South Florida's Mamba proved to be something of a spectacular disappointment for the world's media empires. For months speculation had run rampant, such that caricatures of the killer on the Internet trended decidedly toward buxom, dark-eyed Latinas in catsuits. Upon the famous criminal's inevitable capture, it had come to light that the Mamba's name was Lisa Kerrigan Parish. She was neither buxom nor a Latina. Rather, she was extremely white, thirty-something, with shoulder-length brown hair, an unremarkable bust and wide hips with a bit too much padding. Unflattering mug shots had flooded cyberspace in the hours after her arrest, and virtually overnight the public mood shifted from dark idolization to the plain old vicious contempt reserved for every other murderer who made the news. It seemed an ironic and suitably bizarre development for a white Floridian Plain Jane characterized as a fantasy-worthy Hispanic femme fatale and nicknamed after an African snake.
Her one and only court appearance two days later had lasted mere minutes, comprising of a guilty plea and a death sentence. Afterward, she had been marched out of the Southeast Sector U.N. Justice Center in Jacksonville, clad in a baggy orange jumpsuit, a Kevlar vest, a steel transport harness and a leather hood with a shock collar and ball-gag. Why reporters covering today's criminal justice system continue to ask gagged prisoners for comment, I do not know, though sometimes the unintelligible curses and protests are amusing. Maybe that's why: ratings, baby. In any case the Mamba's fifteen minutes pretty much ended that morning. I don't think she ever wanted the attention, to be honest. In fact I sometimes wonder if she pleaded guilty simply to end the circus as quickly as possible. No lawyer on the planet could have saved her anyway.
They brought her to me in the holding area of San Hierra World Detention Center on the ninth of October, her latest victim cold less than a week. As the guards marched her across the small room with her wrists and elbows shackled behind her, I noted that she was indeed ordinary in just about every way. The haggard look from her mug shots wasn't accurate, but she would certainly never live up to the sexy assassin that bloggers and newscasters had turned her into. She looked like a lady who might sit behind a desk in an insurance office, not a catsuit-wearing villain from comics and certainly not the serial murderer she had confessed to being.
The officers placed her facing the wall, standing on a faded red X that many prisoners before her had occupied. I nodded at the escorts and thanked them, then they left us alone.
Without a word I approached the Mamba with a set of keys and freed her arms and legs from the transport harness. She relaxed and sighed softly but otherwise didn't react. I then unlocked her gag and pulled it away, a thin line of saliva following until it collapsed onto her chin. She inhaled deeply through her mouth and looked at me sideways. A moment of trepidation passed through me as I expected her to turn violent, but she did no such thing. I wasn't even sure if she was capable of violence in that way. All of her victims had been poisoned. Regardless, I was in no danger. Her collar ensured a near-instantaneous delivery of fifty thousand volts in the event of physical resistance.
"Remove your clothing," I instructed, "then place it in the container in front of you."
Her hands went to the buttons on the front of her jumpsuit, and she undid them with no hint of hesitation. In one smooth motion she pulled the suit off of her shoulders, shoved it over her hips and let it fall to the floor. She shook off her sandals before removing the suit completely and dropping it in the plastic basket near the wall. Needing no additional encouragement, she then unfastened her C-cup bra and discarded it as well. Large nipples stood tall in the cool air, and she briefly covered them with her palms, suggesting that maybe her attitude was more bravado than bravery. The chink in her armor didn't last long, though, and she seized the waistband of her panties aggressively, like she couldn't get rid of them quickly enough. She let them fall first, then she crouched to retrieve them before throwing them away with everything else.
Now completely nude, she stood with her arms at her sides and her gaze straight ahead.
"Put on the attire in the second container," I said.
"I want to go like this," she replied, a soft voice that didn't belong in this well-used, haunted room.
"Put on the attire in the second container," I repeated.
"I don't want to die in that."
"This is your final warning."
She looked up at the ceiling, made fists at her sides, then she knelt reluctantly beside the other basket and gathered the articles. The first was a black leather body harness with a pre-lubricated anal plug built into the crotch strap. A flash of anger crossed her face as she held the garment up for inspection, then her expression went flat again as she apparently surrendered to the idea and stood up.
"Arms through the upper portion," I told her, "then let it rest on your shoulders. Place the center ring between your breasts, then face the wall and place your hands behind your head. I'll secure the device at the back."
She obeyed admirably, even proceeding to tighten the front straps when they felt a bit loose around her tits. When done she assumed the position and waited to be locked into the embarrassing outfit of the condemned. Pleased with her behavior so far, I knelt and reached between her legs with a latex-covered hand, taking hold of the crotch strap. Pushing aside her left buttock, I touched the tip of the phallus to her anus a few times before quickly shoving it in. The motion caught her by surprise, and it was already over by the time her reflexive resistance kicked in. With the plug in place, I ran the remainder of the strap through a buckle against the lower part of her back and pulled it tight. Leather split the two sides of her round ass and forced the plug in even farther. The front portion dug between her labia and pressed on her clitoris, prompting her to draw another sharp breath and shiver.
