A PATRON OF THE ARTS

"NO!" Teresa screamed. "No, let me out of here, please! Please!"

She pressed herself against the bars of her cell, looking out into the utterly empty corridor; the guards who'd brought her here had already gone, they were nowhere to be seen.

"That isn't going to do any good," a feminine voice from the next cell said quietly. "No one is going to let you out."

Pressing her naked body against the bars, Teresa looked around the corner. She was was a small girl, just nineteen; her body was shapely but almost thin, rather fragile-looking. Her face was uncommonly lovely, her eyes very large, her mouth and nose tiny, her lips full; she'd often been referred to as "elfin." Her life had been an easy and comfortable one--until she'd encountered the man locally known as the "Patron."

"But they can't keep me here! This is ridiculous! I haven't done anything to be--"

"None of us have," the woman in the next cell said. Teresa got a glimpse of her; young, auburn hair, a pretty face. "Me, I was 'arrested' in New York, that's what they told me." She laughed. "Arrested, on a charge of spitting on the sidewalk! In Manhattan!" The woman laughed again, a little bitterly this time. "Anyway, I was kidnapped, brought here--indicted, tried, found guilty, and sentenced." She paused. "What about you?"

"I--I'm Teresa, Teresa Innes; I'm from Virginia Beach, I was kidnapped too, I was--"

"What were you charged with?"

"That's all craziness! Craziness! Jaywalking, can you believe it? Jaywalking! And I got sentenced to--"

"I know," the other woman cut in. "Sentenced to death. Me too. For spitting on the sidewalk." She laughed bitterly. "Worst of it is, I didn't even do it, I really am innocent!"

Teresa hesitated. "Uh--I'm not, I really was jaywalking, I--"

"It doesn't matter, these 'trials' are just a farce, they're something the Patron enjoys doing. They aren't the point, you know... Oh, by the way, I'm Kay Stevens." Again she paused. "You'd better let me explain a little about what's going on here," she continued finally. "If I can." She hesitated. "I don't have a watch, of course, but it's got to be close to six..."

"What happens at six?"

"I'm due to be executed at six. I'm sure the guards are going to be coming for me soon."

Teresa, her eyes very wide, stared at the visible sliver of the other girl's face incredulously. She did not seem to be particularly distressed about all this; she announced her execution with a perfectly calm voice.

"But...!" Teresa cried.

"No, it's all right," Kay said quickly. "I'm ready. You'll see, I'm ready."

"But how--?"

"You'd better just keep quiet and let me talk," Kay instructed. "Like I said, I'm sure I don't have much time, and it'll go a whole lot better for you if you know what's coming."

"Okay," Teresa quavered.

"You'll be here for a while," Kay informed her. "It isn't an accident that you've been put here in the prison just as I'm about to leave. You won't be alone long; there're usually two or three girls down here at any given time. I'm sure they'll go get someone else within a few days."

"But why--?"

"No, let me talk. You were brought here, you were indicted in secret, and then you stood trial--for whatever, it doesn't matter--and you were convicted and sentenced to die. You will die, Teresa; no one's going to save you, this's been going on a long time. I know you aren't going to accept that right away, but you will as time goes on. And when your time comes, you'll probably be ready too--most of us are."

"I can't accept--"

"You'll learn," Kay went on, as if Teresa hadn't spoken at all, "that the people the Patron supports are artists, artists dedicated to their work--the work of putting a beautiful woman to death beautifully. I can't see you very well, but I know you're beautiful--I didn't think I was, before, but now I know I am--no one is brought here if she's not beautiful. Your execution--and mine--will be professionally filmed, and copies of that film with be put in an archive, kept for posterity. There'll come a day when the Patron's films will be held up beside the paintings of Da Vinci and the music of Beethoven as great art, and--"

"You're crazy!"

Kay laughed. "Of course you'd think so right now. But no, I'm not--I know, I understand, that's all. So will you--at least I hope you will. There're a few girls who never do. But only a few."

"Killing somebody isn't art!"

"Yes, it is. Look, I--" She stopped speaking; down the hall, the guards had appeared, walking slowly. "They're coming for me," Kay said, a mix of excitement and fear in her voice. "I'm out of time. Try to keep an open mind, Teresa. You'll learn. Oh, and the offer they're about to make you-- take them up on it, please?"

She had time for no more; by then the guards had reached her cell. "It's time, Kay," one said. "You have been convicted," he went on, his tone formal, "and your execution is scheduled for six o'clock, which is just ten minutes from now. You must come with us."

"I know," she answered almost eagerly. "I'm ready." They opened it, and, as Teresa watched, Kay stepped out. She was really lovely, tall and willowy, her nude body perfect, her face exquisite.

Another guard turned to Teresa. "You may, if you wish, watch her execution," he informed her. "Will you come with us?"

Teresa shrank back in her cell. "No!" she cried. "No, no, please, let her go, don't take her--"

Kay looked distinctly disappointed. "She isn't ready," she observed. "Too bad."

"No," the guard agreed. "And we must go."

"Yes," Kay acknowledged docilely.

After an instant Teresa went back to the bars; she could see Kay walking along, calmly, flanked by two of the men. They were not holding her, not forcing her; her steps were only the slightest bit hesitant as she turned the corner and disappeared from Teresa's sight--never to return.

Two days slipped by; during that time Teresa saw no one except the guards who came to bring her food and to clean her cell. Each time they came inside she shrank in terror from them, wondering if they were going to take her away as they'd taken Kay. They did not; businesslike, they did their duties without speaking, although they did look at her. She didn't speak to them, either, except to beg for her release--and her pleas were, of course, ignored.

Her cell was not uncomfortable; it had a bed rather than a cot, and there was a little privacy wall between the door and the toilet. The food they brought her was excellent; after some initial reluctance she ate well. During the evening a television outside, easily within sight of her cell, was turned on; to her surprise, the guards had left a remote on her tray that first day. She had everything she needed--except for her freedom, and for someone to talk to.

On the afternoon of her third day in this private prison, that second problem was solved; a new girl, kicking, screaming, and fighting, was brought in and imprisoned in the cell Kay had occupied before. Quickly making her acquaintance, Teresa discovered that her name was Marianne, that she was from Chicago, and that she had been arrested for littering--she'd dropped a piece of a candy wrapper on the sidewalk. As if it mattered, she assured Teresa that her crime had been unintentional, that she hadn't even been aware that she'd dropped the wrapper until the Patron's men had seized her and informed her of her crime. As was Teresa's experience, she had then gone through a whirlwind of activity; she was flown here, to the Patron's private estate in some Southern community, stripped of her clothes, and placed on trial. Not surprisingly, she was convicted--and sentenced to death.

"The people here are crazy," Teresa told her. "I'm sure of it. We're all sentenced to death. The girl who was in that cell before you said that--"

She hadn't had time to finish her story; right in the middle of it, the guards turned up. "You will come with us, Teresa," one told her. He laughed when she retreated across her cell, her hands up defensively. "No, little one, it is not time for your execution. The Patron and the Professor want to see you, that's all."

"Why?" she asked, her voice shaking. "And who's this professor?"

"You ask him. Come along, now."

She didn't move. "May I have some clothes, please?"

"No," the guard told her. "Once arrested, prisoners are never allowed clothes. Come along."

"No, I--"

"If you don't come voluntarily you'll be taken, Teresa. There's no need for anything like that, no one is going to hurt you--not right now, anyway."

Deciding she might as well accept this--she didn't have a choice anyway, there was no way she could fight with the four burly and athletic-looking guards who'd come for her--she went with them. To her relief, she was taken out the opposite way from the route taken by the unfortunate Kay, and soon she found herself in a stylish sitting-room. The walls, she noticed, were decorated with all sorts of weapons; swords, lances, bows and arrows. The guards offered her coffee, tea, or wine; she asked for the coffee, and as soon as it arrived the Patron and another, much younger man, came in.

"Teresa," the old man said, "this is Dr. Patterson; we usually call him 'The Professor,' because he is one, in fact. He wants to talk to you for a while."

She shrank down in her chair, acutely conscious of her nudity. "All right," she answered in a small voice.

"She is very fine, Patron," the professor said. "Very fine." He looked at her with an expression that might've suggested affection. "Teresa, I want to talk to you about art."

"Art?" She stared. "Kay--Kay was telling me something--"

"Something very incomplete, I'd hazard," Patterson said. "Although Kay was a good canvas in the end. You can see her performance any time you want to."

"You mean her execution?"

"Yes, of course."

"No! Why would I want to see that? My God, you're all insane!"

"Of course, right now you don't--you don't understand at all. Let me tell you something about the nature of art, Teresa. Or rather, let me start by asking you what you think about it. How would you define art, my dear?"

