Stephanie was not pleased. Not at all pleased. At the very least, she told herself, she should be given some respect as Jackson's administrative assistant, which was, after all, her formal title. Earlier that evening, at about eight o'clock, she'd made the mistake of answering her phone. It had, of course, been Jackson--and he'd insisted she come to the office immediately, although he'd refused to tell her why.

And yet, it was not really possible for her to say no to him--especially after the turn events had taken in the past few weeks. After the fight, and the unusual thumbs-up for Mindy, she had indeed been late meeting Jackson at the limo. There was no way he could have missed, however, what she'd been doing. She'd expected him to be angry, to forbid her ever going back to the dressing rooms again during the fights, but to her surprise he seemed a little confused by the whole thing. That she would "make a fool of herself like that," he'd told her just after they'd gotten into the car, he couldn't understand; she had explained patiently that Mindy was her friend, but she was aware as she was explaining it that the whole concept of sticking one's neck out for a friend was an alien one for Jackson. To distract him, she'd stripped naked in the limo even before he told her to, and when he started complaining about being prevented from seeing Mindy die--he himself, he assured her, had given Mindy a persistent thumbs-down--she'd changed the subject by asking him to tell her about Jenna's death, which she honestly said she had not seen. He started waxing eloquent about it, telling her how Jenna had practically crippled her male opponent before he'd brought her down with a sword stroke across the small of her back, a stroke that had evidently broken or cut her spine and had left her legs paralyzed. Her opponent had himself lost so much blood in the hard fight that he passed out before the screen had shown him a thumbs-down. One of the harlequin Finishers had been sent out. At this point--knowing she'd won the moment, at least--Stephanie had leaned over and slipped his hardening cock from his pants. She sucked him slowly while he told her about the way the Finisher had danced around Jenna's helpless body, piercing her body repeatedly with a small-headed lance, until finally, having spilled too much of her blood on the sand, she'd surrendered and died.

The next day brought new developments, just as unexpected. She'd received a call from a TV station; one of the late-night talk shows was having Mindy on as a guest--a thumbs-up in the arena was a rare thing and newsworthy--and they wanted Stephanie to appear as well. This, even as Stephanie saw it, was reasonable; no one had ever done what she'd done before. Jackson was amazed by this, but he gave his okay. The appearance itself was, to Stephanie, an anticlimax. After that, she was asked for a few interviews by the news media--several wanted to do photo spreads on her, but this Jackson did not approve, saying that the spreads--nude, naturally, since Stephanie was a Class-A--would not be appropriate for a Justice department employee.

In the weeks that followed, Stephanie saw Mindy frequently and often went to the Gladiator's club off New York Avenue, where she was the only regular who was not a gladiator or a trainer. For the time being, Mindy was safe; having gotten a thumbs-up in a final, she did not have to fight again for a period of six months, and when she did return to the arena she'd be placed back in nonlethal prelims, at least until and if she won out of them again. Her younger sister Fran, however, had won for the first time in the prelims, and Mindy was spending quite a bit of time trying to make sure that she understood that it wasn't in her best interests to win another very soon. There was, as Mindy later explained it to Stephanie, a sort of a euphoria that set in after one won a prelim match; it often seemed like the end of the road, retirement, was in sight, and the very real horrors of the finals--the possibility or even likelihood of being killed and the specter of having to kill a friend--seemed to slip into the background. Stephanie found Mindy's concerns about the somewhat headstrong young girl perfectly reasonable, especially since her predictions about the final match--her loss, through blind chance, to Raoul and her sense that Stephanie would play an important role in her life--had certainly come true.

Now, sitting in Jackson's office, she tried to focus on the pleasures of having friends--something that, other than her on-line friends at #injustice, she had not had over the last few years--and not on what the evening was to bring. She'd arrived to find that Jackson had a guest in his office, IRS director Mitchell Ashe. She suppressed a sigh when she first came in; it wasn't the first time Jackson and Ashe had met at one of their offices to watch some special episode of "Slaughterhouse," and, although the TV was not yet turned on, she was sure enough that this was the case. This was of course the evening edition of the show; the format was totally different from the talk-show model of the matinees Stephanie often watched with Jackson. In these, a "storyline" was built for the victim's death, and the whole thing was dramatized, in costume if necessary--although as a rule the victims were still executed nude, as they were in the matinees.

