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Crucifying a Farmer's Son
by Kimmie Holland & Meeah Mackenzie

***

Billy is broken on the cross in an old fertility ritual 
that still survives today. (MF/m, nc, rp, bd, tor, v, 
sn)

***

Billy knelt by the window where he'd been praying all 
night. He saw the hot red rim of the sun over the far 
field and he knew that his prayer would not be 
answered. Another day of scorching drought would 
further parch the already withering crops. He heard his 
mother's soft knock and the door behind him opened. 

"Billy, your pa says its time to get started." 

"Yes ma'am," Billy said, trying as hard as he could to 
keep the fear out of his voice. He knew how hard this 
was on his mom. It had only been six years ago that his 
older brother Jimmy had been unlucky enough to be drawn 
in the lot during the last drought. It seemed unfair 
that two Baker boys should be chosen but that was the 
luck of the draw as old Mr. Runk had said when he chose 
Billy's name from the drum and announced it aloud at 
the camp meeting. 

Billy's mom had nearly fainted when she heard his name 
called. She gave a little gasp and there were murmurs 
of sympathy from the other mothers who rushed to 
comfort her but everyone knew how relieved they were 
that their own sons hadn't been chosen. 

Billy's dad didn't so much as flinch. He kept a stoic 
look on his lean, hardened, sunburned face as the other 
men pumped his hand and thanked him for his sacrifice 
and congratulated him on the honor of having yet 
another chosen son. 

Yes, Billy had been "chosen." 

Only two weeks ago he had been attending university 
pursuing a degree in agriculture. He hoped to help 
gather enough knowledge of the latest technology in 
farm management to help make the family farm prosperous 
again and to one day finally banish once and for all 
this archaic tradition of blood sacrifice. But what he 
learned at school, he realized, would never replace the 
old knowledge handed down from generation to 
generation, especially when times were tough and the 
people inevitably reverted to the old beliefs and 
superstitions. The professors he studied under would 
never understand what farming was really all about: 
hard work, prayer, and sacrifice. 

"Billy you weren't awake all night were you?" his 
mother asked, with habitual concern. The unspoken truth 
was that it hardly made a difference anymore.

"I think I slept a little," Billy lied. "I was just 
praying..." 

"I know," his mother said sadly. "I prayed too." She 
sighed resignedly. "Well, I suppose Pastor Lentz would 
say they were answered. Just not the answer we would 
have liked to hear. Come on now. Your pa is waiting." 

Billy knew she was right. He followed her downstairs to 
the kitchen wearing only a tight white thong. It was 
all he'd been allowed to wear since the day he'd been 
chosen. The idea was to help him get used to the idea 
of renouncing this world; if nothing else, being kept 
all but naked made it too embarrassing to leaving the 
house. There was little need for modesty now. In fact, 
all pretense that he was anything other than a sheep 
being led to slaughter was all but gone. 

Only the day before Miss Mclane from down the road had 
come to administer his ritual cleansing. Miss Mclane 
was a strapping, matter-of-fact, rawboned woman a full 
head taller than Billy. She had never married and had 
no children of her own. She owned a small farm which 
she operated with the help of hired hands who, it was 
said, she ruled with an iron fist. 

It was probably for the best that it was someone like 
Miss Mclane who was to give Billy his cleansing. She 
had seen a lot in her lifetime, was phased by none of 
it, and was all business. So when she ordered Billy to 
remove his thong he felt only a little shame as she 
examined his body the way someone examines a farm 
animal. First she shaved what little body hair Billy 
had, hosing him down with cold water when she was done, 
leaving him huddled and shivering on a patch of straw 
in the corner of the barn. 

Then came the really humiliating part. 

Bent over an old sawhorse, Billy had a hose nozzle 
shoved deep inside his bottom. Miss Mclane turned on 
the spigot and Billy felt the cold water flushing 
through his cramping intestines until his belly began 
to bulge. He grimaced at the discomfort and held back 
the words begging Miss Mclane to turn off the tap, 
knowing it would do no good to beg. Just when he 
thought his belly would rupture the taciturn woman 
turned off the water and left Billy draped over the 
sawhorse with the rubber hose hanging from between his 
ass cheeks and moaning from the pain of his twisting 
intestines. 

Billy had known that this was part of his ordeal. He 
remembered when he was sixteen that Jimmy had to 
undergo the same preparations from Miss Mclane. His 
father had taken him into the barn to see his poor 
tormented brother, just as his father had brought 
Billy's younger brother to see him suffering the same 
ordeal. It was a dreadful sight Billy had never 
forgotten, so he knew what he must have looked like to 
Davey bent over the sawhorse the way he was, belly 
distended, hose dangling from between his asscheeks 
like a tail, groaning in agony. 

Billy had begged his father not to have to undergo the 
humiliating ritual of the internal cleansing. He had 
been on a diet strictly of bread and water for the last 
two weeks and he even promised to swear off the bread 
if he could be spared the embarrassment of the hose. 
His father flatly denied his request. 

"You don't want to go shaming yourself and this family 
up on that cross boy," he said. "It's bad enough when 
you lose your water. But that's only natural. Can't be 
avoided. But the other can be and will be. Not another 
word about it."

Billy knew there was no arguing. Besides, his father 
was right. Billy did not want to shame himself any more 
than was absolutely necessary. After all, everyone 
would be there watching. He wanted to die with as much 
dignity as possible. And if that meant suffering the 
present indignities of Miss Mclane's ministrations then 
so be it. At least she went about her business so 
efficiently that he hardly felt she even saw him as a 
human being. 

At long last, shivering in spite of the unbearable heat 
and drenched in sweat, Miss Mclane permitted him to 
relieve himself in the big tin basin slid between his 
splayed legs for just that purpose. Without ceremony, 
she yanked the hose from inside his ass. 

