Posted by jack on October 06, 2006 at 02:49:21:
From Bach to The Barbecue with A Gallows In Between
by Hope Branch
(as gleaned by The Seer)
The afternoon is so lovely. Yesterday was muggy but a cold front moved in overnight and today is beautiful and the air is clear and clean and mild. I will be breathing it a few minutes more. I'm standing on a stool they borrowed from John's library. It's a small stool but it will keep my feet off the ground when they take it away. No, that's wrong, the rope will do that. I'm nude, except for the noose. The people looking at me are in chairs placed in rows on the lawn in front of the oak tree and me. When the time comes, someone will pull out the stool. I hope it isn't John. If my neck doesn't break which they say it shouldn't, I will hang from this tree until it is over. John says it could take a little while.
Beyond the rows of chairs, at the back of the yard, I can see the barbecue. They are getting it ready. I know the people there, not well, but as friends of John. It's for me they are preparing the barbecue, so I can be cooked on a spit after I am hanged.
No one told me why I was picked. I don't belong to their club. I never complained to John about him belonging though I never liked it that he did. He always told me the club put on role-plays. I know this is true because some of their role-plays happened right here, in our yard. From some of the conversation I've overheard, I believe I will be their first kill.
Some men carried a bench from the cellar into the yard earlier this afternoon. I saw them from the upstairs window in the room where I was kept until they brought me down. They put the bench near the barbecue. I'm going to be prepared on the bench. I will be gutted and spitted and then I will roast on the spit. A guard in the room explained to me about the bench, but he didn't tell me why.
Perhaps they picked me because of the way I look. I'm beautiful, which is why John married me, although I didn't know that then. I assumed he loved me. I'm twenty-nine years old.
From that same window, I watched the men put up my rope. They had to use a ladder to reach the limb. Oak trees lose their lower limbs as they age and our tree is very old. Its lowest limb is pretty high above the ground. One of the men I know a little, a large man with a humorous way about him who made me laugh the few times I talked with him, made a noose from the rope end that had been draped over the limb. He laid the noose in the grass when he finished and the stool was brought and then this same man raised the noose and while he held it there two others measured the distance to the stool. They made several adjustments to the noose's height. The rope's other end then was secured by tying it beneath the limb of a nearby tree.
"They want it to be just right for you," my guard said when they were adjusting the noose.
I see John talking to some people. He is smiling. I wish I could speak. I wouldn't scream but I would ask why. I would ask John to explain. I can't talk because I am gagged. There is a ball in my mouth which is tied around my head. My hands are tied behind my back. It's a little tricky keeping my balance like this but I'm managing it. The rope helps me to concentrate, as you might imagine.
John is coming this way. The people he had been talking with have gone to the chairs and are sitting down. Now everyone is clapping. Why? The clapping is polite, the way it would be at the beginning of a chamber concert when the musicians take the stage, but this is not that. I wonder if being in fine clothes accounts for the politeness or perhaps the audience is not terribly interested in what it is about to see. John is by the front row of the chairs now, shaking hands. A few of the men who fucked me are in this row. John comes up to me and smiles. He is wearing blue slacks and a white Polo jersey I gave him for his birthday. John is the only person here, besides me, not in semi formal dress.
How different it was this morning. We were nude, the men and I. It was John's idea, or so I thought. Now I'm not as sure. He asked me to perform for his friends. For the purity of the music we would bare ourselves. He explained it so well, I hardly argued. I rarely argue with him about anything anyway, and I knew that John likes to show me off even if he had never shown me nude. I entered the room in a red satin gown. John selected it. The men were there, sitting in two neat rows of chairs, as people are sitting now, but naked. I never counted them. Not then or later. About ten, including John, I would say. They clapped politely, as they did just now. I was very tense. I went to my cello, in its stand. My chair was waiting. I didn't need my music. I knew by heart what I would be playing. I let my robe fall to the floor and then I bowed. More clapping. I stood for a moment to let the men see me, as John had asked, and then I sat and began to play. I played Bach's first suite and after that The Swan. I relaxed as I played and I played well, surprisingly well. I wondered if the nudity could have something beyond my understanding to do with it. At the end, the men stood to applaud me. A few actually cheered. I was standing myself then, quite happy despite the strangeness of it all, thinking that their erections were due to my playing. Silly me. Then John came over and kissed me on the cheek and whispered in my ear that every man in the room was going to fuck me.
"They don't give a damn about your fucking music," he said in his finely toned voice. "They do think you are one hell of a piece of ass."
