Stories by Chez Marquis

[riwa]

Petra on the Cross

"If you'll put your wrists up against the cross, Petra, we can get started." He held up the hammer and nails, making sure she got a good look at them.

"Why are you doing this to me?" she asked softly.

"Honest answer? It's your breasts. There's nothing I like better than the sight of a big-breasted woman on a cross. And let's face it, Petra, they just don't make any mightier tits than yours."

"That's all I am to you, isn't it? A pair of breasts."

"Of course not, Petra. A pair of breasts can't suffer. A pair of breasts can't scream. A pair of breasts can't be tortured to death. You're a big-breasted WOMAN, Petra, and I assure you that I have the deepest respect for you and for your abilities. Now please put your wrists up against the crossbeam."

"No."

"Then I'm sure you'll understand why I'm doing this." He lifted a special prod, designed for use on human cattle, set it on BRUTAL, and applied the tip to her left nipple. Howling, she raised her wrists.

"I put the nails through the wrists rather than the hands," he explained, placing the tip of a nail against her flesh, "because you'll be more stable that way. Sometimes the hands tear."

Petra's breathing was shallow and rapid as he raised the hammer. She closed her eyes, turning her head away. The mallet fell. There was a sickening crunch. Petra began to scream wildly. She managed to open her eyes, and saw that her wrist was slick with blood. The nail had gone straight through and was now embedded in the wood behind her.

She began to shiver, which made it harder for him to get the second nail into place. But with one wrist already nailed, there was no way she could offer any effective resistance. He drove the second nail as straight and true as the first, right between the bones of her wrist.

"Now the feet," he announced. The lower nails went through her ankles; this preserved symmetry with the wrist spikes. With all four nails in place, Petra was thoroughly crucified. She was almost a part of the cross now, and would remain that way for the rest of her life. Wood, steel and flesh combined to produce a work of art.

Now the long wait began. At first, Petra's pain came from her wrists and ankles. Her limbs were screaming at her brain. She moaned softly as she suffered. The pain was immense, but not quite enough to send her into shock. She remained fully conscious, and felt everything.

Gradually the nature of the torture began to change. The pain began to spread from Petra's wrists through her arms, and from her ankles up into her calves and thighs. Her full weight was on the nails which had been driven ruthlessly through her flesh. The cross offered her no rest, no respite.

He tortured her with the prod as she hung there on the cross. He ran it playfully across the enormous pain receptors which were her breasts, sending crippling shocks straight into her nipples. During that first day, Petra's focus was on the pain: pain in her arms, legs, breasts. She had never experienced torture before. It was overwhelming. She wanted to die, but she knew that he would allow that only when she had no more capacity to suffer.

She didn't sleep at all that night, of course. He left her alone with her agony, and by the time he returned in the morning, she couldn't even remember a time when she hadn't been in pain. She was spectacularly gorgeous, her arms stretched out, her breasts naked and enormous, her soft, brown hair flowing down around her shoulders.

On the second day, the nature of Petra's suffering changed once more. Slowly the pain began to shade off into asphyxiation. It became harder and harder for poor Petra to breathe. With her arms pulled back as they were, it was a constant struggle for Petra to raise her mighty chest and fill her lungs with air. Each breath was harder than the last.

The pain was still with her all through that second day, just as it had been during the first. But it was overshadowed now by Petra's slow asphyxiation, and by the tremendous fear of death which grew in her as she strangled. Part of her had known, of course, that crucifixion is a lethal torture. But she hadn't really faced that truth, not until now. Now she saw her death, felt it. It was real, and it was close. She was dying, and no one was going to save her. That filled her with sorrow.

Petra passed a second night with no sleep, and was nearly delirious by the next morning. Her face was a mask of pain: agony was apparent in her deep, green eyes, in her twitching red mouth. Her cheeks were dry now, not because she no longer felt like crying, but because she was dehydrated. There were simply no more tears for her to cry. She had also stopped screaming, for her throat was parched.

On the third day, Petra's torture changed one final time. It was harder than ever for her to breathe. She could barely lift herself up at all; her respiration was shallow, uneven. The pain had receded. Petra's main experience now was one of asphyxiation.

She was strangling on the cross, as she had been the previous day. The difference was that now she welcomed it. The second night on the cross had finally broken her will. She saw now that there was only one way out of here. She was ready. And yet still she lingered for most of the third day, unable to die. Her naked body squirmed invitingly. Her enormous, round breasts smiled at the sky. They wiggled wonderfully as she fought for breathing space on the cross.

At last the moment came. Petra tried to breathe and simply couldn't. Her muscles were too exhausted. She was utterly, profoundly strangled. Her breasts shuddered, immense and beautiful. She gurgled and fell limp on the cross, exquisitely snuffed.

 

[DaHoYoTa]

Women with large breasts should lactation when nailed to the cross

 

[riwa]

MultiKerri

Synopsis ~ NC. Imagine three identical bodies grown from the DNA of Playmate Kerri Kendall. Imagine that these bodies possess networkable positronic brains, so that the experience of each becomes the experience of all. Imagine that one of these bodies crucifies and tortures the other two...and you have Multikerri.


"What we got is the latest thing. Vatgirls grown to your specs, around a networkable positronic brain."

"Come again?"

"Artificial telepathy. You can link their brains together. What one feels, they ALL feel, you get me? You see the possibilities?"

"Yeah, sure, I get it. But look. I mean, these girls...they aren't really human, right?"

Shrug. "What's human? We grow 'em in a vat, from the finest DNA."

"Yeah, but the brains...they're robotic, right?"

"Positronic."

"So they can't really feel pain, right?"

Shrug again. "Who cares? EEG, alpha waves, all that shit, reads the same as human out to fifty decimals. When you hear 'em scream, believe me, you won't know the difference."

"What about personality?"

"Personality?"

"I like a girl with personality."

Sigh. "You're a character. They come with a basic victim's persona. They can scream, beg, like that. Very convincing. They know how to fuck. You can talk to them, ask them questions. They'll respond. Intellectually, they're twelve year-old girls, which for your purposes is perfect. They scare real easy. You want to talk Heidegger with 'em, we can load up a nice program on existentialism."

"Can you program one of them to act as the torturer?"

"Yeah, sure, no problem."

"OK, I'm sold. I'll try it."

"That's great. You got your own specs, or you want to try a prefab model? Here are some of our most popular ones: the Cindy, the Jo..."

"How about this one here?"

"The Kerri? Yeah, she's good. How many you want?"

"Two networked, and another outside the circuit, running the torture program. Say, can I switch the torturer into the circuit if I want?"

