Message-ID: <32141asstr$998511005@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Father Ignatius" <FatherIgnatius@hotmail.com>
NNTP-Posting-Date: 21 Aug 2001 16:29:08 GMT
Subject: {ASSM} {RP} "Passion Play -- An Easter Story" by Father Ignatius (M+F bibl caution nc oral va <*>)
Date: Wed, 22 Aug 2001 16:10:05 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

Passion Play
An Easter Story
(M+F bibl caution nc oral va <*>)

(c)Father Ignatius, 2001
FatherIgnatius@hotmail.com

http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/FatherIgnatius/www/Stories.html

-----

I'm in business and I mean to stay in business so it really pisses
me off when good-looking women think they can work off their tab
at my bar with a blow-job.  It has its points, of course, but it
doesn't pay the wholesalers. These bitches are like prostitutes
lacking the good business manners to negotiate up-front. The price
of the trick is how much they can drink before you catch on and
force a sale--tactical selling, they call it at salesman school.

As a businessman, I think that stinks.  Success in business, I
believe, is a matter of strategic selling. By that, I mean
building up goodwill so your old customers recommend you to new
customers and keep coming back themselves. Tactical salesmen get
their sales--as a businessman, I have to admit that--but they
don't get the repeat trade.  They have to seek out new suckers
every sale.  A good businessman learns to see tactical salesmen
coming and avoid them at if he can. If he can't, he must have
methods of working them out of his system.  I have my methods.
They work well for me and help me stay in business.

With peculiar appropriateness to my business methods, the last
time some bitch tried blow off her tab (so to speak) was the busy
evening before the Easter weekend.  I was tending bar along with
Deon, my barkeep and bouncer.  Standing by the till, same as
always, keeping an eye on things, same as always, I saw an
argument developing between a couple at a table by the door.  Not
regulars. Never seen 'em before.  Or since, as it turns out, but
I'm getting to that.  The guy was obviously deeply angry and she
was working on him by playing it flighty--shrugging offhandedly,
waving her hands dismissively, smiling contemptuously.  The "to
hell with you, buster" treatment, in short.  They'd been there
long enough to drink themselves into a really good argument.  The
way things were shaping up, I could see a big, unpaid tab walking
out into the street.  It wasn't a pretty sight.

"We've got trouble there," I said to Deon, nodding in their
direction.  He picked up on the situation straight away and lifted
the hatch in the bar to get out and block the exit.  It was too
late, though.  With a "fuck this, fuck you, fuck it all" gesture,
the boyfriend rose and stormed out.  Good-bye and good luck.  Have
a nice life.

"Is there any trouble here?" I asked, materialising at the
girlfriend's side as she gazed, half-troubled and half-triumphant,
at the swinging doors.

I noted carefully that she carried neither hand-bag nor wallet.
She was wearing a classic T-shirt, bright orange, with no pockets.
Unless she had folding money in the pocket of her skin-tight denim
jeans, she was broke--and if she was broke, she was in trouble.
She was probably in trouble anyway. There wasn't space in what she
was wearing for car keys, house keys or even a credit card.  She
turned to me, trying to think on her feet.  She was too seated and
too drunk to do it well.

"Why, no, sir," she said, "there's no trouble here."  She smiled
with that extra radiance that, in a customer, spells trouble to
the experienced businessman.  No _bona_fide_ customer needs to be
that nice.

"Would you like another drink?" I asked. "Or would you like to pay
off your tab now?"

Panic flickered in her eyes, followed by a certain wily triumph.
I'd be impressed if I hadn't seen it so often before.  She was
going to brazen it out.  No surprises.  I could see it was going
to be Plan A all the way.

"Thank you kindly, sir, I believe I will have another."

"Would you like to move on up to the bar for that?" I asked.
"You're looking a little lonely out here on your own, right by the
door."

"Oh, no thank you.  I'm fine.  I really am."

"I insist," I insisted.  "Come up to the bar.  Now, miss, if you
please."

She was too guilty and too drunk to take umbrage fast enough.  She
fell for it.

"Oh, all right.  No harm in that, I guess."