I was yanked to the floor. For the next hour, the men took turns fucking me, all of them except John. I was held down for the first two but after that I didn't resist. I even responded some of the time. It was impossible not to, not even after I learned I would be hanged and turned into meat. A man who calls himself "The Seer" first told this to me. He looked in my eyes as he started to fuck me and imparted his "sweet news". That is what he called it. The "sweet news" that I would "hang from that giant oak tree in your yard and roast when the hanging is done."
I thought it was quirky sex talk until I looked up at John, who watched all of the men fuck me, and John smiled and nodded that the sweet news was so. Telling me the news possibly excited the man because he fucked me hard then, quite hard, and it caused him to grunt. Drool ran out of his mouth that dripped on me, but amid his grunts and gurgles of drool he pointed out that the men would not feel free to fuck me if I were left able to cause trouble for them. I realized what he said was true, of course.
I wonder if that is why, that they have decided to move on from their role plays but they are afraid to move on if I am here so I'm the first one they are doing. Is that why?
Now John is coming up to me. It's one of the few times I have been taller than him. He looks composed and happy, not at all embarrassed to meet my eyes staring at him over my gag.
"I've never seen you look so desirable," he says.
As he undoes his fly, I realize why John didn't fuck me with the other men. He was saving himself. So he could fuck me before I hang. For everyone to watch. Bach has his preludes and John has his.
John puts his arms around me. He kicks the stool away. His arms move under me and he entwines his hands, holding me up. In this position, my husband fucks me. The pace is necessarily slow but it does not take him long. I feel his hardness moving in me and very little else. I feel the rope, but it is loose on my neck, not much more than a reminder. Even the hot spurting seems like something happening far away. John smiles at me after he catches his breath. He zips his fly. I feel his cum dribbling. Then my feet are on the stool again. John turns away. Someone has put a chair in front of the others, just a few feet off. As John goes to it, some in the audience rise and come toward me. They have cameras. They take pictures of me while John sits, tapping his foot. Soon they go back with their cameras to the chairs and when everyone is seated, John rises again. He steps up to me. His face is bland.
"No words," he says. He bends down and pulls out the stool.
My head jerks in the noose. I'm surprised by the violence of it for I could not have fallen far. John takes out the gag and removes it from my face. I gasp for air and find some. Thank you, John, for the air. Just a little air but could it possibly be enough? My neck isn't broken, of that I'm sure. I reach down with my feet. I stretch them and bend my toes. My toes touch the grass. Oh, God! How closely they measured. I can touch the grass, the very tops of the blades it must be. I picture my polished nails in the green summer grass. I try to stretch my body. I stretch my legs and my feet. I stretch my toes. I stretch until I feel my muscles cramp. But I am hanging. The rope digs into my neck. It hurts. My face is getting hot.
John has returned to his chair. Most of the others remain seated, too, but the ones with cameras are up taking pictures again. Do they want me to smile? Should I try to say cheese? I notice The Seer in his front row seat. Why do I notice him? He is staring like everyone. I remember what he said after he fucked me, lying on me with his softening dick in me and his cum.
"I am known as The Seer because I read minds. I can read your mind. I'm reading it now and I will read it when you hang. When it happens, tell me the story with your mind," he said.
Is he reading my mind? Do I have a mind? Do I have any breath left? It is harder to get the air now. My chest aches. I feel something gush down my legs. I'm peeing. Pee is watering my legs and the grass. How funny. They can say about me that the last thing she did with her beautiful legs was piss on them. Oh, where is the air? There's not enough air, not enough. I kick my legs. Why am I doing that? It's best to stay still. Someone said that. I don't remember who said it. I can't think. Where is the air? Why are they laughing? Is it because I am kicking my legs. Is it because I am doing an air dance for them. I guess kicking the air is the last thing I do with my legs, as if doing that would get the air to my lungs. I won't kick any longer. I've stopped kicking. I'm just hanging. I'm limp on the rope. It's nicer to be limp. Oh God, I'm fading. The rope doesn't hurt like it did. It hurts but not like it did. My chest hurts. It hurts for air. Oh, air! My head is twisted at my shoulder. Was it like that before. I see my nipples. They are hard like they get for sex. Why is that? Where is the air? John is standing up. Is he going to save me? Is he? I'm fading. No, he's not going to save me. John is standing to watch the end of it. I can tell by the way he is looking at me. My husband is standing for the thrill of watching me die. Oh God, where is the air? Where is the air? Where......