The Executioner's Girl

Chapter 2

We play at holding them at knife point, tying them down and forcing them to f**k us, and then “robbing” them of our due fee for the services rendered. They love it right up to the point where they realize that we have actually taken them for everything and then disappeared, or when we slit their purse strings and then slit their necks. Our escape is quick since we have already removed our skirts and can therefore run unhindered in our boots to where our mounts are tied and waiting. We have to be quick because if we were to be captured we would be hanged within the week.

I grind rather than bounce on my man, sensing that he is drawing near to a finish, and I do not want to bring him off too long before his companion manages to blow. She is doing her best but he is big and needs a lot of sucking. I feel my heart skip at the sight of her doing what she does best. I feel my anus tingle and I want her there. That is her special place, where the boys don’t go. I know that when we get home (or if our excitement becomes too much perhaps even on the way through the woods to get there) I will get on my hands and knees and she will lick my little hole, wet and slow and deep, while I grasp and pinch my throbbing bud. Then we will kiss and hold each other all night because we are in love. Her man is still rock hard and getting every bit of his money’s worth. She is still holding his arse hard, her splayed fingers pressing into the cheeks and pulling them open as she jams his meat into her mouth. I can see his arse hole and know just what to do. I spit on my fingers and reach over with my free hand and work first one and then two inside him. He grunts, half in objection, half in delight. I carry on regardless, thrusting further inside until I am up to my knuckles. He roars out and bucks against my hand.

I ride my boy harder, in case he has any objections to my helping his friend. He has his eyes closed and the toothless grin still plastered across his ugly face. I think I might just kill him anyway. The other one is still steadfastly holding onto his load despite my fingers stroking inside him. She is tiring rapidly now but knows that I am trying to help her. I feel her fingers there too, her warm palm sliding down the back of my hand, her digits working an opening above mine and burrowing into his backside. He yelps in panic, the new invasion stretching and hurting him despite the wave of pleasure. He curses us but cannot quite manage to beseech us to stop. I see him pull on the bonds at his wrist but to my relief they only tighten and hold him more securely. Through instinct he reaches back with his other arm, trying pitifully to stop our assault upon his body. But no matter how much he leans and twists, the stump just waggles uselessly above his arse, far from our wriggling fingers. She is fully inside him now, two digits all the way up his rectum and bouncing against his inner gland. Her other fingers close over the back of my hand and squeeze it gently, a sign of comfort and collusion, a sign that our rough arse teasing is finally about to bring the desired result.

He is yelling out and squirming and buckling at the knees but his balls eventually tighten and send the spunk shooting out into her mouth. She squeals as the thick wads fill her but she gamely holds on and sucks so that she can drain every last ounce of energy from his trembling legs. Her eyes spring open as more salty waves hit her throat and I see those distinctive, beautiful blue irises at last. I know her and I’m saying it over and over. I don’t mean I know her in this memory, I mean I know her now, in this life.

Who is it? I can hear Harvey saying, somewhere in the background of my thoughts, tell me who she is. It is hard to be absolutely sure because her face is distended by the huge spunking c**k, but those eyes are surely unmistakable.

“It’s her,” I say. “It’s Ariadne!”

I can feel myself coming back up, rising back to full consciousness, the images evaporating as he speaks.

“And you know this Ariadne now?” he is asking, suddenly clearer.

“Yes–she goes to the same clubs that I go to. She is a Domme Mistress just like me. She’s the one I want more than anyone, but she won’t ever let me have her.”

I am now fully awake again and realizing what I have said. The pictures in my head have cleared and I am blinking away with Harvey peering through his steel-rimmed spectacles right back at me. I expected to find him c**k-in-hand, tugging furiously. He isn’t, although his breathing is erratic and the sweat beads are now trickling down the side of his face. He looks strained, as if the swelling in his trousers has become too much to bear. He is bent forward and leaning toward me, lapping up each new privacy that I impart.

And now he knows my biggest secret of all.

***

I go to this man on a fortnightly basis and since my last visit I have been urgently counting down the days until now. There is something about the calmness of him or his room that draws me in. Plus, as my dreams become ever more frequent, there is a desire to unearth this sprite that lies inside me before I am consumed by it. He styles himself Doctor Harvey but I always ignore the title and refer to him by his surname alone. I know this lack of respect irks and titillates him in equal measure. It is certainly not a qualification that is required in order to practise hypnotherapy and I have always suspected him of being a disgraced former surgeon, struck off for some indiscretion with a female patient. He is not the kind of person I would choose to analyse me and yet I find it becoming increasingly essential that he believes that the memories I relate to him are real and not just mere fantasies with some added historical “facts” furnished by films and books. I want to believe that there is a reason beyond my own nature as to why I behave like I do. I want to think that I am capable of true kindness and affection, of giving my heart to another, and that the reason I never have is not just down to some twisted flaw in my character. If I can blame some buried psychology or even some devil inside me then I will, and if he can cure me of it then so much the better.

