A cross to make him a slave

Today, crucifixion takes place—not out of mercy, but out of pure lust for his destruction. The small, trembling failure is bound naked to the heavy St. Andrew's cross: arms and legs spread wide, shackles cutting into his skin, penis and testicles tied off so he can't even twitch without pain.

I stand before him in shiny 1950s nylons, heels clacking on the floor, whip in hand. "Look at me, you worthless cross-pig. Your body is now my altar—and I will sacrifice you."

I whip his inner thighs red, his ass pink—each blow makes him scream. I strike harder until he roars and his body trembles against the cross. "Do you feel that? This is your destiny—to be crucified, to be fucked in the mind, to be shame.  You won't come, you'll only suffer."

Until he howls, dribbles, and begs: "Mistress, please... let me come!" But I just laugh: "No, you cross-slut. You'll stay dry. Your semen belongs to me—and I'll let it rot."

In the end, he hangs there—fixed, broken, dripping, howling—a living cross for my pleasure. Next session, you? I'll invite friends over to use you with me while you zap on the cross. And it's not even Easter yet.