Posted by jackh on November 22, 2006 at 02:28:49:
Note: In Elleann's story, "Mr. Alberto's Party", the Elle character describes a snuff movie she sees at the party. This story imagines, with one alteration, the making of that movie.
A Hanged Wife
by Jack
Emily drank the water. It was her second glass full. When she finished, she fixed her lipstick for umpteenth time. She'd lost count of her sexual encounters, more men than women but plenty of both since her role play started that morning. She loved it, being the "snuff girl". They fucked you and then they snuffed you. Of course only the fucking was real. She needed to pee.
"You ready, babe?"
"Am I ready? Oh God, yes."
She sat a moment longer at the dressing table, trying to calm herself enough to go out into the crammed hall of Mr. Alberto's mansion. The muted sounds of the crowd were like an accompaniment to her pounding heart. The party had come to its fifth and final night. Each evening had offered a menu of erotic events and the concluding event, as every year, would be the making of a "snuff" movie which, for Emily, promised to be the most thrilling of them all. Six women besides her had accepted nominations for the part and then, in a secret ballot, the party guests awarded her the "breath-taking prize," as Mr. Alberto enjoyed calling it. She prayed she would do well and not disappoint them.
"Yes, I'm ready," she said again. She was managing to subdue if not quell her pee urge. She stood and faced her husband.
"You look fantastic," he said.
Emily was nude, an appearance in which she inevitably looked fantastic. What occasioned her husband's remark was merely the arrangement of her hair. She had put it up for the rope, a confection of auburn layered on her head like a cake.
She laughed, nervously. "I just hope it doesn't come tumbling down." She looked at him, seriously now.
"John, I've decided about the pad. I'm not going to use it."
She referred to a protection for her neck the rules allowed. The pad was not favored and those who dared to go bare necked won the respect of their audiences.
"Good, I'm glad."
"I can wear turtle necks for a while."
"Sure. Let's get this on."
She turned and put her hands behind her back. He wrapped a strip of black leather around her wrists and tied it. The strap tightened. She cringed.
"Are you ready, John?"
"I think so. For my part, you mean."
"Yes."
As the husband, John's role in the snuff film was to masturbate in front of his wife while she hanged. Sex in the audience would also be rampant if past hangings were a guide.
"I hope you do better than Larry," Emily teased.
"Me, too. Um, listen babe, I might be doing something a little different. Just don't worry about it when it happens, okay?"
Emily frowned. "What are you talking about."
"You'll see. Don't worry. It's got nothing to do with you."
He turned her by her shoulders and nudged her toward the door.
She stumbled slightly. "John, tell me."
"No. You'll see it when it happens. It's no big deal."
They went out onto a darkened stage. The stage had been the scene of a cock contest the night before and the night before that twenty women chosen by lottery had demonstrated their blowjob techniques here. The chance in the lottery was barely one in three but she and Dianne had both won, or lost, depending on how you looked at it. Emily's present event, however, would not be on the stage. John led her across it and down the stairs to the floor of the hall which was brightly lit and teaming with guests in various states of dress and undress, ranging from dinner jackets and gowns to outright nudity. Emily smiled, remembering that these fluctuations of appearance were unreliable indicators of which members of the audience would be moved to misbehave when she performed for them. She smiled at that and she smiled in her ease at the stares of the applauding crowd, at the shouted taunts and friendly obscenities. Behind her, Mr. Alberto, wearing a brown tuxedo, ascended the stairs that she and John had come down. The milling crowd began taking seats.
The first few rows of chairs were gone, opening a wide space on the boarded floor on which a single chair now faced all the others. This was a different sort of chair, an oak Victorian ladder-back opposing the legions of red vinyl and metal that filled up Mr. Alberto's auditorium. It was the same chair used in past hangings. A rope dangled above it, strung from a high white beam that had no apparent purpose but to serve a gallows. Emily shuddered. Her fear was back. She tried to fight the fear. She wanted her excitement pure, as if the fear contaminated it. "Accept the fear," Dianne had told her, but she was afraid to accept it.
She glanced at the noose. If they measured right (and they better had!) it would fit snugly under her chin so that when the chair departed she would only fall an inch or two before the rope, in abrupt combination with her neck, halted her in midair. The rope's free end was wrapped to a cleat bolted to the base of the stage. Directly beneath the cleat, a bowie knife lay atop its sheath on the floor. It was all as she had expected, except for one detail.
