The Executioner's Girl

by Willow Sears

  The Executioner’s Girl

  By Willow Sears

  ISBN 13: 978-1-935897-94-1

  A Pink Flamingo Ebook Publication

  Copyright © 2011, All rights reserved

  With the exception of quotes used in reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, by any means, including mechanical, electronic, photocopying recording or otherwise without prior written permission of the publishers.

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  I’m thinking that if I had this man tied up at the club, or hanging from the meat hook back home in my Scold Room, I would be horse-whipping his cock right about now. I would probably have stuffed a fat carrot up his arse to maintain his erection, although by the look of him, he’d probably enjoy that a little too much. The sweat is starting to bead at his temples and his balding pate is even shinier than usual. His neck is flushed red like a shaving rash and the pink, puffy skin of his unremarkable face is starting to colour too. He is squirming in his leather chair and while his paunch stretches his shirt and hangs over his belt, it doesn’t quite hide the stirrings below and he has been forced to cross his legs, resting one ankle upon the other knee. To enforce the cover-up he has pressed his clipboard hard against his lap, but his attempts to hide it only draw my attention to his crotch and have me glowering with incredulity. He shifts in his seat once more and clears his throat with the embarrassment, although I know my open contempt is only making him harder. The disdain is written all over my face, but I cannot be dwelling on this fifty year-old man’s near adolescent inability to control his silly prick in my presence.

  “I want results, Harvey,” I declare. “You are meant to be finding out what the hell this thing is inside me, not merely putting me into trances so that you can get me to reveal all my secrets while you toss yourself off.”

  He almost chokes.

  “I can assure you, Miss Sears,” he blusters, without actually imparting any assurance, “that is most certainly not what happens.”

  My expression no doubt displays my lack of conviction. In truth, he has always delivered in the past, which is why I went back to him this time. He stopped me from smoking where I could not (it perplexes me, considering how much control I have over others, how little I can have over myself). Another time he cured me of my fear of spiders (completely irrational since the ones here in England are all relatively small and completely harmless. Nevertheless, one view of the leggy fuckers used to have me freezing solid or palpitating wildly and blubbing like a child). I hate to have weaknesses, and fortunately Harvey eradicated some for me in the past.

  I need him now to help me with my dreams. They are recurring and vivid, the images clear and accompanied by other sensory details that convince me that they are actual memories and not the fabrication of my mind. But how can they be? It is impossible to remember a life you cannot have lived. Yet the dreams are too complete and accurate to be the product of my imagination; there are too many specifics in the sounds and temperature and emotions, instances coming as a whole package of minutiae that mark them out as genuine recollections, not mere figments. So if it cannot be my life I picture when I sleep, then whose is it?

  It has even crossed my mind that I am possessed. Wishful thinking, some may reckon–a convenient excuse for blaming my inherent darkness on some malevolent spirit beyond my control. However, I’m not sure I am searching for excuses. Look at my life and I think it is plain to see why men deserve my scorn, although it doesn’t explain why I love to mistreat my girl slaves too, and why I love to be so dirty with them and spank their defenceless cunts. I know I torture and tease and that I can be hard and hurtful, but I can and want to be soft and loving too. I don’t want to be thought of as a heart-crushing bitch hanging onto rationality by her fingertips. I don’t want you to call me a twisted, manipulative sadist, and if you do, I will have no option but to secure you to a post, whip you raw, and impale your sorry arse with my foot-long sharpening steel! No, there is a reason why I end up being bad when I just want to be good. There is definitely something alien within me, lurking below the surface–I can feel it. It is a seed borne through the ages, germinating whenever I sleep. The dreams that come are like memories–not mine because they are ancient–but someone’s memories and somehow carried in me.

  Harvey has been giving me regression hypnotherapy to see if my memories result from previous lives. I have only given him sketchy details of the dreams because I don’t want him to have anything to work with or embellish. He lusts after me because as well as my being beautiful, my mean streak clearly turns him on. I wouldn’t put it past him to string me along with a load of lies just so that I kept coming here, giving him more chances to put me under and do whatever he wanted while I was unaware–he is a man after all. In my experience, the male of our species is either a fawning toad or a boorish bastard, and in both cases he will do absolutely anything to get his hands on your pussy. They think you are only in existence for the benefit of their prick and that they are at liberty to take whatever they want from you. For this reason, I will happily beat their privates but never let them touch mine. It is why I delight in tormenting them. It is why I am only happy in their presence if they are serving me and under my control, and Harvey is no different.

  However, I am still being extra mean to him today. I wouldn’t normally wear PVC leggings during the day, even if they were my own design and creation, and therefore a ready advert for my business. However, today I felt the need to talc up and haul on a pair in black, so tight they were almost shrink-wrapped to my curves. I did this for protection rather than to delight in driving Harvey to distraction. I have a delectable if very small puss, you see: pristine, creamy smoothness surrounds a neat dark slit hiding delicate, pale pink petal-lips. In my twenty-six years of existence I have yet to find a man worthy of touching or tasting me there, let alone putting his cock inside it, and I am damned if I am going to let this sneaky pervert Harvey be the first. While I am under his hypnotic influence the best he can manage is to cup and hold me there, but the plastic of the leggings would allow only a cursory contact, despite the camel-toe tightness when I sit. It will certainly deprive him of the pleasure of feeling the warmth of my puss. There is no way he could get his hand inside and definitely no way the leggings were coming either down or off, and that leaves me feeling safe enough.