She rose, swept her long, dark, curly red-brown hair back over her
shoulder and made her way to a bar-stool, swaying slightly and
concentrating hard, in the way of the moderately drunk everywhere
since the dawn of booze.  The buzz of conversation in the bar
dropped appreciably.  She was something to see, especially swaying
slightly.  The T-shirt was keeping no secrets as it clung
desperately to her broad shoulders, to her full, deep, rounded
breasts and to her scooped-in waist.  I particularly noticed how
deep was the ravine in the small of her back.  There was a
dramatic, sweeping line from well-developed shoulders into this
ravine which led, in turn to firm, womanly buttocks and full hips.
"Boyish" was definitely not the word for this one.  She was woman,
all woman.  Not fat. Just the classically-curved woman who, five
thousand years ago, would have had the Ancient Greeks biting their
chisels in half as they queued up to sculpt her.

She climbed onto a bar-stool and a hundred male eyes were
transfixed as she hooked the heels of her cowboy boots into the
rungs to left and right.  No maidenly, knees-together stuff from
this one.  I had a sudden deep, religious sense--appropriate to
the Easter weekend, no doubt--that God made bar-stools so men
could see what full-hipped woman look like from behind and marvel
at the glory of His creation. Who knew?  Maybe some gallant would
offer to pay her tab yet.  She hadn't so much as a coin in her
back pockets, as all the world could see.

"What was it again?" I asked her, back behind the bar.

"Vodka, lime and passion fruit.  Thanks."

Yuck.  Well, I didn't have to drink it, just pour it.

"Will you be taking salt with that?"

"Why, no!"

Didn't think so.  I poured it, added it to her tab, put the tab on
the counter and the drink on the tab.

"Thank you kindly, sir," she said again, slurring a bit and
overdoing the smile again.  She sipped.

"And thank _you_ kindly, miss, if you'd just settle up now?"

Pause.

"Well, see now, here's the thing..."

Oboy.  Here it comes, right on schedule.

"Yes?"

"'Fraid we gonna have to come to some kind of 'rangement here, you
see..."

"Arrangement?"

"Yes.  You see, my boyfriend--the one who just left--has all
our money.  I don't have a cent."  She laughed, caught between
pride and embarrassment.  "There's nowhere to put money in an
outfit like this, do you see?"

"Well, it certainly looks that way.  Fact is, though, you've
ordered drinks and not paid.  I'm sure we don't want any trouble
now, do we?"

"No, sir, we surely don't want any trouble now."

She waited hopefully for some helpful input but I offered her
nothing.

"Can I come back tomorrow and pay you?"

"Got any ID?"

She shrugged and waved a hand at herself.

"'Nowhere to put ID in an outfit like this'?" I guessed. She
nodded.

"No ID, no credit," I said firmly.

"But..."

"No ID, no credit, no argument."

She laughed nervously.  "Say, what do you want from me?  You want
I should wash dishes?"

"We don't serve food.  And we have a machine for washing glasses."

She was running out of options, the way they always do. She looked
over her shoulder, longingly, at the door.  She wanted to make a
run for it--in those jeans? in those boots?--and only just
now realised how clever I'd been to move her from a table near the
door all the way back to the bar.

"We had a welsher once," I said conversationally. "Tried to run
for it. My barkeep Deon, here, laid her out with a bottle and we
locked her in my office 'til the police came. She paid her tab
eventually, so I was happy, but she couldn't pay the fine so she
got a police record and community service scraping up road-kill."

"Is that a fact, now?" she asked, clocking Deon.  He's big.

"That's a fact.  But we said we don't want any trouble. Didn't we
say that?"

"Yes, sir, we surely did say that very thing.  Thing is, though,
I'm out of ideas here.  I don't know what to offer."  She looked
at me expectantly.  Hopefully.  Shame--she didn't know better
yet.

"Miss, I'm a businessman.  I'm in the business of serving drinks
for money.  If you're not offering money, we're not in business.
It's not my business to tell young ladies what to offer."

There was another pause.  I could see the wheels turning

"Well, now, Mister Businessman," she said, combining exasperation
with bravado, "Seems the only option I have left is to come round
the bar and give you the business.  Huh, Mr. Businessman? What do
you think of that?  Am I getting warm?"

Jackpot.  Be cool.

"Well, miss, if you prefer that to a night in the cells and a
court appearance in the morning, that's your choice.  All I'm
saying is that you better decide for yourself what you want to do.
Or I'll call the cops and let them decide for you."