"John, where is your chair?," she said.
"It's coming," he said.
He marched her toward her place. She peered out into the hall, searching for her friends, for Dianne. She waved to the cat calling crowd. She had to pee again. She almost laughed, thinking what was harder to fight back, her fear or the urge to pee. They reached the chair. She stood beside it facing the audience with John moving behind her and behind them both, on the stage, Mr. Alberto spoke for the first time into a microphone at the podium.
"Cameras, boys. Start em up."
The cameras were at both sides of the hall and one on the stage, five in all, operated by the Jamaicans.
"Evening folks," Mr. Alberto began. "Hello, Emily. Ready to hang from that pretty neck? Dying to hang are you, Emily? Ha! Ladies and gentlemen, this year's movie will be in two segments like it was last year - the set up, what we are doing now, and after that the main film. Now John has something different for us this year. Go ahead, my man."
John beckoned at the audience. A young woman rose from her seat in the middle of the hall and began making her way to the center aisle. She was blonde, attired in a red Victoria Secret-like teddy and red pumps. The crowd watched her curiously as she came sashaying and grinning up to the front, carrying a small jeweled purse that bulged with whatever was inside it. In some other circumstance many would have called out to her, for the girl was as popular as she was pretty, but with the cameras running the audience was taking its cues from Mr. Alberto whose demeanor at that moment was impassive, even solemn. For several seconds the only sounds in the hall were a low buzz and the click of heels on wood.
"What is she doing?," said Emily, keeping her voice down.
"Dianne's going to join us."
"I don't want her to join us!"
"It's not up to you."
The young woman strode up to Emily, stopping only when her silkily draped tits brushed Emily's bare nipples with their own.
"What are you doing!?," Emily hissed. She tried backing away but John braced her with his hands and she barely moved.
"Hi, best friend. I'm going to be like one of your co-stars, well a supporting star. Me and John."
"No!"
"Mmmmm, we thought you might make a fuss. So I brought this."
Dianne lifted a ball gag from the purse. Emily's eyes went wide but her lips promptly sealed. Dianne waved the gag in front of the snuff actress's face. The audience came alive, hooping and hollering.
"Gag her!" "String her up!" "Hang the bitch!" They meant it and they didn't mean it.
"Open wide, hot pants," Dianne said.
Emily shook her head. Dianne caught the moving nose and pinched it. After a few seconds, Emily accepted her defeat. The gag went in. A few tears spotted Emily's cheeks. Dianne wiped them away.
"It'll be over soon enough, honey. Enjoy it."
Two Jamaicans appeared from a wing of the stage lugging a nineteenth century love seat made of rosewood, richly cushioned in black velvet. Down the stairs they brought it and over to the hanging scene, directly between the gallows chair and the first row of the audience, about eight feet from each, where they put it down. Dianne went to it and sat, crossing her model's legs and tilting her chin.
"We actresses need our props," she jibed.
Mr. Alberto raised his hand to quiet the boisterous hall.
"Very good, John and Dianne. We seem to have melded nicely the two phases of our movie. Before we continue, I am obliged to read the rule. Bear with me, please. 'Party Rule Section 11C. Hangings. Hangings shall be timed and shall last a minimum of one minute. At any time after one minute, the hanging may be stopped by 1) the husband or other escort of the hanged female or 2) the Party Leader. This rule shall be read aloud to the attending Party Membership before every hanging." There you have it. I'll say it again, as I say every year, it's technically possible under our rules for a girl to get herself hanged for good. It's never happened, can't see how it ever will, but the mere chance of it is the spice we savor, depraved beings that we are. Now, when the time comes, I'll set this timer I have here for one minute. It's got a nice, loud ring, as you may remember. You should be able to hear it everywhere in the hall if you're not yelling your brains out, which you probably will be. All right then, let's get on with it. So , John, I see that you have brought a women to be hanged. Is she a whore or your wife?"
"She's both a whore and my wife."
"And what is her offense. Will she not fuck all your friends?"
"No, she'll fuck anything that moves. That's not it. You see, I want a wife who is five feet eight inches tall and she is five feet seven."
"I see. How tall is that whore you have with you?"
"Five feet eight exactly. What's more, I want a wife who weighs one hundred and twenty four pounds and my wife weighs one hundred and twenty-two."
"Ah. And what does the whore weigh?"
