morning, not wanting to miss any of the festivities. The sun was up, and it was already warming. It would be hot by mid-day. I joined the other early arrivals by the tents that had been set up, and poured myself some coffee. The cinnamon rolls were good, and I munched as I chatted up some of the other members. The talk was of many things, but always eventually came round to the pending torture of the new club members.

"How long will they last?"

"Not sure, but it should be at least several hours. If we are lucky, it might extend in to the evening hours."

"Any chance for something that will go overnight? I think that would be a blast!"

"Hahaha... well, we can push them, and see! They won't have a lot of choice in the matter."

"I wonder if they slept well?"

More laughter from the group, who knew the victims were chained in the barn after a rough night in the cold and a rather severe flogging the night before.

"You should have seen the girl last night... she looked so sweet during the flogging, she has muscles and you could see every one of them tense with each lick of that whip."

And so the conversation went.

A few of the members heard the barn doors open, and we all turned to go outside. For some, it would be the first glimpse of the victims. There was an air of anticipation as two club members that were serving as executioners came out, dragging lengths of chain behind them. Attached to each chain was a collar, and in each collar an almost nude victim, one male, one female. Each had their wrists shackled together.

They looked different, a lot different from when I first met them. Parts of their bodies were an angry red, with interlaced stripes of an ugly purple, from the previous night's flogging. I cringed a little, at the same time that I felt an erection stiring. They were dirty, though they had had water dumped on them before coming out, it was clear they had wallowed in the straw and dirt of the barn for some time. And they already looked tired, worn out from no sleep and pain.

The girl though... the girl looked incredible. When I had seen her before she had a bright glow about her, light skin with dark hair that shined and flowed from her head like a waterfall. Her movements had been fluid and quick, and her smile brief and eager, mixed with sarcasm and biting wit.

I could still see these qualities in her, but her hair was a scraggly mess, the dirt smeared her face. It was clear that she had been crying, and equally clear she refused to do so now, in front of the club members that watched her carefully. She was stumbling in her movements, the fluidity gone and replaced with a plodding determination. She had spirit, this one.

The guy was skinny, and had a frightened look on his face. I think he was just beginning to realize what he had gotten himself in to, and knew it was too late. Once he had the irons clamped on last night, there was no turning back. The whip last night had explained that to him in no uncertain terms.

I decided I was not interested in the male victim. The female was the reason I was here. Not just because she was beautiful, which she was, but because of that spirit. I wanted to see her suffer, embrace the suffering, and finally break. What can I say, I am a sadist. Its why I am in the club.

They were led to two tall heavy posts with hooks in them at various points. The whipping posts. They had seen much use since the club had purchased the farm and begun holding these events. There were even blood stains on them, if you knew where to look.

The female victim was strung up on a hook, arms above her, so her body was taught. She was wearing a loin cloth of sorts, but the rest of her body was exposed by the strain, and it was wonderful. I walked over to her, and had a chance to observe her closely along with some of the other members. We touched her, feeling her shy away, only to be touched elsewhere. Her exposure was humiliating for her, I could see, but she was not reacting overtly.

Her arms stretched over her head, pulled up by the hook, revealed the muscles in her shoulders and back. She worked out. Not super skinny, but her body was low in fat, high in muscle. And every muscle was pulled taught, her ribs exposed, breasts hanging down and scraping against the whipping post, leg muscles straining as she stood on her toes.

Her skin was beautiful, even as it was red and stripped. Wounded as she was, touching her skin, I could almost feel the pain she felt as she moaned quietly to herself. This was what I loved, the closeness to the victim's suffering, becoming the yin to her yang, becoming the sadist to her masochist, desiring her pain, just as she desired it.

We stepped back, as the executioner approached with his flogger. It was a long one, with nasty looking leather strips. It might not shred her skin, but it might feel like it.

Talking ceased as the executioner positioned himself behind her. The first stroke was hard, lashing across her shoulders and under her arms. The shock of it made her jerk, her head yanking back as she looked to the sky. With the second stroke her head fell back down, and pressed against the post.

It was quiet. But in the quiet, I realized I heard certain things.

The rustling of a slight breeze in the leaves of nearby trees.

The heavy breathing of the executioner as he expended effort to flog the poor victim.

The slapping, snapping crack of the whip as it impacted the flesh of the victim.

Most wonderfully... the involuntary grunt which escaped her lips as each blow fell. She was not going to scream, this one, I could tell she did not want to give the satisfaction, at least not yet. But the sheer impact of the flogger on her body forced the air out of her lungs, and her grunts became louder and more pained as the whipping continued.

When her strength left her, and her body finally hung limp from the hook, the beating stopped. The sun was warm, and her body was red, purple, black in places. A sheen of sweat covered her completely, gathering and trickling down her sides, under her exposed breasts, and down her legs.

She was released from the hook which held her up, and she collapsed, unable to move.

The executioners took a break from their duties, replenishing lost body fluids from their exertion in the growing heat of the day. When they were rested, they stood and grabbed the two victims and dragged them over to where the two crosses lay on the ground a few yards away. As they dragged the male victim, he continued the sobbing which had begun as his own personal whipping had progressed.

The two vicitims were then forced to pick up the heavy wood crosses and begin dragging them up a short hill. A small hill had been selected for the actual crucifixion location, partly because it was cleared and offered a place where the club could gather and observe all aspects of the suffering; but also for the psychological impact to the victims. Hung up on the crosses, looking out over the trees and countryside, their predicament and exposure to the elements would be made painfully clear to them.

At the top of the hill, the victims let their crosses fall and fell down next to them, resting for the short period they knew they had before their true ritual torture would begin. You could see them savor the brief respite from pain, their temporary rest.