She stared at him blankly for a long moment. An answer was expected of her, that much was obvious. "Art? Well, I don't know--something--beautiful. Something--"

"Art isn't necessarily beautiful," the professor cut in. "If you think about it, you'll see that. Are you familiar with Edvard Munch's 'The Scream?'"

"Uh--no."

"It's classic art. It isn't beautiful, not by any standards you might care to apply." He held his hands in a prayer-like attitude, touching his fingertips to his lips. "But it is art--it is because it evokes an emotional response. You see?"

"I think so..."

"That is the nature of art. If you were to watch your friend Kay's execution, you would see that this was an artistic performance of the highest order." He paused, lit a pipe--it seemed almost a cliche to her that he would smoke a pipe--and puffed on it for a few moments. "Consider... a young woman, lovely, healthy, full of life and promise--a woman truly innocent of any crime but nevertheless convicted of some trivial offense, as you yourself were, my dear, convicted and comdemned to death--is brought to the place of execution. There, in that place, her strong and healthy body is in some way torn or pierced, she suffers terribly, her strength leaves her, and soon her life is gone as well. For some this would be horror; for others it might be erotica. There are few people, though, who could watch such a performance without being affected emotionally, wouldn't you agree? And so, therefore, it is, by definition, an artistic performance..."

At first, she dismissed this as ridiculous. But, over the next few weeks, the professor talked to her endlessly on the subject. Soon, Teresa found herself unable to decide if he was making a legitimate case for this idea or whether he was merely wearing her down. But, slowly but surely, she found herself coming to agree with him. Marianne, the other captive girl, was also receiving the professor's lessons, and Teresa tried to talk to her about them, but Marianne was stubbornly rejecting the idea, refusing to consider any possibility of the concept having any validity.

Teresa was different. As the day of her scheduled execution approached, she was beginning to find the idea of an execution as a work of art more and more appealing. At last, during one of her sessions with the professor, she hesitantly asked if she could see the film of Kay's execution.

Patterson was delighted, he arranged for a viewing that very same evening. Her dinner was not served to her in her cell that night; instead, Patterson himself came to get her, she ate with him in an extravagantly furnished dining room upstairs. Afterwards, he took her to a small theater within the building, a room outfitted with a giant TV screen and several comfortable armchairs all in a row. The chairs were very wide, and in front of each, on the floor, was a fold-out cushion. She asked what these were for.

"Many of our associates," he told her matter-of-factly, "find the viewing of these tapes very erotic. The chairs are so constructed that they may be serviced if they so wish. The cushion is for--well, anyone, but normally a young lady--to kneel comfortably on."

Teresa suddenly became very conscious of her nudity again; she flushed. "I see," she murmured. The professor began fiddling with a remote control unit; she watched him. "What about you?" she asked after a moment.

He glanced at her. "What about me?"

"Do you find these tapes erotic?"

He grinned; he seemed not the least embarrassed by her question. "Yes," he answered. "Very much so." He gazed at her face for a long moment, then turned himself back to the screen and pressed a button.

A high-definition picture came up immediately. It showed a walled-in courtyard, a seating area filled with people--two of whom were the Patron and Patterson--and a raised central stage. At the bottom of the screen a scrolling line noted that this was the film of the execution of Kay Stevens, and a date followed.

The viewpoint changed to a pair of wooden doors in one of the walls; Teresa felt a coldness in her stomach as she watched Kay, flanked by two guards, walk through it. Her nervousness increased as, on the screen, the other girl walked slowly and methodically to the scaffold and, alone and unforced, mounted the steps. From the viewing stand the Patron read something, a sentence, Teresa didn't really hear it; she was too focused on the slight smile that kept playing around Kay's full lips.

Following the Patron's instructions, Kay walked to a short post--the top of it was lower than Kay's shoulders--that had been erected on the scaffold and stood with her back to it; a young man then tied her wrists behind it and looped a rope around her trim ankles.

When the young man took a long but very slim knife--a stiletto--from a box sitting nearby, Teresa's excitement had risen to the point where she felt she could hardly breathe. Carrying it, he came back around in front of Kay, spoke to her; then he lifted the blade to her lips, and she, to Teresa's amazement, kissed it and licked it. The young man then began caressing her naked body with it, carefully and lightly, not even marking her perfect skin. Kay, in turn, raised her head and pushed her chest out toward him.

Then, after what seemed to Teresa like a very long time--and with little warning--the young man paused while the point of the knife was resting on Kay's left nipple. With his other hand he lifted her ample breast--and then he began pressing the point in.

It was very sharp, evidently--it folded her breast in and then slipped right in through her nipple. While Kay arched her body and moaned audibly, he slid it carefully on in for two or three inches, then smoothly and evenly pulled it back and out. Blood welled up and out, drawing a neat red line down across her torso. As it was flowing, the young man moved to her other breast and, expertly, used the stilleto to pierce her other nipple in exactly the same manner. Kay looked down at the twin streams of blood and smiled.

The young man then moved to her right thigh, just an inch or so below the joint and a little inside. Here he pierced her leg, very deeply, drawing a louder moan from her. Acting methodically and slowly, he pierced her other leg, creating two new streams of blood. Kneeling, he pierced her calves, then stood to pierce her upper arms near her armpits.

Then he stood in front of her and touched her abdomen with the knife's point, two inches to the left of her navel, and Teresa knew the moment of truth had arrived. When he slipped the blade into Kay's flat and satiny belly and she grunted loudly at this much more serious injury, Teresa's head swam, she thought for a moment she was going to pass out.

Deeper and deeper sank the blade, but the young man had angled it to the outside; after a moment the point, bloodied, popped free from her side. Back it came, and out; back in it went, on the other side, and it passed through her torso again.

Kay was no longer able to smile, but she did not scream; the only sounds she made were groans, moans, and grunts. Blood from the various piercings now coated her legs and formed a pool around her feet. Continuing, the young man pierced each of her breasts from bottom to top; standing beside her he pierced her abdomen again, across her body, once from the left, above her navel, and once from the right, below--and each time he pushed the knife through so that the point was exposed.

Kay seemed to be weakening, and the young man didn't fail to notice it. Standing directly in front of her he located the stiletto's point squarely in her navel and slipped it in, angling it downward. This time he drove it very deep, continuing until only a small section of the blade remained visible, and this time he did not take it out, he left it standing, piercing her entrails deeply. While Kay bled profusely and squirmed weakly against her bonds, he returned to his case--and took out a long double-edged sword.

Teresa squirmed too as she watched him present the long heavy blade to Kay's bloodstained lips, as the doomed girl kissed it. She watched him move Kay's hair to expose her neck, watched him step back, watched Kay tip her head to give him an ideal angle. She could not restrain a gasp herself as he swung it, as it sliced cleanly through Kay's slim neck and sent her head toppling to the floor. As the headless body twitched, Teresa could hardly believe what a fountain of blood shot from the open neck.

She was touching her lips when she became aware that Patterson was speaking to her. "..was beautiful, wasn't it?" he was asking her.

"God, yes," she murmured. "Oh, God..." She looked back at the professor and saw how his pants had tented up noticeably in front.

She reached out and touched his shoulder. "I'd be happy to... service you... if you want to watch part of it again..." she almost whispered.

He smiled, stood, and stripped off his pants. Happily, Teresa jumped up and knelt down between his legs; his erection was rock-hard and she quickly took it into her mouth. He evidently rewound the tape only a short ways, and, just an instant after she heard the swing of the sword and the thud of Kay's head falling, he sprayed what seemed to her to be an enormous amount of hot semen against the back of her throat. She swallowed all she could, but a small amount escaped, running back down the shaft of his penis.

Quickly, he pulled her up and embraced her; he'd removed his shirt and her bare breasts pressed pleasantly against his well-haired chest. He stroked her trembling body. "It will be lovely," he whispered, "when your time comes to go out there and bleed and die. Lovely, Teresa, just lovely. I am so eager to see you suffering, to see a blade slipping into this perfect body of yours..."

"I'm ready for it," she answered huskily. "Ready, ready, ah Gods, oh, I want to die that way...!"

"And you will," he promised. "You will." He caressed her more; soon his erection returned, and when he pulled her onto his lap and pushed it into her soaking vagina she climaxed almost instantly. He continued for quite a while, and, as he moved under her, he kept touching her and talking about blades piercing her body. Before he came again, she'd had at least three more orgasms herself.

After that, Patterson made love to Teresa at least daily, usually in the theater while one of the tapes was playing. She watched numerous attractive young women being executed, each in a different manner; the more she saw of it the more erotic it became for her, the more eager she became to be the subject of this to her beautiful ritual. Several times they were not alone in the theater; another young woman was there, a beautiful dark-haired woman, with different partners at different times. At first Teresa thought she was a captive like herself, but Patterson had explained that she was not, she was the Patron's daughter, Ramona. Patterson introduced them.

