The Cross She Bore free porn video

Memories are sometimes not to be trusted. In looking back on the past, what one believes to be a memory is in actuality what one prefers to think the past was like. We do this unintentionally -- whether as a defensive mechanism or the result of the layering of visions of the past, one on top of another, until the distant past is obscured.

For Rebecca her fascination with the cross and with the practice of crucifixion seemed in retrospect to have been acquired at an early age. Now as a single woman in her early thirties, she could not recall a time when crucifixion did not loom large in her emotional life. Even as a c***d of four, if her recollections are to be believed, Rebecca was captivated by the imagery of the Crucifixion. It seemed for her entire life, she wondered and imagined what it would be like to be suspended from the arms of a cross and to suffer the pain of torture.

Later in life, when she was a teenager she wondered if this obsession was the result of an Italian Catholic upbringing. For sure, from kindergarten through elementary school, from the time of her first communion to her confirmation, her education included a heavy dose of Roman Catholic theology. Christ’s stigmata were real for her, a badge of suffering which she secretly envied. But as an adult she was inclined to dismiss this explanation. Age thirty-two, she was another in the legion of lapsed Catholics; individuals familiar with its rituals and beliefs in the same way many adults are familiar with their high school French.

Perhaps, one hundred years ago – in another time and another place -- her obsession might have set herself apart as a woman with a calling to serve the Church. But she had her doubts. Her obsession – or fetish in the words she now used to describe this peculiar proclivity – was not grounded in devotion. No, she readily admitted to herself the genesis was not piety; nor was it necessarily prurient in origin. She knew there was a sexual component. But in the course of her never ending introspection, she felt her fetish reflected a desire to suffer punishment -- severe, painful and humiliating. The two strands were interlinked – inextricably in her analysis. Why though? She was a loss.

Now her friends, colleagues and family would have expressed utter amazement were they to learn of her secret yearning to suffer a cruel and barbaric punishment. Rebecca was what individuals called a “good girl.” A less charitable description was “mousey.” Although physically attractive she was not deemed a beauty. Every one of her features was pleasant enough, but the combination did not produce what others would describe as a lovely countenance or a drop-dead gorgeous body.

No she had the “girl next door” look. Her nose was neither pronounced nor delicate. It was just there. Her other facial features were also unremarkable. She was not blessed with high, prominent cheek bones. Her face overall was more rounded and less angular. Petite in stature, she was at the shorter end of the normal range for a woman. Consequently her torso was a bit out of proportion to her legs. They were not long and lankly; rather than seemingly going on forever they came to an abrupt end. And, her weight was average. Rebecca was always fighting to reduce her weight by five or ten pounds in the vain hope of making her hips a bit less accentuated.

Her eyes were typically the feature which attracted the most comment. Brown in color and set amidst hair of a similar hue, her eyes, wide, unblinking and soulful imparted a doe-like quality to her persona. Perhaps this was because she was easily startled giving her a “deer in the highlights” appearance when she was nonplussed.

Although she could be a wall flower in a large group, she was reckoned intelligent. Throughout elementary school, high school and college and even in graduate school, she always enjoyed the reputation as one of the brighter students in the class. After graduating with a master’s degree in Medieval Literature, Rebecca did what most over educated individuals did upon graduation: she settled for second best. Rather than pursue her studies, teach or even make an attempt at a career with some intellectual pretensions, she opted to become another functionary in the corporate world. In her view the pay compensated for the boredom.

This deal was struck in part because she was beginning to doubt she would ever marry. The idea of ceasing work to be a man’s wife just did not seem to be in the hand she was dealt. She desired a man who did not seem to exist. She yearned for a man who would both stimulate her mind and dominate her body. The combination of cerebral and sexually aggressive just did not seem to be common – at least not among the men she encountered in her circles. Alpha males with PhDs were as rare as unicorns. Domineering men she had dated struck her as coarse and uncouth while intelligent men were simply too nice. Almost to a man, they shuddered at some of the hints she dropped regarding just what turns her on in the bedroom. Of the half dozen men she dated who fell in the latter category, not one could loosen up enough to spank her hard. So given her experience with men, she had just about lost hope of finding a man who shared her crucifixion fantasy.

