Posted by Zed Bones on November 29, 2003 at 14:08:35:
“According to the Book”
By Zed Bones, copyright 2003
“Listen Dearie, you’re better off pleading guilty from the start.” A tart had slipped her arm around Clizia’s shoulders,” I should know, I’ve been had up three times. First two I tried to talk me way out of it, little good it did. After that I came clean.”
“What did they give you?”
“Fifty lashes.”
Clizia bit her lower lip, more shocked than sympathetic,
“My God, what for?”
“Cock sucking a matelot… who turned out to be one of them.” The tart rolled her eyes in the direction of the cell door,” It was just after the New Edict and they were having a crackdown.”
“An entrapment!” Clizia shook her head in dismay, then raised her eyebrows, “So how come you were better off pleading guilty?”
“Got the lashes on me feet!” The tart smiled, slipped one foot out of its slipper and turned the sole up. The criss-crosses of scar tissue were plain to see – especially on the instep.
“That must have been excruciating! But I still don’t see why you pleaded guilty. Is the lash considered a soft punishment for… for sucking a matelot’s cock?”
“By no means! Fifty of the best is what cock sucking gets you - crackdown or no. I couldn’t walk for a week! Only having it on the feet, see” – she stroked the crinkled skin with a long, painted fingernail - “was better than on me bum or shoulders. At least I could still lie on me back or go down on me knees.” Clizia looked puzzled. The tart sniggered, giving the nape of her neck a friendly pinch,”I mean, at least I could go on working!”
“Oh, I see!”
“And certain blokes were appreciative. You know, there are those that cherish the feet.”
“Yes, yes, of course there are!”
The tart looked askance at the innocent faced, well-spoken girl,
“You’re not on the game, are you?”
“Not exactly.”
To which she pulled a haughty face, as if to say anyone could give herself airs, if she wanted,
“So what are you up for?”
“Well… blasphemy, actually.”
The tart’s jaw dropped and she let out a little scream. She pulled her arm away, as though in danger of catching a contagious disease, and leapt to the far side of the cell. There a couple of naked whores – like the lowest of the low – were sprawling on the straw, prodding each other’s scarred backs and buttocks. The tart sat down crossed-legged beside them.
From then on Clizia understood how much trouble she was in. Utterly spurned by the other women, who seemed to be whispering about her, she remained sitting in stony silence… until the cell door was flung open and they were all led up to the magistrate.
****
Yet Clizia could hardly regret taking the tart’s advice. Indeed, as the awesome climax of her punishment loomed, it was one of the bright memories that flitted through her brain. By pleading guilty to blasphemy her sentence had been given with a lewd dispensation. According to ‘The Book of Good Executions’ (which she had read from cover to cover three times) the job would be done privately, disrobed - and with an erotic interlude at the denouement.
****
On the morning of her last day Clizia was allowed to bathe in a whole tub of hot water and provided with a bar of real soap all to herself. Her long brown hair was plaited and pinned up out of the way. Then she was scourged across the arse and shoulders. This unpleasant business was performed out in the bailey, in drizzling rain. Thankfully there were few onlookers. After that she was carried back to the dungeons, where her bleeding welts were sealed with wax, her nipples pierced and ringed, her cunt hairs plucked - and her body oiled. Around mid-afternoon, having recovered somewhat, she was returned to her cell with a bowl of warm porridge for supper, and a copy of ‘The Book of Good Executions’. Even a candle was permitted, so she could go on reading past sunset.