"Oh, yes," Ramona had said immediately. "Yes, you'll make a lovely canvas, Teresa. Tell me, do you fully understand my father's work?"

"Yes, I do!" Teresa had enthused happily. "I didn't at first, but now I'm proud to be a part of it!"

Ramona had fallen silent then, watching her with a peculiar expression for a long while. "Good," she'd said finally. "Good. There've been a few who haven't--come to terms with it, and that rather--bothers me. I'm glad you have, Teresa." She'd stepped aside then, had a few words with Patterson, something about some drug or chemical; Teresa hadn't understood and hadn't been very interested, she was still replaying in her mind the impalement death she'd just watched, the death of a French girl named Fulvie.

Finally, after what seemed to her like an inordinately long time, her own day and hour arrived. Footsteps sounded outside her cell; Teresa looked up to see several guards standing there. "It's time," one of them said. "Time to go."

Spontaneously, she started to cry; exactly why, she couldn't've said. One of the men reached through the bars and patted her bare shoulder affectionately. "I'm ready..." she said doubtfully. "I think..." Her fear rose within her, but she found it oddly pleasant; she did not try to rid herself of it.

They unlocked the door without comment; they seemed as inexorable as time. "You have been convicted," one of them told her formally. "And your execution is scheduled for one o'clock, which is just ten minutes from now. You must come with us."

She didn't move, and after a moment two of them came in after her. She allowed herself to struggle with them a little as they seized her arms and pulled her gently out of the cell. Once they'd gotten her into the corridor, though, she stopped fighting; they released her arms and gestured down the hallway. She glanced at Marianne, who was sitting with her hands pressed to her mouth, watching.

"It's okay," Teresa told the other girl. "Really."

"Oh, Teresa..." Marianne started to cry.

"No tears, now." Deciding that she had to set the same example for her that Kay had set earlier, she waited while the guards invited Marinne to watch--and listened to Marianne decline, just as she'd declined the invitation to watch Kay's execution--and then allowed the guards to guide her down the hall, up the stairs, and out into the familiar high-walled courtyard, where the Patron and his followers were waiting.

Looking up at them, she gave vent to an impulse to behave as if she were self-conscious about her nudity, moving her hands at first as if to cover herself. But she soon dropped her arms to her sides, and, walking to the center of the courtyard, stood waiting patiently. She looked around; the cameramen were obvious but they were in positions where they would not be intrusive.

In the center of the yard a scaffold of sorts had been erected; it consisted of a simple platform with a few steps leading up to it. Atop the platform was an upright constructed of two timbers fastened together to form an X.

"Step up here, please," the leader of the guard instructed.

She hesitated. "No, I don't--"

The guard gave her a little smile; he understood, she thought, what she was doing, what role she was playing. "You must step up here," he told her, his voice stern. "Force will be used if you refuse."

Smiling back at him secretly--and then allowing her face to reveal fully her inner fear--she walked on up the steps voluntarily. The guards did not follow her; once she was on top, she was alone.

"Stand in front of the frame, Teresa," the Patron commanded, his voice soft but cold. She stared at him for a moment, but then she complied with his request. "Good," he said. "Very good. Now: raise your arms and spread them, lay them against the beams." She glanced at the timbers; after a moment's hesitation, she did that too.

Once her arms were in position, a pair of young men who'd been sitting beside the Patron rose, walked to the platform, ascended the stair. One carried several lengths of slim silken cord; he stepped around behind her while the other stood in front of her, smiling at her, and did nothing for several seconds. Then, finally, he ran his hand up her left arm, starting at her armpit, stopping when he reached her hand. While he held her, the man standing behind expertly looped one of the cords around her wrist; tightening it, he drew her arm back firmly against the wood. Turning her head, Teresa watched but said nothing; nor did she voice any protest when the procedure was repeated on her other arm.

"Excellent," the Patron said when her arms had been securely fastened. "Now, Teresa--spread your legs. Move your feet to the beams."

Again, she merely stared for a moment; then, obediently, she moved her legs as she'd been told. The man standing in front of her laid his hand on her thigh, ran his hand sensually down her leg until he'd reached her foot; as before, he held it while the man behind carefully slipped a cord around her trim ankle and tied it back to the timber. Once her other ankle had been tied in similar fashion the men left her, only to return a moment later with items that surprised her a little--pails of water, cloths, soap, brushes, bottles of lotion and oil.

They started by using their clothes to wet her entire body, including her hair, completely. Then, taking their time about it, they began soaping her body; they were especially consciencious about her breasts and the area between her spread legs, working their fingers up between her vaginal lips and rolling each nipple carefully between soapy thumbs and forefingers. Teresa was almost squirming with the pleasure of this; in spite of her fear she relaxed while they went over her face with feather touches, while they lathered and rinsed her hair. They dried her just as carefully, just as sensuously, again focusing special attention on her breasts and genitals. Once her hair was dry they brushed it out--a hundred soft strokes, at least. Her pubic hair also received a very gentle brushing, one of the young men carefully lining up the lay of the individual hairs in a neat V.

The lotion came next, and they took their time with it, working it into her skin until she felt smooth, soft, silky. As always, they spent twice as much time on her groin and breasts as elsewhere, although her legs, belly, and face were hardly ignored. They followed this with body oil, glazing her skin with it and working it in thoroughly. Powder was dusted over her and smoothed out; one of the men then came up with lipstick and eyeshadow, and he skillfully applied a small amount of it to her face. Each of her nipples received a tiny touch of rouge, gently worked in, as did her labial lips. The whole procedure had required the better part of an hour to complete.

When it was finished, the Patron himself stepped up on the scaffold and stood before her. "It is time now, Teresa," he said softly. "You are truly beautiful, but it is time." He gestured; a man standing behind him stepped forward and opened an ornate wooden box, and one of the young men reached inside and took out a knife. The handle was wrapped in dark leather, the guards shone gold. The blade was double-edged, six or seven inches long; it glittered even more brightly. While Teresa stared with wide eyes he sharpened it with a whetstone; then he washed the blade, dried it, oiled it, powdered it, and finally wiped the powder away. Holding it upright, almost reverently, he stepped up in front of Teresa. Fixedly, her lips slightly parted, she stared at it.

The Patron stepped closer. His face looked stern but his eyes betrayed his excitement. "Teresa, you have been tried and you have been found guilty. I have ordered your execution, and I have determined the manner of your death: you are to be disemboweled, and your disembowelment will be followed, before you have died, by your beheading. Will you now kiss your executioner and the noble blade by which your life will be ended?"

She didn't answer immediately; she lifted her gaze from the knife's shining blade to the face of the man holding it, the face of the artist. Everything, she told herself silently, was as it should be; the artist, holding his brush, standing before his pristine canvas...

She struggled to maintain the persona she'd chosen, the fearful and pleading prisoner. "No," she sighed, her tone betraying her. "No, this isn't fair, please, I haven't done anything I should be executed for..." She paused and bit her lip. "But I will give the hangman his due..."

The young man with the knife smiled; he leaned forward and kissed her, and she returned the kiss hungrily. After a moment he pulled back and offered the flat of the knife's blade to her lips; she kissed it too, then licked it carefully, sensually.

Still smiling, the executioner brought the knife down. Turning its point toward her body, he played it over her skin in exactly the same fashion as the cloth had caressed her before; it grazed over one nipple, moved to the other, then glided from there back down to her groin. As the knife's tip moved back up from her genitals, the artist cocked his eyebrows slightly; Teresa, sensing the moment was at hand, took in a deep breath.

She wasn't wrong. As it cleared her pubic hair he changed the angle of the blade a little. Appying a smooth and even pressure, he began forcing it gradually into her smooth flat abdomen.

Feeling first the sharp pricking and then what felt like intense heat as the blade breached her skin, Teresa stiffened and turned her head to the side as the first blood made its appearance. "Ah, oh, oh my God, oooh," she sighed. A heavy burst of pain flared in her belly, then faded quickly, leaving a dull cramping ache along with the heat of the blade. Turning her head back she looked down at herself and saw that about two inches of the blade's tip was now inside her.

The executioner smiled at her tenderly. "That's good, Teresa," he murmured as he worked the blade in a little deeper. "Very good, very good indeed..."

"Oh," she sighed, "oh, oh... yes, beautifully, do it right, don't waste me, don't waste my life...!"

"I won't," he assured her. Very slowly, he pushed on; her body shook and her sighs and moans continued as it glided smoothly and softly on into her abdomen. When only a couple of inches of the blade remained visible he paused; both he and Teresa inspected his work. The puncture in her belly was very clean, no larger than the blade. There was almost no blood visible at all, just a tiny trickle.