Her longing to be crucified thus remained her secret. She indulged this desire vicariously through porn. She was acquainted with not just the more mainstream BDSM sites but with the more esoteric, less frequented sites as well. Weekly she searched for any new site with scenes of a woman being crucified. Her hard drive was full of pictures and clips of women on a cross. She even categorized her collection by the type of cross: Latin, Thieves’ and St. Andrew’s crosses among the most frequent examples. Another preference was for a man in the role of the crucifier. FemDom crucifixion settings just did not have the same appeal for her.

So rather than diminishing with each passing year her fantasy went unfulfilled, her interest grew more intense. Her fantasy’s roots burrowed deeper into her psyche.

So it was with some surprise when one day scanning advertisements for men seeking submissive women she stumbled across his ad. His words impressed her. From both his choice of words and his prose style, his intellect and intelligence were evident. His words spoke to her heart; they echoed the desires she had harbored. He wrote of redemption through suffering and he promised the attainment of a state of bliss and contentment through torture of a sexual variety. But it was the description of his technique – mock crucifixion – and the picture of his cross which compelled Rebecca to reply to his summons. Deep within her heart she knew if she let this opportunity pass by she would regret her inaction and her timidity. His words were both a call and a challenge: it was now or never.

Rebecca suffered several sleepless nights until she received his response. His words struck a responsive chord in her breast. It was if he known her and of her secret for his entire life; it was if he had been waiting in the wings for the opportunity to aide her in her liberation; and, it was if he were a creation of her imagination. Reading and re-reading his reply, Rebecca was fearful this was a dream from which she would awake only to find herself alone without an agent to assist her in her quest.

The tone of her next letter to him was one of despair. She confided to him her fear of never receiving the redemption she so desperately craved. The only word Rebecca could find to describe the tone of his reply was “beneficent.” A strange choice she confessed to herself, but still the only adjective she felt conveyed the sense of peace which descended upon her when she read his words and glimpsed the salvation he promised.

In a third note she asked, quite out of character, if he would agree to meet. His reply was in the affirmative. He asked her to name a place and time – and, he promised he would be there. And, he was true to his word. When she first saw him sitting waiting for her to arrive her knees threatened to give way from the joy brimming within. He was older than she by fifteen years or so. Despite being in his late forties, he was, she reckoned, in excellent physical condition. He impressed her as delicate blend of the physical and the cerebral. For longer than she would have liked, she was initially speechless in his presence. But soon language reasserted itself as it always does.

They met a second and then a third time. After each date, she could only see one path – that path lead to the cross in his basement. During their fourth meeting, she asked, no, she beseeched him to guide her to the redemption she could not live without. He recounted for her, in minute detail, the excruciating pain she would endure. He also explained it was his preference was to proceed step-by-step to introduce her to each type of pain and stimulation she would experience so she would be prepared, mentally and physically, for the challenge of a crucifixion. Her heart sank and the tears welled up in Rebecca’s eyes. She cried, she could not wait any longer. Her words were lamentations of her despair at ever crossing that portal to the contentment she knew was only attainable by her through suffering. She told him her entire life was a preparation for this suffering. With those words Rebecca convinced him of her resolve to bear the sufferings of the cross.

So it was arranged for her to come to his house the next week on Saturday at seven in the morning. He told her what to pack since she should plan on staying the night after her ordeal was over.

Rebecca could not wait for the days to pass. Finally Saturday arrived. She was up at five to prepare herself for what she knew would be the most momentous day in her life. She had made her vows to meet the cross on its terms years ago; today she would honor that commitment.

She arrived several minutes early. He greeted her at the door and conducted Rebecca to the basement. The entrance to the chamber was against the back wall of his basement, just to the left of the oil tank. Since the ceiling was low, not more than six feet she reckoned by how he stooped to avoid hitting his head, the door appeared more like an entry way to a root cellar than an entrance to another room. He advised her to watch her head and to watch her step as entered the chambered.

He descended first. Grabbing two grips just above the lintel, he swung himself into the lower room. Turning he extended his hand to her, in order first to take her bag and then to assist her as she climbed down into the chamber. Even though she was petite – just five foot two without any heels – she found the passage difficult to navigate. The dimmed lights of the chamber did not help establish her bearings or to maintain her footing. Bending over she descended, her left hand grasping his right, her left foot finding the first of four steps. With his guidance, she passed in the blink of an eye she passed from one world into the next. She knew, she sensed it was his world. She wanted to be a part of it. She knew her initiation had only just begun.

