CruxGirl
Magistrate
This is my first attempt at writing a work of fiction. It's set in an alternative England, a dystopian version of the country which has been my home for the past three years.
Part 1
It must have been the deepest night's sleep of Mercy's entire life. But now she is beginning to stir. She is groping her way towards consciousness, gradually piecing together who she is, the various parts of her jigsaw moving into place as her limbs and torso remain in a state of profound relaxation. Her curvy little body, curled up under the sheet, feels cosy and warm. Her soft, strawberry-blonde hair is fanned out over the firm white pillow.
Her dream was strange and dark. A nightmare. There was a man called Augustus Oakbeam. There was a crowd of people laughing at her. Jeering, and shouting obscenities. Spitting at her. A sadistic, flinty-faced judge in a courtroom, telling her that horrid cruel things needed to be done to her. Beastly things - because she was a wicked girl, a shameless slut, a disgrace to her country. Why? A whip and cane and nails were mentioned. Humiliation. A death sentence. He told her she would be stripped and paraded naked through the streets to her execution, carrying with her the instruments of her death. Nails and a crossbeam. But she is only 19 years old. It was a ghastly, and terrifying experience. Who is Augustus Oakbeam? It doesn’t matter now. None of it matters. It was only a dream.
Whatever her nightmare was all about, it is fast receding to the edges of her consciousness. It can't reach her now. It has no more significance than a cold wet fog nuzzling against bolted windows. She is dozing inside, in the warmth, lying with her knees up in the fetal position, wrists crossed over her perky breasts. She feels snug and secure. Slowly she is waking up under a bright light. Is it daylight? And there’s a murmur of kindly voices and laughter around her. A deliciously comforting smell of fried bacon, sausages, eggs and toast makes her feel very hungry. Someone is cooking breakfast for her. It must be her boyfriend. With eyes still closed, she reminds herself that she is Mercy Skreemings.
A ripple of pleasure passes through her as she remembers that she is the weather girl on Crucible - England's leading TV news channel. Everyone adores her. She has become a starlet at just 19 years of age. Whatever the forecast, her sunny disposition brings warmth and comfort into people's homes. At 5’2”, teetering on toothpick heels, with a bouncy, shoulder-length wedge cut, dainty little wrist movements and a lovely curvy figure, she is gorgeous. She is loved by all. She is the channel’s main attraction, even though friends and colleagues often tease her that viewers - especially horny men - pay more attention to her pretty face, lovely legs and stunning cleavage, than to the weather map behind her.
Still half asleep, she smiles to herself as she remembers that she responded to their teasing by wearing even higher heels and even shorter and tighter dresses. Her viewing figures have doubled. Paparazzi snap photos of her in her swimwear when she’s on vacation. And they crowd around her when she visits her favorite restaurants with Toby, her boyfriend, who is a successful fashion model. Feature writers and op-ed journalists muse in their columns on Mercy’s glamorous lifestyle, her innocent elegance and unthreatening sexual allure.
Mercy loves her work. She loves the tingle of arousal between her legs and in her nipples whenever she goes on camera. Secretly she enjoys the thought of all those viewers libidinously undressing her with their eyes, fantasizing and perhaps masturbating over her in the privacy of their living rooms and bedrooms. By the end of each forecast her panties feel pleasantly warm and damp and she can’t wait for Toby to give her a hard brutal fucking.
Toby is such a good lover, so muscular and well-endowed … those pecs and cheekbones … her nipples stiffen between her fingers as she remembers how good he is. She squeezes her thighs together … And when Toby takes her in the full Nelson position - her favorite - with her thighs wide open and her knees bent, calves dangling over his strong forearms, and his big hands reaching up to clasp her head and throat, his huge cock entering her from behind, pushing all the way in … and she is just a toy … a tiny squealing little fucktoy in his controlling grip ...
