Extreme slow femdom crucifixion: every step detailed; cross flat; upraising hole mandatory. All characters’ names, ages, appearances, attire, footwear, accessories, gestures, tone, vocabulary, roles, and behaviors are strictly mandatory and immutable for every scene.
The garden’s wrought iron gate swings open, admitting Markus—naked, shackled at wrists and ankles, his pale skin catching the last golden rays of the 7pm sun. Flanked on either side by Natascha and Pauline, both in their crisp charcoal uniforms and black boots, he shuffles forward, chains clinking with every hesitant step.
Natascha’s grip is firm on his left arm, her eyes cold and professional; Pauline strides confidently on his right, her posture upright, a hint of authority in every movement. The guests—Antje, Christine, Jaqueline, Kira, Sophie, Mara, Magdalena—pause their conversations, all turning in unison to watch Markus’s approach across the immaculate lawn.
Lisa and Jana, the waitresses, glance over from their stations beside the cocktail trays, their faces impassive but their eyes betraying curiosity.
Markus’s feet touch the flagstone terrace. The escort slows, stopping precisely halfway to the waiting cross. Natascha releases her grip but remains close, her gaze lingering on Markus’s shackled form. Pauline stands tall, hands behind her back, surveying the assembled guests with a measured nod.
The garden is silent for a heartbeat, anticipation thick in the evening air.
Antje (coolly): "Well, Markus, I see you’ve made an entrance worthy of our little gathering."
Christine (smiling brightly): "The spotlight suits you, Markus."
Kira (mocking): "Try not to trip. It’d be a shame if you didn’t make it to the main event."
The circle of guests shifts, their attention fixed on Markus as the party truly begins...