She screwed up her face and nodded slowly.

"Well, you are kind of cute.  Like Barry Gibb, say, or Kris
Kristofferson."

"You don't say?  Most people say I look like Jesus Christ."

"Well, I guess you do, at that."

"I sure do.  I once played Jesus in a Passion Play that my church
put on one Easter."

"No kidding?"

"No kidding.  They even let me keep the cross, after. I still have
it.  It's in my office at the back of the bar. My wife says it's
too much for the house."

"I can see her point."

"You'll be able to see the cross if we have to lock you in there
while we wait for the cops to come."

"Well, the cross sounds interesting but the rest doesn't."

She took another pull at her drink and put it back on the counter.
"I'll leave that there to rinse out with bye-and-bye," she said.

She rose and Deon raised the hatch so she could come around behind
the counter.  She was too drunk to be puzzled that he already knew
what to do.  She walked with an embarrassed strolling strut, like
a little girl psyching herself up to take a dare from a lot of
nasty little boys in the school playground.  If she still had her
playground pig-tails, she would have twirled them rebelliously.

Her eyes were focussed on me, trying to send the lying message
that she was cool with all this and so she didn't notice that some
of the regulars had suddenly started paying attention to what was
going down.  A few meaning looks came my way.  A few raised
eyebrows asked, "Are we on, here?"  I nodded imperceptibly as I
stepped back to give her room to work, leaning forward against the
bar on my outstretched forearms, trying to look like a bored
barkeep waiting for the next customer to order a drink.

She sank to her knees and, as her head went out of sight, a few of
the regulars drifted up to the bar.  I could feel her squirming
into position under my belly.  One of the regulars took over the
girl's stool and leaned forward on his elbows.

"It's Good Friday tomorrow, Jackie," he said.  "Are we going to do
Bad Thursday tonight?  The Stations of the Cross?"

I'm always a businessman.  Even as her head lifted my apron--Deon
and everyone at the bar gaped at the sight--and I felt her hot
breath blowing through my jeans onto my crotch, even as her hands
ran up my jeans from the backs of my knees to my butt, even then,
I'm a businessman.  I said, "Maybe. It depends.  Have we got
enough business to make it worthwhile?"  As one man, they reached
for their mobile 'phones and started calling their buddies to come
on down to my bar for a drink.

One of her hands was on my butt, the other was cupping my balls.
The bulge under my apron shifted to one side and suddenly her
mouth was playing the flute on my thickening cock through the
thick denim cloth.  I leaned forward, gasping slightly.  Everyone
at the bar leaned forward too, eyes bugging out.  I felt my
eyebrows go up and saw all theirs go up, too, in sympathy.  Or
jealousy?

"And would you gentlemen like to buy yourselves another drink?" I
asked, hoarsely.  They scrambled to place orders.

Her hands moved to my belt-buckle and yanked at the leather.  The
belt opened, the button at the top of my zip was wrenched open.
One hand held up the waist-band of my trousers while the other
ripped the zip down. Two hands grabbed my belt above my buttocks
and pulled it down to my ankles, peeling the denim off my legs
like the skin off a banana.  There was a cheer from the front row
as my naked butt appeared in the mirror behind me.

That's always a tricky moment, when they realise that they're not
invisible and that the whole bar knows what's going on.  She froze
while the message got through.  My straining cock felt her gasp
through my underpants and then that she'd stopped breathing.
Eventually, I sensed her shrugging mentally and she yanked my
underpants down to where they caught on my trousers. There was
another cheer and a round of applause. Deon gave up serving
drinks, folded his arms and, grinning, leaned his hip against the
bar to watch the show.  I could see the bulge in his trousers.
There were bulges the other side of the bar, too.  I wondered if
the girl under my apron could see what she was getting herself
into.

Maybe she didn't.  Maybe she did and it turned her on, for she
obviously decided to get into giving a good show. Her head under
my apron bobbed as I felt her squirming around and then the orange
T-shirt appeared and her hand draped it over my forearm like a
sommelier's napkin. There was laughter and more applause. A hand
reached over the bar and flicked the T-shirt away.  It was lost to
her forever.  It turned up later, thumb-tacked to the ceiling by
unknown hands.  It's still there, a memento for those who
participated.

