Better Than Chains

"A minute in the noose is better than a lifetime in chains."
-Petra D'Aquin (her last words)

Gagged Effect

Waiting Your Turn

The Mamba

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.



This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

Back Alley Justice

Scientific Curiosity

Support from the Famarian military had been promised by the Board, and it was for that reason alone Leslie had accepted the overseas assignment. Upon the science team landing in the third-world jungle nation, that support had arrived as promised: one man, Sergeant Bwasi Monbusa. When a local tribe attacked the remote camp some twenty-four hours ago, Bwasi had conveniently disappeared, leaving the six-member science outpost defenseless. It had been destroyed. The five male scientists had been castrated and beheaded. The only female, Director Leslie Keyes herself, had been dragged off with her outstretched arms bound to a wooden pole.

For much of the past day, she had lain on the ground under a heavy canopy of foliage, her arms and legs staked in the form of an X. She still wore her khaki shorts and white tank top, but a pair of ebony-skinned women had pulled the tail of the shirt up above her breasts and cut off her bra. In the hours since being placed here, a group of lithe, mostly-nude females had approached her periodically to sprinkle the crushed petals of purple Vokk flowers over her body. Some whole specimens were woven into her collar-length hair. She knew the Famarian tribes preceded any number of rituals in this manner. Which ones, she couldn't say. Regardless, the velvet-like sensations against her flesh had driven her to struggle every time. The tribals had never reprimanded her for this. In fact, they seemed to enjoy watching.

Chatting with them was out of the question. When they had first captured her, she had been too distraught to do anything but scream. After they killed the men, she had resorted to threats. A half-hour into the jungle hike, dread had convinced her that bribes and begging were a more appropriate tactic. Unfortunately, the natives either didn't understand the international language or didn't care what she said.

At some point in that first hour, they'd gagged her with a thick leather strap. It remained between her teeth even now, but the women removed it occasionally to dribble water into her mouth. It was never enough, and she stayed thirsty, but they at least seemed to have some reason for keeping her alive.

At nightfall, the drums came to life, like soft thunder but too steady. Leslie lifted her tired head and turned toward the sound, but through the thick plantlife she could discern only the deep glow of a distant fire. Apart from a few torches flickering in the village proper, everything was black. The jungle overhead was effective enough at deadening the direct sun. When all it had to contend with was stars and a quarter moon, the only light one could expect was that which one created for himself and the sporadic green flashes of flying Jarwa bugs.

For an hour she lay in darkness and listened to the percussion, needing to urinate badly but determined not to. Then, like spirits, four of the women who'd tended her previously emerged from the trees and knelt around her. As before, their muscular bodies were naked, though now they wore designs on their faces, intricate and varied geometry in white paint. Wooden jewelry hung from ears. Smaller studs of bone and metal pierced noses, lips, nipples and labia. All of them were bald, both on their heads and between their legs, and Leslie found herself transfixed despite the fear bubbling in her stomach.

They untied her. Hoping for the best, she didn't fight as they helped her stand on trembling legs. While two women held her arms, a third knelt and unbuttoned her shorts. Sobbing softly, Leslie kept still as her lower garments, panties and all, slipped over her hips and bottom and fell to her feet. Without encouragement, she stepped out, hoping to show them that force wasn't necessary. When her bare feet were clear, the women holding her arms pulled off her tank top and rendered her as naked as they were.

Leaving her gag in place, they marched her a few paces into the thick forest and made her stand with her legs spread. Confused as the apparent leader commanded her in some ancient Famarian dialect, pressure on her shoulders finally indicated that she should crouch, so she did. When the unintelligble language grew increasingly frustrated, she shook her head.

"I don't understand!" she cried, though the actual noise through her gag only somewhat resembled the intended words.

The leader reached between Leslie's thighs, roughly slapped her crotch and pointed at the ground. She then realized they wanted her to piss. No, she couldn't. Not like this, not in front of them.

Shaking her head again as tears filled her eyes, she shrieked as a thin branch landed forcefully across her butt. When obedience didn't manifest quickly enough, a second stroke directly followed the first. Accepting the situation to prevent further pain, Leslie sighed and let her bladder go. It was humiliation and relief all at once.

Newly humbled, she went with resignation as they returned her to the spot where she'd spent the day restrained on the ground, helpless as insects and humans alike fondled her at will. The women did not place her back between the stakes, however. They kept her standing, legs apart and arms crossed behind her head, and they bathed her with rags and clean water. Fresh flowers were woven into her hair, and a sweetly-scented oil was rubbed over her body, including her face, buttocks and genitals.

Part of Leslie regretted not learning more about Famarian tribal culture, thinking perhaps that knowledge might have granted her a way out of this mess. On the other hand, another part of her was prefectly content to not know what awaited.