God, it felt so good to relax his sphincter. Billy 
blushed from head to toes as the stinky brown water 
poured from inside him, carrying with it all the filth 
and impurity of his sinful body. 

The pastor was right: the body was a temple of 
defilement. He hoped that somehow Miss Mclane could not 
smell the stench over the smell of cow manure in the 
hot barn but he doubted very much he'd been spared the 
humiliation of stinking. Well at least she was so 
hardened to her work that she didn't make it any worse 
by any nasty comments.

Billy was subjected to two more rounds of cleansing 
until the water that ran out of him was just as clean 
as the water put into him. From that moment on, he was 
not to touch another solid piece of food. The only 
thing permitted him was distilled water. He could have 
as much of that as he liked. In fact, it seemed that 
the more water he drank the better chance he stood of 
lasting long enough to make a fine sacrifice.

It was after the cleansing that Miss Mclane clapped the 
cage on him. Billy had known this was coming, too. 
After all, it wouldn't do to have him going off 
screwing around like a rabbit, which, as he very well 
knew, he and Tammy Sue would have done, once he'd been 
chosen to die. He needed to save his seed for the 
ceremony; it would be a sin to spill even a drop of his 
precious fluid in mere carnal lust.

If Miss Mclane hadn't been old enough to be his mother, 
and if he hadn't just undergone the humiliating ordeal 
of the cleansing, Billy might have been even more 
ashamed than he was to have his genitals handled by 
this gruff, matter-of-fact spinster. As it was, he 
responded to her rough touch almost immediately even in 
spite of himself. However, one hard squeeze of her red, 
chapped hand, "corrected" him instantly. He deflated 
immediately and Miss Mclane had no more trouble 
stuffing him into the cage and locking it tight. Miss 
Mclane allowed him to put on his thong again and that 
was that. He'd have no more erections until the day of 
his sacrifice.

Billy had gotten so used to wearing just the thong 
around the house—and his family had grown so used to 
seeing him in it—that he was hardly aware of his 
nakedness anymore. His father approved, thinking that 
Billy's weakening inhibitions showed that he had 
totally accepted his fate and that he was full of the 
faith. Billy only wished he was full of the faith. It 
would make what he was about to undergo that much 
easier. But the truth was that he was painfully riddled 
with doubts. He felt so guilty about these doubts that 
he mentioned them to Pastor Lentz during their private 
conversations. 

The pastor was kind and understanding and told him it 
was perfectly natural to feel the way Billy did. Even 
Christ, the pastor said, had his moment of doubt on 
Gethsemane. It would pass, the pastor assured Billy 
once he was raised up to the heavens and saw the 
appreciation of those gathered around to pray for him. 
The preacher spoke with so much passion and conviction 
that Billy wanted to believe him but it was not the 
pastor who was about to be sacrificed. How did he know 
what Billy would feel when he was finally "raised up to 
the heavens?" 

Billy had wept bitterly during his last "confession" 
with Pastor Lentz. No one had told him what to expect 
and for sure he'd never tell anyone either it was so 
shameful; it was bad enough that the Church Elders all 
knew, that they'd all witnessed, and worst of all, each 
had taken a hand in his humiliation.

One by one, starting with the pastor himself, they took 
their turn instilling within Billy the "Holy Spirit." 
This they did with Billy bent over a special altar in 
the chapel and his asshole anointed with special oils. 
The pain of the first two or three cocks was 
excruciating, but after that he'd become so stretched 
out back there, his asshole and cheeks so slippery with 
cum, Billy became numb both mentally and physically to 
the repeated assaults on his virgin bud. 

By the time his father's turn came around, Billy was 
practically in an altered state of mind. He might not 
ever have known it was his father who fucked him last 
if he hadn't heard one of the other Elders use his name 
and the man standing behind and over Billy answer in 
his father's voice. And then there was something about 
those hard hands and rough fingers splayed over his 
pale smooth ass, something familiar and knowing. He 
felt his father's big horny thumbs digging into his 
tender flesh and pulling open Billy's torn, swollen, 
gummed-up asshole.

Then his father's fat cock, seemingly the biggest of 
them all, plunged straight into Billy's bowels and his 
father started fucking him so hard Billy was moaning 
and babbling half out of his mind. Meanwhile Pastor 
Lentz was carefully writing down whatever Billy said. 
"Speaking in tongues," the pastor called it, and 
Billy's hysterical monologue would be carefully studied 
later for clues about the future harvest and then 
stored away forever in the church archives, where for 
ever after it would become a part of the town's long 
history.

"Your father's out back," his mother said as Billy 
padded barefoot into the kitchen. Her voice was tight 
and he could hear her choking back her emotions. Billy 
paused for a moment, hoping she would say something to 
make it better, but there was nothing to say. "Better 
get on out there," was all his mother said.

Billy stepped forward to give his mother a last kiss, 
but she held up a hand to ward him off. 

"Be brave Billy," she said. "Make me proud."

"Yes ma'am."

So that's the way it was to be, Billy thought, 
bitterly. Even his own mother rejected him now. Well, 
perhaps, it was better that way. No messy emotions. 
Everyone had taken leave of him in their hearts. To 
each and every one of them, he was already dead. Billy 
felt his eyes burn and fought back the tears. Dead to 
everyone...but himself. He didn't feel dead, not yet. 
But the moment he opened the door to the yard and saw 
his father waiting another of Billy's last remaining 
hopes flickered out.

Pa was dressed as usual in his bib overalls and work 
boots. But this morning Billy found him waiting with a 
long cord of rough hemp in his rough, reddened hands. 
He was looking down and Billy could not see the 
expression on his face. Ever since the night of his 
last confession, Billy could hardly help but notice 
that his father could hardly bear to look at him. 
Whenever he did, his father wore a jeering unpleasant 
expression; it was the same look of mocking disgust 
that his father always wore when talking about "fags" 
and "queers" and "sissies." As if Billy were to blame 
for the gang rape he'd endured...as if he were 
responsible for his own father fucking him in the ass!