Her hands appeared on my butt and I could feel her cheek against
my throbbing cock.  Her thick, dark, curly hair deliciously teased
and tickled my inner thighs.  She gripped and squeezed my buttocks
in time with the music, trying to get me into the rhythm. I was
only too happy to oblige. Deon reached across to the sound system
and turned up the volume and maxxed out the bass. The patrons
started clapping or knocking their tankards on the bar in time
with the rhythm.

But my cock still wasn't in her mouth and I was now 'way past the
point where this had become important to me.  I reached one hand
under my apron to grab her hair and direct operations.  To my
surprise, she grabbed my wrist firmly and returned it to its place
on the counter.

The audience made admiring "Hoo, hoo" noises.

"You go, girl," called out Vanessa, one of the regulars. She has
the sexiest dirty laugh in town.  "Watch it, Jackie, you're in the
hands of a control freak down there."

"I could do with being in the mouth of one," I gasped, thrusting
hopefully in time to the music, hoping to find something good to
thrust against.  Gusting hot breaths came in rhythm, washing over
my increasingly desperate cock. Suddenly, she grabbed my balls,
hard, with one hand.  I froze instantly, through instincts of
self-preservation. The crowd craned forward, interested.  They
couldn't see what was going on because of my apron.  The other
hand wrapped around the base of my cock.

For long seconds, nothing happened and then I jerked and clutched
at the bar as her tongue swiped up the underside of my cock, from
her gripping hand to the throbbing tip. And then, at last, I felt
her lips, kissing the underside of my cock, the tip of her tongue
playing with the most sensitive part, under the glans.  Oh, God,
it was lovely!

And then she started sucking, hard, keeping the seal with relaxed
lips, sucking harder and harder 'til the tip of my cock plopped
suddenly into her lips.  Her warm, wet hungry mouth enveloped me.
Her lips slid downwards.  My cock pushed along the roof of her
mouth and into her throat as my whitened fingernails gripped the
counter top.  I felt my eyes crinkle and my mouth pull into a
rictus.  My head fell forward as a gust of breath exploded out of
me.  The audience stirred excitedly.

She released her grip on my cock so she could keep on going down.
Finally, her lips clamped round the base of my cock, her panting
nose crushed into my pubes, I could feel very firmly that there
was nowhere further to go. Then she started pulling back, sucking
hard, the bulge in my apron moving back towards the bar, as I
remembered to breathe and gulped air back into burning lungs.

"Oh, yes!" said the audience.  "You go, girl."

She pulled back until only her lips held only the very tip of me.
I didn't dare move for fear of falling out.  I feared the
slightest involuntary twitch would break the delicious contact but
it turned out I was in the hands of an expert.  I felt fingers
sliding between my legs and bent my knees helpfully to accommodate
them.  As the fingertips reached my perineum and started
massaging, she opened her lips and leaned into the ecstatic thrust
she triggered and suddenly I was back to where there was nowhere
further to go.  Oh, God.  Oh, God.  Oh, God.

She pulled back again and then her other hand re-appeared on my
butt and pushed me hard forward into my next thrust. Between the
hand behind and the hand burrowing between my thighs, she rocked
me backwards and forwards like a puppet as I slipped in and out of
that warm, wet, sucking hole. Deon turned the music up louder
again as she worked us back into the rhythm, with the audience
cheering and foot-stomping along in time with us.  My head came up
again and I could feel my cheesy, gasping, ecstatic, triumphant
grin as Vanessa leaned over the counter for a warm, sloppy kiss,
to wild applause.

I was in heaven.  I felt I could go on forever, thrusting into
that sucking orifice, tongue flickering around my cock--cradling,
lapping, teasing.  I could feel my arms and shoulders beginning to
tire pleasantly as I did mini push-ups against the edge of the bar
--but she raised the stakes by pressing a finger up against my
anus.  As I swung back, the tip popped through the sphincter and
pushed me forward again, buttocks clenched, eyes popping.

"Hoo, hoo," went the audience again, laughing and applauding.

Each swing back drove the probing, prying finger in deeper and the
point came where my eyes gushed sudden tears in response to a
mind-blowing flood of pleasure.  I clenched my eyes, threw my head
back and roared in joy and triumph as I exploded in her mouth,
hips twitching convulsively, all rhythm gone, squirting and
squirting and squirting. The crowd went wild.

