The Executioner's Girl

by Willow Sears

  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 cocks 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 shit 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 fuck 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.

  ***

  I wonder if Harvey has ever had me reveal the secret of my piggy-bank puss. That’s what it reminds me of, especially now I keep it completely shaved: a neat, black slot within the smooth pinky-white glazed porcelain, so narrow an aperture it was barely able to take the width of the larger coins, so that I was scared of doing damage as I pushed the silver through the back and into the belly of the sweetly smiling little pig. Mine is one of the wettest pussies I have come across, and surely the tightest. I have spent many hours gazing at it as I play, examining the entrance itself as I picture two or three of my slave girls and try to bring an accurate image of their honey-pots to mind for comparison with my own. I am sure it is half their size at best. Where I have managed only two fingers in mine I have pushed three and four, sometimes even a whole hand inside my slave’s wombs. I have stuffed them with bead-strings and their own lingerie, fucked them with cucumbers and thick, venous dildos, yet I will accept only the slenderest of toys and maybe the odd hairbrush handle inside me. You might say that practice makes perfect but I’m just not sure that I am built to stretch like other girls.

  It might occur to you that my demand for control stems from some white fear of having a man take me as he pleases, of ripping me apart. You might think that the way I will control and humiliate men, the thrill I get from having them cower in servitude at my feet, and my stubborn refusal to ever take their silly pricks inside me are all just manifestations of my self-loathing due to panic at my own inadequacies. But I simply cannot envisage the prick that I would ever let inside me. Even average ones seem way too big and anything smaller must belong to some short, fat toad of a man that I could not possibly consider giving my precious self to. And so I don’t. I take my pleasure from making men suffer and from the joy of my girl’s tongues and, most often, from my own fingers.

  I am an insatiable wanker. I love my private time as much or more than my time with my slaves. On my own I get to think about and do the things I cannot do in front of others. I have the filthiest thoughts and let myself go. Nothing is too rude for my imagination. When I come I wet myself, and I always have. I only need my fingers to make it happen. Long before “squirting” became the fad I had to confine my lonesome naughtiness to the bathroom because of the mess I might make. Now I know I am not alone in having this delectable gift but, although my embarrassment has gone and I will share my silky juice with my girls, I would still never give it to a man. Try not to think that along with my tiny puss, another reason that I have never let a man fuck me is down to this unavoidable ejaculation when I come, because this simply is not the case.

  My girl slaves seem to love my spurting come. I guess it is such a demonstrative show of how much they have pleased me. They revel in its taste and rudeness, that slight sweetness that had one girl (whose name I forget) calling me her ‘Nectar Queen’, and confessing that her idea of heaven would be to eat me. I am well used to being thought of as edible. I have a memory of my stiffly proper piano tutor gazing wistfully upon me as I finished a Chopin nocturne one quiet spring morning with the light flooding into her studio. My playing had obviously moved her.

  “You are delicious,” she announced, quite out of the blue, “utterly scrumptious.”

  She must have wanted to fuck me, despite my tender age. I remember fantasising that night about her at the keys playing Chopin–not a nocturne this time but his iconic funeral march–and of me climbing on top of the piano and pushing my bare bum out and squashing her prim face between my lush cheeks. As she played I frigged myself and she licked my arse as instructed. At my own petite mort she guzzled down my squirt without missing a note and then, still playing, she proceeded to sink her teeth into my cunt and consume it like a soft fruit, bite after bite.

  Isn’t it odd that when we truly delight in someone we feel an urge to devour them? I know Harvey wants to eat me. As he brings me out of my latest hypnotism-induced sleep I see his gruesomely plump bottom lip drooping and covered in clear saliva, his face flushed and his wonky eyes bright with hunger for me. I wonder if he has been trying to flush the sprite from within me at all, rather than just staring silently down at me, wishing he could gobble me up. Last time I was here he gave me some shit about my claim under my tranc
e to being a young girl, possibly an orphan, growing up in some kind of debtor’s prison. This time, so he now tells me, I claimed to be a James Frobisher, a man of some social standing who had connections on the fringes of the court of King George III. Speaking as this man, I gave hints that I was actually a cad who used devious means to further his status, although, rather conveniently, I refused to divulge any specifics.