After glancing up at her flushed and tense face, he started working the knife upward, using a gentle in and out motion. The blade was razor-sharp, her skin and body wall parted easily, cleanly. She trembled violently in her restraints as blood began to gush from the incision, streaming down over her groin and legs. Reaching her navel, he ran the blade in especially deep; she gagged, blood spilled from her mouth. Working carefully but a little more quickly, he sliced her on open, all the way up to her breastbone.

Here, just under her sternum, he again ran the knife in very deep, and this time he left it in place, standing in her body. Bending down, he inserted his fingers in the long cut and pulled it open slightly; then he reached inside and, grabbing a handful of her entrails, pulled them out. While she quivered and shook in her restraints he exposed more of her insides, trailing her cut and bleeding intestines down to the floor of the scaffold, continuing until she was effectively disemboweled.

That done, he stopped for a moment and stepped back. Teresa's eyes now looked sleepy, but they still darted around actively; she vomited blood and a few small pieces of flesh onto the stage. Moving close to her face, the executioner studied her eyes.

"It's time," he told her. "Time for you to die, Teresa. Relax, it'll be easier that way."

"Oh, yes, please," she whispered, looking up at him. "Please, yes, oh, I'm ready..."

"I know," he told her, touching her face. He took a step back; from somewhere off-stage someone handed him a device that looked like a huge pair of snips. One of the arms was solid, smooth, rounded, curved; the other was a solid half-circle of blade. He lifted it, hooking the smooth arm around her neck and bringing the blade in to touch it on the other side. The short handles of the device were fitted with a ratcheting closing device; holding it in place, the executioner advanced the ratchet a step, and the device tightened up.

Teresa sighed; pressure began to rise in her head as he tightened it again. One more pull on the ratchet and she felt the blade slice into her skin. Blood washed out over it; the pressure eased off. One more pull on the ratchet arm and her blood started squirting out with garden-hose pressure. Teresa's eyes flew wide open. Working faster, the executioner closed the device on up, allowing the blade to slice neatly and completely through her neck. While the stump of her neck geysered blood into the air and her body shook without coordination, he lifted her detached head high, showing it to the Patron. It took several seconds for her startled eyes to glaze over.

The Patron and the others were silent as Marianne was led into the courtyard. She was completely nude; she walked with small, slow steps, her head down. Her reddish-brown hair, falling to the middle of her back, was more than a little tousled, a little wild-looking; her dark eyes, fearful. She held her mouth slightly open, as always; her lips were very full, her nose tiny. She protested a little when her guards told her to mount the scaffold, but when they insisted, she came on up without being forced. As she came she stared at the table that had been set up, the rail passing above it, and the large boxlike structure covering one end of the rail, its contents concealed by curtains.

Once she was atop the scaffold the guards moved back; Marianne didn't say anything as Jason and his assitants, who'd been waiting for her, pushed her down atop the table. She merely watched, no longer resisting, as they tied her slender wrists and ankles with heavy leather straps. She was only eighteen but she looked even younger now, spread-eagled naked on the hard table, her soft little breasts pushing upward, her lightly-haired pubes completely exposed by her spread legs. Her already large eyes were very wide as she waited to see what they had in store for her.

The Patron himself, with Ramona following close behind him, mounted the scaffold and stood beside her. "The time has come," he told her, his voice soft. In contrast with the voice, he looked angry. "The time for your execution is here. Look around you, girl; look upon this world for the last time."

She started to cry. "Oh, please don't hurt me," she begged. "What have I done? What have I done that I should be killed?"

"You are soft, warm, young," he answered. "Your blood will flow bright and hot, your suffering will be exquisite. Need there be any other reasons?"

"I don't understand!"

"Nor will you, apparently," he said carelessly, "though every attempt has been made to educate you." Scowling, he made a gesture with his hand. "This girl has been condemned. Proceed with her execution!"

"No, please, no!"

He ignored her, stepped back; Jason came up again, pulled a rope. At the foot of the table, the curtains opened; he tugged harder and a strange device came rolling smoothly out along the rail over her head.

She stared up at it, her mouth wide open. It was a frame of heavy steel, a little over two feet long, mounted by two tackles, one at each end. To the base of it had been welded a series of nine slim and double-edged knife blades, all of different lengths, and all in line except for two at the front, arranged to form a T-shape. As Jason adjusted it, it became obvious that the longest blades were hanging over her stomach; the shortest were over her chest, though the two that formed the arms of the T, which were aimed down at her breasts, were longer than the center one. In methodical fashion, Jason adjusted the tackles, then let them go. Very slowly, inch by inch, the device began lowering itself, dropping down toward her naked and unprotected body.

She turned her head to the side. "No," she pleaded urgently. "No, no, stop it!"

"No one can stop it," the Patron told her. "It has been released. It cannot be stopped now." He stood close to her again, caressed her little breast, teased her nipple. Jason had backed off now; a few other men, friends and associates of the Patron's, gathered around her too. Ignoring her pleas for mercy, one of them played with her other breast while another stroked her trembling legs; one more teased her genitals lightly, and yet another held her head, bending down to kiss her forehead, her eyes. And the device kept slipping slowly on down.

"Ah," one of the men said, shaking his head. "Ah, there is nothing, nothing in all the world, more lovely than a girl for whom agony and death are but minutes away!" He ran his hands over her thighs, between her legs, then up over her belly. "This lovely body, now so healthy, so alive--in just minutes to be pierced through, destroyed. Ah, it becomes so precious when it does not last!" Bending his head down, he began kissing her belly, putting his own head right under one of the descending blades.

Soon they were all kissing her body, though they kept glancing up to ascertain the position of the device. By now the longest blade was perhaps eighteen inches away from her belly. She kept crying and she kept begging, and when the man holding her head tried to kiss her lips she kissed him back, as if hoping that might save her. But the device kept coming, a tiny bit at a time. And, as it came, Marianne kept begging for her life.

At last Ramona spoke up. "Father," she said quietly as she stood looking down at the bound girl, "stop this. This isn't right."

The Patron turned to glare at her. "She has been condemned!" he snapped. "Condemned to be a canvas for our art! There are no exceptions, Ramona!"

"She doesn't understand, or doesn't accept it." Ramona grinned crookedly. "Maybe the dosage of the Rohypnol was a little too low for her..."

The Patron's mouth twisted. "Be careful, Ramona. Even though you are my daughter, be careful. That is not to be mentioned here, that is one of our laws."

"Father, you know perfectly well I believe in what we do here," Ramona went on. "When it's done right, the way it was with Kay, with Teresa." Her face had a hard set. "But there are those girls who are brought here to be canvases who don't come to accept it, who don't want it. Some solution to that problem has to be found."

"This is the solution!" The old man's anger was obviously building.

"No." Ramona's dark eyes flashed. "No, this is murder! She doesn't accept it, she doesn't want it! Let her go!"

The Patron looked shocked. "Murder? Murder!? How dare you!"

Ramona folded her arms. "That's the only way I can view it. Let her go, Father. I won't stand for any more murders here!"

The old man closed his eyes for a long moment, then opened them and stared at her owlishly. "Ramona," he said slowly, his voice level, "I accuse you; I accuse you of being unfaithful to our cause, to our mission. I accuse you. You will present yourself at our court tomorrow at one o'clock to face these charges." There was a silence; not one person there failed to understand the meaning of this.

"And I'll be convicted," Ramona murmured. "Convicted. Sentenced to become canvas..." She nodded and, in spite of the situation and the argument, she smiled broadly. "I will be there, Father, you can count on it. But for now, let this girl go!"

"No!" He waved her off with a broad gesture. "No, this will proceed! You have just ended your own life, daughter, I have had no part of it!" Turning his back on her, he watched the apparatus, which was still descending toward Marianne's body.

And he was just in time; it had dropped far while they'd been arguing. Seconds after he turned back the tip of the longest blade touched Marianne's abdomen, just below her navel. She cried out pitifully even though the touch was light and delicate.

Stepping up near Marianne's head, almost knocking the other man out of the way, the Patron held her cheeks and looked down into her beautiful but tear-filled eyes. "Do not shrink from it!" he almost yelled at her. "Why don't you thrust your body up to meet it, why don't you welcome it?"

"You're crazy! I can't! Oh, please, oh God, ohhh...!"

The long blade pressed a valley into her belly, and another blade touched her skin a little higher up. The men surrounding her kept their hands on her but they all watched closely as the second created a valley and a third touched, down lower this time.

"Ah, God!" Marianne screamed. "Ah, God, it hurts, it hurts, oh, please please please don't, please stop it, please!"

Suddenly, her cries were interrupted by a little tearing sound; she gasped loudly, and blood appeared in the longest blade's valley. At first there was only a little, but the device moved down a bit more and it began filling up, quite rapidly.

