Posted by Zed on September 06, 2003 at 05:35:38:
In this fantasy, Clizia is pushed to choose the method of her death. Please let us know if you dig it or not. BTW, I spelled Clizia with a “t” in her last story, because that’s how it’s pronounced. From now on, I will spell it correctly. See if you can spot the author.
Clizia’s Choice
By Zen Bones, copyright 2003
You know how aristocratic prisoners are given a choice - the old silk rope or the block? Well I’ve seen a few done this past twenty years, but nobles never cease to amaze me! They always dither about, you know, then go the coward’s way. Except that Lady Clizia. You must know her, the young Baroness of Bendover Hall? We only did her this afternoon! In front of capacity crowds! Yes, the adulteress! Well, believe me tapster, that young woman died as fast and loose as she’d lived her short, sweet life.
As you now, in my position, I don’t usually see prisoners in the hours before they mount the scaffold of shame. Normally, it’s the Master hangman or headsman that pops down. But when the Sheriff gives these aristocrats the choice it’s my duty, as journeyman, to visit the cells and ask by which method they would prefer to die. After that, I call on the appropriate Master, who if he feels inclined, goes down himself. In Lady Clizia’s case, both hangman and headsman had already informed me they would not be taking up… know how they put it? The ‘droit-de-seigneur’. Baron Bendover, it seems, has not been very happy about his wife being executed in public. Despite the fact she was caught shagging Oliver Northbridge – that bloody traitor - his Honour made it clear to the Sheriff he wanted none of the usual liberties taken with the prisoner. Mind you, I don’t believe his feelings were inspired by pity for his cheating wife. He was thinking of the children, whose devoted stepmother she’d been. He didn’t want any low-class retainer bragging about the rodgering he’d given her. Still, the awkward question had to be posed and it was left to me, as usual, to ask which method of death her Ladyship would approve. Scoop me another ale in here, please!
I entered the prisoner’s cell and found the Lady looking scared and tired. She was wearing the old sackcloth shift, had dirt on her bare limbs, and her hair was uncombed and out of shape. I noticed her pretty little feet were scabbed, half her fingernails had been torn out and, I’m sorry to say, the grime on her cheeks was streaked by tear marks. Despite all this, she bore herself with tolerable dignity, rising from the straw when I entered and bowing her head in deference to my superior rank,
“Good Sir,” she spoke up bravely, “please bear me straight to the scaffold! I would rather my affairs were brought to a speedy end than linger further in this gloomy place.” I had bad tidings for her on that score,
“I am afraid there is a while yet before Her Ladyship’s execution proceedings may commence. I am here merely to ask by which method Her Ladyship desires to die the death.”
The poor young woman’s face flinched and her body quivered. I was on the point of reaching out a hand to steady her, when she fixed me with a haughty stare. My God, she didn’t have the clearest green eyes! But for all her talk of dying without delay, she had no answer to the crucial question. Internally I groaned. Typical aristocratic behaviour! Your average noble has no conception of law and order! Indeed, this Lady was so ignorant of ordinary matters she didn’t even know which methods of execution were available.
“I beg you, Sir, could you not advise me of the relevant facts?” I gave her a short bow. Despite my infuriation I was still playing along with the indignity of her plight,
“I would consider it an honour.”
There was a narrow bench, hanging by chains from the cell wall. There we sat side-by-side, our hands folded chastely on our knees, while I explained to her the procedures of a public execution,
“At noon, the condemned are brought to the scaffold on hand-drawn carts. There is usually quite a crowd, which I expect will be bigger today, on account of Her Ladyship’s fame and beauty.” She was indeed a corker. Beneath all the dirt and sackcloth, a plump, healthy body was trying unsuccessfully to hide. Her breasts showed through the coarse material as heavy, pendulous orbs topped with large, upraised dugs. The cheeks of her arse were equally full and round. Her facial features were somewhat askance for a noblewoman – giving her a touch of commonness that made me wonder if she had not sprung from baser stock than most of her kind. Mind you, she listened to my words all opened eyed and meek as a child,
“The carts proceed to a point just below the scaffold, where the condemned prisoners – there will be four in all today – are pushed up the wooden steps. There they are stripped and bound to stakes. Those to be hanged are left for the crowd to abuse. Those for the block are scourged.” Lady Clizia was now wringing her hands. Despite the dirt I could see the whites of her knuckles. I tried to make the proceedings appear as civilised as I could,
“By the time the scourging is done, and the crowd have their fun, an hour might have passed - though it passes quickly enough. The condemned are then removed from their stakes, one by one, and their sentences are read out. Those for the gallows have their wrists tied behind their backs and nooses placed round their necks. They step up onto stools and the ropes are secured to the beam above.