At midnight, when reading time was over, Clizia made her final visit to the privy. At the arras a guard presented her with a greased, ebony plug. With a crude, unmistakable gesture he let her know what she was supposed to do with it. Clapped in iron chains, her arse muscles clenching the plug very tightly, the naked prisoner then had a hundred steps to trudge down. These, descending past various busy torture chambers, brought her into the very bowels of the Tower. At the bottom, she was led through a low arch and came into a vaulted hall of rough-cut stone. The girl’s nostrils were immediately assailed by the strong, rusty odour of blood - mixed with pungent tangs of human sweat. Two masked figures stood silhouetted on a dais in the centre of the hall – her executioners: one male, one female. Behind these figures was a pair of braziers glowed. The braziers gave off a thick, soporific heat – and a dull right light that threw huge shadows against the arched walls and ceiling. Clizia was strangely comforted by the heat. It was as though she had entered the antechamber to Hell, which felt like the right place for one such as her to die the death in – far better than any windy, rain-swept scaffold in front of a jeering mob.
After the castle guards had unlocked her irons, she had to make her choice of male or female executioner. Her mind was already made up, but she looked them over anyway. Both executioners were nude, apart from black harlequinesque masks. From the wrinkles on the female’s throat and the paunch and baldness of the male, they were middle-aged. She couldn’t help noticing they wore identical pewter bands on the ring fingers of their left hands. They were a couple, then. The female had ample, pendulous breasts, the male a very heavy looking pair of balls. She wondered if they’d had many children. Clizia gulped and spoke her wish,
“Male!”
According to The Book of Good Executions, the female would remain to act as assistant. With the departure of the guards, no one else – not even a priest – would be present. The last episode of her life was totally in the hands of this odd, masked couple. There followed the choice of masturbation, vaginal intercourse or buggery at the block (the latter two to be performed by the female using a strap-on device). Clizia had read and re-read ‘the Book’ from cover to cover (with several sections many times over). She blushed and stuttered,
“Ma.. Ma.. Masturbation.”
There was no visible reaction. The couple went about their business as though they were serving in the family shop - the male to fetch the axe, the female to ask if their prisoner had anything to say before sentence was carried out. Clizia was too overwhelmed to speak further. Her cheeks were burning and her heart beating furiously. Having read the details of what would happen next, it was all she could do to stay on her feet. Formally, the executioners waited for an answer. Her whole body shaking with fear and excitement, Clizia’s mouth was totally dry. In lieu of speaking, she pointed a quivering finger at the awesome axe in the male’s hands. Even in the dull light of the braziers its long, curved blade looked sharp enough to split a hair. She slammed her eyes shut and nodded her head. No, she had nothing to say before proceeding with her punishment.
The female took her arm and she had to open her eyes again, for there were a few steps to climb. Up on the dais there was a low plinth, covered in crimson cloth. At the head of the plinth a small wooden block was positioned. Clizia would lie face down on the plinth and her throat would rest on the block with her head protruding. There was no basket to catch the head, just the plain boards where it would roll. The linen looked cover freshly scrubbed, though marks of frequent use were apparent on the wood. Clizia felt the delicious urge to pee as she surveyed her last place of rest.
Before lying down she had to be caparisoned. The female executioner held up a length of leather lace. At one end there was a tiny brass eye. The female made a loop, slipped it over Clizia’s head and drew it tight at the throat. A small knot was tied at the eye, and the lace was left dangling. Clizia was thrilled to have her neck constrained. And with the loose end of the lace grazing the lips of her bald cunt, she felt pleasant tingles shooting around her belly.
The female executioner then attached a dildo to the end of the lace. This was not the kind of dildo used for inserting in the cunt, but one used for external stimulation. It was about ten inches by three, and had a finely serrated surface. It was decorated with black and red lacquer and had holes drilled at its top and bottom ends. One end of the dido was tied to the lace and left dangling against Clizia’s cunt. The female took another length of lace and drew it through the lower hole of the dildo, leaving both ends extending to the boards. One end of this lace was then looped round the big toe of Clizia’s left foot, and tied off to her ankle. The other end was similarly attached to her right foot.
The female made Clizia test the dildo by pulling her up on her toes and stretching her neck back. It was found to be a little slack, so the lace was shortened by an inch or two. Again Clizia went up on her toes, and now the dildo pressed good and tight against her cunt.
