Posted by Zed Bones on September 01, 2003 at 23:33:45:
Hello,
As a newbie to this board I obviously don't know the ropes yet. Anyhow, here goes with a full short story. Please feel free to comment, as all attention (even negative) is welcome.
‘Take the Strain!’
by Zed Bones, Copyright 2003
************
“The prisoner shall kneel before the Bench!”
She gulps, draws a deep breath and peers up at the judges on their plinth. They are busy murmuring amongst themselves. With her calf muscles sore from standing on the same spot throughout the long trial, Clitzia lowers her knees one by one. The wooden boards are rough and catch the silk threads of her stockings. But grateful to the Bench for this act of mercy, she rests her bare arse on her feet.
The girl shuts her eyes for a moment, trying to compose herself for whatever comes next. Only to jerk them open them again as a floorboard creaks loudly behind her. A rough hand grips the neck of her chemise and gives it a sharp tug. Clitzia, realising in a flash the breech of protocol she has made, perches bolt upright on the bones of her knees. All three judges glare at her. She will pay for this mistake!
The guard who has pulled her up, stands at her side. His face is coarse, his arms hairy and he wears a leather jerkin studded with metal spikes. He leans over the frightened girl and tears open the front of her chemise, causing her breasts to fall out. The judges sit forward, visibly shocked by her appearance. Her long, tawny nipples are in a brazen state of erection! The guard – without waiting for orders from the Bench – grabs and squeezes the point of each breast, clipping wooded pegs to the swollen teats. Clitzia winces with pain. She would cry out for mercy, but an instinct warns her to keep composed - else events turn even worse.
The trail now proceeds, the chief of the judges booming in the off-hand, sing-song tones of a priest,
“Clitzia Drue, you have been tried and found guilty of consorting with the Evil One. You have admitted performing lewd and unnatural acts with devils, indulging in forbidden practices and making offerings to graven images. These are the most despicable crimes proscribed by the Holy Church’s Laws, and are always punished with the greatest severity. Do you have anything to say, before the court passes sentence upon you?”
Clitzia takes another deep breath, swallowing hard as she prepares to utter her oft-rehearsed speech of Supplication. Tears form at the corners of her eyes when, in a humble tone, she begins,
“My Lords, I am deeply repentant of these heinous sins I have committed against the Holy Church! Since being caught, I have earnestly sought to change my ways. I have confessed fully and prayed that God Our Father grant me His forgiveness. I have denounced Satan and all the enemies of the One True Faith. My confessor has already spoken for me, so I will not say more. Except for one plea! My Lords, I do not ask for my miserable life to be spared. Her tears are gushing, I know I must die for my sins. But must I be burnt at the stake? Might not I be put to death in …?”
Here the chief of the Judges holds up his hand to cut short the girl’s pathetic speech. He and his peers of the Bench now consult amongst themselves in low, guttural voices. Clitzia, knowing that she cannot – dare not - speak again, tries to quieten her trembling body. She shivers in the cool air of the court chamber. Members of the public, who have remained quiet thus far, take the chance to chatter amongst themselves.
As the old judges’ consultation drags on, Clitzia begins to curse to herself for pleading guilty to idolatry. Shouldn’t she have stated that yes, she performed unnatural sexual acts with the enemies of God – two Arab lackeys and a fine Blackamoor of the Maghreb Ambassador’s household – but she was innocent of profanity? The object found in her closet was not for making offerings to. It was a lady’s comforter, made of ivory and carved with the scales of a mythological beast. In short, it was an oriental dildo - which she merely used for fooling in her cunt at bedtimes and on days of rest.
As these rueful thoughts tumble through her mind, the volume of noise in the chamber rises to a noisy babble. The chief judge, cutting short the court deliberations, brings down his gavel with a loud crash,
“Be silent, in the Name of God!” At his words a hush falls over the public pews. The chief judge’s face now hardens into a stern, uncompromising expression. His voice turns harsh and angry, “Clitzia Drue, no one who has committed sins as vile and unnatural as yours may escape the fires of retribution! It is written that all those who indulge in hellish intercourse shall surely burn, AND BURN WITHOUT MERCY!” At these awful words, Clitzia, still perched bolt upright on her knees, sways and almost faints. She can taste the smoke of the pyre, feel the flames licking at her heels and toes. Somehow, she clings on to consciousness - holding her breath and clenching the cheeks of her buttocks. Yes, it seems inevitable she will be tied to the stake and burnt as a heretic. But she must endure. A new flurry of excited whispers between the public pews seems to confirm her fears. Death, when it comes to her, will be long and painful.