"No problem. We'll fix you up with a code phrase. Anything else we can do for you?"

"Can't think of anything."

"Pleasure doing business with you."

-----

They take me out of the vat, dry me off with soft fluffy things. After a moment's thought, I remember that these are called "towels." I smile and nod. My subliminal language lessons have worked well. The mother-machine has assured me that I now have all the words I'll ever need.

Being out of the vat is strange. I miss it, and I want to go back in. It's warm and wet and safe inside; out here the world is vast and strange. But the mother-machine has explained that I must leave now, to experience this world. I can't remain in her womb forever.

They give me strange garments to wear. I recall that they're known as "g-strings." The mother-machine taught me all about them (and also about bustiers, corsets, garter belts, stockings and push-up bras. This knowledge will be vital to me in the outside world.) I smile. I know how to put on these garments. I slip the green and white g-string onto one of my bodies. The red one is a little harder, because it has extra straps, but I figure it out. The spare straps go up from my waist, cross between my breasts, then snuggle up against my neck.

There is a mirror in the room, and I look at myselves in it. The mother-machine has told me that I am very beautiful, that men will want me. The g-strings cover the part of me that has so many names: cunt, twat, pussy, vagina. Men will want to insert themselves into that strange space, and I must always let them. The mother-machine was very specific about that.

They lead me out of the room, out of the building. I gasp in delight. I have never seen outside before. The sky is beautiful. It is the color called blue, and those must be clouds. I see a bird fly by and I let out a little cry of joy. It's all just like the mother-machine said it would be--and yet there's so much more here than any mere description could convey!

They lead me to a large object which I recall is called a "cross." The sight of it fills me with horror. I remember what I've learned about crosses.

Women are tortured to death on crosses.

No! It can't be! Desperately, I review my lessons. What do I know? I know how to talk. I know how to wear clothes. I know how to make love. I know how to be tortured. The mother-machine talked about torture a lot: how it feels, what to do, how to scream. She told me about being hanged, and stretched, and whipped, and branded, and gutted, and...crucified. But I never thought to ask her why...

I cry as they lift one of my bodies onto the cross. They choose the one with the green and white g-string. They bind my wrists to the crossbeam with thick rope. I breathe a sigh of relief: at least there are no nails. But then I remember my lessons: without nails it lasts much longer.

The rope digs into my wrists, and I wince. They lead my other body to a large glass tank which stands next to the cross. Inside this tank is another cross. They open a door in the tank; we step through. They put me up on the cross, tying my wrists tightly. I feel the pain much more clearly now that the rope is cutting into all four of my wrists. They leave, sealing the glass door behind them. I'm alone now.

The tank begins to fill with water. I whimper softly. I can see steam coming off the water; it's very hot. I recall that the best water for torture is water that is not quite boiling.

Someone is approaching my other body, the one outside the tank. I gasp, astonished. She looks exactly like me! She must be another vat-grown Kerri! And yet she isn't part of the neural network that connects my two bodies. She looks like me, but she's isn't me.

She has no g-string; she's naked. She has something in her hand--a "bullwhip." She raises it, aims for my belly, and strikes. I scream, inside the tank and out. Pain blazes in my belly. Looking down, I see an angry pink welt starting to rise on my flesh. The other Kerri raises her whip again, and sets another mark parallel to the first. I howl, twisting on my crosses.

My instinct tells me that I should be able to command that body to stop whipping me, and yet it isn't so. She is a Kerri, but she is not of this Kerri, and so I must use words. I open my mouth, try to form a plea. My words echo strangely off the steamy glass walls. I realize that in my pain and confusion I've used the wrong mouth. I force myself to calm down, try again. This time I open the right mouth, the one outside. "Please," I sob. "Oh, please, don't hurt me!"

"Shut up, cunt," the whip-Kerri says. Her lash falls hard across my naked nipple. I convulse in agony.

I try again. "Please, look at me! I'm a Kerri, just like you! How can you hurt me like this?"

"It's my nature," the Kerri replies, and lashes my other nipple. Pain blazes in my full, firm breasts.

Now the whip-strokes fall like rain. She whips my thighs, my belly, and especially my breasts. Large and round to begin with, they soon swell far beyond their original size. They are lavish with bright red whipping sores. A little blood trickles out of the nipples.

I'm amazed at the cruelty of the whip-Kerri. I could never hurt somebody the way she does, especially not somebody who looked just like me. The lessons she received from the mother-machine must have been very different from mine.

I feel a vast and inescapable heat beneath my toes. Looking down, I see that the water has almost reached my feet. Inside the tank, I twitch as the whip falls on my outside body. Outside, I prepare myself to be boiled alive.

The searing pain hits me with unimaginable force. I howl in wild and desperate agony. It hurts more than anything I've ever experienced. It's not quite hot enough to cook me, but almost.

The torture-Kerri steps back, leaving me alone with my pain for a while. Trembling on my crosses, I whimper as the water slowly rises around me. I still feel throbbing pain from the breast-whipping, of course. I decide I don't like having two bodies, because all the pain is doubled.

The water comes up to my knees and stops. For a long time nothing else happens. Inside the tank, my calves boil; outside, my breasts blaze with whipping sores. I notice another pain, more subtle: a stiffness, creeping from my wrists up through my arms, to my shoulders. I recall that it can take a woman days to die of crucifixion. The stiffness grows, and with it the pain, until at last she can't breathe and she dies.

The sun is low in the sky--that means it's afternoon now--when the torture-Kerri returns. She has exchanged her whip for a cattle prod. I close my eyes, but I forget to close my other eyes. I can still see, a little bit, through the fogged-over glass walls of the tank. She raises the prod towards my breasts, my nipples. She knows how sensitive those nipples are; after all, they're identical to hers. The prod touches a stiff red flesh node, and my world explodes with a new anguish. My lips work soundlessly; it hurts too much to scream. My bodies twitch and convulse as the electric agony ripples through them. The torture-Kerri cycles through an intricate series of voltages, amperages, durations. She plays my tits like a musical instrument. The prod flies back and forth from one nipple to the other, sharing the pain between these two breasts, sharing it also with the two in the tank.

Through a haze of agony I realize that the water is rising again. It reaches my thighs, bringing vast new pains, and stops once more.

The torture-Kerri leaves me like that for the night, half-immersed in near-boiling water, my whip-sore tits still resonating from the electric torment of the prod.

-----

By morning I'm having trouble breathing. The pain has spread from my shoulders into my chest; it's increasingly difficult to fill my lungs. I comfort myself with the thought that I'm unlikely to survive another day.