Oboy.  I folded my arms on the counter and rested my head on them
while I gasped back air into my lungs.  Admiring hands slapped my
shoulders.

"Way to go, Jackie!"

I felt her sucking and licking and cleaning my shrinking cock.  A
great little housewife, apparently.  She lifted my underpants
tidily back up my thighs, pulled them up to the point where they
hooked under my balls, and then pulled my jeans up. She
re-fastened the button and even the belt but mischievously left my
cock and balls hanging out through the parted zip. With a
proprietorial pat on my rump, she emerged, red-faced and sweaty,
from under my apron to a standing ovation.

She faced the crowd, grinning broadly, arms above her head with
Nixon-style V-signs, breasts jiggling enticingly as she bobbed
curtsies to the roaring crowd.  She grabbed her drink and downed
the rest of it in a single swallow.  I reached under my apron to
adjust matters while the audience whooped and laughed.

"Where's my shirt?" she hissed at me out of the corner of
her mouth.

"Gone for good, I'm afraid.  Come into the office, I'll get
you a blanket or something."

I looked at Deon and nodded towards the office.  He moved ahead of
us, parting the crowd, and opened the door while I guided her
through.  We all three went in and Deon closed the door on the
rising, expectant buzz from the regulars. He quietly turned the
key, too.  She didn't notice.  She was more worried about her
naked breasts.

"Oh, there's the cross you mentioned," she said, spotting it.  It
wasn't hard to see.  It dominated the room, propped in a corner.
"I really thought you were bullshitting about that."

"I never bullshit," I said.  "It's a genuine, for-real crucifixion
cross, from a genuine, for-real Passion Play. I told you--I played
Jesus when our church put in on. It's genuine cedar-wood from the
Holy Land, even.  Cost plenty.  I've made some interesting
modifications to it, though. And now, Deon and I are going to show
you how you get fixed to it."

She laughed.  "No, thanks.  I'll have that blanket now, though."

Deon ignored her and went and fetched the cross and laid it on my
desk.

"Jesus!" she squawked.

"Yes?" I said, but she didn't catch.

"What the fuck is that?" she cried, pointing.  It seemed, crazily,
that the cross had a pale cream erection, a very erect one, set at
a narrow angle, pointing up to the cross-piece.

"I was just getting to that.  It's an antique ivory dildo.  I
found it in my grandmother's stuff after she died.  I got a joiner
to set it into the cross."

"What the fuck for?" she screamed, hugging herself across her bare
chest and backing away.

"It's for people like you who don't pay their tabs," I said.

"What?!  Fuck it, I just gave you the best damned blow-job you'll
ever have, you prick!  We're square, so give me my shirt and let
me out of here."

"Blow-jobs don't pay bills," I said.  "I'm in the business of
selling drinks and, if you welsh on your tab, I have to find a way
of selling more drinks to make up for it."  She'd already caused
plenty of extra orders, really, but this was a matter of
principle.

"Fuck you!" she screamed, twisting the door-handle and rattling
desperately.  She didn't even see Deon's hand coming.  He smacked
her face with the sound of a rifle-shot.  She gasped, and
staggered back from the door, and from him, hand to a cheek
suddenly fiery red.  She came up against a chair as he back-handed
her savagely on the other cheek.  She fell backwards right over
the chair, arms flying, boobs bouncing and jiggling wildly.

As she scrambled to her hands and knees, he straddled her back,
grabbed a handful of that wonderfully thick, long, dark, curly
hair that had just finished teasing my thighs to such good effect.
Drawing breath to scream for help, she looked up, saw his big,
meaty fist poised to smash her face, and fell instead to terrified
silence.

"This is what's going to happen," I said, "You're gonna be
strapped to the cross with that dildo up your ass.  You'll
discover later that it's a real life saver."

"No fucking way!" she gasped.  Deon's hand flicked out again,
another backhand, with her head snapping as her hair yanked
against his grip.  The resistance flowed out of her and she burst
into tears.  Deon stood up, pulling her to her feet, and dragged
her over to where the cross lay on the desk. One each side of her,
we picked her up, each gripping an upper arm and lifting under the
knee.  One each side of the desk, we lay her on the cross.