The chief Judge is not done yet. As he resumes speaking, his face softens somewhat and his eyes narrow,
“To sin against man is a very grave matter, but to sin against the Lord God is a supreme evil.” He shakes his crooked finger at her pale and pathetic figure, “Make no mistake, you frivolous young harlot, the moment you began performing those filthy acts of polluted dalliance, the flames of your punishment were already being kindled.” He now points to the floorboard, indicating the Underworld below them, “In the woeful realm of Purgatory – the portal of which you shall pass through within this very hour - your branding irons were ALREADY being heated, the hoops of steel to bind your limbs were ALREADY being forged, and the great stake of your burning was ALREADY being stacked with faggots of eternal fire.” And then his finger points towards the chamber’s rafters, with Heaven and the Holy Host beyond, “Yet it is God, God alone in his infinite wisdom, who punishes those who sin against His Holy Law. We mere mortals,” He indicates the Bench, “Have but a small part to play in His plan. To us, agents of the Holy Pentecostal Church, falls the baleful task of deciding, when a miserable sinner such as you comes before us, only the manner in which he or she shall be dispatched to the Hereafter. But when - as you have done - a sinner repents of sin, returns to the bosom of the Holy Church and penitently asks for mercy - we, as servants of the Lord, are bound to listen.”
The chief judge now dons a black cap, confirming the sentence of death. Clitzia, her hope of escaping the cruel flames of the stake - if not the fires of Purgatory and Hell – raised once more, trembles with fear and anticipation. Her cheeks, until now so cool and pale in the draughty court chamber, flush crimson and hot. She feels an itching in her palms and on the soles of her feet, a prickling sensation around her neck – a warm, milky wetness oozing from the depths of her cunt. The final act of her short, sweet life is about to be proclaimed.
“Clitzia Drue, being found guilty of the crimes of heresy and forbidden sexual practice, your life on this earth is forfeit. The confession you have broached, the contrition and repentance you have shown, allows a certain amount of clemency to be shown. Since the carnality of your sins has been gross and flagrant, however, measures will be taken to ensure your passing from this world into the next is accompanied by a sharp reminder of your carnal depravities.”
Clitzia’s heart is now beating so hard she feels on the point of melting. Her head seems to have expanded; she can’t take in the sounds she is hearing. What does it all mean? The judge, meantime, is beckoning to the court Guard. The Guard approaches the bench and bows his head. There follows a short, whispered conversation between the two men, with many hand gestures, noddings and shakings of the Guard’s head. The Guard then retires and the chief judge resumes speaking,
“The sentence of this court is that you will be taken from this court to the place of execution, where you will be scourged with the strap. Immediately after scourging, you will proceed to the gallows, from which you will be hanged by the neck unto death. May the Lord God keep your soul from the Devil!”
The judges rise and walk out, leaving Clitzia still kneeling bolt upright. The unfortunate girl, for whom no outcome could have brought anything but utter woe, is left alone for a few moments to contemplate her fate. A trickle of piss runs down her thighs and forms a pool between her knees. Despite the blood pounding in her ears, she has understood the sentence. The punishment of scouring, before being hanged, now appears as awful as burning to death. She sinks back onto her heels… where the grim details of her short, all too immediate future, take full possession of her mind.
Going through the judge’s words once more, Clitzia realises a new horror. She ‘will be taken from this court to the place of execution.’ Surely there is to be time for prayer and preparation? Had she been sentenced to burn, there would have been at least a day’s grace - sufficient time for workmen to build the pyre. But a gallows stands in the very yard of the court chamber, ready for use at any time. Oh, what cruelty! The sentence means she will die this very hour! Is this what the judge meant by ‘a certain amount of clemency’?
************
A man in a black mask appears. She recognises it as the public executioner’s disguise. He takes her firmly by the arm and raises her to her feet. Her nose tweaks at his male sweat, and she notes the brutishness of his hands and feet. Though his eyes are more or less hidden, his lips are blue and his chin unshaven. Marian speaks to him as if in a dream,
“Am I to be hanged presently, then?”
“By the bye.”