Still, Billy couldn't help but burn with shame; had his 
father seen the way his caged cock strained to become 
erect while the men fucked him? How, in spite of its 
restraint, his organ grew swollen and moist with 
juices, like a fruit about to burst its seed? And at no 
time more than when his father plunged his big thick 
cock into Billy's ass. 

Maybe Billy was a fag, after all. Maybe that's why he'd 
been chosen to die. Perhaps the Lord really did abhor a 
homosexual, just as Pastor Lentz had said.

"Come on. Let's get on with this boy," Pa said gruffly. 

Billy took a deep steadying breath, stepped forward, 
and held out his hands, wrists together. Perhaps by 
facing his fate with courage Billy could win back the 
old man's respect. His father quickly looped the 
scratchy hemp around Billy's wrists and pulled it taut, 
cinching Billy's hands so tightly he felt his fingers 
tingle with the sudden lack of blood. 

"Walk," his father barked, in the same voice he'd use 
to a farm animal being led to the butcher. He nearly 
yanked Billy off his feet with the lead on the rope. 
His father's boots crunched effortlessly over the hot 
gravel of the path but it was difficult for Billy to 
keep up the pace in his bare feet. Dressed almost 
identically to their father, Davey was following 
closely behind, idly kicking stones with his boots, and 
playing with the Gameboy he'd inherited from his soon-
to-be-dead brother. 

Billy remembered the conversation they'd had only a few 
days ago, when all this seemed like a dream there was 
still time to wake from. Davey had wanted to know if 
Billy was scared and if what they were going to do to 
him would hurt. Billy tried to be as honest as possible 
without scaring Davey or causing his little brother any 
unnecessary worry. He said that it would probably hurt 
some but that it would all be worth it for the good of 
the community which was more important than any one 
person's life. He told his little brother that it was 
an honor to be chosen. Yes, he admitted, he was a 
little scared but Pastor Lentz himself told Billy that 
it was only natural to be a little scared. But that 
Jesus Himself would help him in his hour of need. 

It was more or less the same talk Billy had six years 
ago with his older brother Jimmy. Now he knew what 
Jimmy had really felt on the eve of his sacrifice and 
knew how he'd been trying to spare Billy's feelings 
just as Billy was now trying to spare his brother's. 
Well, it must have worked, because Davey was trudging 
along behind them, seemingly without a care in the 
world, totally engrossed in the action on his Gameboy.

Davey was the lucky one in the family. As the third and 
last son, his name would not be put into the drawing, 
if another drawing ever became necessary, when he came 
of age. No, god willing, he'd survive to full manhood 
and reap the fruits that grew from the earth watered by 
Billy's sacrifice. The farm and all that came with it 
would be passed on to him. The community would never 
dream of taking a man's last surviving son. 

For Davey, it was all just another holiday, another day 
off from school. The day his brother Billy was raised 
up to the heavens. 

Billy looked off to the left and saw the fallow field 
where just yesterday he'd helped his father dig his own 
grave. The graves were only tentatively marked with 
plain brown stones, one at the head of each otherwise 
invisible grave. Each stone bore only the tiniest 
scratch marks to indicate who'd been buried where, and 
when. The graveyard was a strictly-kept community 
secret. It was only marked at all so that the family of 
the dead could come and plant wildflowers on it and 
also so that the Elders knew where to dig the next 
grave. 

Anyone passing would never recognize the field as a 
cemetery. 

Billy's grave would be right next to his brother 
Jimmy's. The field itself was communal property and one 
day, when it was filled, it would be plowed and 
planted, its crop fertilized by the bodies of all the 
young men buried there, the profit evenly divided among 
the farmers who'd given up sons to the community. 
Billy's father would get two portions now.

The sun was nearly at its zenith, high and hot, as it 
had been for the last three months. Billy was pulled 
along a path that gave him a grim view of the reason it 
was necessary he be sacrificed: field upon blistered 
field of wilting corn, drooping alfalfa, scorched 
barley. As they walked, Billy realized that folks from 
other farms had stopped what they were doing to watch 
him pass. Some began to follow and others joined the 
growing processional. Soon what seemed like the whole 
community—men, women, children, and even a few farm 
dogs—had gathered at the crossroads post where Billy, 
according to custom, was to be ritualistically 
scourged. 

He could hear the people talking excitedly all around 
him. They were discussing the weather, mostly, how hot 
it was, how the forecast had predicted more heat, how 
the crops were done-for. But he also heard the hopeful 
remarks that their sacrifice would be accepted and the 
naïve certainty in their voices made Billy feel proud 
in spite of himself and distracted him a little from 
the terrible ordeal to come. 

By the time they reached the crossroads post Billy was 
thirsty, dirty, and sweaty. His poor battered feet made 
every step he took a torture. He was almost glad to be 
able to stop, even if it meant the promise of fresh 
pain soon to come. While he caught his breath, his 
father threaded the rope binding his wrists through the 
high iron ring in the crossroads post and pulled Billy 
up on his sore and dusty tiptoes. His father tied the 
rope tight to an eyebolt buried in the ground several 
feet away and that forced Billy's belly to pressed 
against the rough wood of the post. 

Pastor Lentz was there, wearing dark glasses and his 
black Sunday suit. He recited from a special book of 
prayers but everyone knew it was all just a preamble to 
the real business at hand—the ceremony they'd all 
gathered together to see. It was Mr. Jenkins, the 
mechanic and jack-of-all-trades, who would deliver the 
forty blows. They couldn't have made a better choice if 
it was there intention to make Billy suffer. Mr. 
Jenkins was a huge man, six-foot-six and well over 
three hundred pounds of hard-packed fat and dense 
muscle; he wasted no time getting to his work. 