When the leader deemed the preparations satisfactory, she jerked Leslie's arms behind her back and, with admirable efficiency, crossed her wrists and tied them together with thin strings made from some jungle fiber. It hurt, and she again cried through her gag. A second length went around her upper body and arms, multiple stands layered above and below her breasts, cinched down so tightly that her tits swelled and stood out even more prominently than usual. A third piece of twine went around her ankles, ensuring that she would not break away but leaving enough slack for her to walk.

And walk she did, escorted by two women holding her arms, a third behind her and their painted superior leading the way. Grateful for the worn path under her callous-free bare feet, Leslie shuffled along and kept her eyes down.

The drum beats grew louder and louder as the journey progressed, finally peaking in volume ten minutes later as the group slipped free of the trees and into a large clearing.

Hundreds of villagers stood in a circle around a bonfire, all silent as hands reached toward the towering flames and heads bobbed in time with the beat. A wooden platform rose in front of the fire, with two large, painted, naked men standing motionless on top of it. The women took Leslie to them. Climbing the five steps under their gaze, she watched their large, flaccid penises grow hard at her approach.

Her compliance strategy fell apart. Primal terror took over, and she thrashed in the grip of her captors as they offered her up as a plaything. Between the four females and two males, of course, she had no chance. In a sudden rush that left her reeling after the long days of quiet worry, they hauled her violently before the crowd and forced her to kneel. When she kicked at them, her ankles were released briefly and then re-tied without the slack. Her feet now bound in earnest, yet another piece of twine was secured just above her knees.

Out around the fire, the villagers began to chant as the drums adopted a more aggressive rhythm. While she couldn't decipher a word of it, something told her that they weren't petitioning for her release.

The lovely, muscular women withdrew, giving the bulky men full control. One forced her to bend over until her breasts pressed against the rough wood. Still kneeling, the position thrust her ass upward. While the first man held her down by the shoulders, the second shoved his massive cock into her from behind before she could even brace for it. New tears burned her eyes and cheeks, and desperate pleas escaped her throat, only to be muffled by the thick leather between her lips.

Apparently having looked forward to fucking the pale-skinned prisoner all day, the tribal man made no attempt to be gentle. On the contrary, he seemed to revel in hurting her, slamming his full length and girth into her pussy with as much force as he could manage. Somewhere in the midst of her panic, she found a sliver of reason and told herself that, being so excited, he was sure to come quickly. When he pulled out after only a few vigorous minutes, she thought this might actually be the case.

But no.

He only wanted to reposition himself. Taking a slightly higher stance, he pulled her buttocks apart and fucked her ass too. If even possible, it hurt worse. Her insides shook under each brutal thrust. She screamed and wept and struggled until he finished, and she felt his semen draining out of her rectum.

Not allowed even a second to recover, Leslie submitted limply as the rapist took her by the neck and forced her upright. It wasn't an ending, but a shift change. He placed a forearm under her chin and took hold of her hair with his other hand. The man to her front stood ready. In one seemingly well-practiced motion, he pulled her gag free and shoved his cock into her mouth. It was like being forced to swallow a fist. The substantial circumference pried her jaws apart so far that the cruel leather was comfortable by comparison.

She whined softly as he forced his penis deep into her throat, activating her gag reflex more than once. Stomach acid burned her esophagus and tongue, but he never quite took her to the point of throwing up. Even if he had, she hadn't eaten in nearly twenty-four hours, and she had no reason to think that would have made him stop anyway.

When the second man ejaculated, the initial spurt shot against the back of her throat. Then he pulled out and sprayed the rest on her face. Perhaps in shock, certainly defeated, she kept her mouth open and took it like a porn star. When he was done, he took hold of his cock and used it to smear the goo around so that it mixed with the scented oil and covered her from brow to chin.

The first man let go and threw her aside like garbage. She fell onto her left shoulder and just stayed there, used and broken. Chants and drumming continued, and she wished for sleep. Instead, the four women reappeared and and rolled her onto her belly. The beautiful leader of the group then put two hands under Leslie's hips and lifted them, once again placing her on her knees, with her ass to the sky and ready to receive.

Delicate fingers slipped in and out of her tender anus several times, depositing some sort of lubrication. If only they had been so kind a few minutes ago. She squealed weakly at the idea more so than at any actual increase in pain. It didn't last long, thankfully. When the fingers were gone, the cool gel actually felt kind of nice. Her girls knew how to treat her, unlike those men with the giant graceless cocks.

The drums sped up again.

In a state of complete surrender, Leslie hardly flinched when something new touched her ass. It was hard and sharp.