The Patron looked down at her face. "It has begun," he told her. "You should--"

"You're killing me..." she murmured, her own voice hoarse.

"Yes. You are being executed. Die proudly, girl! Push yourself up, push yourself onto the blades!"

"I can't, I can't..."

"Then lie still and die," he said carelessly. "It does not matter. Die you will." Leaning over, he kissed her lips again; she neither turned her head nor kissed him back. He was kissing her tears away when another of the blades broke through; she went rigid, arching her body involuntarily, causing a third knife to pierce her abdomen as well.

"Ah, look at her blood!" the Patron cried, exhilaration in his voice. "Look, look here, look how cleanly the blades have pierced her flesh, look how they slip on in, so soft, so lovely! Ah, she is dying beautifully, is she not? This is true art, yes? Yes? Yes!"

No one answered him. While Marianne gasped and groaned, the blades sank gradually on into her; new points had made contact with the area of her solar plexus, her pubic region, and each of her breasts. The Patron and his companions watched closely as new valleys were pressed into her tight little breasts; the Patron began fingering her tiny nipple, which was right alongside the hard blade, and broke into another huge smile when blood suddenly broke free and welled up over his fingers. At almost exactly the same time the one imbedded in her pubic hair sank in, and fresh blood ran down over her genitals.

Her body was bouncing uncontrollably now, her chest striking the last amd shortest blade, which was arranged to pass into her just to the left of her breastbone. Several of the knives were now very deeply imbedded in her body, and the table was covered with her blood.

"Please," he whimpered, her voice almost inaudible. "Please, I'm dying, please don't---"

The Patron kissed her again; she opened her eyes wide and looked at him. "You are very near death, girl," he said. "In just seconds now the final blade will enter your heart and steal away what remains of your life. Welcome it! Welcome it! These are your last seconds of life, enjoy the beautiful torment of your death!"

"Don't let go of me," she begged now. "Don't let go, I'm so scared, so scared...!"

At once, he took his hands from her body--and he commanded the others to do the same. With evident reluctance, they obeyed. "Welcome your death," the Patron ordered harshy.

Her tears were now dry. "I do," she said, and she feebly pushed up against the blades.

The Patron roared his approval; he grabbed her cheeks and kissed her bloody lips passionately as the final blade pressed down hard on her chest.

It broke through; she screamed in spite of her injuries. "Ahhhh!" she howled. "Ah, God! God! Ah, the pain, the pain, it's killing me, killing--"

A great mass of blood erupted around the last blade, cutting her words off. Her body shook violently; her eyes were wide open, staring, as the sharp steel slipped on into her chest. There was a rattling sound from her throat; the Patron kissed her once more. When he raised his head her eyes had glazed and her breathing had ceased.

He turned to see Ramona glaring at him. "This one," she commented, "wasn't a work of art, it was a crude embarrassment. You've humiliated yourself before us all, Father."

The old man wouldn't meet her eyes. "I'll see you," he said coldly, "tomorrow at one. In court."

Even though she was his own daughter, the Patron was implacable; once Ramona had been accused she had to be brought to trial, and, once she'd been convicted and sentenced, there was nothing that could prevent her execution. Ramona herself seemed to understand this perfectly well, and she seemed determined to make the best of her situation, to make her death an event--to, like Anne Boleyn, take "pleasure and joy" in it. To this end she made a number of demands on her father, and to most of which he'd yielded--and the first of these was that she be allowed to interview his executioners and to choose, herself, the one that would put her to death.

The Patron had not insisted that she be thrown into the dungeon to await execution. Instead, she remained in her room--though under guard--and it was to that room that the interviewees proceeded.

Jason was the third of these. Ramona had dismissed the first two after brief conversations, and, having talked to them, he did not really expect much of anything else for himself. When he knocked, she opened the door and greeted him cordially. At her invitation he seated himself, and he watched her as she sat down in a facing chair. Ramona was eighteen and classically beautiful, dark-eyed with a face often called "piquant;" her straight black hair cascaded almost to her waist. Her body was slender, her legs long and perfect; she was conducting the interview while dressed in a short red robe that revealed almost the full length of them. In businesslike fashion, she studied him for a moment before donning a pair of glasses and picking up a notepad.

"Have you read," she asked him, "the Patron's order?"

He nodded. "Yes, Ramona, I have. I'm sorry, I know you--"

She smiled. "There's no reason for you to be sorry, Jason," she told him. "You did not bring charges against me, you did not testify against me, you did not convict me and you did not order my execution." Her face took on a serious set. "What I'm asking you is, how do you read the order? That is, what would you do if you were called upon to carry it out?"

He hesitated. "Uhm--you mean, ah, specifically?"

Her smile returned. "Yes. Very specifically, Jason. As you know, my father has given me permission to choose my executioner; what I want to know is this: if I should choose you, how would you do it, how would you carry it out?" He watched her eyes closely; he seemed hesitant, as if unsure of what to say. Noting his obvious discomfort, she laughed. "Perhaps I should ask you this question first, Jason: would you like to be my executioner? You are not required to be, I can certainly select someone else..."

This time he didn't hesitate. "Given," he said carefully, "that there is to be no reprieve for you, given that you will die on the scaffold next Sunday--then yes, I would like to do it. Very much. If that makes me unsuitable..."

"It doesn't." She leaned forward a little. "Now--don't be shy, don't hold back--tell me what you'd do, if it fell to you to do it."

He shrugged. "This is not to be one of the Patron's 'works of art,' not particularly. No torture is called for, the order merely states that your head is to be severed. That's it. How I do it, that's up to me--well, it would be up to me if it were anyone besides you. In that case I would have to consider which way would be best for you."

She swept her thick hair back and tipped her head, exposing the side of her neck. "Come here, Jason," she instructed. "Consider it now. Study my neck; take your time, be thorough. Then tell me your recommendations."

He stood up, stepped toward her; leaning down, he inspected her neck. Delicately, he ran his fingertips down it from her ear to her collarbone. She didn't move; he stood in front of her, tipped her chin up, put his hands around her throat. Then, reaching around, he let a fingertip graze down over her spine. His touches were light and sensual. "You have a beautiful, delicate neck," he observed, his fingers running the lines of her jaw. "Long and slender; smooth."

"Thank you," she murmured. "What would you use if it fell to you to cut through it?"

"There're only three possibilities," he said, teasing up under her ears. "Your neck is too fine for an axe, and we seldom use an axe in any event. A sword is possible, but it would have to be a fine slender sword with a very keen edge. A good knife could be used as well, but on this neck I'd prefer to use a razor, an extremely sharp razor that would cut very finely. I don't think you'd want that, though; it'd take some time for you to die if I did it that way."

"Mmmm. Yes, I see. Where would you start, Jason? My throat?"

"Not if it's my choice," he said promptly. "From the back, so that death comes when the vertebrae are severed."

She looked around at him. "Have you done any that way before?"

"Yes."

"You have? Here? I haven't seen it. Haven't seen the tape, either."

"No, you wouldn't've." He hesitated. "Your father keeps a--private stock. There have been a few executions done here that were done privately--private shows for your father, as it were. Those tapes he keeps to himself." He paused again. "I think I've been the one to do all those..."

Ramona pursed her lips. "I see. Actually, I suspected as much." She crossed her legs. "Tell me about that method, Jason. Tell me what happens--what to expect if I should choose it for myself. Tell me about this other one you did that way."

He kept stroking her neck. "Well, her name was Gina. She was very young; sixteen, I think. A tiny girl, very delicately built. Her father is one of the Patron's friends, and he brought her here to be executed himself, gave her to the Patron as a gift. The Patron decided her execution should be a private affair, that it should be conducted in a closed room; no one was there except for me, Gina, the Patron, Gina's father and a girl to service him while his daughter was being killed. Ever since she arrived she'd been screaming and crying and fighting; the Patron and the professor talked to her constantly, explaining their ideas and telling her that it was absolutely inevitable, that she was only making things worse, that she might as well give it up. I was there during a lot of these conversations; he kept trying to get her to agree to it, to give her permission."

"That's good," Ramona smiled. "Did she?"

He nodded. "Yes, she did--finally, a day or two before the execution, and she gave permission to me, not to them. Anyway, the Patron had her dressed up in a bridal gown, and she came walking down the hallway to the execution chamber all alone, a bunch of flowers in her hands. She met her father at the door, and he gave her away, just like it was a wedding--to me."

"This," Ramona observed, "sounds rather nice..."

Jason grinned. "Actually, it was. She stood beside me and the Patron conducted a sort of a weird wedding, except that at the end he pronounced us victim and executioner. You should've seen it, the Patron asking this little girl if she took me as her lawful executioner and she answering, in this tiny voice, 'yes, I do.'"