More laces were tied to her nipple rings. Clizia was shown how to hold out her arms, bent at the elbows, while the ends of the laces were tied off to her wrists, with a loop over each thumb. The exquisite toothache pains the rings had already given to her nipples, were brought to melting point.
Ready for execution, Clizia was left to come to herself for a few moments. She tried to relax and breathe deeply, and found herself too excited. Instead, she began standing on her toes and holding her arms out. Her heavy breasts were painful to lift, and the noose put a new strain on her neck. Blood pounded in both her head and nipples as she began tilting her hips, which rubbed her clitoris up and down on the dildo’s serrations. The sensation was divine, though it left her knees feeling extremely weak. When she glanced down at the little block, a new mixture of terror and euphoria coursed through her body. She had pictured what would happen after her arms were fully stretched out.
It was time for her execution to commence. Clizia stared at the male as he took up his position alongside the end of the plinth. Her eyes flitted between the long, curved blade of the axe, and the swelling length of cock that hung between his hairy legs. She felt her knees go even weaker. The female positioned her on the foot of the plinth – which slightly yielded to her feet, (like a horsehair mattress) - and guided her down. Care was taken that her throat came into direct contact with the block and that her hands were positioned evenly on either side. Her tits were pulled forward and out. This was extremely painful. But her neck was a good fit in the groove of the block. So long as she took enough weight on her elbows she would keep herself from choking.
Slowly she stretched out her legs and pointed her toes. This brought the dildo tight between her cunt lips, and tightened the noose at her throat. These extra sensations helped to take her mind of the pain in her tits. The female executioner then checked that all the laces were taut and not catching anywhere. She gave Clizia a sharp slap on the arse, urging her to test the basic movement. The panting girl tilted her hips back and forth, gently rubbing her clitoris against the serrated dildo. The female then slapped her again, so that she stopped and relaxed. As she waited for the order to commence, she felt the male executioner lower the axe blade and brush it against her back of her neck. The axe would remain suspended there while she masturbated, and it would be scraped against her neck whenever it was necessary to remind her of her ultimate goal.
There was a final short pause while the female, using manual stimulation, brought the executioner’s cock to full erection. Everything, Clizia noted with total awe, was done according to the book. The pauses, in fact, did as much as anything to increase the excitement. As she heard the male breathe deeply and feel the swaying blade brushing against her neck, sweat oozed from every pore in her body. Then she heard the female rise and step back. She spoke in a calm, schoolmistress’ voice,
“The execution of Clizia Cockspur will begin at once.”
****
‘The Book of Good Executions’ states that a subject should go on masturbating for as long as she wishes: ‘She is encouraged to enjoy the physical side of the procedure to the full, and also take the opportunity to review in her mind’s eye any erotic events that have led her to the block. To this end the subject is urged to pause for breath at times, to vary the pace of her movements, and – if she is multi-orgasmic – to arrive at one or more minor peaks before achieving full orgasm. Since these breathing pauses and small climaxes may lead even the most experienced executioner to swing the axe prematurely, an important formula is followed. When the subject is approaching full orgasm, the arms shall be thrust forward in a gesture of submission. This will rend the nipples - therefore care has to be taken that the nipple rings are not pulled too strongly before the execution is terminated.’
****
Clizia’s movements began rather rashly. Though she was by no means anxious to hurry along the procedure, by this time she had spent many long, tantalising hours waiting for the execution to commence, so an inevitable euphoria took hold of her when she was free to rub her swollen clitoris against the dildo. Without a moment’s thought, she rammed herself through two short, preliminary tremors – minor paroxysms that left her heart rate higher and her appetite whetted for more. But these climaxes cost her some effort.
The girl stopped moving, relaxed her muscles and breathed heavily. Her mind went utterly blank and she closed her eyes. The pain, which had evaporated during all the recent excitement, became a dull ache that gnawed at her nipples. Her arms were stiff and tired, her legs were wobbling, her face burning. Suddenly, she felt the blade of the axe scraping at the fine hairs on the nape of her neck. A tremendous urge to shit shot through her cool, sweaty body. Was the execution about to be terminated?