A clattering noise - the sound of a trolley being pushed past her bed - jars her into a more acute state of awareness and she snaps her big blue eyes wide open. She is not at home. The light is very bright, but it isn't daylight. It's a harsh neon striplight above her head. There are other beds in the room, and other women lying on them. This is a hospital ward. The curtains are closed and it's still dark outside. A clock on the wall tells her it’s 6 in the morning. Nurses are walking into the room.
"Good morning everybody. How was your shift?" says a female voice from near the door.
"Amazingly quiet”, says another. “A proper graveyard shift. We knocked them all out. Twenty milligrams each of Oblaviam. They're only just beginning to stir. It's gonna take them a while to work out where they are … or even who they are.”
Laughter.
“Oblaviam?” says the first voice. “Just five milligrams of that stuff hits me like an elephant tranquilizer. And I always feel so horny when I wake up.”
“Yeah, I know. It has that effect on me too. But horny’s good for these ladies right now. I mean, it should help them with their first duties of the day. Right?”
More laughter.
Why am I here? thinks Mercy. What are they laughing about? Am I sick? She tries to bring her hand up to her head, and feels her wrist tugging against her other wrist. Handcuffs! Her hands are bound. And her feet. Manacles! She has an urge to cry out, but restrains herself. She mustn't antagonize them. The nurses. Her captors. Whoever they are. There must be a rational explanation for this.
"Wakey-wakey," says a warm cheerful voice at the foot of her bed. It belongs to a buxom, rosy-cheeked, brunette, probably in her early forties, dressed in a crisp white uniform, with her hair up in a neat bun. "Come on sleepy head. You've got a big day ahead of you, Miss Skreemings. Dr. Painjoy will be around before long, to mark you up. And we need to give you an enema and get you to x-ray before he comes. He’s doing the men’s ward at the moment."
The woman turns to address one of the other nurses. “Emma, sweetheart, These three ladies need an enema and a shower, followed by x-rays of hands and feet.”
“Certainly, Sister.”
“Am I here for an operation?” asks Mercy plaintively.
“Yes, I suppose you could call it that. A very complicated, long-drawn-out, operation”, says the buxom nurse, with a wry grin.
“But what ... Why have I got handcuffs on?”
“It’s to stop you hurting yourself, dear.”
She walks on to the next bed.
“Good morning Miss Coxwell. You look wide awake already. Did you enjoy your beauty sleep?”
The woman in the next bed is sitting up. She is pale, with black hair and a dazed expression. She looks vaguely familiar to Mercy. A TV news reporter? Yes, of course, she’s Ophelia Coxwell, one of Crucible’s political reporters. Seeing her only heightens Mercy’s disquiet.
The bed next to her is occupied by a sleeping figure, a dark-skinned woman. The nurse walks over to her, bends down and says softly: "Rise and shine, Miss Drednail. Today's the day!” And turning around to face Mercy, she says: “Dr. Painjoy says it’s going to be a perfect day for it, weatherwise. Sunny but not too hot, with some nice cooling showers in the late afternoon. But I suppose you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you, Miss Skreemings?"
She winks at Mercy, who wonders what the weather has to do with a surgical procedure.
More clattering sounds near the doorway signal the entry of a young girl with a yellow paper hat on her head, pushing a trolley laden with plates and covered metal dishes.
"Good morning Debbie", says the buxom, jovial nurse. "That smells delicious. I've only just had breakfast and I'm getting hungry all over again. Aren't I a greedy thing!" They both laugh.
"Now then, Debbie, the two ladies over there," she points towards the far corner of the ward, "are to have a full English breakfast. They're due for hanging in forty five minutes, so there’s not a minute to waste. But these three ladies here", she points towards Mercy and her two neighbors, “are nil by mouth." She lowers her voice to a conspiratorial whisper: "Crucifixion".
The word hits Mercy like an iron hammer. She breaks out in an icy sweat, gasps and tries to scream, but her vocal cords are paralysed. She wants to throw up, but her stomach refuses to respond. Memories of the past two weeks come flooding back. They overwhelm her. The courtroom. The judge. The sentence. All real! Not a dream! She is to be taken out today, stripped naked, and nailed up up on a piece of wood, so that the people of England can listen to her screams and watch her suffer a slow and agonizing death.