"She weighs the desired one hundred and twenty four. What's more, I want a wife whose measurements are thirty-six by twenty-four by thirty-six and my wife's measurements are thirty-six by twenty-three by thirty-six."
"Well, now. What are the whore's measurements?"
"Exactly the ones I covet."
"Then you should hang your whore wife, John."
Emily was trying too hard to be brave to find amusement in this. John hadn't told her what conceit he would employ. The scenarios were always pretty much the same silly stuff. Dianne's insertion had been the only surprise. She continued to dislike it, Dianne's horning in, but she was adjusting, looking for the bright side. They had been friends since grade school, lovers since high school, drawn together by the shared experience of being both beautiful young girls and boy crazy on their way to becoming cock crazy. She wondered if the gag had been Dianne's idea. The gag angered and mortified her at first, but she found herself not minding it. She observed the merry, excited faces of those in the front rows who observed her. She sensed their lust. It was for her, the lust, not Dianne. Her gag helped to excite the crowd, she felt sure. It added to her helplessness and the crowd expected her to be helpless, had come for the thrill of watching her utter helplessness when she swung at the end of a rope. A minute of that would be enough, however. She enjoyed pleasing them, but a minute should be enough. She had asked John that morning to let her down when the timer rang. He refused to promise. It was bad form to promise. A promise undermined the suspense. He was right, of course. It was the suspense that made a person shiver, not just her, not just John, but everyone. The suspense of not knowing when, if ever, she would be rescued. It was only theoretical that she might not be rescued, she told herself over and over. The movies proved this. The party was just her third, Dianne's as well, but she had seen all twelve snuff films and in none of them had the hanged woman been badly hurt. Several appeared unconscious when they came off their ropes but all had revived on camera and seemed okay, neck bruises notwithstanding.
Then it occurred to her! How could she not have realized it immediately? What a dumbbell! John wasn't going to masturbate while she hanged. He was going to have sex with Dianne! He could have sex with Dianne almost any time but not now. This was about her, only her. Why was she going to hang for him if not that? "You're not doing it for me. You're doing it for them. You're doing it for you," she heard him say. "You don't understand!", her scream replied.
She felt like she was burning. She barely comprehended what the two Jamaicans were doing when they roughly grabbed her and shoved her up on the chair. Another man brought over a stool that he put down beside the chair. Then John was on the stool putting the noose over her head. She twisted against the black arms of the vice she was in without moving them a whit. The noose went beneath her chin, slightly lifting her head. John yanked out her gag and hopped off the stool.
"Here we go," he muttered.
"Noooooooo!!!"
The arms of the Jamaicans and the chair beneath her feet disappeared as one. The rope snapped her head back. She gasped. Amazingly, thankfully, there was air. She gulped in a little of it. A little air. She felt herself slightly swaying, the effect of her sudden release. The crowd was roaring or was it her ears. She saw John. He put his hands on her rump. What was he doing? Oh God, he was going to push her. He did push, not hard but hard enough. She went swinging by her neck, swinging in the air by her poor neck. The audience moved before her, but it was she who moved on her neck swing, slowing down but still swaying, almost stopping but not quite. John was on the love seat now with Dianne. Her best friend took out John's cock. She masturbated him. She smiled at Emily while she did it. They seemed to her as in languid time.
As mentioned, the idea but not the rule of the hangings was for the husband to jerk off to the stimulation of his wife in a noose and not let her down until he had successfully finished. In practice it often worked out that way, but not always. The year before, their friend Larry Forbes had been unable to gain an erection. This wasn't John's problem by any means. He was fully hard. Emily watched him enjoying Dianne's working hand. He grinned back at her. How could he grin like that? He was grinning and breathing hard. Was his excitement thanks to Dianne or was it thanks to her? It had to be both but what turned him on more, the hand's performance or hers? She was going to be mad if he liked Dianne's hand better. God, her mind was going. And, oh, how the rope hurt! It hurt too much. She couldn't breathe. She was hot and she couldn't breathe. What was that? Something warm was wetting her legs. She was peeing! Her pee arched out. Through the noise of the howling crowd she heard it splatter on the floor, hot gushes of pee. The ends of the gushes fell on her legs. She felt invigorated somehow. She gasped as hard as she could and found the air again. Oh, what lovely air. Hurry, Dianne. Make him cum, make him cum.