Clizia clenched her arse muscles and strained hard until the powerful shitting urge subsided. She was very grateful for the plug, which gave her something solid to fix on. As she recovered she felt the axe blade caressing her neck again. This time it was her pelvis that twitched into action, bringing her cunt lips sliding more carefully up and down the warm, slippery dildo. Her clit, still recovering from the mini-climaxes, was too tender to be touched head-on, so she switched her weight from side to side as she moved - grazing just the sides of her sweet, throbbing little organ against the lubricated serrations of the dildo. No, the execution was not over. Only the beginning was over.
As she soothed her half-melted cunt with this slow, easy rubbing action, Clizia began to pick up the threads of the trail that had led her from a comfortable, rather boring existence, into the state of intense pleasure and imminent doom she was in. Her mind, distancing itself from the ache in her tits, the soreness of her arms - and from the suffocating heat and pungent smells of the execution hall - began to catch up with the tyranny of her situation. Blasphemy! Sin! Sacrilege! How ironic! It was a loathing of religion that had brought her to the block; her disgust of the church that had led her to mock God and all He stood for.
****
What a cruel twist of fate it was! What a warped, perverted world! Jesus Christ, whose naked figure she had desecrated, had died – been executed, no less – to save the world sinners. Now she, a sinner against Him – was being executed in turn. She almost laughed at the hypocrisy of it all. And then she did laugh, silently, with her belly rejoicing in the impishness of her crimes. It had been worth it. For two years she had got away with disfiguring icons, statues and bibles. For two long, delightful years she had mocked every aspect of the church and all it stood for.
She had begun frivolously, drawing pretty phalluses in the margins of prayer books. After that she had carved them on the backs of the church pews, scratched them on the stained glass windows and painted them in the picture books of the Sunday school. Then it had grown more serious. She had fashioned a life-sized cock and bollocks out of unleavened bread, baked it, and then painted it. She crept into church before dawn one Sunday morning and tied it to the loincloth of Christ on the cross. She’d had to climb onto the altar to do it! A few weeks later, she’d placed a smaller phallus in the Virgin Mary’s hands. After that, she sneaked a jug of her own piss into the vestry and added it to the vat of communion wine. Then she’d drunk her own piss - along with the rest of the congregation - at morning Mass!
As time went on she’d grown bolder, reckless, and finally foolhardy. Many times she went to church wearing nothing but a long, hooded cloak and spent the whole service masturbating with a small wooden crucifix. She learned to time her orgasms to the Eucharist! Often she sang bawdy verses to hymns, her clear soprano rising high above those standing nearby. Nobody seemed to notice the crude changes. She was even complimented for the beauty of her voice! One weekday she disguised herself as a young man and made a false Confession, claiming to have buggered half the maidens and spinsters of the parish. What times she’d had! What wicked fun!
She had written verses in honour of the Devil and posted them on the church notice board. She drew elaborate pictures of the Disciples having their cocks sucked by Mary Magdalene. These were inserted in bibles. She painted a picture of Judas hanging naked with an erect cock. This was stuck down under the altar cloth at Christmas – with the strongest whalebone glue. When the cloth was changed at the end of Lent it had to be scraped off by the verger. She ‘borrowed’ the new altar candles and used them as dildos – before returning them to their rightful places.
Then she went too far. It was inevitable, of course. At the back of her mind she knew one day she would have to pay for her crimes - and that the punishment would be severe. In the meantime, she never pictured herself getting caught, never frightened herself into stopping. And in the event she was simply careless. Clizia had learned the church authorities were anxious to catch the person or persons that was desecrating their church, but she had reckoned without the sleuth who would claim the handome reward they offered.