Stephanie was to be the local live entertainment. For both of them. Worse yet, there was a third man there, a younger man Stephanie had never seen before; he was introduced to her as Tim Mellon, a sort of a protege of Ashe's. Which, Stephanie thought sourly, meant she was going to have to have sex with all three of them. Not at all her idea of a good evening.

Although exactly what the evening was to entail was not known to Jackson, either. He was talking with Ashe as Stephanie arrived, and he was asking what was so special about tonight's episode.

"There was a young woman," Ashe began after Stephanie and Mellon had been introduced, "until recently, working in our office. Her name was--is, I mean--Tracy Leightner. She is a very good-looking young woman, a perfect Class-A. She worked very closely with Dave, here."

"And?"

"And, she and Dave were dating," Ashe went on. "Isn't that right, Dave?"

The young man--who had, Stephanie noticed, very hard eyes--nodded. "That's right, Mr. Ashe."

Jackson grinned. "Let me guess. She got busted for something, and now she's going to be on 'Slaughterhouse.'"

Ashe nodded. "Yes, she is. She was caught with drugs. Stupid; she knew perfectly well what happens to drug users these days." He made a mock mournful face, even putting his hands on his cheeks and drawing them down a little; it made him look, Stephanie thought, like a total idiot. "And she knew she was a Class-A. Just plain stupid."

Jackson grinned and shook his head. "So many young women get into crime these days," he said. "Such a problem. Drug use. Street prostitution." He glanced at Stephanie. "Theft..."

She didn't react; Ashe and Mellon, if they knew of her situation, gave no indication of it. "But you haven't heard the best of this yet, Billy." Ashe went on.

"What's that?"

"I'll let Tim tell you."

Mellon leaned forward in his chair. "Well," he said, "when Tracy and I were dating, we used to watch 'Slaughterhouse' together. One night we were watching the evening show, and one of the girls they were doing--she'd signed up for unlimited, the big money, and they had set up a Medieval witchcraft story for her. They weren't really planning to burn her at the stake--that's gross, you probably remember when they did do a live burning a few years back, and all the flack about that one--they were playing the theme around the idea that some of the witches were strangled before the fire got to them, that was in the narration. Well, I guess this bimbo didn't know that, and she just plain panicked. Ruined the whole piece, or damn close to it. They had to chase her down and wrestle her up to the stake and tie her to it to get the piece done. Her beneficiaries didn't get a dime."

"We've all seen girls lose it on the show."

"Yeah. And the very next week, on the very next show, we saw another girl panic and ruin her piece." He paused and grinned. "But Tracy and I talked about it after that one. She said she thought it was just ridiculous, the way these girls panicked and carried on. They had to know, she said, that one way or the other they were going to be executed in the end. I agreed with that and I asked her what she would do if she ever found herself in a position like that."

"Yeah?" Jackson asked. "And what'd she say?"

Mellon laughed. "She told me she never would, because she didn't use drugs or otherwise break the law. Funny, huh? But I pressed it, and she said she believed that whatever situation a person was in, they should make the best of it. She said she'd go for a high-level contract and that she'd cooperate with anything and everything they wanted to do to her. She even said the whole idea of being executed on TV was kind of exciting in a way, and she thought she could focus on that."

Jackson laughed uproariously. "Oh, man! Oh, that's great! I can't believe she said that!"

Mellon nodded vigorously. "She did. So, I mean, hell, we had to find out, right?"

Stephanie--at the moment being ignored by the men--closed her eyes. So you framed her, she said silently; framed her or had her framed. Planted drugs on her. Murdered her, even though she isn't dead yet.

"The studio," Ashe put in, "paid the highest dollar for her contract. Not only is she a strong Class-A, but after they'd heard she'd made a statement like that... anyway, they set up a really special piece around her. That's what we're going to be seeing tonight."