I capped off the ritual with the application of a small padlock, the removal of which would be a job for someone else in a few hours.
"Thank you for cooperating," I said. "Please finish up now."
She touched her bottom where the plug had been inserted, adjusted the straps above and below her breasts and gave a curious once-over to the harness in general. I found myself mildly interested in her exploration.
Crouching again, she collected one black high-heeled shoe, slipped it onto her right foot and secured the strap around her ankle. She repeated the process for her left foot before standing upright again.
Her back to me but glancing over her shoulder, the Mamba said, "Before you gag me, I have a question."
"You will be given an opportunity for last words in public," I replied.
"I don't have any last words for the public. I have words right now for you."
"Then be brief."
"Are you married?"
"That's no concern of yours, ma'am."
"You're about to kill me for television ratings. Answer my question."
"You're being killed for multiple crimes, all of which you confessed to. You would be punished with or without cameras to broadcast it."
"Are you married?"
"I was once."
"Did you abuse your wife?"
"What? Of course not."
"You never hit her just to express your dominance, because you're powerful and rich and she depends on you, and you knew you could get away with it?"
"No, and I resent the implication."
"When I'm dead and you're back in your comfy office, check into this: every person I killed was an abuser. Do this for me, for yourself. It's important that someone knows, or else this was all for nothing. If you've told me the truth, you'll do this, because you know that no one deserves to be abused."
"If you ever suspected abuse, or if you were the victim of it, then you should have contacted the police."
"Oh, of course, that solution was so obvious that I never even considered it. Still, I hope you'll humor me while the medical examiner is similarly stating the obvious on my death certificate. Also, a last request? Please be quick with my punishment, and don't hurt me any more than you must. I'm so tired of hurting."
I stared at her dumbly for several seconds, maybe a whole minute. What the hell just happened? But she said nothing else, so neither did I.
When I approached her from behind, she crossed her wrists behind her back without being told. With her legs spread slightly for balance in the high-heels, she submitted limply as I bound her hands with thin black rope. She didn't seem terribly limber, so when I applied a second rope to her elbows, I slowly brought them together until she winced, then I eased the tension a bit and cinched them there, a few centimeters apart. She flexed her fingers and wiggled her shoulders, perhaps testing the limits of her predicament in the same way she'd examined her new outfit. At this point I'd have welcomed the chance to watch her struggle, though she didn't seem interested in freeing herself.
Taking her by the arms, I turned her around to face me. She met my eyes briefly, then her gaze dropped to her left breast as I took her swollen nipple between thumb and forefinger. While she watched I lifted the jagged clamp with my other hand and let it bite into her soft areola. Her head fell back as she grimaced and gasped, but she didn't try to squirm away as most prisoners did. Trying to minimize her distress, I grabbed her other breast before she could dwell on it and snapped the second clip into place. Her knees bent, and she offered a tiny sound of discomfort, but then she recovered and willed herself to stand straight, her strapped, clamped breasts thrust forward with a chain between them.
Throwing three straps for later over my left shoulder, I finally grabbed the knot between Lisa Kerrigan Parish's elbows and motioned toward the door. She swallowed once, and I'm fairly sure her chin trembled. Then she walked. It wasn't far to the death yard, and I didn't have to guide or prod her. If anything, I just held onto her arm restraint and let her lead me.
Outside, it was nighttime. The lights were on, and the stands were full. When we emerged from the corridor, at least two dozen cameras beamed the bound prisoner and her handler to hundreds of television channels and websites. The public might have turned against the Mamba and ended her months of relative fame, but everybody loved a good execution. It was unlikely that Mrs. Parish would break records like the college cheerleader and her boyfriend two years ago, who had been punished together after a DUI slaying, but enough interest remained in the Mamba (and she was just attractive enough in her harness and ropes) to have this evening spread on torrent sites for years to come.
The crowd erupted as we made our way along the path to the center of the yard. Thousands of cameras flashed, and thousands more wireless phones hung in outstretched hands as witnesses sought their own recordings of the event. Lisa seemed unfazed by the tumult, determined to complete her death march on her own terms. Due to her cooperation I had chosen not to place her in leg irons, and I silently applauded my decision as she took long, sexy strides in her heels, her full bottom flexing to either side of the harness with each step. If we'd been doing anything other than working our way toward her execution on live television, I'd have smacked that amazing ass and given her a mischievous wink. It was then that I realized she wasn't completely ordinary, after all. Her ass was to die for. My cock suddenly wished that she'd been sentenced to a corporal session before death: bent over a sawhorse with hands tied behind her in strappado, a spreader bar between her ankles, and a sturdy cane or flogger raining strikes on her helpless backside. But my brain returned to something else.
...don't hurt me any more than you must. I'm so tired of hurting.