The water rises again, and I nearly lose consciousness as it touches my g-string. It spreads quickly through the fabric, and the tender flesh of my cunt feels its deadly embrace. The torture-Kerri has returned, this time with a branding iron. Though I know it's futile, I beg her not to use it on me. She smiles wickedly, and presses the brand into my belly. Red pain fills my vision. She holds the brand there until I'm about to pass out, then mercifully removes it. She brands me in several places: my thighs, my breasts. I hear the sizzle of my cooking meat; I smell my flesh roast.

The water flows over my belly, rises towards my breasts. My legs kick weakly. My breathing is shallow, labored. The crucifixion is doing what it's supposed to do. None of the other tortures, however elaborate, can distract me from the fact that I'm strangling to death on these crosses.

The torture-Kerri returns with a long knife, and I know why. She opens my belly from sternum to crotch. My guts pour out eagerly onto the ground, as if they had been trying to escape all along. I'm left with a vacant, steaming belly and a great deal of pain. The scalding water flows over my naked breasts, and I sob helplessly as it caresses my tender, sensitive nipples. My breasts have had all they can take, and more: whipping, shocks and now this. The agony is shared between two bodies, but it's all breast pain, and it's all mine. I cry at the horrible injustice of it.

I can barely breathe at all now. The water has nearly reached my neck. The torture-Kerri stands back to admire her work. A man appears, and speaks to her: "Lay down, so I can fuck you." She complies immediately. He slips easily into her body. He glances up at my suffering bodies, then down at her face. "I love you," he says, and suddenly I am three!

Sharing the pain with a third body in no way diminishes it. In fact, my torment increases, for this man is huge, and I am dry and unready. He fucks me hard, indifferent to my pain, or eager for it. I twitch beneath him as my gutted, strangling, burning bodies express their pain. I take the deepest breath I can take. The water flows up, over my mouth, my nose. My other body is just as strangled: unable to lift itself up to breathe, it gurgles softly and begins to die.

He fucks me harder, staring deep into my eyes. I know that he can see everything in those eyes: the last desperate moments of pain as I drown and strangle and die. My crucified bodies spasm and convulse horribly. I open my mouth wide, turn my head from side to side. It's unspeakable...

He sees the double death in my eyes, and pumps his load into me as he watches it. I shudder and gurgle as two of my bodies expire, and at last I am one.

I lay there in tears and in shock, unable to move, too traumatized to do anything. "That was great, baby," he whispers into my ear. "And just think, I can do that to you again anytime I want to. I just have to hook up a couple more Kerris to that beautiful positronic brain of yours, and we're ready to go again."

I'm too horrified to scream. Later I learn a new word, a word the mother-machine didn't teach me, a word for what the world outside the vat really is: hell.

 

[DaHoYoTa]

Multithreaded operation, multithreaded cruel torture, technological progress doesn't always bring good things, does it?
But I think this is good news for the perpetrators.

 

[Madiosi]

Inserted in the next Cruxer's Digest now.

 

[riwa]

Jenny's last cheer (hanging)

Note: The usual caveat applies. I made small edits to punctuation, and I broke up long paragraphs into shorter ones. I made a couple of other cosmetic changes. I assume this is a senior class (ages 18+).

The teacher smiled. "OK, everybody, please take your seats and we'll get started. I know that this biology lesson is one that a lot of you have been looking forward to. Today we'll be studying the effects of prolonged asphyxiation on a human female. I'd like to thank Jenny for volunteering to serve as the subject in today's demonstration."

"Oh, I was totally glad to do it, Miss Hutchinson!" the young blonde assured her. "Ever since I hit puberty, I've had these totally INTENSE fantasies about being hanged. It's so great that I finally get to experience this for real!"

"I'm delighted that you're so excited about it, Jenny. Now as you know, this is a demonstration of terminal asphyxia, so I have to ask you: did you get your parents to sign the permission slip I gave you?"

"Right here, Miss H!" Jenny beamed, handing over the paper.

"That's fine. Please go to the front of the class and stand underneath the noose." Jenny jumped out of her chair and bounced to Miss Hutchinson's desk.

"Now Jenny, I feel that this demonstration will work best if you're nude. Would you mind removing your clothing?" the teacher requested politely.

"No problem, Miss H!" Jenny said with a grin.

Reaching behind her back, she unzipped her red, white and blue cheerleader's uniform. She pulled it off her shoulders and down, revealing her pert, adolescent breasts. She wore no bra; she hardly needed one to support her small, firm bosom.

As she pulled the uniform down even further, her classmates got a good look at her flat, hard belly. An appreciative murmur went through the room as the students discovered that Jenny wore a small, discreet silver ornament in her pierced navel. With a shy smile, the girl continued to disrobe, drawing the uniform down past her cunt. Jenny wore no panties; she didn't believe in them. This perhaps explained why Jenny's cheerleading practice sessions drew such a large audience.

The murmurs of appreciation grew louder as Jenny revealed her cunt. It was well known on campus that Jenny had made love on only three occasions; she was reputed to have the tightest, most satisfying cunt of any cheerleader at the school. She kept her pubic hair trimmed down to a bare minimum; the tiny triangle of blonde fur pointed towards her sleek, fuckable pussy. It was an effective, thoughtful presentation; Jenny clearly had an excellent understanding of the female body's form and function.

All eyes--and especially those of the young men in the class--were on Jenny: her breasts, her belly ring, her tender cunt. The male students couldn't believe their luck: this gorgeous, popular cheerleader was frequently the subject of their masturbatory fantasies. None of them had ever dreamed they would actually get to see her naked--and not only that, they were about to watch her hang to death!

Jenny stepped gingerly out of her uniform. She was now naked except for her white knee-high socks and sneakers.

"If you don't mind, Jenny, I'd like to bind your wrists behind your back," Miss Hutchinson said.

"That's cool," Jenny agreed. "That way I can't wimp out halfway through it." She crossed her wrists behind her back, allowing the teacher to encircle them with thick hemp.

"Pay close attention here, class," Miss Hutchinson instructed. She didn't have to ask them twice.

"The noose goes over the victim's head like this." Slipping the loop over Jenny's head, she pulled the girl's shimmering blonde mane free and cinched the rope tight.

"For a slow hanging, the knot goes at the back of the neck like this. She's ready to hang. If we were using a gallows, we could drop Jenny right now. A gallows drop can be a very dramatic way to execute a woman, but there's one big problem with it. Does anyone know what that is?"

"The victim's neck often snaps," Jenny offered. "And that ends the ride before the fun has even started."