"Oh, yeah, they'd want that one!" Jackson slapped his leg. "This one should be great." He glanced at Stephanie. "Get us some drinks, hon, and turn on the TV. Then get up on the desk."

"Yes, sir," she replied formally. She got the drinks, the flipped on the big screen, and she sat down on Jackson's desk, hiking her skirt as usual to reveal her legs. While she posed like a living artwork, Jackson and the other men sipped the drinks and chatted until the show started, until Phil Phips' familiar smiling face was filling the screen.

The first execution was of a delicate-looking young redhaired girl--who was not, according to Ashe and Mellon, Tracy Leightner. After the details of her crime were given and she was given a name--Jennifer Holden--a scene was shown where she played the role of a secretary asked to work late by her boss. While she was working, a masked man crept into the office. He attacked her, grabbing her from behind, covering her mouth, and telling her that he was a corporate spy there to get her company's secrets, and that if she screamed she was dead.

Jennifer, it seemed to Stephanie, probably had acting experience--although the terror in her eyes did not require any acting on her part. The man released her, then forced her to undress completely--"so you can't run away," he told her. He then had her sit in a chair and hold out her arms so he could tie her wrists with a piece of gold silk ribbon. Stephanie curled her lip at the plot inconsistencies. Nudity would not prevent a girl from running for her life, and the idea that a corporate spy would carry around gold ribbon to tie inconvenient bystanders was just absurd.

But the scene ground on, for a long time. The poor girl was left sitting there in her office chair, naked, her wrists tied, while the "spy" rifled aimlessly through file cabinets. Finally he waved a file folder in the air, telling her triumphantly that "this was it."

After that he came back to her, stood behind, and explained in a low voice that he could not afford to leave any witnesses to his crime--and he wound another piece of gold ribbon around her neck. She begged and pleaded while he, taking his time, tied off the ribbon and inserted a piece of what looked like plain steel rod through the back of it. Turning the rod, he snugged it down; then he reached over her shoulder and began playing with her breasts. He kissed her hair and turned the rod again, tightening it down more. Jennifer's eyes widened but she did not otherwise react.

"This is pretty good," Jackson commented. He glanced at Stephanie. "Get naked for us, hon," he said bluntly. Stephanie complied, not seating herself on the desk again until she was totally nude except for her high heels. The three men, all sitting close, touched her breasts and legs but did not look at her; their eyes were fixed on the screen, where the young man was turning the rod over and over, tightening the garotte around the redhaired girl's throat. Jennifer's face darkened, her eyelids and lips began to swell. The young man turned the rod again, another 360 degrees; the indentation the silk strap was making in her neck was now obvious. She seemed to be trying to remain passive, but soon her body began to betray her as she fought for air. Her fingers extended, clenched, extended again; after a moment she started to kick, and her kicking quickly became vigorous enough to force the actor to hold her firmly lest she kick her way out of the chair. Finally her head fell forward limply and the kicking stopped. Phil Phips appeared in the upper right corner of the scene, a small inset, and he reminded the viewers that the girl was not yet dead, she'd just lost consciousness. The young man kept the garotte tight; a minute passed, then another. Her body jerked a few times, and, almost apologetically, a trickle of urine spattered on the floor. The scene faded to commercial.

"Damn good one," Jackson noted.

"Yes," Ashe agreed. "But that's just appetizer. Wait'll you see the scene they've got set up for Tracy."

Jackson turned to him. "You know what they're doing already?"

"Yes." He jerked a thumb at Mellon. "Tim was there, at the rehearsals, on the set."

Jackson turned to the younger man and his eyebrows went up. "Interesting. How'd they explain that to Tracy?"

Mellon grinned. "They didn't have to, she never saw me, we made sure of that. They had another visitation period after that, she could have said something to somebody, and that could have been real awkward, real hard to explain if the reporters got hold of it." The young man rubbed his hands together. "But it's going to be good, it's going to be real good."