"And, knowing daddy, I take it he'd set up a wedding night."

"Absolutely. We had a bed--more like a pallet, really--set up in the execution chamber. I held out my hand to her; I didn't know if she'd resist now that we were coming to the moment of truth, but she didn't, she took it and she walked with me to the pallet. I took off all her clothes, one piece at a time, real slow; when she was naked I tied her to the pallet, spread-eagled, and she helped me do it, too--she held the ankle bonds while I tied them off.

"Then I kissed her and--uhm--touched her, all over, caressed her, for a while. Finally, though, it was time to get down to business; I took these little triangular blades, and, making like I was about to kiss her breasts, I pierced each one of them, real deep. There were tears in her eyes and she squirmed a little, but she was brave enough, she didn't yell."

"And you pierced her gut somehow, too, I'll bet."

"Yeah, well--that's one of the things the Patron really likes, right? You're right, I did. I took a steel rod with a razor tip and I punched it in right where her leg met her torso; I ran it in deep and I drove it all the way through her so it came out her side. She cried and grunted and moaned but she didn't scream even when I did that."

"And then you beheaded her."

"Yeah." He pushed Ramona's hair aside. "I used a razor, and I started with a light cut, right across here." Using his nail, he drew a line across her neck, just under the base of her skull. "She just sighed when I did that, but I cut her again, deeper, cutting into these muscles here," he went on, massaging the muscles on either side of Ramona's spine. "Once they were cut, she couldn't hold her head up anymore. There was a good deal of bleeding but not half as much as there would've been if I'd gone in through her throat or at the side of her neck."

"Did she--seem to be in a lot of pain?"

He shrugged again. "No--not compared to the way some of the girls act out there on the scaffold," he told her. "There was some. She cried, she moaned." Again, he ran his fingertip lightly down over the bones of her neck. "It got bad after that, though, for her. What I did was to separate two of these bones, right here, with the edge of the blade; once that was done I was cutting into her spinal cord. If I'd done it fast, it would've been pretty much like using an axe or a sword swing."

"But you didn't. You did it slow."

"Well, slow is, well, real exciting for the people watching. Nobody can say, of course, but when that's done to a woman she--well, she acts like she's coming. You know, like, from sex. Her, uh, uh..."

She glanced back at him again. "Speak plainly, Jason," she chided. "You needn't be embarrassed about speaking plainly to me--after all, if I choose you, you're going to be the one to kill me. You can't get any more personal than that!"

He looked down at the floor. "Well, her nipples get erect," he went on. "And her, uhm, her cunt--it, well, it ripples. Squeezes in, works around. Wriggles."

She laughed; musically, freely. "That does sounds interesting," she admitted. "Tell me, Jason. When Gina's cunt was 'wriggling around'--did you have your cock in it?"

"Uh--yeah--"

She laughed, turned in her chair, looked at him speculatively for a moment, then stood up. With a quick movement she undid her robe and pushed it back over her shoulders, dropping it to the floor and leaving herself totally naked. One knee cocked, she posed for him.

Jason looked her up and down boldly. "You're very beautiful," he said softly.

She tipped her head. "Thank you, sir," she acknowledged with a soft smile. She ran her hands down the length of her body, starting at her breasts and not stopping until she reached her knees. "I want you to suggest," she told him, "some other things that could be done to me before you behead me."

"Uh--other things? I'm not sure I understand--"

"My father," she went on, "and his friends, enjoy seeing young women tortured. They consider it an art form." She studied his face for a moment; he was nodding, she was stating things he knew perfectly well. "As you probably already know, Jason, I agree with them. It is art, art of the highest order. And you, Jason, enjoy torturing; else you would not have accepted the position you have, you would not be one of my father's artists." She smiled again, rather darkly. "I am to die; I've accepted that much. I want my death to be memorable, entertaining, exciting. A work of truly exquisite art. For me, for you, for my father. For everyone watching. For the camera, for posterity."

"The order," he reminded her, "does not call for torture. You don't have to put yourself through this, Ramona."

Her eyes widened; she took a step closer to him and pushed her chest up as if offering herself. Taking his hand, she laid it on her breast. "I, myself, am ordering torture... I am canvas. If you are the one I choose, you will make a masterpiece with me."

His gaze moved from one of her eyes to the other. "You know what you're saying, Ramona... what you're planning for yourself..."

She met his stare squarely. "Yes, I do. I guess it doesn't need saying, but you only get one chance to die, you only get one death. I don't really want to die just yet, but I know my father; he won't relent. Unless some miracle happens I will die, just as he's ordered, in three days." She shook her head. "My death--it's not that I want terrible pain, Jason. What I want is for it to be memorable. Spectacular, exciting, and most of all, artistic, beautiful. It doesn't matter to me how much pain is involved, not really. You don't have to understand, Jason; all you have to do is help me figure out how to do it!" She pressed his hand against her breast; her nipple hardened under his palm. "Examine me, Jason," she instructed. "Examine every inch of my body. Tell me what you'd do to me--if it was up to you, and you wanted my death to be memorable... if you wanted it to be beautiful, to be exciting..."

"You take your clothes off," he muttered, "and it's exciting!"

Lightly she stroked the erection that was already beginning to strain the front of his pants. "Undress, Jason," she whispered. "Undress; you can have me, right now, any way you want me. As long as you help me plan what's to be done to me!"

She didn't need to ask twice; he began stripping off his clothing. His first action was to go over her breasts carefully, with his fingers and with his tongue, telling her his plans. Playing with his erection, she moaned, sighed, nodded; they spent most of the next two hours in lovemaking, interspersed with suggestions, recommedations, modifications, discussions.

"You never told me," she asked finally, "about the end of Gina. Her death."

He shrugged. "Not much more to tell. I held her real tightly, and I fucked her, and I slowly, slowly, cut her head off. She was in pain then, that's for sure. She was screaming and clutching at me until I got her spine severed."

"It still sounds nice to me," she insisted. "But for now, you have to go, I have other interviews. It wouldn't be fair of me not to keep them." He looked disappointed, concerned; smiling, she laid a hand on his cheek. "I don't think you have to worry," she told him. "You're going to be the one, I'm almost sure of that--I really like your ideas! I just have to be sure, I have to see them all."

He watched her eyes. "You plan to fuck them all?" he asked. His tone was not judgemental.

She nodded. "All that are interested. And all that aren't, I'm not interested in them."

He grinned as he started getting dressed. "You'll find them all interested. Who's up next?"

"Ed Jackson." Hopping off the bed, she gave him a playful shove. "Go! I have to shower, and I'm expecting him in half an hour!"

He finished dressing, he left; barely twenty-four hours later he received a message from her. It said:

"Dear Jason: Having made my decision, I would appreciate it if you would be so kind as to meet me at my father's place of execution at noon on July 19, and, having met me, if you would render me a service by severing my head and thus ending my life, in a manner such as we have discussed. In addition, I would like to meet with you each evening in my room at 7:00 PM, so that we can discuss these matters in more detail. Best, Ramona."

He glanced at the clock; it was then 6:30. Grinning, he tossed the note aside and went to see her.

When the day and hour of Ramona's execution arrived, no one other than Jason knew anything of her plans, not even her father. With merely a warning that she would be fetched if she did not appear, she was allowed to make her own way to the scaffold; but that was not necessary. Ten minutes before her execution was to begin she emerged from the house and made her way, alone, across the grounds to the scaffold, which had been fitted, according to her instructions, with two vertical posts set some four feet apart. She was dressed in a strapless black gown, slit to her hip on one side; her legs were bare, but high heels graced her feet. Her hair was carefully done, bound into a long queue with bright ribbons, and she'd skillfully applied her makeup; she was wearing diamond earrings, a heavy choker around her neck, bracelets on both arms. With a smile on her lips she mounted the steps and stood looking at the Patron and his associates. She did not even glance at Jason, who stood barefoot and bare-chested, his arms folded, waiting for her at one edge of the scaffold. At his feet sat a small case, closed and latched.

"I am here, father," Ramona said in a clear voice. "You do not need to order my execution; I will do it myself. I am ready to die, I am willing to die. Here. Today. Now."

"You have courage, daughter," the Patron remarked sternly. "At least your words sound courageous!" He pointed a finger at her. "I will say only this: when these proceedings end, I must see that platform splattered with your blood; I must see your head separated from your body!"

"And you will," she answered with an engaging smile. "But you will see much more than that, father! Much more than that!" Turning toward Jason at last, she motioned to him; with a nod, he reached down under the edge of the stage and turned on the portable stereo he'd placed there. A strong rhythm burst out.