One woman held her down at the shoulders. Another put full weight on her ankles and kept her bound feet pinned to the platform floor. The third tribal locked one strong arm around her stomach and, with the other hand, held Leslie's buttocks apart, just as the man had done before the ass-rape. The leader held whatever it was they were about to use on her, and Leslie just closed her eyes and waited.

At first it was gentle, an initial stick followed by a smooth, painless entry. Smaller than the dick that had been forced in moments ago, the device slipped deep into her rectum. She wiggled her bottom out of morbid curiosity, making no serious attempt to resist. Still, the women took notice and renewed their holds, clamping down on her even harder.

Flexing her fingers and toes under their restraints, Leslie whispered, "I'm sorry. I won't fight. Please finish. Please...."

The rod continued on. Where it should have stopped if this was just another bizarre fucking session, it kept going. The sharp pain in her gut was sudden and unbearable, but the tribals were ready for her reflexive reaction. She strained against her bonds and felt her jaw lock in agony. A howl of pain surged from her lungs, only to exit through clenched teeth as a sob. Something warm and wet spread inside her. Some of it leaked from her anus and ran between her thighs.

All sense of her surroundings left, save for the pounding drums, chanting and the pole being driven through her. She knew what it was now. They were impaling her, either as an execution or for some other purpose. Maybe they wanted to leave her ravaged body staked in the ruins of the science camp as a warning to the Board. Maybe they just hated outsiders this much.

When the piercing discomfort climbed into her trembling stomach, she finally managed to open her mouth for a scream. At least it felt like a scream. Her chest contracted and ached from the effort, but she could hardly hear herself over the drums and screaming villagers. Whatever happened, she vomited blood at the same time. Her body shook. She was cold, which made no sense. She remembered a huge fire. She was in the jungle. Or was she at the polar station? No, that project had closed last year....

Polar. Pole her.

Leslie wanted to laugh, but the fucking pole was in her throat now. She could feel it creeping up like a very disagreeable last meal. She tried to swallow it, which was just stupid. Then someone grabbed her hair and pulled her head back gently. The thing reached her mouth, pushed across her tongue and between her teeth. It emerged, a bloody wooden stake, and her weary eyes remained alert enough to track it to completion. Only when jutting from her lips by an arm's length did it stop moving.

Hands seized her ankles and turned her onto her side. She tried to focus, tried to stay awake, and she deduced that they were binding her feet to the rod. She fought, making a liar out of herself, but she couldn't move. From the bondage or blood loss, she wasn't sure. Once she was secure, two women situated themselves at each end, and they hefted Leslie off the floor. Her head swam as her bodyweight sank against the pole. She squirmed against it to no avail.

Resting her impalement device on their shoulders, the tribals carefully carried her down the steps, not jarring her too badly. Every step was agony, but they were trying to be easy. She could tell.

My girls, she thought. My girls take good care of me.

At the bottom of the stairs, a fifth woman waited. She was a bit older and heavier, bald and naked like the others, but with the addition of exquisite jewelry alongside the usual bone and wood. Skeleton hands joined by a wire supported her heavy breasts, and golden stars hung from her nipples. Diamond studs adorned her brows and nose, and necklaces fashioned from sapphires, emeralds and human teeth hung from her neck. Pauldrons made from a divided human pelvis covered her shoulders.

To either side of the woman stood two men. Leslie tried to focus, as they looked familiar. Everything was growing blurry, and the orange light was dimming around her, but she needed to know. Yes, she had seen them before. She'd once been deployed to the jungle of Famaria, and the science camp had been attacked by a local tribe. During the attack, a woman had been captured and raped. These men had been the ones to do it. She was sure of it. She'd seen it, so surely she had been there. For the life of her, she couldn't recall how she'd gotten out of that mess, but it seemed like only yesterday.

The stunning older woman reached out an ebony hand and gently stroked Leslie's face. It was comforting, and she tried to smile in appreciation, but something in her mouth wouldn't let her face work.

To the men with her, the woman said something in a quiet tone, then she drifted away.

Don't leave me with them. Please don't leave me....

Suddenly very tired, Leslie watched the males approach. They were going to rape her. They were going to tie her up and fuck her in front of everyone, just like they had done to that other poor woman before....

Except they didn't. Instead, with the girls helping, they produced a delicious assortment of fruits from a nearby basket. One at a time, they slid the food onto a pole that was, for some reason, protruding from Leslie's mouth. She thought to seek an explanation, but first she needed to sleep. Her eyes closed, and she faded away as a prickly wildapple pressed against her face, leaving the pleasant scent of citrus to mingle with the blood in her nose.

All Aboard the Slave Train

Two Down, One To Go

Execution Efficiency

Shitty bonus render:

Dancing Lesson for MILF and Daughters

"Baby, I love you, but the law's the law."