Mr. Alberto checked the timer. Thirty-five seconds gone. The girl was doing nicely. She might go two minutes at this rate, perhaps more, if her husband allowed it. The possibility seemed promising judging from the action on the love seat.
John gazed at his bug-eyed wife, then at the hand jerking him off, then at Emily again swaying on her rope, lightly kicking her feet wetted like her beautiful legs from her finished pee.
"Oh man," he breathed.
"God, she's actually hanging, John. Don't you love watching her. Don't you just love it?"
"Do you love it?"
"Yes, I do. John?"
"What?"
"You know you can't let her down until I make you cum."
Her hand gripped him, moving up and moving down. She was a pro at working a cock, besides being gorgeous, he thought to himself. Besides being fun. Besides being smart. Besides having money.
"I can't?," he groaned.
"No, not until I make you cum."
"That's how it's supposed to be anyway," he said.
"Yes. Let's do what we're supposed to."
Emily stared with her desperate eyes. She looked so cute, he thought, so sexy, the way her mouth worked the air like a landed fish, the way she twisted on the rope as if the useless twisting might free her when it only weakened her.
"You better hurry up then and make me cum," he said, grimly.
"Mmmm, or else poor Emily."
The timer on the podium rang. Mr. Alberto reset it.
"First minute is up," he said into the microphone for the benefit of anyone who hadn't heard the ring. He spoke particularly to John. Emily's husband was half reclined on the love seat having his cock stroked, seeming in no hurry while Emily was visibly fading. Her wide eyes were glassy. She had kicked wildly after her pee but now she was limp. Her mouth still fished for air but the effort was less. Her head lay slumped against her shoulder. She straightened as he watched her and her eyes came briefly back to life and then the eyes faded out and her head tilted as before. The colors in her face had changed, from red to near purple toward the end of the first minute, then fading to a blotchy pink and now fading altogether like the rest of her.
Mr. Alberto felt impelled to speak again. "Ahem, just so you're aware, John. She may have used up a good deal of her strength with all that kicking and twisting about. She was doing well there but.. she may not have long to go."
"Oh, dear," hummed Dianne. "Emily's not having that much fun. But she looks so sweet on her rope." She gazed into John's eyes and licked her lips. Her hand went slowly up and down.
"You gotta speed it up, Dianne."
"No, John."
"What?"
"Let me do it slow, John. Very, very slow."
"Jesus."
"Tell me to go slow, John. Tell me."
"Dianne. Jesus."
"John, she looks so nice up there. Everyone is enjoying it."
John considered the hand on his cock. It barely moved. The lovely fingers loosened their grip, then tightened. Loosened and tightened and hardly moved. Thirty seconds before he had been on the verge of orgasm, but he felt far from that now. He looked at Emily staring back at him through her glassy eyes. Her tongue hung out. She was pale. Her chest heaved for air. It would be so easy to go to the stage and undo the rope or cut it with the knife if that would be faster.
"Damn it, Dianne. She's your best friend. Why?
Dianne swung herself into position. She put out her tongue and ran it up his erect cock which, being a long and handsome and imposing cock, tended to be a woman's favorite kind and was Dianne's favorite kind. She turned her eyes to his eyes as she moved her tongue on him and when she completed the long lick, she giggled.
"Just because," she said, looking at him over the head of his cock.
A wry smile crossed Mr. Alberto's lips. He nodded to the cameraman near him on the stage and pointed at the audience. The man understood. He began filming the crowd.
Mr. Alberto turned off the microphone. He leaned over the podium. "It's all right, John. Take your time. Your wife is occupied. She's not quite done."
John groaned. Life flickered in Emily's bugged eyes. He knew her, knew she understood what was happening. It was too fucking much. His cock erupted. Dianne capped him. He spurted in her mouth. He felt her drinking it down, one spurt after the other in possibly the best orgasm of his life and in the midst of it the image came to him of Emily drinking the water. When it ended he lay back and closed his eyes, letting Dianne milk him, her mouth unhurried like her hand. Finally, he sat up and pushed her off. They sat together then with their arms around each other staring at Emily hanging motionless on the rope, so astonishingly cute in the way she fixed them with her dead eyes. The audience began leaving. Some stayed to clamor in the near rows or take pictures. A few, the vultures, began their wait for when the husband would go and leave the dead beauty to them.
John paid them no mind. "Just because," he said.
"Yes, love. Just because."