By then the commercial had ended and Phil Phips was introducing the next piece. "Tonight," he was saying, "we have a very special show for you. This one, as you will see, was shot on location. And not one, but four young ladies will meet justice during this show." He reeled off the names and the crimes; Tracy Leightner, convicted of possession, was one of them. His image faded and a scene of the desert at twilight replaced it. A title, "The Runaways," splashed across the screen. Then it faded, and a line of camels--a classic desert caravan--appeared, marching across the sand with a dignified pace. This part, a discreet little logo at the bottom informed them, was on tape--not live, as the scenes on "Slaughterhouse!" usually were.

The next scene was in the tent of a man who was evidently the leader of the caravan, a white-robed desert sheik like something out of "Lawrence of Arabia." The tent flaps opened and a rough-looking actor dressed in Arabic fashion herded four young women into the tent. The man lined them up, and the camera lazily moved across the line from left to right and back again. All were dressed in "harem garb"--gauzy pants, equally filmy tops, and delicate slippers. All had several bracelets around their wrists and little bell-straps on their ankles; all wore half-veils that did not conceal their faces at all. The first one in line was a blue-eyed blond; the next had very long, dark brown hair and dark eyes. The third, the tallest of the four, had lighter brown hair and startling blue eyes. The last had very dark hair and dark eyes. All had classically beautiful faces, all had classic figures.

"That's Tracy," Ashe said, pointing to the girl at the right end of the line.

On the screen, the man who'd brought the girls in explained that they had been found as stowaways in the caravan. The sheik glared at them; it was Tracy who stood up to speak. Showing reasonable acting skills, she pled their case, telling the sheik that they were runaways from the harem of a very cruel sultan and begging the sheik to deliver them to the next town. He told them he would consider their case, and sent them away. In the next scene, he was shown sending a message to the sultan by carrier pigeon--a message telling the sultan that he had the runaway slaves.

In the next scene, several white-clad men rode up to the caravan's camp on horseback. Meeting with the sheik, they gave him some gold and thanked him for his cooperation. The girls, crying and pleading, were brought out and turned over to these men. Their wrists were bound, they were put on horses, and they rode off across the desert.

"Damn," Jackson marveled, "they spent a lot of money on this!"

"They sure did," Mellon agreed. "But if things go as planned it'll be a classic. They tell me Tracy hasn't changed her tune a bit since she was busted, she means to get every dime possible for her family."

The next scene opened with a long shot of what was obviously supposed to be an Arabian palace. That faded, and was replaced by an interior shot. The little logo which had been informing the viewers that they were watching a tape also faded; the action being seen on the screen was now live. The camera panned across. The girls were kneeling on a padded dais, while two men, dressed as guards in the harem, stood beside them, their arms crossed. Both had a short knife hanging from one side of his belt and a heavy scimitar dangling from the other. A man dressed as a sultan sat on a cushion on the other side; across from him was a heavy wooden block with a very suggestive semicircle cut in the top of it.

The "sultan" looked over the four girls and stroked his thin beard. "So," he said. "You think to leave my harem? Little ones, you had to but ask. I would have given you your freedom." A look of something like hope crossed their faces; the camera lingered on Tracy, easily the best actress of the group.

"We're getting down to it now," Mellon observed. "The good stuff is coming right up."

Jackson grinned. Without the slightest trace of self-consciousness, he and Ashe unzipped their pants and pulled out their cocks. Mellon hesitated a moment, but then did the same.

"Get busy, Stephanie," Jackson ordered. "And make sure you don't block the view."

She slipped off the desk. "Yes, sir," she said obediently. She went to Jackson first, knelt between his knees, and began licking and caressing his cock. After she'd sucked it for a few seconds, after it was completely hard, she moved to Ashe, and from there to Mellon. The men's attention was riveted on the screen, they paid not the slightest attention to her. That, for her, was preferable. She was like a machine for them, but that also meant she did not have to interact with them. She could, with any luck, do her job and go home.

On the screen, the sultan seemed to be enjoying the girls' expressions of hope. His next action was, considering the venue, utterly predictable. He pointed to one of the girls, the blond. She hesitated a tiny bit, but then she rose, her ankle bells tinkling, and walked over to face him.