“Those for beheading are not restrained. They kneel down at the blocks and try their necks for size – there’s a sort of slot for the chin to go in. But be warned, if any of the condemned become unruly or refuse to submit, they are whipped for their pains and may be tied from head to toe if necessary.
“When all is ready, the priest comes forward and gives his sermon. This is usually quite long. Sometimes those standing up on the stools have to be steadied during it. But anyone waiting to be beheaded, can sit back on their heels to listen. The priest’s words are always very edifying, terribly comforting. A hymn or two follows the sermon; then it’s hats off all round for the prayer.
“At a signal from the priest, the drummer boy sets his drum rolling. You can count the beats, if you want to know how long it takes. The roll is precisely four bars of quick-march time.” I demonstrated, rolling my tongue and beating time with my fingers. “As soon as the drum stops, Master Pratt - the hangman - pulls away the first of the stools. Each hanging proceeds uninterrupted until the prisoner ceases struggling. Then the drum starts up again. After all the hangings are done, Master Pratt hands over to Master Rawson - the headsman. Again the drummer boy beats his drum for the proscribed period of time… whereupon Master Rawson chops the head off the next prisoner in line. To do two prisoners by rope and two by axe - counting in all the scourging, sermonising and whatnot - will take about two hours. But there is no need to worry, for the time generally flies past.”
I thought I’d given as plain and delicate an account as I could. For example, I made no mention of the pushing, spitting and rotten vegetables thrown by the mob. I’d passed over the pissing, shitting and ejaculations that commonly afflict the condemned. Neither did I remark that those who are hung can go on struggling for half an hour and more, nor the amazing fact that the bodies of those who are beheaded sometimes spring up and strut, headless, about the scaffold… Another ale please, tapster!
On finishing my account, I saw that Lady Clizia was picking at the scabs on her poor dirty feet. She could hardly be blamed for forgetting herself at such a moment. I believe she had no idea of the horrors she was soon to experience until I told her. Under the circumstances, she was indeed, extremely courageous. When she eventually did raise her head, it was to give me another of those haughty looks,
“What, good Sir, is your part in these executions? Are you simply here to pose your question and depart?”
“I am the executioners’ assistant. It is my job to secure the prisoners; to scourge those that are to lose their heads; and… dispose of the corpses.”
She turned her head and stared at me,
“You will whip me?” I shook my head very decisively,
“No, not whip; the whip isn’t used to scourge. Prisoners are scourged with the cat of nine tails. Her Ladyship will receive the proscribed dozen strokes on each part.”
“Each part?”
I counted on my fingers,
“On the back, buttocks and soles of the feet.”
“Pray, what is the purpose of this lurid spectacle?”
My tone became defensive, for I view the scourging of condemned felons as my main vocation in life,
“Why, it is an important part of the punishment! Moreover, it is said to drive out the devil and prepare the soul for death. Indeed, many of our prisoners beg to be dispatched during the scourging, as the pain is unrelenting.”
“Unrelenting, is it?”
“Aye, it is delivered without pity. Her Ladyship, must accept my word of honour on the subject. I can spare no one, neither for love nor money.”
She avoided my eye, passing over the hint I appeared to have made. Henceforth I was sure, though Lady Clizia might be afraid to die the death - and like all aristocrats, was terrified of pain – she had no fear of losing her life. Something inside her - maybe remorse at her crimes, possibly a religious conviction - gave her the strength to make a dignified choice. At this point, the former Baroness rose and stood away from me.
“The gaolers here are cruel and oafish, but never untoward. A week ago I became so distracted with hunger and thirst, I taunted them why they did not abuse my body. They said that was the executioners’ prerogative. From this and their other talk, I surmised my executioner would ravish me before I was brought to the scaffold.” She turned and faced me, “Tell me now, is this the case?”
I too rose from the bench, supposing our interview to be nearing its end. At least, I supposed, I had welcome news for her on the subject of ravishment,
“No! Absolutely no harm will come to Her Ladyship before the execution commences at noon, I can assure her of that.”
Up to this juncture I was still doing my best to smile and look reassuring. Yet my efforts seemed to have the opposite effect. In fact, the formerly scared and beautiful prisoner now turned puzzled and angry. I was taken aback. There was a wild flickering in her eyes,
“Why is this? For what reason am I to be spared the traditional fare?”