"Quite right," the teacher agreed. "And that's why we're using a simple lifting technique today. Well, are you ready, Jenny?"

"Am I ever!" Jenny beamed. "Miss H, I was born to hang!"

The teacher smiled at Jenny's enthusiasm. "OK, Jenny, that's fine. Ben, if you would, please pull Jenny onto her tiptoes."

Ben was a linebacker on the football team; he had been chosen for this duty because of his strength and stamina. He now took Jenny's noose line in his hands and began to pull, drawing the rope through its ceiling hook. Jenny's naked body squirmed as the rope tightened around her throat. Soon she was forced up onto the tips of her toes. The rubber soles of her sneakers squeaked against the classroom's tile floor.

"That's good, Ben. Hold her there. Jenny, how do you feel?" Miss Hutchinson asked gently.

"Hurts. Feels good..." Jenny gasped.

"Can you breathe OK?"

"Yeah..."

"This is the first stage of asphyxiation," the teacher explained. "The victim can still breathe fine, although there is substantial pain involved. This stage is good for torture, because it can be maintained almost indefinitely."

Miss Hutchinson picked up a long, thin pointer and began to indicate various spots on Jenny's naked body. "Note that Jenny's nipples are now quite erect," she pointed out. "And I think you can see some natural lubricant here around the edges of her vaginal lips. These are perfectly natural responses. Like Jenny, many women find that being hanged is a tremendously erotic experience. Spontaneous orgasm is not uncommon. All right, Ben, you can go ahead and take her into the air."

Jenny began to kick helplessly as her feet left the floor. "Jenny is now entering the second stage of asphyxia. If you watch her chest closely"--everyone was--"you'll see that her breathing is becoming more irregular. She can still breathe, a little, but each breath is intensely painful now, and it's only going to get worse. The convulsions she's experiencing are also quite normal. Although Jenny volunteered for this, she's now experiencing the full pain of being hanged for the first time. As the pain grows worse, she may come to regret her decision, which is why I've bound her wrists."

Jenny continued to kick and squirm for about twenty minutes. "The duration of slow hangings varies widely," the teacher explained. "It depends mainly on the stamina of the victim. As you all can clearly see, Jenny is in peak physical condition. So it's not surprising that she's lasting quite a while. Also, younger girls tend to last longer."

As she hanged, Jenny's breasts quivered as her hips rocked back and forth suggestively. "Note the sexual character of her convulsions," the teacher said softly. "Second stage asphyxia produces spasms which have a rhythm very similar to sexual intercourse. This is why rape is so popular during slow hanging sessions."

Jenny continued to dance on air for another ten minutes. She seemed to be calling on vast, limitless reserves of energy. At long last, her convulsions began to slow. Her face had turned bright red. Finally she stopped moving altogether. She now hung limp from her noose.

"Third stage," the teacher noted. "This is perhaps the most beautiful stage, although unfortunately it doesn't last long. The victim's throat has now locked, making breathing quite impossible. She is utterly strangled, and death is imminent. It is at this moment, as their mortality looms before them, that most young girls long desperately to live. However much she might have wanted to hang at the beginning, the victim of third stage asphyxia almost always changes her mind. A beautiful, popular young woman like Jenny is especially susceptible to second thoughts at this point. What do you say, Jenny? Would you like us to let you down now?"

Through a haze of pain, Jenny managed to nod her head vigorously up and down, twice. Miss Hutchinson chuckled. "Jenny is about to learn a very important lesson, class. Once the rope goes around your wrists and throat, it's over. You can't expect mercy from your hangman, and it would be wrong for me to show any here. Hold her there, Ben. She's almost done."

Jenny's eyes grew wide in horror as she realized that Miss Hutchinson was about to let her die. Her beautiful body began to convulse in desperate agony. Soft, moist gagging sounds escaped from her throat. She started to move again, twitching her way towards death.

"Fourth stage: terminal asphyxia. The lack of movement characteristic of the third stage now gives way to dramatic death throes. You should also expect the victim's bladder to release at this point."

As if on cue, warm piss flowed down Jenny's thighs, splattering loudly on the cold, tile floor. Jenny arched her back, thrusting her small, proud breasts high. One final, spectacular spasm wracked her from head to toe. Again she went limp, this time for good. Her dead, green eyes stared blankly into space.

"Thank you, Ben," the teacher said. "You can let her down now. I'd like to thank Jenny again for her participation in today's lesson. Class dismissed."

Prequel to https://www.cruxforums.com/xf/threads/dancing-on-the-cross-by-chez-marquis.10969/ Dancing on the Cross. C. In this sequel, young Kelli helps Miss Hutchinson demonstrate the effects of crucifixion.

 

[riwa]

Tree of Shame

Twisting and moaning, Xena works her way back to consciousness. She remembers dimly: there was a fight; there were too many of them; she fought bravely, but to no avail. One of them struck her skull with the flat of his blade.

Her memories are fragmented after that. She remembers being bound, slung over the back of a horse. She remembers the men talking amongst themselves as they rode: something about a Tree of Shame. But what could that mean?

The realizations hit her, one after the other, each worse than the last. She can't move her arms or legs. She feels the sun on her skin, on all of her skin. She's naked!

She can't move her limbs because they are bound, tightly bound, to a large cross which must surely be the Tree of Shame. The sun is hot; the land is dry; the men are gone. They have left her to die here, knowing that she is a warrior princess, knowing that she will not die quickly, or easily.

She tests her bonds, her wiry muscles rippling as she strains against the tight leather cords which bind her to the cross. The slender thongs hold firm. Her massive round tits bounce exquisitely. Her supple, fluid black mane flows about her bosom as she twists and struggles.

There’s one thing more. She feels a sharp, biting pain between her legs, in that special sacred place for which she has no name. It is a stabbing, horrific pain, razor-sharp teeth biting into her womanhood.

She tries to recall the design of the Roman cross. Yes, there is that part they call the sedulum, the seat, where the victim's crotch rests. But on this particular cross, the sedulum is made of serrated iron: an extra cruelty, just for her. If she moves her pelvis at all, even just a little bit, the vicious teeth bite into her tenderness, and that is almost more than she can bear...

Still, she can't remain where she is, not for long. That is the point of crucifixion, after all. It places the victim in a position where breathing becomes first difficult, then painful, and eventually impossible.

Xena feels this in her chest, beneath her monumental flesh spheres. She feels the horrible aching in her increasingly desperate lungs. She feels the growing tightness in her muscles. Each breath is harder than the last, and more painful, for that is the design...