She'd won my sympathy even if I didn't believe her excuse for murdering so many people. Perhaps she was deluded and broken, in which case it might be merciful to deny her continued existence. If only her problems could have been identified sooner, preventing this whole unfortunate affair. Still, as enjoyable as flogging her might be, I didn't think she deserved to suffer.
We reached the gallows in the middle of the yard in under a minute. Normally, I would have taken the chain between the prisoner's breasts and coaxed her up the stairs with gentle pressure, but Lisa didn't even slow down. She placed one high-heeled foot on the bottom plank, then the next, and up-up-up we went. All around us the cameras kept click-click-clicking.
When we had scaled the platform three and a half meters off the ground, the crowd noise swelled again. My captive finally stopped as her eyes locked on the white loop swaying just a few paces away. I waited, granting her time to think and gather herself. I would force her into the noose if I had to, even to the point of activating her collar, but I wanted her to go there on her own.
To my great relief, she did. The final meter or so didn't pass with the same confidence as her stroll across the yard, but she made it. As I placed hands on her bare shoulders to position her on the trap door, I felt her shivering and offered a light squeeze of reassurance. She didn't react, so to this day I have no idea whether she appreciated the gesture.
As I reached for the noose, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. The crowd roared like a giant beast as I slipped the heavy rope over her head, and they roared even louder as I cinched the loop around her pale neck just above the shock collar. She had been sentenced to a short-drop, so I couldn't grant her a hangman's fracture, but I positioned the knot in hopes of putting her to sleep quickly.
Her face was slack as I worked, but her eyes watched me intensely. I'm not sure if she wanted to say something, to beg me not to kill her, or if it was just her silent way of reminding me that she didn't deserve this.
Regardless, I broke away and turned my attention to her legs. She accommodated me by placing her feet together and bending her knees slightly. I placed one strap around her thick thighs, one at the top of her shins and the last around her ankles. When I rose after threading the final buckle, she didn't even test the bonds. She simply lingered there in her noose, bound and virtually naked, I suspect just wanting it to be over.
The warden at last climbed onto the platform with a microphone, read off a long list of convictions and the U.N. judge's sentence, then she asked the condemned for any last words. Lisa Kerrigan Parish looked with disdain at the microphone that was shoved in her face, but she said absolutely nothing. The crowd booed, and the camera's click-click-clicked. It looked like a lightning storm, even though the night sky was cloudless and the moon full.
"Sentence will now be carried out," the warden announced, and then she stomped away as if her pride had been wounded.
Boos morphed back into cheers. The bloodletting drew near.
I stood in front of the Mamba. Obedient and helpful even in the last seconds of her life, as if we as executioner and condemned prisoner shared some intimate bond that helped us shepherd one another through this trying ordeal, she leaned forward slightly and opened her mouth wide without a word of instruction from me. Gently taking a fistful of her brown hair with my left hand, I held her steady and lifted a large black ball-gag with my right. With her eyes again closed, she waited patiently as I wedged the rubber sphere behind her teeth. Only after I had cinched the strap at the base of her skull did she offer a muffled sigh. Her eyes opened, and I'm pretty sure she smiled, but it was hard to tell. She closed them once more just before I blindfolded her with a dark handkerchief. A small bit of drool escaped from the left corner of her mouth, and I wiped it away with my thumb before abandoning her for the awaiting lever.
The prudent, market-conscious thing to do was stand awhile and let the crowd work itself into the greatest frenzy possible. That was typically how these things went, because that was what the advertisers wanted.
The advertisers could just get over this one.
I threw the lever the instant it was within reach. A collective gasp filled the stadium, and I whirled in time to watch my prisoner fall through the trap door. She dropped only centimeters and stopped in midair with a muffled glurk. Her bound legs flailed about as she spun left and right, searching for solid ground that wasn't there. This lasted for a few seconds before her knees locked and her heel-clad feet went rigid, toes pointing straight down. Behind her back she made desperate fists and struggled against the ropes on her wrists and elbows. That to-die-for ass quivered beautifully to either side of her harness. Mediocre breasts shook wildly as she fought, jingling the chain between them so hard that the right clamp slipped off and left tiny crimson beads streaming from her erect nipple. She gasped and glurked loudly behind her gag the entire time, getting progressively weaker as the noose closed tighter and tighter around her soft neck.
All at once, some ten seconds in, the struggle just stopped. Lisa continued to turn in the noose, but it was just her momentum bleeding away. The fight was over. I smelled piss and watched it stream from beneath her crotch strap and down the insides of her thighs. A bit of clear fluid mixed with blood leaked from her left nostril and cascaded over the ball-gag. Behind her, hands stiffened from the traumatic battle slowly eased into death, fingers remaining half-closed but no longer tense. Locked knees relaxed, giving way to a few muscular twitches before finally allowing her tied legs to rest. Throaty sounds continued for a minute or two as her stubborn lungs refused to let go, but these soon died away with the rest of her body.
As it turned out, she was telling the truth about all those sorry fuckers she killed. I really hope I didn't hurt her.
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