“And scourged?”
“That’s the short of it.”
“Then pray heaven let me be done in haste, for mercy’s sake!”
“Do as I bid, and it shall be so. Walk this way, Miss.”
Clitzia, the icy fangs of death already gnawing at her bones, rises into a strange sort of calm. As the executioner leads her towards the place of doom, she has no choice but to put her trust this strong, self-assured ruffian. Trust? Isn’t there another word for what she feels towards him? He’s going to lash her and then hang her, and she knows he’s good about his job. Yet trust is the only word for what she feels. Earthiness in a man has ever been a quality Clitzia has desired and sought for, and this stranger seems possessed of much salt. She steps wistfully at his side.
The executioner steers his near-naked charge towards the chamber doors – which are flung open onto a brightly lit courtyard. People from the public gallery, who have already filed out ahead of the prisoner, are waiting and a large crowd is forming. Cheers goes up as Clitzia and her executioner, framed by guards with pikes and halberds, leave the court. The couple proceed solemnly to the punishment area.
Here stand the various implements of pain and death. The Great Block, used for beheading nobles. The four-spoked Wheel, used for breaking the legs and arms of horse rustlers and cowards. The Water Butt in which those accused of witchcraft are put to the trial. The Throne, on which ordinary felons and capital criminals alike are scourged. They stop at the Throne, where Clitzia, confused by the sights and sounds of the yard, tries to sit down. The executioner, holding her by upper arm, keeps her on her feet. Some relief is at hand, anyway, as he pulls the pegs from her nipples and tosses them into the crowd. Her nipples throb as blood flows back into them. The girl lets out a cry - she had forgotten they were there. The executioner rips the remains of her chemise off, leaving her naked except for her laddered stockings. He whispers instructions in her ear,
“This is where I scourge you. Put your knees on the edge of the Throne then lean forward. Place your hands together on the back. Beware, I’ll have to tie you down if you move too much.”
Obediently Clitzia does as she’s bid. Kneeling forward she grips the back of the Throne, her heaving breasts nestling between her elbows and her cool white buttocks thrusting out. The executioner dips his hand into a vat of oil… which from he fishes out the broad leather strap he uses for scourging.
Carefully positioning himself behind the girl, he commences his work on the cheeks of her arse. Clitzia winces and gasps as the first couple of strokes slice under the lower, fleshiest parts of her nether lobes. Moving higher at the third and fourth strokes, the strap cuts horizontally across the centre of each buttock. These blows have the girl crying out in pain. The crowd, who count each stroke in unison, break out in applause as the fifth and sixth strokes slash diagonally across each buttock, marking them from the coccyx outwards. With only six strokes completed, Clitzia is shrieking for mercy. The pale cheeks of her arse are criss-crossed with broad welts that are growing redder by the minute.
A similar procedure is then recorded across the girl’s shoulder blades. Clitzia, though screeching uncontrollably as the blows disfigure her tender flesh, wins the grunting of respect of the executioner, who seems pleased not to have to tie her down. The crowd, too, applaud the scourge and scourged alike at the end of this round.
After giving the girl a few moments to recover her breath, the executioner raises her to her feet. She sways, but he steadies her and puts his mouth to her ear,
“Now lie on your back across the Throne, put your hands and feet to the ground and keep your legs apart.”
This time Clitzia has difficulty positioning herself because of the painful strokes she has received across her rump and shoulders. She complies as best as she can, tears streaming down her face. The executioner is not slow to resume his employment. The crowd chants ‘Thirteen – Fourteen’ as he scourges first the young woman’s soft white bosoms, then the area around her dark, unshaven cunt. These strokes bring forth many gasps and groans from Clitzia, who barely manages to keep her balance. A third round of more rapturous applause goes up as the twenty-fourth stroke is reached. Again the masked executioner helps the crying girl to her feet. He twirls her round, displaying the broad red welts that criss-cross her arse, shoulder blades, breasts lower belly, hips and upper thighs. She trembles as she turns, her whole body seeming to smart and ache. Again he whispers instructions in her ear,
“Remove your stockings and sit down there.”