At last she can take no more. She knows what she must do. She draws the deepest breath she can manage, under the circumstances. She flexes her biceps, and lifts herself up off the sedulum.

Her relief is immediate. She can breathe more freely now, and her breasts rise and fall rapidly as she fills and empties her hungry lungs. Better still, she is free of the sharp-toothed sedulum; the pain between her legs quickly fades.

Xena holds herself up for quite a while. She is very strong; it's easy for her. But as the minutes drag on, she feels a growing sense of unease. And now she sees the true cruelty of the Tree.

She can stay up for quite a while, but not forever. She must come down eventually. And when she does, the sedulum awaits.

She waits until her muscles are practically screaming at her. Then, reluctantly, she lowers herself onto the iron teeth. She tries to do it as gently as possible, but the teeth still bite. She whimpers as they dig into her flesh, and curses herself for her weakness.

And now it begins again: the agonizingly slow suffocation, each breath just slightly more difficult than the last, as her respiratory muscles grow weary once more. This is followed by the all-too-short respite, as she lifts herself up, the brief beautiful moment when breathing is actually possible. And then she is back down, iron slicing into her bloody womanhood as her arm muscles rest and prepare for the next session.

It goes on like this all day. The sun is merciless, hot and sadistic. It beats down on her like a cruel master, making her sweat, punishing her. She is hungry, and very, very thirsty. But there is no food or water. There is only pain.

The sun sets, bringing some respite from the heat. But she gets no rest. How can she sleep, when she must continually lift herself up to breathe? And so she dances through the endless hours of the night, up and down, up and down, in a grim parody of sex.

It is a broken and humbled Xena who greets the sunrise. Now her ordeal begins in earnest. The sun beats down on flesh which is already burnt.

She wants to cry, but she is too dehydrated; she has no tears. Proud, haughty Xena is almost out of strength. She has been on the Tree of Shame for a full day.

It takes everything she has now just to lift herself up for a few quick, meager breaths. And then she is back down, onto a sedulum which has already cut her to ribbons, down to the place where breathing is an idle fantasy, a dream of days gone by.

This is how Xena approaches her death: gradually, one step at a time, over a period of hours. She fights through the morning and into the afternoon. The pain she feels is astonishing.

It is everywhere: in her wrists where the leather bites; in her arms, which scream exhaustion; in her crotch, ravaged by the iron-toothed sedulum; and above all, in her lungs, always empty, always starving. And yet it is so hard to die.

She cannot do it, not as long as she has the tiniest bit of energy left, as long as she has any fight in her at all. She cannot. They know that, these men who have put her here. They know that she will die only when there are no other options.

At last, that moment comes. She reaches a point where she tries to lift her body up and--to her astonishment and infinite shame--fails. Her strength is spent. She cannot save herself. She cannot breathe. She is finished.

She opens her mouth and emits a silent scream, despair flowing through her body as her lungs rebel and rupture. Conquered, brutalized, utterly humiliated and perfectly dominated, Xena shudders and twitches and, finally, expires.

 

[thecuriousone]

You post great stories from chez marquis, but please don't forget to post your own stories. You have many jewels among your stories.

 

[Naraku]

A blast from the past.
I don't recall where I first encountered this story, but I'm pretty sure it was accompanied by this illustration:

 

[Loinclothslave]

You post great stories from chez marquis, but please don't forget to post your own stories. You have many jewels among your stories.

I second this, love your stories too, @riwa

But it was a fun story from Marquis too

A bit of a waste though, Jenny could have been used to demonstrate penetration techniques by the boys during stage 2, I doubt they needed much time. The line breaker should have been allowed to keep her as his pet after stage 3…

 

[Loinclothslave]

I do love the Xena trope, although wish Gabriella was beside her, she’s my favorite of the two

But don’t get me wrong, this was compelling

 

[Loinclothslave]

Thank You @riwa for linking this to the prequel, I’d missed this the first time around but really appreciated reading both and in tge correct order…. I was surprised Kelli didn’t complain about not being whipped before the nails but Paul coming to the rescue was perfect!

 

[DaHoYoTa]

Shame, yeah, of course, that's why we chose this tree

 

[riwa]

In the Yard


Real smart, riwa... posting this AFTER you just updated your index. And it's too big to post all at once. So I'll post it in two parts. The usual caveat of tweaking spelling, paragraph sizes and punctuation still apply.

He stares deep into my terrorized eyes. He stares into them for quite some time as I suffer in the tank. This horrible glass sarcophagus knows my body by now, knows it very well.

My tortured lungs scream and protest beneath my heaving breasts. This is the part where the pain is greatest. I can't possibly hold my breath any longer!

The air forces its way out, out of my lungs, out of my mouth, into the water. Bright bubbles of nearly pure carbon dioxide fill the water. As I exhale, I pray that this will be the last time. I pray that when I inhale, I will fill my lungs with water and so escape.

But the machine is not that merciful. As I exhale, hidden pumps whir to life, draining the tank. The pumps work quickly.

By the time I inhale, the water has fallen below my nostrils. I breathe deeply, hungrily. I hold the breath, savoring it.

I have perhaps thirty seconds of breathing time. And then I will be under again, for as long as my lungs hold out.

Ah, but this time, perhaps, will be different after all. This time he opens the full-length glass door of the tank. I stare up at him without comprehension.

I have been in the tank for...I don't know how long I have been in the tank. How many cycles? Endless hours of smothering.

I have spent...days, perhaps, asphyxiating. I have not slept. I have not eaten.

But I am not thirsty. For there is always plenty of water. I had imagined he might let me starve to death in here.

I have trouble remembering how to speak as he lifts me out of the tank. I'm not sure I'm entirely sane. "No...more?" I finally manage.

He smiles. "No more. It's time, Sarah."

"Time?"

"To die."

"Oh."

Part of me wants to drop down onto my knees and thank him. Another part is terrified, even now, of death. And so I simply stand there, wet, bedraggled, pathetic.

What a sight I must be! An emaciated blonde in a soaking wet, translucent blue wrap. With my trembling lips and my crazed blue eyes. Standing there shivering, aware of his eyes on my big, round breasts.

"All right. Take your wrap off."

I hasten to comply, all too aware that he could make my death anything from relatively merciful to unbearably endless. But my hands fumble with the wet, clinging fabric. I cry softly, afraid that he will punish me for my clumsiness.

He doesn't seem to notice. He is busy preparing the rope.

When I finally get the wrap off of my wet, quivering body, he stands behind me, ready to bind my wrists. The rope is very tight. He moves around in front of me and smiles.