Part 1
It must have been the deepest night's sleep of Mercy's entire life. But now she is beginning to stir. She is groping her way towards consciousness, gradually piecing together who she is, the various parts of her jigsaw moving into place as her limbs and torso remain in a state of profound relaxation. Her curvy little body, curled up under the sheet, feels cosy and warm. Her soft, strawberry-blonde hair is fanned out over the firm white pillow.
Her dream was strange and dark. A nightmare. There was a man called Augustus Oakbeam. There was a crowd of people laughing at her. Jeering, and shouting obscenities. Spitting at her. A sadistic, flinty-faced judge in a courtroom, telling her that horrid cruel things needed to be done to her. Beastly things - because she was a wicked girl, a shameless slut, a disgrace to her country. Why? A whip and cane and nails were mentioned. Humiliation. A death sentence. He told her she would be stripped and paraded naked through the streets to her execution, carrying with her the instruments of her death. Nails and a crossbeam. But she is only 19 years old. It was a ghastly, and terrifying experience. Who is Augustus Oakbeam? It doesn’t matter now. None of it matters. It was only a dream.
Whatever her nightmare was all about, it is fast receding to the edges of her consciousness. It can't reach her now. It has no more significance than a cold wet fog nuzzling against bolted windows. She is dozing inside, in the warmth, lying with her knees up in the fetal position, wrists crossed over her perky breasts. She feels snug and secure. Slowly she is waking up under a bright light. Is it daylight? And there’s a murmur of kindly voices and laughter around her. A deliciously comforting smell of fried bacon, sausages, eggs and toast makes her feel very hungry. Someone is cooking breakfast for her. It must be her boyfriend. With eyes still closed, she reminds herself that she is Mercy Skreemings.
A ripple of pleasure passes through her as she remembers that she is the weather girl on Crucible - England's leading TV news channel. Everyone adores her. She has become a starlet at just 19 years of age. Whatever the forecast, her sunny disposition brings warmth and comfort into people's homes. At 5’2”, teetering on toothpick heels, with a bouncy, shoulder-length wedge cut, dainty little wrist movements and a lovely curvy figure, she is gorgeous. She is loved by all. She is the channel’s main attraction, even though friends and colleagues often tease her that viewers - especially horny men - pay more attention to her pretty face, lovely legs and stunning cleavage, than to the weather map behind her.
Still half asleep, she smiles to herself as she remembers that she responded to their teasing by wearing even higher heels and even shorter and tighter dresses. Her viewing figures have doubled. Paparazzi snap photos of her in her swimwear when she’s on vacation. And they crowd around her when she visits her favorite restaurants with Toby, her boyfriend, who is a successful fashion model. Feature writers and op-ed journalists muse in their columns on Mercy’s glamorous lifestyle, her innocent elegance and unthreatening sexual allure.
Mercy loves her work. She loves the tingle of arousal between her legs and in her nipples whenever she goes on camera. Secretly she enjoys the thought of all those viewers libidinously undressing her with their eyes, fantasizing and perhaps masturbating over her in the privacy of their living rooms and bedrooms. By the end of each forecast her panties feel pleasantly warm and damp and she can’t wait for Toby to give her a hard brutal fucking.
Toby is such a good lover, so muscular and well-endowed … those pecs and cheekbones … her nipples stiffen between her fingers as she remembers how good he is. She squeezes her thighs together … And when Toby takes her in the full Nelson position - her favorite - with her thighs wide open and her knees bent, calves dangling over his strong forearms, and his big hands reaching up to clasp her head and throat, his huge cock entering her from behind, pushing all the way in … and she is just a toy … a tiny squealing little fucktoy in his controlling grip ...
A clattering noise - the sound of a trolley being pushed past her bed - jars her into a more acute state of awareness and she snaps her big blue eyes wide open. She is not at home. The light is very bright, but it isn't daylight. It's a harsh neon striplight above her head. There are other beds in the room, and other women lying on them. This is a hospital ward. The curtains are closed and it's still dark outside. A clock on the wall tells her it’s 6 in the morning. Nurses are walking into the room.