Immediately, Ramona began to dance; very gracefully, very skillfully. As her dance went on, she turned it into a strip-tease, gradually removing each item of her clothing until she was completely naked. Once she'd disposed of her panties--the last item of clothes she had remaining--she again gestured toward Jason. Reaching into his case, he removed a small knife; the blade was about three inches long but nowhere more than a half-inch wide. Holding it up, he showed it to her. She smiled and danced away, with closed eyes, to the opposite edge of the stage; once there, she opened her eyes and gazed back at him. Slowly, with measured steps, he approached her; with a piquant smile on her face, she waited for him.

When he reached her, he offered the knife to her face, the blade horizontal; she took it between her teeth and held it there like a Flamenco dancer might hold a rose. Raising her arms, she folded her hands atop her head; Jason began caressing her body, starting at her shoulders and running his hands all over her, giving considerable time to her breasts, her thighs, and her groin. After a while, he took the knife back, she opening her mouth to let him have it; he then traced the tip over her body, following the path he'd established with his hands. Gently, he pricked each of her tautly-erect nipples, though not hard enough to draw any blood; then he allowed the knife to glide down the centerline of her body, all the way down to her vagina and then back up her lower abdomen. She was almost writhing at his touch, her breath was coming in raw gulps; smiling, Jason moved the knife on up until the point nestled into her navel.

"It's time," he said softly as he laid a hand on her shoulder.

"Yes," she answered. "Yes, yes, it is..."

Very gently, studiously, he applied pressure to the knife; Ramona drew her breath in sharply and threw her head back. He increased the pressure; a little trickle of blood appeared. Gasping again, she lifted one of her legs. Her skin now breached, the blade slipped in quite easily; she accepted it in near-silence, broken only by a few more sudden intakes of breath. When it was buried, Jason let go of it; finally taking her hands off her head she brought them down, laying her palms flat against her body on either side of the bleeding wound. He took a step back; Ramona, trembling a little, posed for the Patron proudly, showing him the buried blade, the flowing blood.

After several long minutes she turned back to Jason, who had by then removed another knife, identical to the first, from his case. "It's good," she told him, managing a weak smile. "It's good. Does it look good?"

"It looks beautiful..."

"Good. Let's go on, then!" She put her hands on her hips; Jason, the knife in his hand, stepped up beside her. As before, he offered this new knife to her mouth; as before, she held it between her teeth while he sensually caressed her body. Also as before, he took the knife back after a while, caressed her with its point; this time it came to rest on her right nipple, right in the center of it. He didn't hold her; he merely laid his hand on her breast. After kissing her cheek, he began pushing it in.

"Oh, yes, do it, Jason," she begged, loudly enough for her father to hear. "Do it slow, ah...!"

He pressed on; her breast indented deeply at first, but the sharp steel broke through fairly quickly. Ramona pressed her head back against his as he forced the blade on through the softness of her breast, rocking it from side to side a little as it went.

"Oh God yes, Jason," she hissed as it slipped on into her. "Oh, yes, yes, get it on in, deeper, deeper, oh God it's so hot, so hot, oh Jason, do it do it do it..."

"You're wonderful," he whispered as the blood spilled down over her breast. Pressing on, he worked in the last inch of the blade and released it, leaving it standing in place. "You doing all right?" he asked, keeping his voice soft.

"Yes. God, it hurts, Jason! But I'm okay, I'm not about to pass out or anything. Let's go on, just like we planned it!"

He did as she said; following the same procedure, he pierced her left breast, sank a knife in just above her pubic hair, and buried one under her ribs on the left.

"I can't do anymore, Jason," she moaned as he pressed that last one home. She leaned against him. "I'm losing my strength, I can't stand up anymore, I'm going to fall."

"You're doing really well," he whispered. Taking her hand, he led her to one of the scaffold posts; she was staggering and wincing, but she managed to cover the distance, managed to lean up against the post. With a piece of cord from his case he tied her wrists tightly together, then tied them to a metal ring high on the post. He left her dangling, the five knives still standing in her body. From his case, he took a straight razor. Taking his time, he sharpened it, tested the edge, worked it again.

Then he turned back to Ramona. "I hate to do this..."

"Don't--I want you to! Do it, Jason! Kill me!" She sighed; she even smiled. "Kill me now, Jason," she murmured. "Kill me slowly--kill me sensually...!"

He kissed her; while their lips were pressed together he wound up a handful of her hair and laid the edge of the razor across the back of her neck, just above the necklace. Then he started moving it, slowly, in a gentle back-and-forth sawing motion. More blood appeared, again a trickle at first and soon a steady stream, washing down her back; she trembled violently as the blade sank deeper and deeper.

At last, the edge struck bone. She jerked violently; he kept on, slipping the blade down in between two of the vertebrae.

Breaking the kiss, he looked into her eyes. "Here we go, Ramona," he told her.

"Remember," she mumbled. "Slow. Don't worry about hurting me, even if I scream. Make it good, and make sure daddy can see!"

He nodded, and he forced the blade in a little more, contacting her spinal cord at last. Her eyes flew wide open, her whole body went stiff.

"Oh God," she breathed. "Oh Jason... oh god oh...!"

He kissed her again, then cut her again, a bit deeper. "Hang in there," he advised. "Just for a little while... it's as beautiful as you hoped it'd be..."

She didn't answer; her body started quivering in rippling waves, her legs shaking violently. Very slowly and delicately, Jason cut a little more; her nipples, in spite of the knives piercing them, stood out so hard they looked as if they might explode. Her belly was surging like ocean waves, bouncing the knives piercing it. She stiffened repeatedly, as if she was having orgasm after orgasm. The moment went on and on as Jason very gradually severed her spinal cord.

Then, rather suddenly, her legs relaxed, the bouncing of her belly ceased; her trembling turned into twitches. Jason, knowing she was near death, pulled her head up harder and made another cut into her neck, long, quick, and deep this time. Her body jerked wildly as more blood exploded, squirting out. Moving quickly now, he sliced on through her neck. Geysers of blood appeared as the arteries and veins were separated, splattering Jason's face; ignoring it, he went on, separating her head from her body. While her eyes glazed and blood sprayed he held her head in place, a little above the stump of her neck, and carefully removed the necklace, passing it between her head and neck. Turning, he presented both her severed head and the necklace to the Patron. With tears in his eyes, the old man nodded his approval.

As Ramona was being executed, Julianna Fairchild sat, naked and terrified, in the cell that Teresa had once occupied. She'd not had the benefit of a Kay or a Teresa to talk to; in the days since her kidnapping in Los Angeles she'd sat listening to Marianne's pitiful weeping and begging. The professor had not been to see her, she'd gotten no lectures, she'd gotten no explanation about why she was here, why she'd undergone a farce of a trial--she'd been convicted of smoking a cigarette in a no-smoking area, and in fact she'd never smoked in her life--or about what was going to happen to her here. Ignored in the turmoil surrounding the accusation, trial, and execution of the Patron's daughter, she could only wait. Standing by the small window that allowed a bit of daylight into her lonely cell, she watched the day slip by.

It had just grown dark when her isolation was interrupted. Hearing footsteps outside her cell, she looked around to see the Patron standing and staring at her. He was wearing a crooked smile, a very odd smile; she shrank from him. In general, Julianna looked similar to Teresa and Marianne; she was small and slender, small-breasted, with long light brown hair tied back in a ponytail and blue eyes set in a broad innocent face. Normally she had a quick and charming smile--but not now.

"My daughter," the Patron said, "is dead. My only child. But she died beautifully, beautifully. The best canvas, she was the finest canvas we ever had. A masterpiece." He unlocked the door and stepped into her cell; not knowing what to say to him or what he intended--and having no idea what he meant by a "canvas"--she shrank back even more, pressing herself against the wall.

Without bothering to close the door, the old man began pacing back and forth across in front of it. "All these years, I've been the Patron," he muttered. "All these years. Never have I created art myself, all I've done is make it possible for masters like Jason to create their masterpieces." Turning to her, he spread his hands. "Is that fair? I ask you, is that fair?"

"I don't know," she answered tremulously, "what you mean... you mean paintings?" She nodded, convincing herself. "Of course--yes, yes, you should paint, I expect you'd be very good..."

"Don't patronize me," he snarled. Then he giggled almost childishly. "I'm the Patron, don't patronize me..."

"I didn't mean to," she almost whispered. "What do you want from me?"

He grinned. "I want you to be my canvas. I want to create a masterpiece..."

Frowning slightly, she cocked her head. "I don't understand... do you want to paint me? Paint on my skin, like body paint? Is that what you mean?"

He giggled again. "In a way."

Her expression clearly suggested the idea wasn't appealing to her. "If I let you," she asked slowly, "will you let me go?"

"Yes," he replied, nodding vigorously. "If you become my canvas you will be free..."