Though Clitzia’s cunt has been on display throughout the long morning’s trial, this next order – to remove the very last vestiges of clothing from her mortal body – pricks her sense of doom. Darkly, she goes through the motions, rolling the black stockings down from her thighs and slipping them over her feet. One by one she hands them to the executioner, who throws them to the cheering crowd. Clitzia, moving like a zombie, sits down on the ground next to the throne. The executioner raises the girl’s legs and turns her round. She cries out as her sore arse scrapes against the cobbles. The executioner now lowers her legs, so that he backs of her thighs rest against the throne, her calves rest on the seat, and her feet are sticking out.
For this final round, the executioner holds up the thick leather strap and the crowd chant as one. Everyone knows the drill, ‘Twenty-five… twenty-six…’ The strap cuts into the soles of the girl’s feet. Three vicious blows on each part: the under heels, the insteps and the balls of the feet. Shudders of pain ripple through poor Clitzia’s welted body with each stroke. She shrieks, the crowd hoots, and the executioner grunts with the effort. But at last the scourging is over, and the crowd applaud for a full minute.
************
“Now you’ll be hanged.”
Clitzia’s hands are tired behind her back. She is balancing on the edges of her feet, leaning against the executioner’s arm. He half drags, half carries her over to a corner of the courtyard where two high walls intersect. On the left there is the Small Block (used, amongst other things, for chopping the cocks and bollocks off child molesters and rapists) - on the right a length of rope is tied off to a metal ring. Made to stand unaided, the naked girl’s her eyes follow the rope upwards, where it is draped over a beam running between the two walls. A faint memory stirs her. ‘That is what is called the Gallows’ - someone speaking in her mother’s voice seems to say. Still slightly puzzled, her eyes follow the rope down the far side, and come to rest at about head-height. There, swaying gently at the end of the rope, is the dreaded noose. A great throb, centring in her cunt, rushes through her body. She collapses. In the nightmare of her swoon, the fires of the stake appear almost welcome - compared to the ingenuity of rope and tackle.
Without bothering to revive her, the executioner lifts Clitzia to her feet and places the noose over her head. He draws it snugly round her white throat. An assistant holds her up while he crosses to the wall. He unties the far end of the rope, and draws it tight through the ring. Clitzia is pulled up to the points of her toes, a crimson colour coming to her face. At this point she comes to again. Her eyes stare wide. The executioner ties off the rope again. He stands behind her,
“It’s time. When I say, ‘Take the strain!’ – I will pull you clear of the ground.” His finger runs down her spine and brushes the cheeks of her buttocks, “Then swing for all you’re worth.”
She gulps – with difficulty now because of the noose – her voice reduced to a croak,
“Please do something to end it quickly.”
“Aye!”
Drums begin to roll. The executioner draws the rope a litter tighter. Clitzia begins to piss, then shit. She has watched many executions. She knows there is no use resisting whatever comes next, it will only prolong the end. The crowd hoorahs. Many times she has been amongst the people herself, jostling and jeering with the worst. She knows it’s better to put on a brave show than to fumble. Suddenly the drum roll ends.
“Take the strain!”
Her toes are off the ground. Her neck is stretched to the limit and she is dancing in air.
The executioner stands before her. He is very close but he feels so distant. She tries to wrap her legs round him. He unbuttons his fat, erect cock and presses himself against her flexing torso. Her legs find his waist and it hug it for support. The pressure on her necks eases slightly and she is able to snatch a reedy breath of two. The executioner’s cock nestles into the warm, moistened lips of her cunt. Expertly, he allows her just enough slack to wriggle down its bulbous length. When fully home, he begins to shag her with deep, rhythmic strokes.
Clitzia climaxes three times within a minute. The first two orgasms are mere half-measures of release, located somewhere near the top of her head. The final throe – during which the executioner writhes in the tumult of his own desire –cracks through her whole frame like a cataleptic fit. He cups her arse for a minute more, but her neck is still bearing most of the weight. Her face burns from the orgasms and the stricture of the noose. She loses consciousness.
*************
“Reprive! Cut her down! That’s enough, you dirty old swine!”
The crowd are booing. They’ve had enough.
The executioner has uncoupled from the girl and stowed his satisfied cock. Bowing to public pressure, he reluctantly unties the rope and lowers Clitzia’s body to the ground. It sprawls on the cobbles, twitching feebly. Her face is a dark purple, her toes are curled. The crowd whisper, has he gone too far? Is it too late to save the poor sinner from purgatory’s flames?
************
‘Take the strain!’
by Zed Bones, Copyright 2003