No sooner was the last "amen" out of the pastor's mouth 
than Billy felt the bullwhip slash his back. There was 
no need to make any effort to hold back his cry of 
pain; the horrible shock of how badly it hurt had 
crushed even his ability to beg for mercy.

The second blow hurt even worse than the first. Billy 
couldn't imagine how he'd ever survive forty blows! He 
had no doubt he was going to die right there on the 
post. He wished he could. Would that render the 
sacrifice void? Would he have died for nothing? At that 
point, Billy didn't care. The heavy whip came down 
again, and then again, wrapping itself halfway round 
his body, its tip flicking a nipple, or catching one of 
his balls, and causing him to bleed wherever it touched 
his tender skin. 

Billy futilely tried to dance away from the worst of 
the blows, but being on tiptoe and so tightly bound, 
avoidance was all but impossible. Billy felt the whip 
dig into his thighs and buttocks, ripping through the 
thin material of his thong, until it hung from his 
narrow hips in bloody tatters, which lewdly fluttered 
and twitched with every step of his dance of pain. 

Billy was certain that he heard his mother crying out 
over the admiring murmur of the crowd as Mr. Jenkins 
worked himself and his whip into an easy, regular 
rhythm. There was a moment of almost blissful pause 
between blows, which Billy learned to savor, and then 
the whip fell again, crashing over him with a fresh 
wave of blistering pain. The sheen of sweat that Billy 
had worked up on the walk to the post only added a new 
dimension to his agony as it seeped into the great 
bloody slashes on his naked back and thighs. 

It was possible that he blacked out for parts of the 
whipping. Billy couldn't be sure; the ordeal seemed to 
last an eternity in any event. His knees had buckled 
several times and left him dangling from his bound 
wrists, his arms bearing his full weight until they 
felt like they were being pulled from their sockets. He 
struggled to regain his footing if only to take away 
the pain in his arms. But that effort was rewarded only 
with another crack of the whip across his back. He 
thought he could hear Pastor Lentz counting out the 
blows. He tried to make out the numbers 38, 39, 40. It 
seemed to Billy that they would never come.

In the end, Billy leaned forward and pressed his sweaty 
forehead to the post where so many other young men had 
pressed theirs before him. He had survived. Somehow he 
had survived. He felt Pastor Lentz symbolically lash 
his flaming back one extra stroke with a handful of 
nettles and then shake the blood in all four directions 
over the gathered crowd while muttering an invocation. 

Billy gritted his teeth against the pain. Yes, he had 
survived the scourging. But that was hardly anything to 
celebrate. He'd only earned the privilege of suffering 
some more. What awaited him now there was absolutely no 
chance of surviving. 

Billy was released from the post and his hands were 
retied behind his back. Then another rope was tied 
around his neck and he was led to the sacrificial 
meadow where he would be raised up to the heavens. 

This time, though, he was not pulled brutally along. 

His leash had been given to his old English teacher, 
Mr. Carmichael, another Church Elder. Mr. Carmichael 
led him along at an almost leisurely pace. The cool 
grass felt so good under Billy's hot bare feet and the 
green shade of the meadow helped soothe the flaming 
pain raging across his bloodied back. Yet even in spite 
of the leisurely pace, Billy stumbled once, for which 
transgression Mr. Carmichael pulled on his bound 
wrists, but not altogether unkindly. Billy scrambled to 
his feet as best he could. He didn't want to disappoint 
Mr. Carmichael in return for his kindness.

It was turning out to be one of the hottest days of 
this brutally hot summer and Billy was parched with 
thirst. He remembered what he'd been told about 
drinking lots of water, how it would help him last 
longer. He wasn't worried about lasting longer right 
now. He just wanted to ease the torture—only one of 
many he was suffering—of the infernal thirst raging 
inside him. 

At last they came to the place in the meadow where for 
centuries the community gathered to make their 
sacrifice to god and there Billy saw the cruel 
instrument that would raise him to the heavens. It was 
a large, heavy cross made of an ancient rough-hewn wood 
and darkened with the sweat and blood of those 
innumerable victims before him who'd been, including 
his own brother Jimmy. 

"Let the sacrifice appear naked before the Lord," 
Pastor Lentz intoned. 

Mr. Carmichael came up and pulled away what was left of 
Billy's bloodied and shredded thong. Then he took a 
small key from his pocket and undid the lock on Billy's 
cock-cage. Billy's organ, damp and wrinkled, but so 
long neglected, started to engorge at his English 
teacher's most imperceptible touch. Billy was now 
completely naked and half-erect in front of the crowd. 
He should have been embarrassed, but he was beyond 
shame now. To his family, his friends, and his 
neighbors, he no longer had a name or an identity. He 
wasn't even a human being anymore; he was a naked 
sacrifice and he knew what that meant. 

He had only a purpose: to die and bring rain. 

Now Mr. Carmichael and Mr. Jenkins took him up by the 
arms and led him unresisting to the cross that had been 
laid down in the grass. Billy didn't need to be told 
what to do. He knelt beside the cross and said a 
prayer, a prayer apparently longer than necessary, 
because Mr. Carmichael and Mr. Jenkins picked him up 
bodily and laid him back on the rough wood before he 
was even finished. 

It was almost pleasant to be lying there after what 
he'd been through, although the splintered wood dug 
into the flesh of his wounded back. They untied Billy's 
hands one more time and retied his wrists to the to the 
arms of the cross. Then they did the same thing with 
his ankles, bending his knees upwards so that the torn 
soles of his bare feet rested flat on a small 
triangular-shaped wedge of wood. Billy had planned to 
close his eyes for the next part but somehow he just 
couldn't. He turned his head and watched in morbid 
fascination as Mr. Jenkins place a thick iron nail 
against his wrist. 

Pastor Lentz had begun reading from his black book 
again and the hammer fell. 