Rebecca felt her knees grow weak as with one step after another she descended the flight of metal steps until finally she felt terra firma, the hard, cold concrete floor of the sub-basement. For the first time she glimpsed her surroundings as her gaze swept from one corner of the room to the next. He had previously acquainted her with the geography of the room relative to the rest of the house. His candor and openness was the reason why she was here, why she had assented to place herself, her life, her body and her person in his hands. She knew where she stood: the room was the foundation for his green house, a room that was a later addition to his home.

She guessed the room to be twenty feet or so by approximately ten – not a large room, but one sufficiently large for its purpose. The walls were made of stone: Pennsylvania field stone like many of the houses in this part of the state. Sconces in the form of candles were placed every four feet or so, shedding light amidst the shadows. In the right corner she caught sight of a bed. It was a four poster made from massive pillars of wood. By its left side was a sideboard with a ewer and bowl. In the far left corner she recognized what she thought was an apparatus similar to an exercise horse one finds in a gym. And, directly before her, it stood. Tall. Looming. Foreboding. Some might even say sinister. But those individuals lacked the depth of imagination to comprehend its majesty. She quickly recognized it as her cross to bear.

The crucifix stood erect before her. She estimated its height to be eight, maybe nine feet. She was not certain. The interplay of the light and of the shadows made an accurate guess impossible. Suffice it to say, the cross was taller, more substantial, than her petite frame. At first she felt a knot form in her stomach as she stood in its presence. But tension quickly subsided as she stood before it in awe of its beauty. A certain calm, a certain serenity and a certain acceptance – whether of her fate or of her desire, she was unable to say – descended on her.

She moved closer to touch the cross. Running her hand with the grain she felt the strength of the wood. Like the bed’s pillars, the base of the cross was massive. She tried to encircle the base with her fingers, but she could not span the block with her thumbs and forefingers out stretched. She guessed the vertical shaft was at least six inches all around. Looking at its arms, outstretched, reaching for her, she saw their thickness was of the same dimensions.

In their correspondence, he had written of its construction. He had informed her of its dimensions. She knew the arms were joined to the vertical shaft by a lap joint. She knew as well, a metal brace behind reinforced the horizontal, arms to the vertical base. She knew too that a metal bracket, bolted to the concrete floor, secured the cross. This allowed the cross to be lowered to the ground. And, somewhere in the recesses of her memory, she could recall the iron bar behind the cross to provide additional support and stability.

But seeing the cross before her conveyed a different sense than being told of its dimensions and construction. T he latter facts now struck her as somewhat cold and academic – distant and lifeless like a definition in a dictionary. It was only after feeling the wood -- appreciating its strength – and only after running her hands along grain, did she appreciate the art, the imagination and the craftsmanship with which it was imbued. She imagined the arms enveloping her, hugging her to its shaft, making her, her body, her mind, her heart and her imagination one with it. I n several hours, once her ordeal was over, she would be one with it and it one with her.

She smiled at him, softly, shyly to signal her willingness to proceed. He instructed her to undress completely. She would, he informed her, find hooks and a clothes rod with hangers on the wall by the foot of the bed. In the dim light she vaguely discerned the clothes rod with its hangers. Oddly she was relieved she would be undressing in the shadows. He had of course not seen her naked. She was embarrassed and more than a bit self conscious despite the knowing fully the activity they would shortly engage in.

While she proceeded to undress she observed how he lowered the cross to the floor. Using a block-and-tackle he eased the rope, going hand over hand, lowering it inch by inch, until the cross rested on the floor. Because of the bracket and hinge holding the cross to the floor the head of the cross was slightly lower to the ground than its base. Once the cross had been lowered he raised the triangular block of wood upon which her feet would rest higher. Next he began to organize the ropes which would bind her to the cross.

Having arranged all of the ropes in their proper place along the arms and shaft of the cross, he asked if she was ready. In a low voice, she answered in the affirmative. Gruffly he told her to stand astride the shaft. She positioned herself as he desired. For one last time they discussed the two hand signals she would use if either she could not bear the ordeal any longer and the other if she needed to use the bathroom. She answered yes to both. She added she had followed his instructions and had not eaten any breakfast nor had she drunk a large quantity of fluids – just enough to keep her hydrated and from passing out.