“Your… That is to say, Her Ladyship’s executioners would prefer not to cause offence…”
“Offence? Offence to whom, might I ask?” She returned to the bench and sat there again, knitting her brows in an expression of incomprehensibility. “I thought there was a simple choice to be made here. Yet contriving to assemble all the relevant facts needed to arrive at my decision, I discover that strings have been pulled and… things decided by third parties… in advance.”
I was amazed. From this petulant outburst it was plain, Lady Clizia was not merely expecting to be ravished, she had been counting on it! Of course, a good shagging is the one bit of pleasure a carefree woman in her situation can look forward to. The likes of condemned harlots usually relish the private attentions of their executioners, but I had not reckoned on such base sensuality in a female aristocrat. Feeling emboldened, I took pity on this dashing of the poor Lady’s expectations, wondering if I might aspire to the task myself – despite the risks. This, of course, required a complete change of tack. Dropping all the squirming deference I had displayed up to that moment, I suddenly demanded the answer I had come for,
“Come woman, how will you die? By rope or axe?”
She swallowed the bait - hook, line and sinker,
“You dog! You think you can trick me into condemning myself to a fate worse than death?”
“Fie! You are doomed already, is that not enough for you. If you refuse this choice, you will die this afternoon by drawing lots. And don’t expect any mercy in the way the duty is discharged. Should you leave the choice to pot luck, by Sheriff’s decree the executioners must share the fee between them.”
“Nevertheless, I refuse to be drawn!”
Suddenly, I grabbed her shoulders and pushed her to her knees. Hooking the neck of the shift between my thumbs, I ripped it open so wide that the torn material fell over her shoulders and dropped around her legs. Thenceforth the great Lady was nothing but a naked wretch, a child-woman cruelly exposed to my tender mercies. She stared up at me from the floor, her jaw hanging open expectantly. I realised that even naked, she was encased in the natural modesty of her sex… until she lowered her eyes and gave herself up to my will.
To demonstrate the severity of her situation, I undid my kerchief and used it to bind her wrists behind her back. Drawing her by the hair, I made her kneel on all fours. I then crouched behind her and spread her legs with the points of my knees. I saw she had an inch of hair upon her cunt and remembered that a month had passed since her seizure in Northbridge’s bed. But even in the dim light of the cell, I could see the gleam of moisture oozing from her dark pink lips. No doubt about it, Lady Clizia was as ripe to be shagged as any wanton street whore eager for the price of a loaf.
I unbuttoned my trousers and released my proud, hammer-headed cock, which was ready for an immediate assault. The former Baroness let out a long, low moan. When she spoke it was in a plaintive, almost cringing voice,
“Please shag me, good Sir! Shag me good and hard! Shag me one last time on this earth before I must die the death!”
Without waiting on ceremony, I entered and shagged her doggie-style for a few minutes – taking care not to give in to the premature urges her curvaceous arse and canine yelps provoked. With my free hand I fingered her rose as I shagged her, and letting go of her hair I began squeezing her dugs. I noted she arrived at two or three short climaxes during this time, panting and jerking her buttocks up and down as they took hold.
Having sufficiently enjoyed the rear sight of her, I untied her wrists, drew my hammer out and pushed her down into the straw. I rolled her onto her back, raised her legs and balanced them on my shoulders. This way round, I entered her afresh and recommenced shagging. The shameless creature frigged her rose as I shagged and climaxed again. But it was great fun shagging that wanton aristocrat. She was no less inhibited than any common whore, and had a style about the way she shagged and frigged herself, like there was a dainty minuet playing in the background. A few more minutes of this and I felt it was time to commence the final movement.
Drawing old hammer-head out once more, I threw myself down alongside Lady Clizia and rolled her on top of me. She immediately got the right idea, squatting over me and hunkering down on my cock. I used one hand to squeeze her breasts and the other to pinch her rose. She jiggled up and down while I pinched and squeezed her until we both arrived, pumping and panting, at a well-deserved climax. More ale, Sir! More of your good ale!