  Despite his best efforts to keep his eyes off my crotch, he’s fighting a losing battle and is now shifting endlessly and looking flustered. And now his misaligned left eye is even more noticeable than normal, wandering off on its own to the side, drawing my attention. As ever, when I suddenly focus back on his good right eye, I jolt when I find him looking straight back at me. I always thought this affliction a real stumbling block for a hypnotherapist–the old ‘look into my eyes’ routine a bit difficult when they are splayed all around the room. Fortunately, he has other methods to induce relaxation. The most effective being his voice, which is rich and calm despite the turmoil raging in his underwear. My breathing becomes slow and deep, falling into the warm tranquillity just below full consciousness, where my muscles turn liquid and too heavy to move. His voice is not obtrusive. It becomes part of me as he prompts me to describe the particular dream.

  The images are grey at first but then they take better shape... I look down and see my billowing white linen top open and my blonde curls hanging down upon my big ripe tits. They are bare and bouncing, the large rosy nipples hardened and long. The room is dim and smells of strong ale, wood smoke
, and old sweat. There is a draught on my back but my front is warmed by the fire which crackles intermittently. From below comes the muffled sound of drunken revelry. The room is upstairs in an inn or coach house, one I have never been to before, which means that no-one will know me there. It is sparsely furnished with just a set of stools around a tavern table bearing four tankards and a few plates of victuals. I can smell pork fat, which might come from the half-eaten joint, or equally from the separate pot of dripping that earlier I had secretly taken a dollop of and smeared into my cunt to help ease the entry.

  Despite this added lubrication, the thick pig-skin sheath inside me still feels a little rough, mainly because the fat cock filling it is as big as I’ve ever taken, swollen inside me like an inflated balloon. The man I am riding is an ugly brute with broken teeth. We have laid out some blankets so that he is not lying on bare floorboards. His shirt is open and his britches still pulled down around his ankles–a pre-requisite for our quickie coupling, and a handy improvised shackle for when the time comes. I love the way my fleshy tits jiggle as I move up and down. They mesmerize him and ensure that he stays in place with no ties necessary, although to be on the safe side I hold a long thin-pointed dagger to his throat. He grins elatedly up at me, glad that it is all just part of our game. Except that it isn’t.

  She is on her knees with her eyes closed, slurping lewdly, her mouth stuffed with Jack Tar’s cock. These Navy boys seem to be hung like horses; if the rumours are true about what they get up to on their long, lonely voyages then the cabin boys and ‘powder monkeys’ are lucky to get through it without being split in two. Her man also has his britches around his ankles, an added security in case he breaks the bonds of the strap holding his left wrist to the timber upright, again apparently all part of our little charade. He is bare from the waist up and I can see the raised scars in lines across his back from one or many punishment lashings. His right arm ends in a bandaged stump just below the elbow, perhaps courtesy of a cannon blast or a grape-shot impact. More likely it just turned gangrenous and fell off from far too much wanking. She is clutching his buttocks hard and gagging herself fast and furious on his big cock. She needs to give him a mighty orgasm since the harder they come, the less energy they have to pursue us afterwards.

  My man is talking but it is Harvey’s voice coming out of his mouth, his words now melding with my dream memory.

  “Who are you?” he is saying. “Tell me what you are.”

  “I am a whore,” I say out loud, “a gorgeous, conniving, throat-cutting whore!”

  My recollection is just a flash of images but somehow I know all the details and the background. We are whores and we are going to fuck these two sailors and then rob them of every penny of their shore pay. Hopefully, if we fuck them hard, the half-drunk, exhausted fools will fall into a stupor and be easy meat. If not we will have to slit their throats and it wouldn’t be the first time we had done this. Dead men tell no tales. We are clever and successful in our nefarious ways and this is a tried and tested routine. We are playing our game of Highwaymen. Turpin had barely been cut down from the scaffold and his legend is everywhere. The lads can’t resist us when we lift up our dresses to reveal buckled leather riding boots up to our thighs, and tight riding britches that unbutton along the crotch so that our bare cunts can be plundered. We wear tricorne hats and I sport a black scarf around my mouth to add to the fun. This is not essential, since we don’t live in the town and won’t be recognized. However, as well as hiding my identity, it also covers the pock marks on my cheek that blight my looks. We don’t want to put the sailor boys off.

  We play at holding them at knife point, tying them down and forcing them to fuck 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 cock, 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 cock-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, la
pping 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 whore-cum-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-whore 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 tits big, ripe and bouncy. They are in fact small and firm: a handful for a petite slave, but no more. And my nipples 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?