Standing astride the thick, hard and massive shaft she was conscious of the wetness of her sex. Placing his hands upon her shoulders, he gently seated her on the shaft; then using his hands he lowered her head and torso so that her arms were aligned with those of the cross.

What he did next first struck her as strange but provided a measure of comfort. Taking her right wrist in his hands, he took her pulse. His fore and middle fingers lightly pressed on the veins on the underside of her risk. Glancing at his watch, he counted the beats. After a minute or so, he rendered his verdict: her heart was beating rapidly. She could have easily conveyed this fact. She could feel her heart racing and the palms of her hands were wet. Her nipples were taut, tender and erect from the rapid, heated flow of her blood. And, even without glimpsing at her crotch, she knew her sex was peering out from beyond its cowl.

He stood up and moved to the sideboard. From one of the compartments below he withdrew a glass and a bottle of liquor. Without saying a word he poured a small measure into the glass.

Returning to the cross he stooped lower and gently lifted her head higher. He instructed her to take a sip. It was some port wine, he elaborated. He assured her it would take the edge off of her anxiety.

The liquor was strong and bitter. She recoiled at the first taste but once introduced she savored its strength. Having consumed the draught they repeated the process of lowering her head and torso, arranging her arms and taking her pulse. This time he was satisfied and proceeded with his preparations.

From his pocket he removed what appeared to be a file. She asked what he was doing. His reply, laconic like most of his conversation with her thus far, was the tool was a rasp. He used it, he informed her, to fray the ropes binding her to the cross, to make the cords rougher and coarser.

He commenced with binding her ankles. He wound the ligaments around one ankle and then the next. He tightened the cord and then tied the loose ends to an eye hook behind the shaft.

Next he proceeded to bind her right wrist and then her left to the arms. He followed the same steps: the rasp to fray the rope, wrapping the cord around her wrist and ending with securing the restraint to an eye hook on the arm’s underside. Similar restraints were prepared at two other points: first at the elbow and then at the mid-point of her upper arm.

With the last strand he fashioned a harness: running the two ends of the rope around her waist he looped each strand across her breast, forming an “X” as the ends ran from waist over her shoulders. These too were tied off to another eye hook attached to the support brace.

He now embarked on the final preparations. Turning her gaze to her left she saw him moved towards the sideboard. From the cabinet he removed what appeared to be a sponge as well as a gag of some sort. After dipping the sponge into the basin of water he returned to the cross. He told her to open her mouth. Once she complied he wetted her lips with water from the sponge. He then affixed the ball gag. His injunction was stern: fighting it would only increase the discomfort she would feel. The ball placed in her mouth and the harness fastened behind her head, he commanded her to take two or three deep breaths. Once she obliged he asked her if she was having any difficulty breathing. She responded by moving her head from left to right indicating she could breath.

Having met this challenge, she was unprepared for the next. Lying on the cross, naked and exposed, not yet hoisted up high, she felt his hands tease her thighs apart. Before she could glimpse what he was doing, she felt it rip into her sex. She felt the hard, rigid shaft pierce her insides. As he pushed the dildo deeper she felt its contours, its knots, its knobs, its protrusions push against the soft flesh of her vagina’s walls. Her muscles instinctively grasped the toy, pressing her vagina against its contours.

Try as she might she could not see what other task he had set out to accomplish. Lying on her back, the cross on the floor, her freedom of movement restricted, it was only with great pain and great difficulty that she could apprehend his movements. From his pushing against the base of the dildo, she guessed he was somehow securing the toy to the vertical beam so that when he hoisted the cross to its vertical position, it would remain firmly logged within her.

With a few moments he was finished. He shot a glance signaling to her that if she had not readied herself she had better quickly prepare for what was to come next. Stepping back he grabbed the end of the rope feeding through the pulleys of the block-and-tackle. Tugging gently at first and then with greater strength he pulled on the rope. With each tug, each pull, the head of the cross moved higher off of the ground. With each increase in the angle of elevation she felt the ropes binding her wrists and her upper arms to the cross dig into her flesh. Concurrently with each move from the horizontal to the vertical she felt the base of the dildo – the hard rubber simulacrum of testes -- press against the vulva and vaginal lips. In a few moments she could feel the cross was in position. Once it came rest, perpendicular to the hard, cold concrete floor, she felt a torrent of sensation wrack her nervous system.