"I will give you your freedom now," he said. "Freedom from my harem, freedom from me--and freedom from this life!" Her face crumpled, her expression of hope was replaced by one of despair. The camera panned to Tracy quickly, and followed the same change in her expression, which was much more effectively done. Then the view moved back to the blond; the sultan was pointing at her again. "Prepare yourself," he barked. "And tell me when you are ready!" While the camera watched over his shoulder, she began to remove her outfit, beginning with her veil. She undressed slowly, sensually; when she was finished she stood before him totally nude except for her bracelets and anklets. Her breasts were high and firm if somewhat small, her legs long, her groin completely shaved.

"I am ready, Effendi," she said in a small and tremulous voice.

"Go, then," he said, pointing to the block. "Go, and place yourself there, and receive the justice you deserve!"

The blond girl nodded. She turned, and, with very unsteady steps, she made her way to the block, accompanied by the two guards. Once there, she knelt in front of it; she looked back at the camera, a look of pure terror in her eyes. Then, trembling, she turned back, placed her neck in the cutout, and swept her hair away from her neck. Her body jerked as if she'd been struck when one of the guards placed a large wicker basket under her face.

But she didn't move. One of the guards stepped up beside her head and drew out the lethal-looking scimitar.

"Let it be done," the sultan said.

The guard nodded. He touched the girl's neck with the edge, very lightly, and she jumped violently when he did. Then he lifted it and brought it down with a powerful stroke. It sheared through her neck effortlessly, and her head dropped into the basket. Her body began to jerk and spasm violently as blood squirted from the stump of her neck; the bells on her wrists and ankles played a macabre tune. To this was added the horrified squeals of the girls who were watching--and who were next.

By this time, Stephanie had made two passes across the line of seated men. Coming back to Jackson, she turned her back to him and carefully impaled herself on his erection, making sure as she did that she did not block his view. Idly, he reached up and played with her breast as she moved on him.

"This is already a good one," he said as the camera moved to view the terror-stricken faces of the three remaining girls. "A fine idea. Let them see exactly what's going to happen to them before it happens."

"They all knew it," Mellon offered. "They rehearsed this, each one of them walking up to that block. Even to the touch of the sword on their necks, everything but the final stroke."

"Yeah, but that ain't like seeing it happen for real, right in front of you."

Mellon laughed. His laugh, Stephanie couldn't help but notice, was free and light. Even Jackson wasn't like that. But, Stephanie thought, Mellon was much younger; the public killing of people, mostly women, was so common now that it wasn't surprising that it would begin to lose emotional impact. She wondered how he'd be when Tracy, whom she assumed he'd been intimate with, came to the block.

On the screen, the basket containing the first girl's severed head had been removed. The guard placed it on a slightly slanted dais, so the contents were visible to the viewers. Her corpse, however, still lay on the floor in front of the block--and the sultan was pointing to the long-haired girl.

She stared as if in disbelief, having watched what had just happened to the first girl. Finally she got to her feet, though she was so unsteady she almost fell doing it. Staggering, she went to the sultan and, after he'd recited his lines, began her striptease. It wasn't even remotely as skillful as the first girl's, at several points she had to tear her clothes to get them off. At last, however, she stood naked.

She seemed to have to fight to speak her own lines. "It... I'm, ah... uh... I... Effi... uh..."

The sultan grinned at her fumbling, and so did the guards. She stood still for a moment, as if she could not force herself to turn. When she did, she saw that the first girl's body had not yet been removed from the block. She looked around wildly, as if unsure what she should do. As if in answer to her question, the guards grabbed the blond's body by the feet and dragged it off, leaving a broad red streak across the floor. Around the block, there was a pool of blood; blood covered the surface of it and streaked its sides.

And, as the sultan commanded her to go to the block, it became clear that she was going to be asked to kneel in the other girl's blood, to put her neck on a bloodsoaked block.

"Nice touch, isn't it?" Mellon asked. Jackson and Ashe muttered agreement as the long-haired girl, shaking her hands as if trying to dry them and crying freely, staggered toward the block. She knelt, she squealed in protest as she put her neck in her predecessor's blood. But, with her own hands, she swept her long hair out of the way, exposing her neck, letting her hair fall in the pool of blood. She gasped again when the basket was placed, and she screamed and shivered violently when the guard touched her neck with his scimitar.