The executioners approached the girl first, eager in their own way to see her suffering begin. They unlocked her wrist shackles, and pulled her body on top of the cross. Each took an arm, sitting on the crossbeam with her arm underneath, facing her wrists. She was held securely in place.

Large spikes were produced, positioned next to her wrists, and hammers began pounding. This had the desired effect, as the victim began screaming, thinking she might actually be nailed to the cross. This first moment when her suffering had actually forced her to lose control sent a thrill through me, and I moved closer to observe the horror in her face. My erection was raging, and I felt that I might actually ejaculate without touching myself, such was the intensity of the situation.

Her wrists were tied to the beam and the spikes securely.

The bottom of the cross was positioned near a deep narrow hole that had been dug in the ground.

She was breathing heavily, quiet now. Waiting.

The two executioners, using ropes to help guide the heavy cross, raised it up, and let it slide in to the ground. I watched intensely as her weight pulled her down and increased tension on her arms the higher she went, and the look of shock on her face was priceless agony as her cross thumped in to place in the hole. The executioners first secured the base of the cross with wedges of wood driven deep in the ground, as she helplessly hung and kicked her feet in an automatic gesture to support herself. One of the executioners then tied her feet together, raised them up so her knees were bent, and tied them to a small protrusion on the upright.

Her feet found the platform, and pushed, trying to relieve the agony in her shoulders and arms, and suddenly discovered the platform was actually a sharp inverted V shape, designed to be most painful to stand upon. Once again, this realization could be seen in her face. There was to be no respite, no assistance, simply choices in pain.

I watched the same process with the male victim, who was hyperventilating through most of the ritual until he was finally secured and hanging. At this point he started crying again, screaming out on occasion and writhing on the cross. He was exerting far too much energy, I could tell by watching. He would not last long. Too bad. But I had been right about the girl.

The female began the dance. After a few minutes of hanging from her arms, she managed to press herself up, and stand on the precarious point below her feet. Her face was a study in pain, and the relief to her shoulders and chest was short lived as her legs gave out from under her, and she sank back down.

As I stood and watched the spectacle, a delightful woman I know came up to me. I had always desired her, and as a member of the club had seen her suffer a number of times (she was one of our more submissive members). I had never had the opportunity to get to know her well. She had a great body, well toned and smooth, an average face, and light brown hair. She wrapped her arms around mine, in a gesture of common enjoyment. For a moment, I almost thought I might be watching a sporting event with this lovely woman. A frustrated gasp that bordered on a scream corrected that illusion, and my attention was redirected to the female victim.

The sun shown on the poor girl hung from the wooden cross. Her reddened body was wet from sweat, partly from heat and partly from pain. It was fascinating watching the effects of this torture on her body. With her arms stretched above her, the gentle undulation of her ribs was visible under her skin. Each labored breath could be seen clearly in her stomach and chest. Her beautifully shaped breasts fell forward slightly as her body leaned slightly out from the cross. I could see and almost feel the stretched muscles in her arms and shoulders, and her legs straining to lift her weight.

One of the executioners came over with a sponge soaked with water. We didn't want her to die, and dehydration was a serious concern. We wanted her to last as long as possible on the cross as well, and thus giving her water was a good idea to prolong her staying power. She sucked the sponge dry, and as the executioner fondled one of her breasts, she spat at him. He laughed at her, and pulled her loin cloth off. She was now delightfully naked for us all.

She looked right at me, a look of pain and disbelief in her eyes. I couldn't stand the arousal any more, and I turned to my lady friend and said "I have to fuck. Want to join me?"

"I would love to," she smiled, gazing at the victim as she said it.

It didn't take long before our clothes were off, and I had entered her. She was wet, ready for me. Immediately. I was rock hard and plunged in to her. We both turned our heads to watch the suffering on the crosses as we fucked on the grass. I timed my thrusts to various movements of the female vicitim... breathing... muscle contractions, and when she finally gave a huge cry of frustration and agony I exploded in an orgasm that was so intense I momentarily lost all sense of where I was.

I lay on the grass, gasping, slowing down from that incredible orgasm. As I recovered, I rolled over and idly played with my lady friends body, stroking and stimulating various sensitive areas, and looking at the suffering on the crosses.

The male victim was taken down. As I knew would happen, he had exhausted himself far too quickly with hysteria. The girl continued to amaze me. She took another sponge of water, sank down deeply and lost control of her bladder. I could tell she knew that she was losing control of her body, that it was no longer her own, and that she was beginning to no longer care. She was drifting in a sea of pain and humiliation and had entered a subspace so deep that she was losing contact with anything. I imagined she had probably forgotten who she was, her name, why she was here, and was simply enduring the agony until it ended one way or another.

I went close to her, and watched her breathing, which was coming in short, shallow rasping draughts. She had drooled a little earlier, I could see from where it dried on her lips and breasts. But her lips were chapped and dry now.

Her hands were a deep purple and had taken the shape of claws. Her bent legs were spread wide, exposing her sex for all. That beautiful raven black hair clung to her shoulders and breasts, wet with sweat. Tears stained her cheeks, though there were none left.

Her suffering was so arousing to me. I knew that somewhere, deep within her, it was arousing to her as well. Perhaps my standing here, so close to her, observing her suffering so closely, was what really turned her on, what she really wanted.

As her breathing rasped more and more like a death rattle, the executioners came over, and climbed up to cut her down. It was time, we could all see that. I assisted, as she came down from the cross, gently holding her body up. She was so light, I though. With the executioners, I lay her down on a stretcher, rubbing her limbs to help the cramps and get blood back in to her arms and hands.

She looked up at me, beatiful, young, tired, only somewhat aware of her surroundings. She rasped in a croaking voice... "how long was I up?"

An executioner told her.

"When can we do this again?" she croaked.

I smiled. This was the girl for me. I was in love.