The first step is always to strap the upper arms to the horizontal
cross-piece.  I held her shoulders down firmly while Deon got the
broad, leather straps we use.  They're very wide, like
bodybuilders' belts, and soft, so they don't cut into the flesh
too much.  This freed me to take her shoes off and hold her feet
together while Deon undid her jeans and pulled them down.  She
screamed and kicked but this just helped get them off.  He tore
her panties off by brute force while she writhed around.  This
inevitably brought her ass-hole into intimate contact with the
dildo. She froze in terror.

This is always the hard part.  We pulled her knees up hard against
her breasts and lifted her under her lower back. Predictably, she
reacted by pushing her knees forward again which was exactly what
we wanted.  Her back bowed, her stomach came up and she flinched
and struggled as she felt the dildo between her buttocks.

"You have two choices," I rasped.  "Relax and go with the flow or
be beaten to a pulp before it happens anyway."

Whimpering with pain, she allowed us to force her down onto the
dildo.  It would have been easier if she'd relaxed, but she
didn't.  On the other hand, it would have been easier if we'd used
some sort of lubricant, but we didn't.

Once they have the dildo up their ass and the arms strapped down,
they're not going anywhere. The wrists also get strapped down, to
keep the arms straight, for the traditional look of the thing.

When she was firmly planted, Deon applied a ball-gag. If you don't
do this quite soon, they get time to think and then start
screaming for help.  Deon is quite practised with ball-gags.  He
enjoys selecting a size one bigger than the girl can possibly cope
with and demonstrating that he can force it in.

As I strapped the gag tightly behind her head, Deon applied the
all-important waist-strap, wrenching hard to pull it very tight.
She grunted in pain and tried to gurgle a complaint through the
gag.  I smacked her face for her.

"Shut up, bitch.  He's doing you a favour.  We've found that,
after a few hours, the lower back arches into a bow and most
people haven't got the stomach muscles to recover from that.  From
all appearances, it's excruciatingly painful.  Believe me, this is
the easy way."

We also strapped the neck firmly back, using a thick, studded
dog-collar, so the girl can't look down.  This isn't necessary to
keep her on the cross but it sure as hell does look sexy.

We don't bind the legs at all but we do have a crown of thorns.
Real thorns.  Also from the Holy Land, actually.  She winced and
whimpered as Deon forced it on.


* * *

"Now, you listen to me, bitch," I said.  "This is the easy option.
You will recall that Our Lord was nailed to His cross.  We haven't
even broken your skin.  He was also scourged beforehand but, as I
say, we haven't even broken your skin. Yet."

Her eyes were rolling and she was truly terrified. Despite what I
said, some of the thorns had pierced her forehead and there were a
few trickles of blood to show for it.  She wasn't in a position to
know better or to argue, though.

"What's going to happen now, you welshing bitch, is that you're
going to help this bar sell drink to make up for what you and your
scum-bag boyfriend didn't pay for.  When we're done, you're going
to fuck off out of here and never, ever come back.  Okay?"

Frantic nodding, frantic efforts to speak through the gag.

"Shut the fuck up, welsher.  When we're done, you're going to fuck
off out of here, and you are not going to the cops or any such
thing.  For one thing, there will be no evidence. You will be
blindfolded, you will not be able to see anyone who does anything
to you and you will have no witnesses. It will be your word
against mine and, if you try anything, I will have you for
defamation.  I will have you.  Got that?"

More nodding.  Deon blindfolded her, making a proper job of it
with a broad band of black leather knotted tightly in place.

"Once you're out of here, if you get out alive, the thought might
occur to you to go to the cops anyway and lay a charge.  So hear
this: if you do, you'll have to provide the cops with your name
and address and I have friends at the station. Right now, I don't
know who you are or where you live.  If you're smart, you'll want
to keep it that way. Right?"

Vehement nodding.

"And, if you put us to the trouble of finding you, we will bring
the cross with us and we will show you what it felt like for Our
Lord to be scourged and nailed to the cross. You think about that
before you get silly ideas."

I picked up the little wooden dais we use on these occasions. It's
a little platform about six inches high and about two feet square
to get Joe Average Patron to the around the correct height.  Tall
patrons have to squat a little, maybe do a little lifting.
Shorter patrons have to go on tippy-toe a little.  But we don't
get complaints.