I feel his eyes on my body: on my generous round C-cup breasts, on my gaunt, lean midriff. He has not raped me yet. But I am confident that he will, sometime before I die.

And so begins my ending. He leads me out of the Controlled Drowning Facility, past the endless rows of tanks, where nearly naked girls dream of air and food.

I am glad to leave that place. But when I see that our destination is the Cross Yard next door, I break down sobbing like a little girl.

"Not that," I beg. "Please. Take me back to the tank, let me die underwater! You'd like that, wouldn't you? Wouldn't that be a nice sexy death for you to watch? Oh, please, please, don't nail me up!"

The only effect which my pleas have upon him is that they create a notable stiffness in his cock. This is the relentless inverse logic of the torturer-tortured dialectic. The more I beg him to stop, the more he longs to continue.

He directs me to join a group of three other bound, naked, shivering girls. They are all brunettes. It makes me fear that I will be singled out for special treatment.

The three brunettes look all too much like backup singers for the crucifixion of a pain-crazed blonde. And yet they are known to me. I spot Natalie, young and skinny and terrified. There is Neve, more voluptuous but just as scared. And I see Rachel, her hard compact body ready for torture.

We stand there together in front of the Yard. We're all cold, naked, lost in horror. He's been torturing us for days.

Now our endings are finally at hand. But we don't know whether to be thankful or frightened. We stand there trembling as we share the companionship of the damned.

He leads us into the yard and begins to nail us. He does Natalie first, presumably because she is the youngest among us, just barely eighteen. The rest of us have to watch, sobbing, as he binds the skinny teen's wrists to the big rectangular beam.

We have to watch as he places the spike against her arm, lifts the huge wooden mallet and brings it down onto the head of the nail. The sounds poor Natalie makes as the nail goes through her wrist... I have never heard a human being make such sounds. And the sounds grow even more inhuman as he nails her other wrist.

She passes out briefly as he lifts the beam off the ground. For that is when all her weight comes down onto the nails in her wrists. But she wakes up as he mounts the crossbeam on the vertical pole. And then she falls immediately into the rhythm of the crucifixion.

We cry softly as we watch Natalie's ordeal. Her small, hard breasts tremble as she struggles to breathe. Her face starts to turn blue. She is gagging, drooling, asphyxiating on the cross.

At last, she musters the courage to pull herself up. She howls as she pulls against the nails in her wrists. But she does manage to lift her lean young body up, far enough to draw a few precious breaths. And then she is back down again, strangling, suffering.

Rachel is next, for she is the second youngest. We are familiar with the process now: the binding of the wrists, the positioning of the nails, the swinging of the mallet. But it is no easier to watch the second time.

He times Rachel's crucifixion carefully. Knowing that she will begin down, he waits until Natalie pulls herself up for a breathing session. Then he mounts Rachel's crossbeam.

The two girls are thus crucified out of synch. When one is up and breathing, the other is down and strangling. Up and down they go, fucking their invisible lovers.

He nails Neve, and synchs her with Natalie. Neve's full, round breasts and womanly hips contrast nicely with Natalie's hard, lean, adolescent body.

To be concluded

 

[thecuriousone]

Riwa you picked a story that is just as excellent as your own stories.

 

[riwa]

Now it is my turn. And right away, I can tell that there is, as I feared, something different about my torture. He is paying special attention to me.

The way he binds my wrists to the crossbeam is the same. But then he takes out a whip. And--oh, Jesus--it's not just any whip. This is a weighted flail. The thick leather strands of this whip terminate in heavy steel tips.

I howl like a banshee as he starts in on me. He whips my breasts first, the stiff leather leaving bright red lines on my pale, tender flesh as the heavy steel tips dig deeper, more serious wounds. He is not at all gentle.

He cuts me very badly, letting the strokes fall down on me like rain. I sob helplessly as he lacerates my torso. Nor does he ignore my taut midriff, or my thighs. He is very thorough.

Where the whip kisses my skin, it raises the flesh, leaving great pink ridges all up and down my body. I would be disfigured for life, I think, if I survived.

As savagely intense as the whipping is, it is nothing next to what I feel as the cold hard steel slips between the twin bones of my forearm. The pain is a kind of blinding hot whiteness. I feel it everywhere, right down to the core of my being.

I hardly even notice, at first, that he is raping me. But then he starts to fuck me hard, brutally hard. I cannot help but move in response to this ruthless sexual onslaught, and as I move, the spikes rub against my bones. That I notice.

I was right. It was me he wanted all along, my skinny, well-breasted blonde body, ripe with raw whipping sores, freshly crucified and ready for violation. He uses me ruthlessly.

His main concern appears to be the maximization of my suffering. His own pleasure is strictly secondary. He takes his pleasure from the thought that he is hurting me with his cock.

The cock is just one more torture instrument to him--and an effective one, I have to admit. Broken, I cry and sob like the little girl I have become as he savages me. In some ways, the rape is even worse than the whipping.

To have these unwanted cocks--two of steel, one of flesh--INSIDE MY BODY, no escape from their penetration, is almost more than I can bear. I whimper as he thrusts and thrusts and finally comes into me.

I continue to cry as he lifts my crossbeam up and mounts it on its post. The pain is quite literally blinding, especially when he cuts away the rope which holds my wrists to the wood. Now the nails alone hold me in place.

The slightest motion on my part sets steel against bone. It sends me into paroxysms of pain--which in turn means more movement, and even more pain. It's a vicious cycle, one which I don't suppose I shall escape in this lifetime.

For some minutes, I see nothing but white. That is the way I visualize the pain: something so pure that it has no color at all. Slowly I regain my senses.

As I do so, I realize that I am strangling. But of course: that's how crucifixion works. Gradually it becomes harder and harder for me to breathe.

The panic in my lungs grows. My body instinctively wants to lift itself up. It seeks a position in which respiration will be possible once more.

But I resist, knowing the pain that such a move will bring. Cruel, cruel cross, that would make me prefer slow asphyxiation. But what am I to do? I know what the alternative is, and I cannot bear it.

Eventually, of course, the choice is made for me. There comes a time when I can no longer breathe at all. And now my body will not obey my commands.

It pulls itself up by the wrists. I struggle to fill my lungs as sharp searing pain shoots from my wrists through my arms into my shoulders. I must fight to remain conscious in the face of this staggering agony. For if I pass out, I shall surely strangle. I manage to gulp down a few precious lungfuls of air before lowering my body once more.

He walks among us as we suffer, and adds to our pain. He leaves Natalie alone. Perhaps for this terrified, tortured teen, crucifixion alone is sufficient.