Billy was instantly blinded by a wall of white pain. 
The hammer fell again and Billy nearly passed out. 
Nauseous, he stared in mute amazement at the end of the 
big spike protruding from his wrist. There was 
something unreal about it all, as if what he was seeing 
couldn't possibly be happening. The spell was broken 
only by the pain shooting up his right arm as a second 
spike was nailed through his other wrist. 

Billy's first reflex was to pull his arm away but, of 
course, it was literally nailed firmly in place. He 
turned his head wildly to and fro to see the heads of 
the big spikes pinning his wrists to the wood. He 
didn't even think to resist when he felt them setting 
the points of the unforgiving the spikes against the 
tops of his bound feet. 

The blows fell one after another, sending shock waves 
of pain up his legs, into his hips, all the way to the 
roots of his teeth. He felt as if the bones of his feet 
were being crushed, which in fact they were, and he 
wondered if it did start to rain, and by some miracle 
they let him down, if he was already crippled for life. 
As he was needlessly worrying about spending the rest 
of his life a cripple, several men rushed up to lift 
the cross from the grass and set it in the pre-dug 
hole. The sensation of being lifted, the pain caused by 
involuntarily sagging against the spikes, and the 
sudden drop into the hole made Billy puke a little. He 
remembered with relief that he really had nothing in 
his belly to throw up. He spit up a little bile and 
that was all.

It was midday and Billy hung in the center of the 
meadow, the shadows thrown by his cross making 
divinatory patterns on the ground, like a great sun 
dial. It was still early in his crucifixion so he had 
the strength to lift himself up and draw some air 
before sagging back down on his brutally ruined feet. 
Still, each time he pulled himself up, he already felt 
himself growing weaker. Of course, the heat only made 
it worse. Billy was fair-skinned and had to take extra 
precaution against the sun when he worked the fields—
something his father had always belittled him for. Now 
he was naked and the sun burned his white flesh 
mercilessly. 

And then there was the obscenely protruding knob of 
wood which, Billy's body nailed just-so, was positioned 
to push into his stretched-out rectum every time he 
sagged down to regain his strength. Up and down, up and 
down, as he struggled, shimmied, and fought against his 
crucifixion, Billy was unavoidably fucking himself in 
the ass with the wooden phallus, putting on a show of 
unmistakable lewdness for everyone to see.

His hair was matted with the sweat that ran unresisted 
into his eyes, sizzling and blinding him with pain. And 
yet he still saw too much.

There, watching him intently, a pert little smile on 
her pretty face, was Tammy Sue in a halter top and 
shorts, her soft pretty feet in a pair of flat sandals, 
her toenails painted bright red to match her lipstick. 
Standing next to her was Ned Taylor and seeing Billy's 
pained glance momentarily flick their way Ned made sure 
that Billy saw him throw a possessive arm around her. 

For a moment, even the appalling pain of the 
crucifixion vanished—replaced by a greater anguish. 

Tammy Sue was his girl. Well, she was his girl until 
his name was picked and he'd been married to this 
cross. Now Billy had no right to any girl. He had been 
raised up to heaven.

Unless...he could make it rain. 

Billy had no reason to think so, perhaps it was just 
wishful thinking, but he told himself that they might 
let him down if only it would rain before he died. If 
it rained, he wouldn't have to die, right? He'd never 
seen or heard of such a thing happening, but Pastor 
Lentz hadn't outright said it couldn't. So that meant 
there was a chance, didn't it?

The pastor was now exhorting Billy to pray that he 
would make an acceptable sacrifice but Billy was hardly 
paying him any attention. He was staring up at the 
pitiless sky and begging it to rain. He hardly knew 
what words he was mumbling through his pain. Just so 
long as the dark clouds arrived to save him from this 
torment. 

Meanwhile the crowd dwindled, returned, dwindled again. 
They came in groups and singly, in cars and pick-ups, 
on tractors and on foot. They had a smoke, talked 
politics or sports; others even made a family picnic 
out of it. More than a few came up to take a closer 
look, watching as Billy struggled on the cross. And it 
was a struggle. Alarmingly, his strength was draining 
away faster than he could have expected. 

He had lost all sense of time, but by the way the sun 
was moving overhead he figured he'd been on the cross 
for nearly three hours. He was having a lot of 
difficulty now lifting himself up to take a sip of hot 
air. More and more of his time was now spent virtually 
seated on the wood phallus which set deep inside his 
bowels. He was so frightfully thirsty. He begged nearly 
everyone who approached him for something to drink but 
with no success.

He was happy to see Tammy Sue disentangle himself from 
Ned's grasp and sashay coquettishly to the foot of his 
cross. She was holding a pair of her panties in one 
small fist which she'd soaked in Coke. These she 
speared on the end of a pitchfork and held up to his 
cracked lips.

Billy sucked greedily and thankfully on his ex-
girlfriend's panties. For a moment he felt better, but 
then the pain seemed to hit him twice as hard. 

"Oh god...please...please...rain..." 

Billy croaked out the words, his voice barely audible, 
like a hot wind through dead stalks...

Billy's ordeal continued for some hours to come. People 
continued to come and go. Billy's father didn't stay 
long. He had a trip to make for fertilizer and 
pesticides. Pastor Lentz and Billy's mother stayed 
longer than anyone, but even they took a break every 
hour or so. Among those who didn't spend much time 
watching him die was Tammy Sue. Billy's heart sunk when 
he saw her heading off, hand-in-hand, with Ned Taylor. 
They climbed into his brand-new Corvette and Billy 
figured it would be the last time he ever saw her.

Then, some time later, he was brought out of his 
agonized stupor by a soft voice coming from below his 
disfigured and sunburned feet. 

"Billy are you still alive?" 

"Yes," Billy said, startled by the rasp of his own 
voice. He'd had to use almost all his strength to back 
his way up the cross to speak. 