  This bears no relation to any dreams I have had and I rather think this might be Harvey’s imagination at work, not mine. Except that this time he has recorded it all and I know I can go home, curl up on the sofa and listen to myself. I can at last get to hear the person, the thing within me speaking these alien thoughts. I know it could still be a trick, that he could have programmed the thoughts within me before having me repeat them back for his Dictaphone, but the fat little fuck has me compelled. For all the contempt he induces, for all the shivers he gives me, even as I’m stepping on shaky legs from his room, I cannot wait to go back to him again.

  ***

  Friday night is 80’s night at SaMmy’s, and I love it. Obviously it is a decade before my time but clearly a proportion of the clientele remember it all too clearly. The synthesised electro-pop might be light and tinny on the radio but it beefs up when played through the loudspeakers and it sure gets everyone moving. The fancy dress is optional but plenty participate. There is plenty of rubber, plastic and leather as always but it’s in day-glow colours or metallic’s, and the dimensions are large, with sharp angles in contrast to the body-hugging tightness that we see on other nights. It is a great chance for power-dressing, so you can see some fantastically outrageous outfits. This time I wore very high heels, a big-shouldered leather jacket and PVC cat suit combination of my own design, all in electric blue and with a matching smooth and slim eight-inch plastic dildo built into the crotch. I drew appreciative glances from all, especially from my peers who sized me up from their set positions around the club to see what they were up against that night. SaMmy’s reminds me of a galaxy in miniature. We Masters and Mistresses are the brightest stars or planets, dotted around the space, standing above our group of satellite followers, trying to attract new bodies from the milky way mass on the dance floor or at the darkened tables, the ones as yet undecided or uncertain about giving in, the ones just here for a good time and breathing the sexually charged atmosphere. It never fails to excite me.

  However, the best thing about Friday nights is that Ariadne is always there. We had already exchanged glances five or six times in the first hour. It is becoming a ritual now. We take up our familiar positions at either end of the chrome-railed balcony overlooking the main dance floor, me sipping champagne, her with her slopping martini glass. A little group of fawning slaves forms around us. There are ones who have had the privilege of our attention in the past and ones who would do anything for it tonight or any night. We preside over our little courts, giving the odd demonstration of our power, sneaking glances over to compare notes, sending each other our most lusty, smouldering I must have you looks but then never actually doing anything about it. It can exhaust me sometimes, but I live for it.

  I always feel that Ariadne and I are like two Goddesses above all others. She was certainly the closest thing to heaven that I had ever seen, with her red or blue or shocking pink hair and those beautiful, beguiling eyes. We are magnets, drawn together out of mutual appreciation and understanding of our needs. But two Dommes do not make a right; their nature insists that the other yield. The smouldering looks and verbal sparring is fun foreplay but the reality is that a shared refusal to give an inch always becomes a barrier. If we had ever found ourselves alone then lust might take over. We might have a furious fuck-fight all around the room, crashing from wall to furniture, from bed to floor, wrestling to take control, dealing out slaps and pinches and bites until we screamed with our shared, burning climax. But it has never come to that. Whenever we got too close the magnetic polarity would flip and repel us back to our individual corners of the club, our eventual coupling remaining essential, yet the instigation of it seemingly impossible. She is the worst offender. If ever she senses me getting a little too near she turns away from me and back to one of her ever-present slaves, dealing out a random punishment as if to dismiss me, but actually displaying the burst of passion I have aroused in her.

  From what I witnessed (and from what my spies tell me) it seemed that she loves cocks, especially big ones–hard ones that ached for her so much that they would willingly be placed inside another man’s mouth or anus and brought to a finish while she tortured the aching balls hanging below. I wondered with simmering jealousy if, when she was alone and away from my prying eyes, she demanded those big cocks inside her, her joy coming in the completely opposite way to mine, giving her a satisfaction that I could never emulate. When alone I often picture her with all her holes being stuffed full of prick-meat while I watched from the other side of the room, playing with myself until I saturated my panties. Afterwards, I always felt a wrenching pang of emptiness. I need her. It is impossible to imagine either of us yielding to the other’s command, but I need her, badly.