Rachel tastes his whip. I hear her screams as the weighted flail comes down across her bare breasts. I close my eyes and pray for her. I have felt the kiss of that whip, and I know what she is experiencing.

Neve, whose cross is right next to mine, gets the whip, along with a taste of the prod. The poor, tormented girl howls desperately as he lashes her voluminous breasts.

On top of this, she must endure the most ruthless imaginable electric shocks. He thrusts the prongs of the prod into her tit meat, so that the electric fire arcs around her nipples. And yes, he fucks her with it as well.

He does nothing to me, at first. This is the pattern. Nothing for Natalie or for me--nothing, that is, except the endless up and down of the crucifixion, the agony of burning bursting lungs oscillating with the staggering stunning pain of punctured wrists.

The whip for Rachel, the whip and the prod for poor Neve. But what does it mean? Am I to be spared additional tortures?

No. Of course not. He is merely toying with me.

I hear a horrified gurgling sound, worse than anything I've heard so far. I manage to turn my head in time to see Natalie's purple-faced form shiver and shudder its way through some remarkable death throes. Her tiny breasts tremble.

Warm piss splatters on the ground beneath her cross. She's finished: strangled to death, because she couldn't find the strength to pull herself up any more. If she is gone, we cannot be too far behind.

He turns to me now, with his prod. He casts aside the whip, for I have tasted that tool already, and it is perhaps not sufficiently cruel. He replaces it with a straight razor, which he opens with sadistic glee.

My skin unfolds before his razor like a well-crafted love letter. I think I am screaming. But I cannot be certain.

I am quite incapable, now, of experiencing anything but pain. Wherever his blade touches me, there is instant agony. He slices open my breasts, my belly, my thighs.

The razor runs along the most tender, sensitive parts of my body, kissing, cutting, hurting. He is a genius with the blade. He is ruining my body, mutilating me, giving me more pain than I have ever known before. And yet he will not allow me to bleed out. He always has that much restraint.

He knows when to switch to the prod. I gurgle wetly as he presses the steel shaft into what's left of my breast. My contortions surely increase the pain which I feel in my wrists. I am incapable of distinguishing individual agonies at this point. There is only Pain.

I am dimly aware that Rachel is dying. Yes, those are the same sounds that Natalie made, towards the end. I can almost feel this death, the power of it, the energy.

It's overwhelming. There is so much violence in this Yard, so much pain and carnage. I'm drowning in it.

That's when the prod finds my pussy. Somehow I remain conscious, as the wicked lightning flows into my cunt and into my spine and into my brain. I'm shuddering, drooling, foaming at the mouth.

Was I once human? No matter. What I am now is a machine for experiencing pain.
He gives me another shot to each nipple, and one more to my clit, and then it's back to the blade.

Of course, I am still deeply crucified. And so I must somehow match the careful up and down of my breathing with the rhythm of his unrelentingly cruel blade and prod.

For a while, I manage it. But then he takes my nipples, in a furious orgy of destruction, severing them both in the space of a minute, leaving only ragged red holes. That's when Neve dies.

I hear her go, and something in her voice tells me she is grateful. I don't blame her. I long now for the death which must surely be near.

He shocks my nipple holes. I am down when he does that. And so, I have no air to scream.

I remain silent, through the single worst experience of my life. Though I am desperately strangled, I stay down, trying to die. Please, let it end here; surely there is no more pain left for me to feel.

Wrong.

He razors off my clit, stealing my womanhood with a single stroke. Only then, am I allowed to die. Even so, I must be in as much pain as possible when I go.

And so he thrusts the prod into me, its twin poles embedding themselves in my cervix. He gives me the full current. My pussy, which knows no better, instinctively grasps the prod and holds it tight.

This is how I die: at the absolute height of my agony, in about as much pain as a woman can feel. I am no longer strong enough to pull myself up. And so, my lungs twist and tear and die beneath my ruined breasts.

Meanwhile my cunt fills with vicious current. I leap and dance on the cross like a marionette as he prod-fucks me.

My tongue rolls out of my mouth. I stare at him, astonished at the magnitude of his evil. Then my eyes roll up into the back of my skull.

Wrists and lungs, breasts and cunt. There is only pain, pure and unstoppable. The only way out is to abandon myself to it.

I close my eyes, relax, and give in. I welcome the blissful darkness which closes in around me. It gives me relief at long last.

 

[thecuriousone]

Cruel, absolutely cruel. Just had to save a copy for future reading.

 

[Loinclothslave]

Such cruel brutality, I am there, suffering and surrendering at last… only terrible pain before the final darkness…

 

[ava crux]

love that story, very detailed.

 

[vadim69]

Interview with the Warden

Q: We're here with Linda Darrow, who is widely regarded to be the world's foremost expert on the electrocution of women's bodies. In her capacity as Warden of the Women's Federal Correctional Facility at Boulder, Colorado, Dr. Darrow has personally overseen more than a thousand executions. Dr. Darrow, it's a real pleasure to have you on the show today.


A: Thank you, Bob. I'm happy to be here.



Q: Dr. Darrow, perhaps you could begin by telling our viewers just what happens to a prisoner as she is prepared for execution.



A: Certainly, Bob. First, the prisoner is stripped down to her bra and panties. This makes it easier to apply the electrodes. There is also some danger that the prisoner's clothes might catch fire during an electrocution, so we prefer to remove all but that modicum of clothing which modesty demands.



Q: Still, your prisoners must feel quite vulnerable when they're stripped down to their underwear.



A: I'm sure they do, but after all, these women are criminals who are about to be executed. Our main concern is not for their comfort.



Q: No, of course not. Please continue.



A: Next the prisoner's hair is removed.



Q: Her head is shaved?



A: Yes, and the pubic region as well. We remove all of her body hair.



Q: That's interesting. Why remove the pubic hair?



A: Again, we're trying to minimize the fire danger. Hair is quite flammable, you know.



Q: Yes, certainly. So I take it that the prisoner's vagina would have to be exposed during the shaving process.



A: Naturally. Her panties are replaced once the shaving is complete.



Q: What about your guards? Do they find it difficult to...control themselves during these preparations?



A: Well, yes, that's a bit of a problem sometimes. The average age of our Death Row prisoners is nineteen, and many of them are quite lovely. It's easy to become aroused during the preparation process, or during the execution itself. I have to admit, it's happened to me.



Q: Really?



A: Well, certainly. I hope your viewers won't be shocked to hear me admit that I sometimes become aroused at the sight of a beautiful, scantily clad young woman squirming in an electric chair. What kind of woman would I be if that sort of thing had no effect on me at all? I'd hate to think of myself as that kind of a cold-hearted bureaucrat.