It took us only a few minutes to recover our wits. She clung to me as we lay on the straw, whispering desperately in my ear. She begged me to shag her again and drive the devil out of her. Still feeling a deal of pity for the doomed nymph, it was clear nothing else could resign her to her fate. I did my solemn duty. This time we started off lying side-by-side with our tongues lapping at each other’s swollen glands. Then we got to our feet and I shagged her in a standing position, her heels clasped tightly round my back and her buttocks slapping against the stone of the cell wall. She screamed as she climaxed and dug her broken nails into my neck. In reward for that, I sat on the bench again, took her across my knee and spanked her bare arse. Then I had her sit down on my hammer, facing away from me, my hands at her front, my fingers tweaking her rose and dugs. In that position I bounced her up and down till she shuddered and shrieked – and I discharged into her a second time. Your health!
It took us longer to recover from this second shag. She sat curled up on my lap, sobbing gently. I could tell there was no cowardice or jealousy in her tears. It was simply grief shed for the life she had so wantonly thrown away. She said nothing at all, but I felt a thousand woes go fluttering through her heart. I had half a mind to sneak her out of the prison and make a run for it, since I had rarely enjoyed such a grand old shag. Luckily, she was overtaken by lust before the idea got the better of my reason. She squatted between my legs and took my wilted cock in her mouth. I closed my eyes and felt her suck long and deep, her tongue curling under the rim of the hammer until the handle recovered its full length. God, but she knew the business well! What a waste of a good woman, I thought. Still, there is no point in brooding over another’s fate.
I had her kneel down in the straw again, this time with her head resting on the ground supported by her forearms. Her rounded, reddened arse stuck up into the air like the point of a derrick. In this position I parted her cheeks and teased her puckering arse with my cock. She shrieked as it passed the breech. I shagged her up the arse long and slow, my fingers clawing at her rose and dugs, gradually building up the tension until she was very hot and sweating. When I felt she was close enough to the edge, I shoved her forwards so and she sprawled spread-eagled on the floor – in which position I shagged her arse hard and fast until she let out a tumultuous shriek. Then, before she had time to recover, I pulled my dirty cock out of her arse and plunged it back into her still wet cunt - just in time for my own final climax.
I left her curled up on the straw, as unladylike in her repose as any common whore. I had to tip the gaolers half a crown to tidy her up, before they brought her out for the ride to the scaffold. By God, I have a thirst tonight. Another ale for me, and one for yourself, tapster!
This afternoon’s executions were attended by one of the largest crowds we have seen in a while. A thief, a gentleman murderer and a brazen young whore were executed alongside Lady Clizia – whom most of the town-and-country folk had come to see. Two of the four condemned were scourged by me, before I led each of the prisoners to their final positions on this earth. The thief and the whore were for hanging; the others were to part company from their heads. Yes, Lady Clizia had made the brave choice to be scourged and beheaded - alongside the socially ambitious murderer.
I would judge that her death was as wanton as her life had been, only that up there on the scaffold pain took the place of pleasure. The Baroness died with as much pluck as could be expected, though streams of piss ran down her legs after I had tied her to the stake, and she screamed to be finished off while I was scourging the devil from her. I’m afraid her wish to die soon was not granted, as she had to wait until all three of the other rogues had met their ends. She squatted patiently at the block for over an hour before her time came round. But at the appropriate moment, she dutifully stretched her neck out and thrust her buttocks high. The crowd applauded this lewdness and her freshly scourged, naked body received many compliments.
Just as the drummer boy began his roll, her arse let out a wet, spluttering fart. After the fart came a long, fat turd, which curled up on the boards between her knees. As if to brazen this out, the former Baroness splayed her legs wider and arched her back. Her eyes were fixed on the basket, her dugs pressed hard against the block. Her neck and shoulders seemed expectant, twitching for the blade that would presently strike her head off. In the hushed moment between the drummer boy ceasing his roll and Master Rawson raising the axe, Lady Clizia uttered a deep sigh of resignation. The axe came crashing down without pity, severing the skin, bone and sinews of her neck in one blow. A great intake of breath was heard in the crowd, and Lady Clizia’s head somersaulted neatly into the basket.
After the proceedings were over, I was carrying her still warm body down the scaffold steps when I got a strong urge to shag her again. A great pity it was, for none of the usual chances could be availed of. Liveried men from Bendover Hall were already there to cart their former Lady’s remains away. I had to make do with the limp body of the whore who was hanged. Tonight, I trust, the good Baron will be shagging her headless corpse himself - hopefully in the arse, where his seed will be mixed with her crap. I’m sure that Lady Clizia, wherever her soul is now, would appreciate the irony. Your health! More ale?
Clizia’s Choice
By Zen Bones, copyright 2003