It is hard to deduce exactly what secrets Harvey has wheedled out of me but one thing he knows for sure is that I am not an eighteenth century w***e-c*m-murderess, despite my appearance within the dreams. In essence, these dreams could just be a jumble of thoughts and contexts. Of taking people I know and changing them slightly to appear as some distant relative from yesteryear. But the murdering highway-w***e isn’t me. I mean it is me in that I see through their eyes and have an innate knowledge of them down to their thoughts and emotions, but physically it isn’t me. For a start, I do not have blonde curls; my hair is sleek, jet-black and hangs down to my backside. Nor are my t**s big, ripe and bouncy. They are in fact small and firm: a handful for a petite slave, but no more. And my n*****s are far from being a rosy spread. They are actually tiny tic-tac teats that go rock hard when aroused, the areolas so pale that they are barely discernible from the surrounding skin. If I chose to, and I often do, I can conceal all beneath little spangly pasties with a diameter no greater than a chocolate button. And I don’t have a pock-marked face. My skin here and pretty much everywhere is blemish-free, smooth and pale. My looks are irresistible–a fact ascertained by a great many, not just by me. Why then do I understand and identify with the essence of the person in my dreams, when it clearly isn’t me?

That smarmy bastard Harvey, he is the absolute epitome of the kind of snivelling sissy I have been surrounded by all my life. The type that lust after you openly and assume that because you are so far off limits it is somehow acceptable to not even wait for you to leave before filling their mind with dirty thoughts of you. Have you any idea how insulting it is to be talking to some podgy, drooling, cowering wimp and to see in his eyes that even while you speak he is dreaming of you forcing him down and pissing on his ugly face? Is it any surprise that I love to torture men’s piffling pricks? Yes–teasing: that’s my game. I do like to make men pay in pain for their sins and most of all I like to rob their bulging balls of the release they crave, to build the tension like a trapped volcano until they are jabbering their pleas to be allowed to let go, to push their straining c***s and churning bollocks past the point of pleasure so that even if I do deign to let them come the release is a jerking wrench, a spattering shower that rips their insides out. The only downside is that I cannot eradicate the sneaking suspicion that for all my cruelty they actually still adore me for it, because these are the kind of dismal worms it is my misfortune to attract.

Or men like my s**t of an uncle, so arrogant and in love with themselves that they consider all women to be their playthings, sent here for them to do with as they please. Such men are always blind to their shortcomings and conversely convinced that the dangly jumble of smelly, dribbling flesh between their legs gives them inherent and unquestionable superiority. When I was eighteen, at a family party, I found myself cornered by my drunken uncle, who had always been fond of casting me leering looks, even when I was just in my young teens. That night he seemed to believe that now I had come of age I would find him irresistible. He fumbled his way through a proposal which amounted to him honouring me with his prick. My reply was succinct: I told him to go f**k himself. I tried to escape his sneering grin but dropped my bag as I pushed past. As I bent to retrieve it, his hand went up my skirt and grabbed my stuck-out bottom, his thick fingers sliding into my open crack and somehow finding their way under the string of my thong so that one blunt, intruding fingertip lodged in the centre of my sweat-damp anus. I bucked and wiggled and even yelped but my panicked movements only saw me involuntarily push back against him and allow his fingertip to worm maybe half an inch inside me. I struggled against his strength and managed to straighten up and pull away, but not before he had wiggled his fingertip rapidly inside my bum. It was a teasing victory for him and one I’m sure he thought I also enjoyed. I stormed off, turning as I went through the doorway to show my bitter contempt. He just grinned, still so sure I wanted him. As I snarled curses, he smiled even more broadly. He then slowly raised his hand to his face, extended his middle finger beneath his nose, and sniffed it.

I still curse myself daily that the shock of his invasion had me skittering away without venting my full fury on him. I picture his hateful leer often. When I decided to convert my basement into a Scold Room, it was actually pretty girls I envisaged bringing there. In my mind’s eye were succulent females when I ordered the cruciform whipping post and spanking stools, the long-tailed whips, crops and clamps. But it was his face I pictured when I bought the harsh bar-gags and the dog collar with the word ‘CUNT’ in chrome studs upon it. When I use one of my thin, pernicious canes to cut the flesh of some tied-up, snivelling wuss, when I have my girl slaves spit or even worse onto their crumpled, pathetic face, it is him that I picture. I even commissioned some special garden shears with shining, patent leather black handles and super-sharp, vivid gleaming steel blades, which I open around the stiff member of my bound victim for long minutes at a time, all the while threatening to close them for one swift, deadly amputation. As they reason and plead and pray, it is HIM I see.