Q: Well, I'm sure my viewers don't see you that way, and I know that I certainly don't. It's just refreshing to hear you speak so frankly about your sexuality. Many professional women don't feel comfortable discussing such things.



A: Well, I gave up being ashamed of myself a long time ago. I'm a sexual woman. I'm a confirmed lesbian. And in my work I often encounter gorgeous young women wearing nothing but undergarments. So yes, it has an effect on me. I never let it interfere with my work, of course. Nor do I make any advances towards the prisoners. That would be entirely inappropriate. I prepare them for execution. I watch them die. Then I go home to my lover. And I encourage my guards to do the same. I try to set a good example for them.



Q: Let's get back to the execution process. After the prisoner has been shaved, what happens next?



A: Now she's ready to be strapped into the chair. Our electric chair follows the standard design: it's made of slabs of solid oak. Quite a lovely piece of furniture, actually. The prisoner is secured by a number of thick leather straps: one at each ankle, one at each wrist, and one at the throat. Then the electrodes are attached. I always do this part myself; it's very important that they be attached correctly. One electrode goes on the prisoner's shaven head. The other is affixed to the inner thigh, near the vagina. We use a quick-setting industrial glue to affix the electrodes. Once the electrodes are in place, the prisoner is allowed to record a final statement.



Q: What sorts of things do they generally say in these statements?



A: Oh, many of them want to say goodbye to their loved ones. The girls often get quite emotional. Some break down into tears. Many of them beg for their lives. It's quite pathetic, really. Young women should try to die with dignity.



Q: Quite so. What happens next?



A: If the girl is religious, there may be some ceremony. The prisoner is almost ready for execution at this point. The electric chair is operated from a control panel which is kept locked; I have the only key. During an execution, I unlock the panel. I throw a switch to charge the chair's capacitors. This takes about two minutes. Then I press the kill button, sending what is hopefully a lethal jolt of electricity into the prisoner's body.



Q: Why do you say "hopefully?"



A: Well, the first jolt isn't always enough to do the job. As I mentioned, most of our prisoners are quite young. They're generally healthy and they occasionally have astonishing constitutions. Sometimes a strong young girl can take a few shocks before she succumbs. And of course, there's a two minute wait between each shock, while the chair's capacitors recharge. So the prisoner might live for about ten minutes.



Q: And would she be in a great deal of pain during this time?



A: Oh, yes. The first shock cripples her; she never recovers from it. She'll be in agony until the subsequent shocks finish her. It's unfortunate, but again, we have to remember that these girls are criminals. They're being electrocuted for a reason.



Q: Yes, of course. You know, this fascinates me. I always thought that electrocution was a relatively quick, merciful form of execution. It seems that's not the case.



A: Well, again, it depends on the girl. Most die from the first shock.



Q: What's the longest execution you've ever had to perform?



A: I do remember one that I did a couple of years back. Her name was Robin, I believe. Lovely young woman. She was in her early twenties, as I recall. She had short, rather sassy blonde hair--all of it ended up on the floor of her cell, of course. She was very thin, with small, hard, round breasts. She had nicely toned abdominal muscles, I do remember that. She really was in great shape. We stripped and shaved her, gave her back her panties, strapped her into the chair. She was fighting the whole time, though of course there was no escape for her. She kept struggling, straining against the leather straps, as if she could snap them through sheer force of will! It was quite endearing, really. I had never seen anyone go to the chair so full of life. I actually had trouble getting the electrodes onto her. She just wouldn't hold still! But of course, with the straps in place, she couldn't move much. So I did manage to get the electrodes into place on her thigh and skull. Then we let her record her statement. And this I remember clearly. She had been crying; her face was wet with tears. But as soon as we switched on the camera, she stared right into it with these crystal-clear blue eyes and said in a strong voice, 'My name is Robin and I am innocent. You are about to electrocute an innocent woman.' That's all she said. I didn't know quite what to make of that. But I didn't want to show any doubt in front of the guards. So I went quickly to the control panel, unlocked it and charged the capacitors. Then I pushed the kill button, sending the first jolt into her tense young body."



Q: I gather this didn't kill her?



A: Oh, my, no! She took the jolt, and her nubile young body twitched and convulsed as if it was about to jump out of the chair! For a moment I wondered if the leather straps would hold her. But of course they did. She began to howl and scream in pain, as women often do after the first shock. Her cries sounded inhuman; I had to remind myself that it was a woman in the chair, and not some kind of beast. I charged the capacitors for another jolt and delivered it to her. Once again she jumped and twisted, but again she survived. The look on her face was incredible: pure pain, as if I had been torturing her steadily for a year. I gave her another jolt, and another. We began to smell burning meat. But she was still alive, and not only that, she was conscious. Those icy blue eyes were filled with agony. I kept applying the shocks. I gave her...about five more, I think. Her suffering must have been incredible. There was now smoke rising from her body. I was afraid she'd burst into flames, and yet she was still completely aware of what was happening to her! Her strength was incredible. Finally I gave her one last shock. Her mouth twisted into a grotesque, impossible shape as she screamed her last scream. Her eyes glazed over. Her tongue rolled out of her mouth. Her body was wracked with the most amazing spasms and convulsions. She arched her back, thrusting her breasts up. I could see how hard her nipples were, even through her bra. The shocks had made them hard. There was a dark stain on her panties; she had lost control of her bladder. She made a thick gurgling sound; years of experience told me it was her death rattle. And at last she collapsed in the chair, her head tilted to one side at an unlikely angle, her eyes wide open and staring at nothing, her tongue hanging out of her mouth. It had taken her nearly half an hour to die.



Q: Amazing! This girl sounds almost superhuman.



A: Well, not quite. You see, after the execution, I ordered the chair inspected, fearing some malfunction. I mean, even the strongest girl shouldn't be able to last half an hour in the electric chair.



Q: No, certainly not. So what did you find?



A: As I had suspected, one of the chair's two capacitors had burned out.



Q: How unfortunate for young Robin!



A: Yes, it was really quite sad. As I recall, her conviction was overturned on appeal shortly after her execution. She had been telling the truth when she recorded her final statement; she really was innocent.



Q: Well, the system isn't perfect, after all. These things happen.



A: Yes, I'm afraid so. It's a small price to pay for law and order, after all.



Q: Indeed. Well, let me thank you again, Dr. Darrow, for joining us today. I'm sure that all of our female viewers will be glad to know that they'll have a talented, professional executioner such as yourself if they should ever run afoul of the law.



A: Thank you very much, Bob.