The sources of the pain were manifold. With each increase in the angle of elevation some new sensation flooded her nerves causing her neurons to fire rapidly. But soon the flood became a cascade and the cascade a torrent: at some point she could not distinguish the cause or the source of the pain. Every ache and strain soon merged together to overwhelm any ability of her body acting autonomously to make sense of the pain befalling her. Only the ball gag kept her not merely from screaming but from shrieking. Words flittered through her mind but sentences -- coherent thoughts -- could not be formed. Any utterance would have been primitive: vocalizations attempting to convey what she had not the experience to articulate. Anyway language was useless even if she could regain her command of language. There was no one to hear her lamentations. Only him. And, he, she sensed, was impervious, resistant to her entreaties.

The pain emanating from her womb was intense. She felt as if he had pierced her there with a spear. Although she was in fact supporting her weight with her feet standing on the triangular block at the base, the combination of the force of gravity and the tension imposed by the harness holding the dildo inside of her conspired to force her torso and loins down onto the toy. Her erect clitoris, suffused from the rush of blood, rubbed against the toy’s base. The sensations were magnified by her futile attempts to shift her position, to arrange her center of gravity so her weight would fall to her rear and not to her front.

Each attempt failed in its purpose. Soon she realized the only possible of course of action was to willingly accept the pain of the dildo piercing her sex and abrading her clitoris. No sooner had she come to this resolution than she felt herself swoon from the paroxysm of pain and stimulation wracking her nervous system.

There was a clock facing the cross. In her now brief moments of sentience she wondered what purpose it served other than to mock her. Its slowly advancing hands seemed to deride her stamina and perseverance. The minute hand in particular appeared to derive great pleasure in its slow advance. Would she give up before even five minutes had passed? She girded herself to defy the clock’s low expectations.

Just as soon as she regained any semblance of composure her feeling of being in control was quickly dashed. For what seemed to be an eternity she found herself fighting to retain a sense of herself as a person. The stream of sensation induced by the dildo stuffed in her womb, the tension of the ropes binding her to the cross against her flesh, the coarse and frayed strands rubbing and chaffing her skin and an increasing physical lassitude, the result of having to stand in one place, to support herself, rendered any attempt by her mind to organize, interpret and respond to the stimulation ineffective. Her mental boundaries with reality – that wall which filters the cues provided by the world without – was crumbling, crashing down like retaining wall undermined by several days of uninterrupted torrential rain.

Rebecca, in her plight to shore up this wall between her outside and inner realities, was unprepared for the next onslaught he would orchestrate. From a corner he had pulled a small step ladder over to the cross, positioning it at the base of the cross. In his hand he held a whip. Climbing the ladder he stood over her, she who was bound helplessly to the cross. In a moment she would feel the sting of the whip, a scourge, striking her flesh.

He wielded the scourge with his right hand, striking her breasts with the instrument’s leather thongs first from the right and then from the left. He struck her again. And, he flailed her once again until he saw her recoil in pain from the sting of the frayed leather edges against her tender flesh. She choked from the shock.

Having awakened her flesh to the sting of the world and of its woes, he proceeded with its mortification. She saw him step down from the ladder. He walked over to the sideboard and removed another bowl from the cabinet. As he ascended the ladder, she saw in his hand a lemon. From his pocket he drew a knife, removed the blade and proceeded to cut the lemon in two. Having accomplished this task he took the half in his right hand, and while holding it above her breast, he squeezed the half with all his strength.

She could not stand to bear witness. She knew averting her gaze would not stop or impede the shock of sensation. scourge had not cut deep but it had drawn blood. The juice of the lemon fell in drops – one after another – on the raw exposed skin of her bosom. Within seconds she felt the sting of the citric acid. She winced. She squirmed. She yearned to scream in pain. ball gag though muffled her cries. The gag rendered any protest by her ineffectual.

For several moments the pain, the sting, the bite of the acid seeping through her wounds was more than she could bear. It was only by a force of will – an effort of supreme concentration – that she did not black out. She could feel her mind losing touch with her present reality. She sensed the fog of the u*********s gathering before her eyes. But by the exertion of her will she managed to dispel the fog and to cast back the lure of bodily surrender.