"Good morning everybody. How was your shift?" says a female voice from near the door.
"Amazingly quiet”, says another. “A proper graveyard shift. We knocked them all out. Twenty milligrams each of Oblaviam. They're only just beginning to stir. It's gonna take them a while to work out where they are … or even who they are.”
Laughter.
“Oblaviam?” says the first voice. “Just five milligrams of that stuff hits me like an elephant tranquilizer. And I always feel so horny when I wake up.”
“Yeah, I know. It has that effect on me too. But horny’s good for these ladies right now. I mean, it should help them with their first duties of the day. Right?”
More laughter.
Why am I here? thinks Mercy. What are they laughing about? Am I sick? She tries to bring her hand up to her head, and feels her wrist tugging against her other wrist. Handcuffs! Her hands are bound. And her feet. Manacles! She has an urge to cry out, but restrains herself. She mustn't antagonize them. The nurses. Her captors. Whoever they are. There must be a rational explanation for this.
"Wakey-wakey," says a warm cheerful voice at the foot of her bed. It belongs to a buxom, rosy-cheeked, brunette, probably in her early forties, dressed in a crisp white uniform, with her hair up in a neat bun. "Come on sleepy head. You've got a big day ahead of you, Miss Skreemings. Dr. Painjoy will be around before long, to mark you up. And we need to give you an enema and get you to x-ray before he comes. He’s doing the men’s ward at the moment."
The woman turns to address one of the other nurses. “Emma, sweetheart, These three ladies need an enema and a shower, followed by x-rays of hands and feet.”
“Certainly, Sister.”
“Am I here for an operation?” asks Mercy plaintively.
“Yes, I suppose you could call it that. A very complicated, long-drawn-out, operation”, says the buxom nurse, with a wry grin.
“But what ... Why have I got handcuffs on?”
“It’s to stop you hurting yourself, dear.”
She walks on to the next bed.
“Good morning Miss Coxwell. You look wide awake already. Did you enjoy your beauty sleep?”
The woman in the next bed is sitting up. She is pale, with black hair and a dazed expression. She looks vaguely familiar to Mercy. A TV news reporter? Yes, of course, she’s Ophelia Coxwell, one of Crucible’s political reporters. Seeing her only heightens Mercy’s disquiet.
The bed next to her is occupied by a sleeping figure, a dark-skinned woman. The nurse walks over to her, bends down and says softly: "Rise and shine, Miss Drednail. Today's the day!” And turning around to face Mercy, she says: “Dr. Painjoy says it’s going to be a perfect day for it, weatherwise. Sunny but not too hot, with some nice cooling showers in the late afternoon. But I suppose you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you, Miss Skreemings?"
She winks at Mercy, who wonders what the weather has to do with a surgical procedure.
More clattering sounds near the doorway signal the entry of a young girl with a yellow paper hat on her head, pushing a trolley laden with plates and covered metal dishes.
"Good morning Debbie", says the buxom, jovial nurse. "That smells delicious. I've only just had breakfast and I'm getting hungry all over again. Aren't I a greedy thing!" They both laugh.
"Now then, Debbie, the two ladies over there," she points towards the far corner of the ward, "are to have a full English breakfast. They're due for hanging in forty five minutes, so there’s not a minute to waste. But these three ladies here", she points towards Mercy and her two neighbors, “are nil by mouth." She lowers her voice to a conspiratorial whisper: "Crucifixion".
The word hits Mercy like an iron hammer. She breaks out in an icy sweat, gasps and tries to scream, but her vocal cords are paralysed. She wants to throw up, but her stomach refuses to respond. Memories of the past two weeks come flooding back. They overwhelm her. The courtroom. The judge. The sentence. All real! Not a dream! She is to be taken out today, stripped naked, and nailed up up on a piece of wood, so that the people of England can listen to her screams and watch her suffer a slow and agonizing death.