  Tonight there was a little group of familiar faces around me, plus a couple of new ones, which is always thrilling. One was a black girl in a studded black leather jacket and a leopard-skinned leotard beneath. She had a plump, spankable arse and looked attractive enough (the copious glittery make-up of 80’s nights blissfully masks so many imperfections). There was also a tall, wiry Midge Ure lookalike sporting a gelled quiff and sharp sideburns to go with his pencil tache. He wore a silver suit with shoulder pads almost as big as my own. His pants were baggy and allowed his obviously big cock to unashamedly bulge the crotch. I thought I recognised him as one of Ariadne’s entourage and he was just a little too sure of himself for your average slave, so I suspected him of being on an errand from his Mistress to find out more about my Scold Room. Perhaps he just found her physicality too hard to take and wanted to experience some of my mental torture instead. Either way he was prime for my games and I hadn’t made any man suffer my shears in months, so I knew at once that he was coming home with me.

  Behind him, skulking in his shadow was a short, fat man. He was the kind that so regularly hung around the periphery hoping to be noticed and abused. He was fully enclosed in a skin-tight indigo latex bodysuit, which had a studded flap covering what seemed like a very flat crotch. His fat paunch stretched the plastic and made it gleam under the spotlights. His stumpy enclosed legs ended in a pair of incongruous, highly polished worker boots in black. He looked fucking ridiculous, like a giant blueberry. The suit had two small holes for the eyes and below them a little opening to poke out a tongue, if ever a Mistress deemed him suitable to give her a lick. I certainly wouldn’t. You just knew that the reason he wore a mask was not to give anonymity but to hide his ugly, fat, probably bearded face. How such old, blobby non-entities felt able to approach me and beg for my attention just made my blood boil. Sometimes they annoyed me so much I could not wait to get them back home and make them suffer.

  As the night pushed on it became clear that Ariadne and I had reached our usual impasse. We hadn’t even got close enough to talk and she steadfastly timed her comfort breaks not to coincide with mine. The teasing little bitch! She began to blatantly ignore me, concentrating on forcing one of her males over the table so that she could cane the bare arse sticking out of the cut-away circle in his tight pants. She normally used to sneak a look in my direction, to gauge my reaction, but not tonight. Instead she got another of her males, a blond with a huge ball gag stuffed in his drooling mouth, to get to his knees behind the first victim so that she could force his face between the striped and burning cheeks. She then began to cane the bare back and shoulders of the blond, which must have hurt like hell. I decided enough was enough and left, picking out a few lucky souls to accompany me, breaking the hearts of those I left behind.

  I always take my visitors down the metal staircase that allows direct entry to my basement, so
that they never see the rest of the house. They get to see only the entrance hall, the Scold Room itself, the little kitchenette-cum-bar opposite plus the adjoining restroom. I had the latter room specially built and decorated in black, white and chrome. It is large enough to house a black leather couch and a matching plush swivel chair, which faces the toilet seat, some six feet away. If I so choose I can sit and watch my girls squirm as they relieve themselves.

  Whenever I bring visitors I let them have a drink in the kitchenette/bar first, especially as they get to glimpse all the equipment as they pass by the Scold Room. Whilst taking some refreshment they are allowed time to dwell on the potential torments coming their way. For my evening’s entertainment I chose to invite the new black bitch, plus my fairly regular playmate Kitty, since she knew how to play my game with the shears. The wiry dude was a must, since he was to be the night’s target, and I had also invited a younger sissy-boy who had been skirting around the periphery of my group for some weeks, trying to test the water. This was the first time I had noticed him give full vent to his feminine side, rouging his cheeks and wearing high heels to go with his purple netted vest top and very short rubber mini skirt. He had a floppy blond mop on his head but the rest of his body seemed devoid of any hair. Tonight he had finally plucked up the courage to sit at my table, so I reasoned that it was high time for him to see what he had been missing with his indecision. Incredibly, that fat fuck Blueberry had also sneaked his way in too, although I distinctly remembered not inviting him. He must have inveigled his way into the cab following mine, the sneaky bastard. Still, tricks like that would only ensure such a complete lack of attention that he ended up with a pair of blue balls to match his silly suit. I decided to tease him just the once before forgetting him entirely. I moved them all into the Scold Room and had him sit on a black rubber beanbag in one dimly-lit corner.