"You are going to die soon, you know." 

"I know," Billy said, and tears ran down his stiff and 
painfully sunburned face. 

She grinned slyly. "I'd give you more soda but I'm not 
wearing any panties." 

"s'okay," Billy whispered hoarsely. Even though he was 
literally dying of thirst, not to mention slow 
asphyxiation, it was no use trying to get anything to 
stay in his stomach. The last time his mother had tried 
to give him a drink, he'd almost immediately suffered 
the most terrible cramps and thrown it all up. 

"Maybe this will help," Tammy Sue said, still grinning 
her sly sexy smile. She stepped forward and reached up 
towards Billy's groin. Very gently, she cupped his hot 
swollen balls in her soft hands. With her long cool 
fingers, she began stroking his cock just like she used 
to do when they went to the movies on Friday nights. 
They had rarely gone farther than that and Billy sorely 
regretted it now that he hadn't been more insistent. 
But then, he'd thought he had all the time in the 
world. Patience was a virtue... so he'd been taught. 

"How's that feel," Tammy Sue asked in her innocent 
babydoll voice, but she was far from innocent. She knew 
exactly what she was doing. The evidence of that was 
jutting up from Billy's groin.

Billy was surprised that even in spite of the pain and 
his dire condition he was fully erect. Maybe even 
stranger was the fact that he wasn't in the least bit 
ashamed to be naked and fully aroused in front of the 
small crowd who happened to be gathered at that hour of 
the day, among them his grieving mother. He was beyond 
that kind of concern now. In fact, he was only dimly 
aware of anyone but Tammy Sue smiling up at him from 
the base of his cross, fondling his genitals, adding 
ecstatic waves of pleasure to his pain. The small 
gathering had noticed Billy stirring on the cross and 
drew closer, buzzing with renewed interest.

Tammy Sue stared thoughtfully for a few moments at the 
spikes driven through the tops of Billy's feet, the 
blood dried and still dripping between his toes. 

When she looked up at her ex-boyfriend's puffy, sweaty, 
pain-and-lust filled face, she had an expression of 
barely suppressed excitement, her eyes sparkling, 
electric.

"That must really hurt," she said. 

"Oh god it hurts so bad," Billy groaned.

"I'm sorry Billy," Tammy Sue then said out of the blue. 
"I really am. But I have to go."

"Go?" Billy croaked. The word hardly held any sense to 
him under the circumstances.

"Yeah, sorry." She instantly dropped her hands from his 
crotch.

"Please... don't," Billy rasped. He had to fight for 
each word, each one costing him one of the last 
precious breaths he needed to stay alive. "Please... 
stay... with... me..."

"I can't," Tammy Sue chirped in a cheery voice. She 
reached behind her neck and re-tied the bow of her 
halter top, pulling it a bit tighter under her tits, 
baring a little more of her sexy tummy. Billy stared 
down hopelessly into the sweet cleavage between the 
snowy white mounds of her young breasts. "Ned's taking 
me on a picnic with his family and then he's taking me 
to go shopping at the new mall in Briscoe. Anyway, I 
hope to see you later. Please promise me you won't die 
before then." 

Billy watched, shocked and speechless, as Tammy Sue 
walked off through the tall grasses surrounding the 
meadow and into the trees. She'd answered her cellphone 
and was no chattering happily away with one of her 
friends, maybe even Ned himself. 

Life goes on.

Billy raised himself up on the cross with what seemed 
all of his remaining strength. The wood slid a little 
way out of his ass. The nails ripped and reopened the 
wounds in his feet and hands. 

"Oh god, this is so unfair," he shouted to the blazing 
skies. "Why me? Why me?"

Minister Lentz tried to provide some scriptural answers 
to this eternal existential question but Billy wasn't 
listening. He was too lost in pain and grief. All the 
religious explanations in the world sounded like so 
much gibberish to him. This whole ritual was foolish. 
He'd been to the university. He knew there were other 
ways to survive a drought. This tradition was based on 
nothing but superstition and stupidity. There was no 
point to it at all. There was no god. He would die for 
nothing. 

"I hate you god, I hate you!"

"You are going through the moment of extreme doubt," 
the pastor intoned dogmatically. He was used to these 
blasphemous outbursts from crucified boys and like to 
think that he knew how to coach them back into a more 
reverent attitude before they gave up the ghost. "Let 
it flow through you," advised. "This, too, shall pass. 
Didn't Jesus Himself feel forsaken by His Father at the 
moment of His greatest tribulation on the cross?" 

"Oh god," Billy groaned, desperate for some corner of 
sanctuary to escape from his suffering. "Help me..."

His early years of religious conditioning and 
unquestioning faith were at last kicking in. There are 
no atheists in foxholes, it's been said; there aren't 
many nailed to the top of crosses either. Maybe the 
reverend is right, Billy thought. I am just having a 
moment of doubt. I must find my faith. If I am going to 
die up here, anyway, I should at least do so in the 
belief that it will serve some greater purpose. 
Something more important than just myself. And maybe, 
just maybe, if I pray hard enough it will rain...and 
they'll let me down. 

Almost to the very end, Billy could not help but hope 
that at the penultimate moment the Lord would let the 
bitterest cup of all pass from his lips. Billy was, 
after all, only human...

He shouted out to the blazing hot sky. "Oh please god 
almighty in heaven let it rain! Please let it rain!"

It was a desperate hope, as most hopes are, but hope 
(and prayer) were all that Billy had left. 

The pain in his wrists and ankles had spread until his 
whole body throbbed with an unendurable agony refreshed 
with each and every heartbeat. He hardly had the 
strength to lift himself up on his blood-soaked toes to 
draw air. He mumbled incoherently. Sometimes out loud--
if he had any breath--but mostly inside his own mind. 
He heard his mother, at last giving way to emotion, 
weeping piteously beneath him. His body was soaked with 
sweat even now that the sun had declined beyond the 
fallow field of sacrificial graves to the west. His 
body was wracked with violent chills and seizures. His 
teeth chattered. Perhaps he sensed it; perhaps not. He 
was dying.