For a long time she had been making plans to empty her bowels on the altar. She dreamed of squatting naked in front of Christ, frigging herself and depositing the longest turd she could manage at his feet. But she knew the church was watched on Saturday nights, had observed for herself the shifts of guards changing at midnight, and then again at 3am. Her only hope was to somehow bluff her way in and out, perhaps using a disguise. Disguised as whom, though? Who would be granted unquestioned access in and out – and early enough on a Sunday morning? Then she hit on the idea of appearing as the priest himself!
Her plan took some time to prepare, as item by item she had to collect enough items to make her disguise complete. She salvaged an old cassock and spent hours making good its defects. The hat needed making from scratch – and finding the fine black silk was the devil’s own work. The white surplus was easy enough, but the cross – the local priest wore a large solid gold cross on a golden chain – took many visits to several craftsmen and much gold paint. Then there was the question of the priest’s height, for he was a very tall, thin man. She had to have high-heeled sandals made that exposed the toes, but hid the arched foot. And when all was ready, there was the question of her tits – which had to be tied flat to her chest. Other than that she would go naked under the cassock.
If only she had guessed she was already under suspicion! The new curate, a pious, rat-faced young man with whom she had taken tea with at the rectory, had seen her tearing a page from an illustrated copy of the Book of Genesis. She should have guessed he suspected her. The page had turned up, defaced by winged phalluses, inserted in the parish records. After this, the curate secretly followed her about the village, noting the puzzling visits she made to the little milliner’s shop, the cobbler’s, the blacksmith’s and the carpenter’s. Eventually, after making enquiries of the said trades folk, he realised she was assembling a cleric’s disguise. All he needed to know then was when and where she would use it. And this, he had no trouble deducing, would be the church by night. He decided to take the 3am watch himself.
Clizia, disguised as the priest, sneaked out of her house at around half past two in the morning. Being an unmarried girl with no husband to disturb, this was easy enough. It was winter and still pitch black. She concealed herself in the graveyard of the church and waited until the guard was about to be changed. That way she would take advantage of the extreme sleepiness of the old guards, who would admit her, then probably forget to pass the information on to their replacements. She approached the porch chanting a psalm under her breath and waved the men aside. Hardly stirring from their slumbers they let her through without a word.
Inside the church she waited again, hidden in the Lady Chapel, wary that the new guards would take a peek round. When she was sure she was safe, she stripped off her disguise, unwound her breasts and climbed, totally naked onto the altar. She squatted, facing the gloomy figure of Jesus Christ, hanging nailed to the cross. It was freezing in the church and she began manipulating the folds of skin round her sensitive clit with cold hands. But the image of the dying Christ was powerfully erotic to her and so despite the cold, she had little trouble working herself up into a tumescent state. She gave herself three or four quick little peaks before switching attention to her arse. Over the previous two days he had eaten copious amounts of buttered bread and potatoes – and resisted all urges to shit. She now fooled with her arse hole while chewing on a piece of tobacco leaf. Pretty soon her puckering arse gave out a hissing fart – then a long, fat turd, which coiled up nicely on the altar cloth.
Despite the cold, Clizia was in no hurry to leave. A few minor orgasms could do little to satisfy her lust, so she recommenced frigging in earnest. With one had busy at her swollen clit, she reached out to caress the bleeding feet of Christ. The miracle was how smooth and lifelike the feet felt! Indeed, for a second or two she imagined there was blood on her fingers. Very moved by the chintzy vision, she climaxed with a stuttering cry of joy and threw herself down on the altar (though carefully avoiding the coiled up turd).
“Blasphemy! Sacrilege! Mortal sin!”
Cliza had swooned. She looked up to see torchbearers moving rapidly towards her. The rat-faced curate was there, shouting and waving his fist. Two constables bearing pikes were with him, and the verger carrying a whip. She was undone!
