Part 19 (1/2)

Her legs were quivering uncontrollably. Sweat was pouring over her ribs. Her mask was soaked with tears.

She felt like she was dying. She hoped that she was dying. She would welcome that sweet oblivion.

A voice said, conversationally, ”Fifteen minutes. She's already half-way through her punishment. This doesn't seem so bad. It's not as severe as a good, harsh caning.”

Only fifteen minutes! She couldn't endure another quarter hour of this. She had already used every ounce of strength in her body. Her legs were quivering uncontrollably every time she had to exert effort and take another breath.

Not so bad, he said? She'd take a caning over this any day. She would have told the man so, but that wouldn't save her a minute of this ordeal. It would only earn her a punishment for breaking her silence. If she spoke, she'd probably earn a caning to be administered after the crucifixion was complete. But she had not forgotten that she had already earned another punishment to be administered after the crucifixion. The one that her owner had to authorize. The one that she had earned simply by having once been a lady.

Her calves were almost numb. She could barely feel them.

”I don't know about that,” a voice replied to the previous comment. ”This seems pretty bad to me. Look at the b.i.t.c.h sweat.” Fingers gently caressed the corduroy skin on her a.s.s. ”She's been caned before. She knows what that feels like. Let's ask her.” A hand slapped her lightly on her masked cheek. ”Hey, you in there, we have a question. Which is worse? A dozen strokes of a cane or a half hour of crucifixion? If you had to choose one or the other, which one would you pick?”

She didn't answer. She just hung her head and suffered.

”Answer me.”

She shook her head, wearily.

Someone laughed. ”She's still mute.”

”Nod if you'd take a caning and shake your head if you'd take crucifixion.”

She nodded slowly.

Laughter. ”I told you. She'd take a caning over this.”

”Doesn't matter. I'm pretty sure that this has made her sorry that she wasn't a better slave, anyway. Aren't you? Don't you wish that you'd served us better during the evening?”

She didn't bother trying to reply. She had served every man in every way she could.

Her legs gave out. She simply couldn't support herself any longer. Her shoulders blazed in pain at the increased weight and she gasped.

She struggled to get her feet back under her and relieve the pain but her legs wouldn't work any more. All she could do was hang in place and struggle for every shallow breath.

In a fog, she kept trying to let go of the handles that kept her arms outstretched, but her fingers wouldn't work. She tried and tried, forgetting that leather straps wound around and around to hold them in place.

She had to get more air. Fighting against excruciating pain, she forced her calf muscles to raise her on her toes one more time.

She managed to fill her lungs again.

By now, she was hardly aware of the hands that keep caressing her body, squeezing her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, shoving fingers into her crotch, and, worst of all, stroking her arms to appreciate, vicariously, the stress that was pulling her muscles into tight, hard bundles of steel cables.

The pain was beyond excruciating.

Someone put a hand under her chin and raised her head to kiss her on the lips. She took advantage of the hand and forced her chin down against his strong grip. She managed to take a few pounds of weight off her shoulders that way.

Every ounce was precious, now.

Suddenly, all hands were removed from her body. Someone was saying something, but a roar in her ears drowned the words.

Then, a miracle. Her heels touched the floor. Then her hands dropped lower and lower.

Her legs could barely hold her, they were shaking so badly.

Strong hands unwrapped the leather from around her right hand. Her fingers were so stiff that a handler had to unbend them far enough to remove her hand from the steel dowel.

A man, one of the handlers, grabbed her arm to keep her steady while her left and was unwrapped and removed from that handle, too.

She was no longer being crucified. She lowered her arms to her sides and sagged in the handlers' grip.

Inside the mask, she wept in relief.

They forced her to step out of the crucifixion frame.

Her calf muscles refused to work properly and she had to shuffle along the floor flat-footed.

”Gentleman,” Thorn said, ”that is how you punish a slave.”

The applause was thunderous.

When it died away, she said, ”Now, the moment that you have all been waiting for. Is this the lady who sold herself into slavery?”

There was a long dramatic silence.

”I can tell you that this slave is named Flame.”

Some muttering from the audience.

”A suitable name for a slave, don't you think?”

More muttering.

”But what was her name before she became a slave?”

Silence.

”Here is the key to her collar.”

There was a moment of shuffling and then Flame felt fingers at the back of her neck. A moment later, the buckles unfastened, the collar dropped to the floor.

Hands turned her around so that her back was to the audience. The black numbers forever tattooed on the nape of her neck were now visible to all.

”This slave is registered six-one-one-zero, three-one-zero-nine, five-six-five-seven.”

Two zippers, one on each side of her head, were pulled from the back to the top of her forehead. The mask dropped to the floor and her hair cascaded down her back. The light was painfully bright. She blinked away tears and saw a wall.