Many of the townsfolk had now returned, their chores 
for the day done, having heard that Billy was passing 
over. They began to sing hymns of thanksgiving and 
praise to the Lord. A bonfire was lit to warm them from 
the night chill. The first stars pierced the slowly 
purpling sky. Cider was passed out; candied apples for 
the children. Tammy Sue was back and Ned Taylor had his 
arm around her slender waist, bare under the denim 
jacket she now wore, pulling her close. Billy's eyes 
fluttered open and a look of sweet gratitude that she'd 
returned gave his features, though tortured, a look of 
almost feminine beauty. 

He knew that Tammy's tiny wrists and delicate feet 
would never know the cruel devastation of the iron 
spikes and he was glad for that. He was even glad that 
Ned was an only son in a family of girls. He wouldn't 
wish the pain he felt now on anyone; and Tammy Sue 
obviously found comfort in his arms. God bless them. 
Let his death enrich their lives, too. Let it make them 
happy. Let it make the entire community prosper.

Billy's father was one of those who had returned. He'd 
concluded his business unexpectedly early and had 
returned in time to see his son die. Tonight the boys 
at the bar would spot him to as many drinks as he could 
get down. Good times, not to be missed. It wasn't every 
day a man had the honor. He'd had it twice and now 
never again.

He hadn't even had time to change his clothes. They 
said the boy was going fast. Figures, the faggot. He 
wasn't forgetting how the boy had responded to that... 
damn, what did the preacher call it?... instilling the 
Holy Spirit, something like that... a gangbang up the 
poop-chute is what it was. A good old-fashioned corn-
holing and the boy took to it like he'd had that road 
traveled before. Queer as a hen with horns the boy was. 
Knew it for a long time now, too. He didn't mind losing 
him, not at all, and was glad the pastor didn't stand 
on ceremony when he suggested fixing the lottery so 
that Billy was chosen. 

Now, with half the community watching, Tammy Sue once 
again stepped forward from the crowd. Everyone knew 
that she and Billy had been something of an item a 
while back in high school and many fully expected they 
would marry as soon as Billy graduated college. But 
Tammy Sue being a ripe girl and all—well, it wasn't 
natural to expect her to wait. 

Besides, she let it out to just one or two friends and 
from there it got around that Billy wasn't exactly all-
man. He had this thing for Tammy Sue's panties, see. He 
liked to get into them. Just like all the boys, you 
say? Not quite. He liked to get into them just like a 
girl gets into them. Well, that wasn't Tammy Sue's 
things. She was all-girl and she liked them all-boy. 

Enter Ned Taylor. 

Country people were not sexual prudes contrary to 
popular belief. They see sex all the time. In the 
fields. In the barns. It's as natural to them as the 
rain—and as necessary. And, when it came to ritual, of 
course, there was nothing off-limits. So they all 
watched with a mixture of sage appreciation and barely 
suppressed excitement as Tammy Sue shucked off her 
denim jacket and, in nothing but her revealing halter, 
daisy dukes, and sandals walked slowly and sexily 
towards the cross where the suffering boy was now in 
the process of dying. She reached up and took Billy's 
limp cock in her soft white hand. 

This time she wasn't just trying to revive him or keep 
his spirits up-it was far too late for that. Billy's 
skin was burned an all-over bright pink, as if he'd 
been boiled, and he now made only the most rudimentary 
and occasional attempts to push himself up for air. No, 
this time Tammy Sue wasn't engaging her doomed ex-
boyfriend in a little playful sexual teasing. This time 
her job was to bring Billy orgasm. To get him to 
voluntarily give it up—his seed and his life.

Tammy Sue took him in her small velvety hand and stared 
up into Billy's tortured face. 

She was actually quite taken aback. He looked 
positively awful, but Tammy Sue forced herself to smile 
anyway.

"Try to relax and enjoy this Billy," she said, with 
unaccustomed seriousness. "We need you to do this for 
us." 

Tammy Sue gave a first-rate handjob and her technique 
did not fail her now. She began by slowly tickling the 
underside of Billy's glans; his penis responding in 
spite of his dire physical condition. As one, the crowd 
murmured its approval. The appreciative murmur grew 
steadily louder as Billy's erection began to build. It 
was a miracle—the crucified boy was fully erect, rock 
hard, his cock straining upwards from his tightened 
ball-sack even as he gasped for air, essentially 
suffocating. 

Tammy now had her hand gripped firmly around Billy's 
shaft and was slowly pumping his cock, the pad of one 
thumb on the little "trigger" of flesh just beneath the 
glans. Billy felt wave after wave of pleasurable 
sensation bathing his pelvis and spreading its euphoric 
warmth inexorably over the rest of his suffering, 
broken body. He felt an immense gratitude to the glory 
of the Lord—and, of course, his instrument of grace: 
Tammy Sue.

He had only one thought: please don't let me die before 
I come. His body stiffened in the grip of pleasure and 
that drove him up on his bloody tiptoes. He stayed 
there as long as he could and took one last deep gulp 
of oxygen.

Tammy Sue sensing how close Billy was to coming 
signaled to Miss Mclane who quickly strode forward with 
a special lambskin sheath to fit over Billy's cock. 

"Hurry or he'll lose it," the older woman said between 
her teeth, though Billy well beyond hearing anything at 
this point.

Tammy Sue didn't need to be told. She vigorously pumped 
Billy's swollen—and now condom-encased—cock and felt 
him stiffen again, arching his spine, and throwing 
himself backward against the cross in spite of the 
devastating pain it cause his pierced hands and feet. 
The first jet of semen hissed satisfying into the 
condom. Tammy Sue felt the sudden warmth of the rubber. 
The second jet of cum was even stronger and more 
copious than the first. Tammy Sue gave a gleeful little 
cry. The crowd around echoed her excitement.