Then the blade descended. Her headless torso was left floundering around in front of the block, and her severed head was left lying in the basket.

"It'd be better without all the screeching," Jackson grumbled as the third girl stripped down. "But it's still pretty damn good." Stephanie, then mounted on Mellon's almost painfully rigid cock, ignored him--but punished him, in her own mind at least, by staying a little longer with Mellon and then moving to Ashe more quickly. She was struggling to keep Ashe's short fat cock inside her vagina while the tall girl was beheaded.

Then, only one girl remained--the one Ashe had identified as Tracy. "Here we go," Ashe murmured.

"Man, you cannot know how much I appreciate your setting this up, Mr. Ashe," Mellon breathed. Grabbing Stephanie's hips, he pulled her down hard on his cock, forcing it deep inside her. "I have been dreaming about this..."

"I think it'll be my pleasure, Dave."

In contrast to the two previous girls, Tracy seemed to be fully under control. With a quick light step she came to stand in front of the sultan when he called her.

"You," he said, pointing to her, "were the leader of this revolt. Isn't that right?"

She shook her head. "No, effendi. It was not a revolt. We tried to escape, that is all."

"That is a revolt! And you were the leader! Admit it!"

She gazed at the floor. "Yes, effendi. I was the leader. It was my suggestion that we leave the harem, it was my suggestion that we try to take the caravan to the next town."

He jabbed a finger at her. "Because of you," he snarled, "four are missing from my harem now. You will pay for that crime! Prepare yourself!"

"Yes, effendi," she answered. She started taking off the filmy costume. Her striptease was done with grace and finesse, she took quite a while doing it, and she even smiled at the actor playing the sultan much of the time.

The three men groaned and made comments about her appearance. Even Stephanie, now having moved to Jackson's lap, had to agree. Tracy Leightner was exceptional even among Class-As; her skin, in particular, looked like fine satin and her legs were absolutely perfect. Her breasts looked like they defied gravity; they were quite large but their shape was perfect and they rode high on her chest. Conscious of where she was and what she was doing, she put her arms atop her head, turned toward the camera, and struck a pose with one knee cocked.

"She's doing it," Mellon almost panted. "Just like she said she would. Oh, man..."

"I am ready, effendi," Tracy said. "Ready to pay the price for my crimes..."

"You will pay," the sultan said, "and you will pay a much higher price than your followers paid. Put your hands behind your back!" She complied instantly, and the sultan nodded to his guards. One of them came up behind her and grabbed her wrists, crossing them over and holding her tightly. She leaned back against him, her chin high and her eyes calm. The other guard stood in front of her and drew the short knife from his belt.

"Now," the sultan said. His hand came down in a gesture of finality. "Slit open her belly!" He glared at Tracy. "And you, slave, will take your punishment without struggles, without cries!"

Tracy glanced at him and nodded. "Yes, effendi." Then she looked back at the man standing in front of her with the knife. Cocking one knee again, she pushed her abdomen out a little toward him as if offering it. The man held his knife point up for a moment; then, with a hard stroke, he plunged the blade into her upper belly, just below her solar plexus, and he almost buried it.

Tracy's face tightened; she caught her lower lip with her teeth. But she made no sound, and otherwise she did not move. The guard paused for a moment, leaving the knife buried deep in her belly. Then the guard started working the blade downward, moving it up and down, cutting through her wonderfully smooth skin, cutting her abdomen wide open. Blood splashed on the floor around her feet. Tracy stiffened noticeably and began to tremble, but still she did not struggle, she did not make a sound, and she made no attempt to pull her belly back and away from the pain. She gasped loudly--her first sound--when her intestines began to bulge into the slit. The guard ignored them--even though they were lying against his hand--and continued to cut downward. Stephanie was amazed at her control; the men were stunned.