She hesitated, considering the idea; there were, she told herself, much worse things that could happen to her here. "Okay," she agreed finally. "Okay, I'll be your canvas, you can paint me. Then you'll let me go, right?"

He nodded again. "Then you'll be free."

"Okay. When?"

"Right now! Come with me, Julianna!" He extended a hand. She took it, and he led her from the cell, up the stairs and into the sitting room.

"Get up on the table," he commanded.

"On the table?"

"Yes. Lie on your back."

She did as he asked and he disappeared from her view for a moment; when he returned he was carry four short chains with shackles at either end.

She sat up quickly. "What're those for?"

"Lie down!" he commanded. "These are for your wrists and ankles, I need to--"

"No, no, no way!" she argued. "Get your paints, I'll lie still for you! I don't want you using those on me!"

"The choice," he growled, "is not yours. Now lie down!"

She stared at him for a moment--then abruptly jumped off the table and ran for the door. He did not try to pursue her; he merely watched, knowing she'd find it locked. After jerking futily on the handle for several seconds, she turned to face him.

"Let me out of here!" she demanded. "Let me out, you have no right!"

"I," he said archly, "have all the rights here, my dear. As you will soon see." Grinning at her, he laid the chains down on the table and walked to one of the weapons displayed on the wall, an English longbow and several arrows with small but savage-looking bladed tips. He took it down, strung the bow with practiced hands, and slipped one of the arrows onto the string.

"Ohmigod, no," she whispered. "No, please, no!"

"It was," he said as he drew the bowstring, "your choice to try to run." He took careful aim. "This is the consequence of that choice, my dear."

With a sudden shriek of terror, she ran again, across the room this time, toward the windows. The Patron loosed the arrow and it missed her, thudding hard into the hardwood trim at the back of the room. Calmly, while she looked out the windows to see if there was anyone around who might help her, the Patron nocked another to his string. She turned to see him drawing it and ran again, back the way she'd come; he fired, but missed again. Julianna screamed as it flew by. With a laugh he readied a third arrow.

"You might as well stand still," he advised as she darted about looking for some way out. "There is no escape."

She pounded the table with a fist. "But why?" she shrieked. "Why're you trying to kill me?"

He didn't answer; he drew the bow and aimed the arrow at the center of her chest. Realizing that she was standing still, her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open. She suddenly wheeled around and bolted to her left, just as the old man released the arrow.

This time he did not miss. The arrow struck her right side, just behind the swelling of her breast, and, passing between her ribs, it sank deeply into her body.

Grabbing at the arrow with one hand, she slowed and stopped. Bracing herself with her other hand on the table, she looked down at it. The arrowhead wasn't visible; blood drained from around the shaft, running steadily down her side.

"Oh, my god," she whispered. "Oh god, you shot me, you really shot me..."

'Yes," the Patron murmured. "And it looks very beautiful, too." With the bow in one hand and three more arrows in the other, he walked around the table toward her.

Total confusion mixed with pain and fear showing in her expression, she watched him come. "Please," she begged, moving away but moving slowly and somewhat clumsily. "Please, please don't hurt me any more..."

'This," the Patron explained patiently, "can be easy for both us, or very hard for you. I am going to hurt you again, my dear. I am going to hurt you again and I will continue to hurt you, and in the room, before another hour has passed, you will die. You must accept that; you must stop begging and demanding to be spared. You will not be; there is no escape for you. Die proudly, girl! As my daugher did!"

Julianna started to cry. "But why? Why're you doing this, what have I ever done to you?"

"Nothing at all." He nocked another arrow. "Stand up straight, girl! Face me, receive this arrow with pride and courage!"

She did pull herself up straight. "No, please," she pleaded, holding onto the arrow already standing in her side. "Please don't..."

Her words fell on deaf ears. The old man freed the arrow, and it flashed forward to bury itself, with a solid thud!, in her abdomen, just to the left of her navel. She grunted loudly and stared down at the second arrow in amazement. Then, her hand clutching uselessly at the edge of the table, she sank down to the floor. Laying the remaining two arrows and the bow on the table, he went to her, picked her up, and laid her slight body in the center of the table. She kicked weakly, knocking the chains to the floor. The Patron shook his head, smiled, and bent over to pick them up; as he did she lifted her head and saw the bow and the two arrows lying by her side. Keeping her eyes on the Patron, she wrapped her hand around one arrow, back near the feathers, and held it firmly. As he stood up, he did not notice; he simply proceeded to snap manacles around her ankles and anchor the other ends to rings fitted into the sides of the table. Finally, he reached for her arms, intent on securing her wrists.

When he did, she sat up suddenly. Before he could react, she'd used both hands and all her strength to drive the arrow into his chest. It didn't go in very far, but it slipped between two of his ribs and entered his lung.

Weakly, Julianna fell back on to the table and lay there, gasping for breath and bleeding profusely from the arrows piercing her. The old man stood paralyzed, looking down at the arrow and at the red stain spreading down his shirt, evidently unable to believe what she'd done.

At last he looked back at her face. "Is this," he asked her, "art? Is it? The death of a shriveled old man isn't art, my dear!" He sighed. "And yet that is what you've created here, isn't it?" Moving very slowly and uncertainly, he went on to shackle her wrists; she lacked the strength to effecively fight him. "And now," he told her, "I do not know if I shall be able to go on. My masterpiece may remain unfinished..."

She coughed blood. "I don't understand," she murmured. "I don't, I don't..."

"We believe," he informed her as he opened a drawer in the specially-designed table, "that the suffering and death of a lovely young woman is a thing a beauty, and that producing it properly is an artform." From the drawer he took a shiny-bladed knife "This we would have taught you, but circumstances intervened. My daughter, my daughter whom I loved, just became canvas and now she is no more--but the art that was made from her death with be immortal, immortal... she died so beautifully, so courageously..."

"That's crazy," Julianna whispered, staring at the knife. "This is all so crazy..."

"I don't agree." Supporting himself with his left hand, he held the knife over her midsection. "I wish you could see it through my eyes, my dear. How wonderful you look, lying here shackled, two arrows in your body. Dying, yes... dying slowly, bleeding to death..."

Her eyes flashed from the knife to his face. "Please," she asked, "please, before you do anything more to me, help me, help me understand..." She bit her lip. "Tell me about your daughter..."

He lowered the knife to the table. "Ah, Ramona," he said. "Ramona. She was just a bit older than you, just a bit... a lovely girl, my pride..." Rambling, unsteady, he went on, explaining about Marianne and about Ramona's protests, and then telling her how Ramona had been convicted and, with numerous superlatives, about how she'd died. Julianna, though weak, kept asking questions, kept the old man talking.

And, just after he'd finished explaining about Ramona's death--just as he tried to pick up the knife again--he suddenly went limp and crumpled to the floor beside the table. Julianna, exhausted from the toll the arrows had taken on her and from her efforts to keep the Patron occupied, lost consciousness.

When she awoke, she could not at first orient herself. Her pain was by now extreme; it took several long seconds for her to work her eyes open and inspect her surroundings. Once she did, she saw a young man standing looking down at her. He was cleaning her face with a soft damp cloth.

"I'm Jason," he told her. She tried to answer but he touched her lips with a fingertip. "No, don't try to speak. You're badly hurt. I'm here to help you."

"The old man..." she croaked, looking toward the spot where she'd last seen him. "Tried to kill me..."

"The Patron," Jason informed her, "is dead. This place is finished. Most of the people who were here with him have fled already. I'm the last one here."

"Need... doctor..." she croaked. "Hospital..."

"Yes, I know," he said soothingly. "I will help you, Julianna." He finished wiping her face, then offered her a drink of water from a small cup. Discovering that she was terribly thirsty, she gulped it rapidly. As she did, he unhooked the shackles from her wrists--but not from her ankles. "We don't need these," he said, more to himself than to her.

"More water," she croaked. "Please, I--"

He took the cup from her but set it aside. "Here," he told her. "Put your arms around my neck."

With an effort, she did as he said; he then seemed to hesitate, his face very close to hers.

And she felt a sudden heavy pain in her lower belly.

She looked down; the dagger the old man had been threatening her with was in his hand, and the blade was buried in her body, just above her pubic mound. With amazement, she looked back up at his face.

"I thought... you were going to help me...?" she choked out. Smiling, he dragged the knife upward, slitting her belly as far as her navel and drawing a long "uhhh" from her.

"I am," he replied. The knife moved on, opening her up all the way to the base of her sternum. Blood streamed out all over the table; Julianna could no longer speak, and her body started to jerk and twitch without coordination. "You weren't going to survive those arrows anyway, sweetheart," he said. He stabbed her through her left breast, deeply; blood geysered up. "I wouldn't want to leave you here to suffer. Besides, I told you I was the last to leave. It always is the responsibility of the last one to leave to put out the lights..."