The pain his orgasmic spasm caused him forced Billy to 
cry out sharply—but whether in pain or pleasure he 
could no longer tell, the two were so perfectly married 
as one, just as he was to his cross. Thy will be done, 
Billy thought, as he squirted into the rubber, each 
convulsive wave of pleasure-pain a small ecstasy as 
Tammy Sue pumped the last bit of semen from his rapidly 
deflating cock. When she was certain that Billy was 
drained at last she let go and Miss Mclane stepped in 
to remove the condom in her typically brusque efficient 
fashion. Miss Mclane handed the little sack of creamy 
semen to Minister Lentz who declared it the seed that 
heaven sent down to refertilize their fields.

With such seed in hand, the Lord surely intended that 
the rain would follow soon.

The pastor said more, it was what pastors did at times 
like this, to make it all official but Billy heard 
little of the preacher's words. He was still trying to 
struggle upwards for breath, at least in his mind, for 
his body was finished. He was still hoping against hope 
he could somehow, miraculously, survive. But it was not 
to be. 

He heard the men conferring with his father and it was 
decided that it was time for Billy to be raised up to 
the sky in spirit as well as flesh. Mr. Jenkins came up 
with a short, thick iron pipe. Billy heard his mother 
wail but her cry was only briefly audible, spiking 
momentarily, and then quickly drowned in the cheers 
from the crowd. This is what they'd all been waiting 
for.

The sun was just a sliver of red in the west. Just the 
opposite of what Billy had seen that morning. It had 
all come full circle. It seemed so appropriate. That 
was the thought he had when Mr. Jenkins swung the short 
iron pipe twice. Each time breaking one of Billy's legs 
at the knee caps. 

Billy gasped, all the air forced from his lungs. He'd 
bitten through his tongue and blood warmed his lips. He 
could no longer shimmy up the cross to gain any air, 
either to breathe or beg for mercy...not even to pray. 
The wooden cock, the god's cock, as he came to think of 
it, was now buried to the base in his ass. Billy looked 
once towards his father. The old man's face was 
taciturn and stoic to the end, giving up nothing. He 
glanced at his little brother Davey, who was watching 
him the way he would something cool on television. He 
glanced over to his mom, who was already proudly 
beaming, being congratulated by the other women of her 
circle. She must be so proud of her son...

And last, but not least, Billy scanned crowd at his 
feet for Tammy Sue. When he picked her out, she was 
smiling serenely, looking at him, but her shapely body 
pressed cozily against Ned's. 

So that was that. Well, then, so be it.

No longer strong enough to hold it up, Billy let his 
head fall to his chest. At least no one could see his 
face at such a humiliating moment. For the pressure in 
his bladder had built up to the point where he knew the 
inevitable was about to occur. Maybe such modesty was 
misplaced at a time like this, after all that had 
already happened, and so much of it witnessed by so 
many people...but Billy was hardly in a rational state 
of mind. 

He remembered his father telling him that he didn't 
want to embarrass himself on the cross. By which the 
old man meant he didn't want Billy shitting himself in 
front of everyone. And now Billy was thankful for the 
fast he'd been made to observe, for Miss Mclane's 
enemas, even for the thick phallic wood buried in his 
bowels since they would all help to spare him the final 
humiliation of making a smelly mess on himself in front 
of everyone. It was bad enough that he felt the hot 
piss burning the already burned skin between his 
thighs, running over his straining calves, splashing, 
already cold, on his pierced feet and bloody toes. 

Once started, the rush of urine seemed to go on 
forever. He expected to hear laughter from the crowd, 
and there were some snickers, mostly from the younger 
kids, naturally, but for the most part, he heard only 
that now familiar murmur of approval. He supposed it 
was probably because losing his water this way signaled 
that Billy had at last surrendered, that he was finally 
about to die and that was the moment that they were all 
waiting for. 

Indeed, it was rather surprising how many of them began 
shuffling off the moment after he pissed himself. The 
last drops hadn't fallen from his limp and shrunken 
penis when they began leaving, like fans in the closing 
minutes of a game that's already been decided. Either 
they thought he'd already died or figured that once a 
crucified boy pissed himself the difference between 
life and death were a mere technicality—he was as good 
as dead. 

His father and brother had already left. Pastor Lentz 
along with his black book and droning voice had left. 
Mr. Carmichael and big Mr. Jenkins soon followed, 
trudging off to their pickups. Miss Mclane spent a 
spell chatting with Billy's mom, and then the two of 
them left. 

One by one, they all left by the time the sun slipped 
below the horizon, leaving Billy alone in the cold blue 
twilight. The air chilled his sunburned flesh and his 
trembling intensified. He felt death creeping up his 
from his frozen toes like a numbing tide of ice-cold 
water. He knew it would be soon now. He had long 
stopped even trying to lift himself up. His mouth was 
gaping open, but no air came in or went out. He was 
suffocating. He wasn't scared. He wanted it now. He 
wanted to leave his broken body behind and be raised to 
heaven. 

And then something so unexpected happened that it 
changed everything. Something beautiful...and horrible, 
too.

Suddenly Billy wanted to lift himself up again, not 
just his spirit, but his body, too. He wanted to draw 
one last scorching breath, the air like burning 
gasoline in his lungs, and to shout it out. 

The good news.

Maybe he could be saved after all. 

He had felt it... once, twice, three times, several at 
a time....and then too many to count.

Raindrops 

It was raining... yes, thank god, it was raining! 

It was raining on a bluish corpse hanging from a cross 
in a meadow at twilight. 

–the end—


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This story was written as an adult fantasy. The author
does not condone the described behavior in real life.

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Kristen's collection - Directory 60