He was not finished though. Rebecca did not realize that each test of her endurance, if passed, would give rise to another. Like the mortification of her flesh the next challenge to the integrity of her mind and her body came from an unexpected quarter. She did not see him flick the switch but the moment the lights came on, blinding her with their intense glow, she knew this was the next assault he had planned for her. What Rebecca did not know, what she had failed to see lurking in the shadows, were four Klieg lights hanging from the ceiling in a semi-circle before the cross.

When turned on the effect was similar to staring at the sun. There was no shade though to provide relief. With her arms pinioned to the cross Rebecca was unable to use her arm or hand to shield her eyes from the glare of the searing lights. Within minutes she the sweat began to roll off of her brow, caking the wisps of her hair to her face. Soon she could feel the rivulets of sweat form on and between her breasts. The sweat poured from her skin, running down her fleshy mounds in all directions. Her moisture began to collect on the strands of rope crossing over her breasts in her cleavage. The sweat first started to collect of the frayed ends of the rope, irritating her skin. The countless little beads clinging to the frayed, coarse fibers were like an infestation of gnats crawling, biting and itching her bosom’s soft flesh.

While she was distracted by the effect of the cascading rivulets, she had not noticed he was now by the base of the cross. In his raised hand he held a vibrator which he pressed against her maiden’s head. The first tingle was an almost pleasant sensation against the back drop of pain she was experiencing. But soon pleasure turned to pain. Her clitoris first grew numb from the ceaseless stimulation. Then the pain ensued. Her clitoris throbbed and ached from being manhandled in this manner.

Steeping aside he raised his left hand and struck at her sex with the flat end of a riding crop. She winced in pain and agony. Again he struck – hard, fast and with no remorse or regret. Another strike. And, then another, until Rebecca felt that raw, abrading sensation of flesh torn. Soon she felt the vibrator pressed hard against her crotch. Its ceaseless vibrating pounding against her naked, raw and exposed sex.

Tears began to well up in her eyes. Soon tears of pain were joining the rivers of sweat still pouring from her brow to form torrents running down her cheeks. Her head hung low, Rebecca could feel her grip on reality receding.

Her vision clouded by the flood of tears, she was reduced to glimpsing reality through her mind’s eye, through her recollection of recent events. At this point her mind began playing tricks – cruel tricks – on her sanity.

She was no longer cognizant of where she was and what she was experiencing. Before her was desolation. She spied a wasteland devoid of trees, flowers or grass – a desert of desolation with no vegetation, parched and scorched by the glare of an unremitting sun. Around her yelping, baying and lunging were a pack of feral dogs. Hyenas she thought. Jackals maybe. Rebecca thought the wild dogs waited for her to succumb before they attacked. A sense of fear and foreboding seized her. But this rush of self preservation had to overcome the inertia of a body wracked by pain and the growing lassitude of a mind clouded by the fatigue of futile resistance. There was no place for her to run to seek help or to find shelter. The safest course of action appeared to remain where she was, encircled by the pack of rabid and ravenous hounds. There was no other option since she felt her energy slipping, first gradually and then rapidly, until she knew that she would, could, no longer resist.

At that moment when Rebecca had resolved to meet her fate, was the same moment the pack staged its attack. The hyenas lunged towards her in unison, their fangs bared, ready to tear her from limb to limb. Rebecca shuddered expecting the worst. But as the dogs, rabid and raging, hell bent on the attack, were about to strike and drag her down, they were transformed into a flock of doves which lifted her higher! She no longer felt pinioned to the ground. She felt free of her tired, aching husk of a body. She was cognizant of herself – of her spirit – but not of her flesh. Her pain had subsided. Her arms no longer felt the ropes cutting into her flesh, her breasts and nipples stung no more from the lash of the scourge and her sex had ceased throbbing from the repeated assaults on her femininity. Hoisted aloft on the wings of the doves her spirit soared as she discovered pleasure amidst the pain. Peace descended on her, a smile graced her face as her head bowed, she lapsed into u*********sness.

It was the feel of the water on her skin which aroused her. She awoke to find herself on the bed in the sub-basement as he washed her body with a sponge. T he air was fragrant with a hint of frangipani. She smiled at him; then she arched her back and stretched her arms as an invitation for him to have her, to take her, to ravish her and to enjoy her. He did not hesitate. His lips embraced hers. His hands ran wild over her body. And, soon she spread her legs wide to receive him so she might bestow on him, her benediction.