The burly Deon picked up the cross and its naked, fleshly burden
as I unlocked and opened the door. There was cheering and applause
from the patrons as Deon manoeuvred his awkwardly-shaped load out
into the bar.  The crowd parted to let us through to the gents'
restroom.  High up on the wall is a hook, a big one, the kind that
the abattoirs use to hang carcasses on.

Grunting with the effort, Deon lifted the cross until the ring at
the top slipped over the hook.  He lowered her gently to the point
where she was hanging straight from the hook. The cross wasn't
quite flush with the wall and there was some slight swaying.  She
hung from the arm-straps, a wonderful sight, all tall and
stretched out, gazing blindly straight over our heads.  God, it
was sexy.  I felt myself getting hard again and, out of the corner
of my eye, I saw Deon adjusting his crotch.  He was shifting
around, restless with anticipation.

I put the little dais down and slid it into place under her
dangling toes.  Her chest heaved as her laboured breath sounding
in her nose.

"Before I leave you alone with Deon to start the ball rolling," I
said, "there's something I have to tell you about what it's like
to be crucified.  I've told that we'll nail you if we have to, and
we will.  But it's not nailing that kills.  Many people don't know
--but I bet you aren't one of them right now--that how you die is
by suffocation.  Your diaphragm usually does most of your
breathing for you.  You will just have discovered that, when you
are in the position you are in, the diaphragm is quite unable to
function effectively. Your only way of getting air into your lungs
is by using the intercostal muscles between your ribs.   These
here."

I ran my fingertips down her chest, between her ribs.  She
flinched violently at my touch.

"These muscles are not accustomed to working alone, without the
diaphragm, and will rapidly become tired."

Her breathing became even more frantic and I paused to admire the
movement of her magnificent breasts.

"I seriously suggest that your conserve your strength. When the
intercostal muscles eventually become too exhausted to function
--and this they surely will do, not matter how hard you try--you
will suffocate.  This is completely inevitable. The less your
muscles work, the less you can breathe.  The less you breathe, the
more starved of oxygen your muscles will become.  It's a game you
cannot win."

We saw her struggle to control her breathing.

"That's better.  I can just tell that we are going to have to
start a book on how long you will last.  I have to admit I've been
kidding around with you a little. The picture is not as bad as I
said. You may have noticed, before we blindfolded you, or you may
recall from pictures of the crucifixion, that there is a small
shelf on the cross.  You might be able to feel it behind your
knees.  You can rest your heels on it and take some of the strain
off your chest."

Her heels flailed desperately.  After a few false starts, she
managed to get her heels in place and, straining her thigh
muscles, she was able to take some strain off the straps at her
upper arm that supported most of her weight. Suddenly able to use
her diaphragm, her chest heaved while she snorted desperately
through her nose to catch up with her breathing.

"It's not that easy, is it.  For one thing, the gag ensures that
no ways are you able to breathe through your mouth. But you will
have discovered this for yourself.  You'd better not catch a cold,
hanging there naked in this cold bathroom.  A case of the sniffles
right now would be really inconvenient for you."

She moaned pleadingly through her nose.

"Quiet, bitch.  You got yourself into this, you know. Speaking for
myself, I don't mind a bit but you will have also just discovered
that it's just about impossible to keep your knees together when
you're like that."

In a misplaced fit of modesty, she jerked her straining, sprawling
thighs together.  Her heels immediately slipped off the inadequate
little shelf she'd just discovered and she flopped back into the
hanging position, shrieking nasally as her weight was taken by the
upper-arm straps and by the ivory dildo up her ass.  Tears flowed
freely down her cheeks.

"Don't blubber, welsher.  You really, really, really can't afford
a blocked nose in your situation.  It's a good plan to take the
strain off your thigh muscles like that, though.  They, too, will
approach exhaustion and you will come to find yourself grateful
for the dildo to help take your weight. Although, if you ever get
down alive from there, you won't be able to sit down for a month
of Sundays."

Whimpering in pain, she scrabbled her heels cautiously back onto
the stupid little shelf, no longer trying to keep her knees
together.  Her splayed thighs, shaking with strain, framed her
exposed twat.  Sweat glistened on her abdomen and glistened in her
pubic hair.