***
Clizia was thoroughly enjoying her execution. But the long plateau phase was all but passed. With her heart thudding and blood pounding in her head, she stopped rubbing her clit and took a breather. The pressure of the block and the noose were both taking their toll on her neck and throat, although the other aches and pains in her body had eased somewhat. She gave her nipples rings a tug. They felt fit to burst. She thought she had better be careful. Then, after only a few moments’ panting, she felt the sharp axe blade stroking her neck again. It was time to be on her way. It was almost time to be done.
A more rapid series of images flickered through the excited girl’s brain. She started with the scene in the cells, when for the first time in her life she had rubbed shoulders with tarts, common whores and other female criminals. The tart who had given her the advice was up for buggery. In the magistrates, she pleaded guilty and was sentenced to branded on both cheeks of the arse. She was led out of the court with a big smile on her face. Clizia overheard another tart whispering she’d got off lightly. Apparently, if she hadn’t pleaded guity, she’d have been branded on her tits. And there were certain men, the other tart added (in an even lower voice), who appreciated a branded arse – though precious few who felt the same way about tits.
She pictured her own hearing: the great hush that descended on the court when the charge of blasphemy was read out. She remembered, with not a little pride, how members of the public had pushed and fought their way to the front, in order to get a glimpse of the notorious defacer of churches. She had stood bravely, her face stoic, as the curate gave his evidence. She even had to suppress a smile or two as the prosecutor read the list of crimes she was accused of committing. Some of the things she had done were little more than childish pranks. Others were deadly sins. Still more things, such as pissing in the communion wine, had not come to light. The public responded to the worst of the charges with exaggerated gasps of astonishment. Until she was caught and tried, the church had tried to suppress much of what had occurred.
When the time came for Clizia to speak, she said the word ‘guilty’ without hesitation. She had no idea of the punishment in store for her, though she knew it must be very serious. When the magistrate put on the black cap she was puzzled at first. He snapped down the gavel before speaking, to silence the courtroom,
“Clizia Cockspur, you will be taken from this court to the Tower. There you will remain for one week, which will be long enough for you to confess all your sins. On the seventh day you will be scourged and thence taken to a place of execution where your head will be struck from your body. In view of your confession, the sentence may be carried out in camera. May the Lord forgive you. Next case!”
***
There was but little way to go now. Clizia was moving steadily, though not too rapidly, towards the sweet conclusion of her execution. It was all up with her. She had only to stretch out her arms so that the executioner would know her time had arrived. With a brave effort she thrust her arms forward. She expected the swollen nipples would pop with more pain than effort. She was wrong. The skin held tight. She cried out and strained with all her might. It was no use, they would not break!
No matter. She had made the attempt. The executioner must have seen her try. It was up to him to make the judgement. Having lost a little of her momentum, she concentrated on rubbing the sweet bud at the centre of her existence. Nothing else mattered.
In the final, involuntary phase - when nothing can stop the onset of orgasm - Clizia had a terrible sinking feeling. She was sad she going to lose her life! But what could she do about it? She would have sobbed if she’d had the time. Then the first throes of a great orgasm, a simultaneously melting and jerking one - took hold of her and she began convulsing violently from her pelvis outwards. It was delightful!
She was still wobbling uncontrollably when something cracked and kind of split at the nape of her neck. A great lump came to her throat. It was all rather surprising, because the next instant something punched her on the nose and she flipped and rolled right over onto her back. Anyway, next thing she was looking up at the stonework of ceiling. Her scrumptious orgasm continued unabated. She was quite dizzy with it. Then she heard voices,
“That was a good ’un.”
“Aye!”
Perhaps the executioner had taken a fancy to her? At least… she could still feel her heart pounding away and her clit throbbing for all it was worth. Couldn’t she? Her tits … no her tits weren’t hurting. She couldn’t feel them. She couldn’t see too clearly, either. She was getting short of oxygen …
And thus did the spirit of Clizia Cockspur – proud virgin of this parish - tumble carelessly into the great pit of Hell.
“According to the Book”
By Zed Bones, copyright 2003