Finally, the executioner's knife struck Tracy's pubic bone. At this she threw her head back and gasped again; her jaw was tight, clenched. After a moment, her assailant slowly pulled the blade out of her; the other man had released her wrists. Almost in slow-motion, she sank to her knees. She looked down at herself for several seconds. Then, with trembling hands, she started gathering up her entrails and tucking them back inside her body.

"Oh, Jesus Christ!" Jackson yelled. "That's just fucking amazing!"

On the screen, Tracy knelt quietly, her breathing very ragged, holding herself together with both hands, one high and one low. "And now," the sultan told her, "Go to the block. Go to the block and your miserable life will be ended."

"Yes, effendi," she croaked. She started to try to get to her feet, but she seemed unable to do that. Undaunted, she turned herself toward the block and started making her way toward it on her knees. It took quite a while for her to get there, but she finally made it and she unhesitatingly laid her neck in the bloody cutout. She rested there, panting for breath, holding her belly tightly with both hands.

The guards stepped up to her. One placed a basket under her face; the other drew his already bloody scimitar.

"Do not hold yourself together!" the sultan screamed suddenly. "Let your entrails fall free!"

Tracy took a deep breath, then released her grip, holding her arms out to the sides, her hands open and shaking. Her face twisted again as her intestines, accompanied by a rush of blood, sagged into view. She hesitated a moment, breathing hard, then reached under herself and grabbed the cut edges of her abdomen with her hand. In a final display of incredible courage she jerked them to the sides--and she gasped loudly, a sound tinged with a cry of agony, as the whole mass of her intestine fell out, making a wet sound as it hit the floor.

The man then laid the edge of his scimitar on her neck. He hesitated for what seemed like a very long time; but at last he raised it and brought it down hard. It passed through Tracy's neck easily, and her severed head went tumbling into the basket. While her headless torso jerked, spasmed, and spouted blood, the other guard reached into the basket, grabbed her head by the hair, and held it up. Her eyes were wide open, her features incredibly calm.

And, after a moment, she very distinctly blinked, twice.

That was too much for Mellon, whose cock Stephanie was then sucking; he erupted into her mouth. She swallowed it quickly, then moved to Ashe. He was already on an edge, and it took only a few seconds of teasing his cock with her lips and tongue to draw out his climax. She moved on to Jackson as the camera panned across the four corpses, as the guards lifted each of the four severed heads in turn. Jackson Stephanie knew well, she knew how to get him off quickly, and she wasted no time doing just that. Then, certain that the men were finished with her and would have to further interest in her, she grabbed her clothes and went to the bathroom to clean herself up.

When she came back, the three men were still discussing the piece. "She sure as hell did pass the test," Mellon was saying. "That last bit--the director was asking her, in the rehearsal, do you think you can do this, can you stuff your guts back inside yourself, can you pull yourself open. She said yes to everything, yes if it meant her family would get the full stipend agreed to in the contract. She knew exactly what they were going to do, down the line, and what she was supposed to do. She did it, too, every bit of it."

"They didn't give her any painkillers?" Ashe asked.

"No, they didn't," Mellon said.

"Oh, crap, sure they did," Jackson said with a dismissive gesture. "Nobody could do that without painkillers. They probably gave her some speed, too, to keep her from passing out."

"Well," Mellon argued defensively, "it was never mentioned on the set when they were rehearsing this."

"Maybe not, Billy," Ashe countered mildly. "You've seen some of these broads hara-kiri themselves on the show, right? That's gotta take more discipline that what Tracy did."

"They were probably given drugs too," Jackson grumped.

"Do you need me any further, Mr. Jackson?" Stephanie asked, taking advantage of a momentary lull in the conversation.

He glanced up at her. "No," he said, waving a hand at her. "You can go on home."

She forced a tiny smile. "Thank you." Not wanting to give him a chance to reconsider--or to give Ashe or Mellon a chance to protest--she turned on her heel and left the office quickly. Just a few minutes later she was in her car and on her way home. She was eager to get to her computer; she wanted to talk to the others at #injustice. For the first time, she felt she had direct evidence that women were being deliberately framed for crimes to get them onto shows like "Slaughterhouse."

Direct evidence beyond her own personal case, anyway.