"I can see you're a quick learner.  Pity for you your boyfriend
isn't the same. Keep moving the strain around; you'll last longer
that way. I'm sure the gentleman will appreciate that. Another
plus point: I'm sure you can depend on some of them to help carry
your weight, albeit temporarily. Deon, for example, is right here,
ready to give that very thing a go. Aren't you Deon?"

He grunted, animal-like, and strode forward onto the dais. He
grabbed her thighs roughly and ground his denim-clad pelvis into
her cunt.  She shrieked, as far as you can shriek through a
ball-gag, and writhed around.   Sure as shit, her heels slipped
right off the silly little shelf. Deon took her weight by gripping
her thighs and forcing his crotch up into hers.

"Thank you, Deon.  You may step back now."

He dropped her and again she fell until jerked to a halt by her
upper arms and abused, ivory-pierced ass-hole.  Again, the heels
scrabbled back onto the shelf and again she strained up on her
inadequately-supported heels until her thighs were shaking with
the strain.

"You know, you're getting really good at that.  Now, last thing
before I leave you to Deon's tender mercies, is the question of
whether you get down alive from there.  The deal is, you get down
when there's not one man left in the pub who wants to fuck you.
And, as we speak, there's a queue outside the door, all jealous of
Deon because he gets to go first.  They are 'phoning their buddies
to come to my bar and help pay off your tab.  It's going to be a
long, rough night, honey.  And let me leave you with this thought:
if you die up there, there will be no come-back at all.  We'll go
down to the river and get a can of river water and pour it through
your dead lips into your dead lungs.  There is no way the coroner
will be able to tell you didn't drown.  Believe this: we've done
it before and we're still all here to tell you how it's done. I
want you to be real sure that doing it my way is really the only
choice you have.  But that's enough from me. Over to you, Deon--I
have a bar to run."

* * *

As I closed the door behind me, I heard the sound of Deon's
zipper coming down.  I pushed past the queue and got back
behind the bar.

"Sorry for the delay, folks," I said, "but we're back in business
now."

I started serving drinks.  Behind me as I worked was the wall of
the gents' restroom.  I could hear the thump-thump-thump of the
cross knocking against my plaster as the welsher began paying off
her tab.  I'm going to have to do something about that hook. The
cross shouldn't thump like that.  It should hang flat against the
wall.

"You know, Jackie," said Vanessa, coming up for a refill,
"you should get a guy up there once in a while, for the
sake of we ladies."

"You never know your luck, Vanessa," I said.  "Uh-oh."

I'd noticed Officer Stanley in the doorway.  We're on his
beat and he had clearly picked up the unusual crowding and
the air of excitement.  He's a good cop, which is both good
and bad.  But he's also human.

"Hey, Officer Stan," I said, "How're they hanging?"

"Is everything okay here?  I'm wondering if we have a code
violation of some sort, with all these people.  What are
they so excited about, anyway?"

"Why, Officer Stan, everything's fully under control here. They're
excited because it's a holiday weekend, I guess. Would you like a
drink?"

"Don't bullshit me, Jackie.  And no drink while I'm on duty.
Something's going on here.  What is it?"

"Well, Officer Stan, maybe you'd care to go freshen up a little
and then maybe we can talk you into having an Easter drink on the
house."

I nodded towards the restrooms.  He gave me an odd look but went
to check up anyway.  The queue melted rapidly away into nothing at
his approach.  Stan passed Deon coming out as he went in.  Deon
never lasts long the first time.  He gets too excited.

Stan was in the gents' restroom a long time. When he came out, his
coat was on inside out.  It looked odd but at least concealed that
he was a cop. He came and sat at the bar, took his badge out and
laid it, face down, on the counter.

"Well, officer, you surely look a lot more happy and relaxed than
when you went in there.  How about that drink now?"

"I've decided I'm off duty," he said. "So call me Stan, stop just
talking about that drink and get on with pouring it.  And it's not
on the house either. I pay for my drink."

"Now ain't that just the damnedest shame?" said Vanessa.

"Here you go, Stan.  Cheers.  A Happy Easter to you."

"And to you, Jackie.  And to you."


* * *

And that's how we deal with tactical selling in my business.


-----

ENDS


Thank you for reading me.  I would be pleased to hear from
you, at FatherIgnatius@hotmail.com, about whether or not
you liked my story, and why.

The Stories of Father Ignatius are at
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/FatherIgnatius/www/Stories.html

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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