The Executioner's Girl

by Willow Sears

  As he speaks she peers over her shoulder to see his broadsword. It stands bolt upright to the side of the table, stuck into a slit within a wooden block. It strikes me that this would blunt the end but it is of course the edge that needs to be sharp, and this gleams white in the torchlight. I can see panic in her eyes but there is awe too–you cannot help but be struck by a power so irresistible. The flesh on her pale arse is quivering now and I’m willing him to strike her there. I need to see the skin marked and hear her cries, to see her mouth drop open and her eyes screw shut as the pain and bliss burst through her flesh. Although he cannot see my hips writhing against the door, he must somehow sense my need because he delivers the lash at last, a splatting contact that has the tails of the whip fanning out over her buttocks, gripping the meat momentarily before falling away. The blow fizzes through me as if it had landed at my doorstep, not hers. I gasp out loud and my knees weaken at the jolt through my sex. Her hips jerk forward and I know she must be squashing her throbbing crotch into the table edge.

  He strikes her again and this time she cannot stifle her cry. The whip tails are greedily trying to cover every inch of her skin, flashing across the tops of her thighs as well as her arse, blessing her vulnerable cunt with their nettle kiss. He delivers three more lashes in quick succession and her bucking hips propel the heavy table a few inches across the floor. I can smell him now, above the foulness. His scent is unique, the hard maleness of him softened by an almost honeyed undercurrent, so familiar and so comforting to me. I am sure his aroma must have soothed his victims in their final moments. He drops the whip and stands behind her, holding her hips loosely, wordlessly invoking her stillness. Without hurry he undoes the buttons of his leggings and slides them down. I suck in my breath hard and keep it held as his buttocks are unveiled. Again the image of the horse; his arse is large and rounded but all muscle, the skin glowing and perfect. It has my hips writhing again, trying to find relief for my crotch but only finding the flat disappointment of the door.

  My breath is finally released in a long, shivering low moan, a mixture of appreciation and pride brought on by how much his buttocks have to draw back in order to bring his cock-head to her entrance. I knew he would be huge there too, thick as well as long. He eases his hips forward and forces himself inside her, bit by bit, her wails getting louder as he just keeps on filling her. My pussy is in spasm, my insides fluttering as I contract and relax, clenching on the phantom cock I wish inside me, the prickle over my nerve-endings sweeping like current. I wish I could see her face. I can hear the panic in her cries, the rise of alarm as she is stretched and impaled, and the shock of this massive invasion that might just split her apart. But there is delight in her cries too, an involuntary audible rapture. You see, her pussy doesn’t know that this wonderful fuck will be her last. It simply responds to the joy of the fat meat stretching her open and bathes it in cream to make the seemingly impossible back and forth strokes possible. And the terror just heightens her sensitivity and magnifies the bliss a hundred-fold. Her head must be raging with the treachery of her body, of the madness of her shivering response with death looming so large. Yet she cannot stop the thrill of it because it is too great, because it is the best she has ever had and she may only have minutes left to feel it. She can’t stop because he has wrested all control from her. She is his to use and in doing so he has ripped away any influence she had over the moment and made it sublime.

  It is the pleasure beneath her dread that I respond to, the fact that she cannot help but exalt in his cruelty. I understand completely the gift he is giving her, how his control absolves her of any sin or guilt, how he forces her to experience sensations and pleasures at the absolute limits of her body’s tolerance. She has been taken beyond hysteria and into the blissful warmth of acceptance. She has surrendered her soul and her joy can now be unbridled. She can let it all out–let loose her panic and her screams, let loose even her bladder or bowels if it’s just too much to hold them, because nothing matters anymore. Shame and reticence and morality have been swept aside and left only one stark, base instinct in its rawest form: the desire within all humans to take gratification whatever the cost. This is what he gives her, his parting souvenir of this life to make her realize that it was worth living after all, to let her feel just once the brilliance and purity of her senses, the diamond clarity of pleasure when fear and pain and helplessness have electrified your body and brought every tiny part of it alive. She might as well die right now because having felt all this she has nothing else left to live for.

  I am grasping the bars at the small aperture in front of my face, panting little bursts of vapour clouds into the room, desperately trying to hump the inert cell door. I see his hand go out and briefly rest upon the hilt of the broadsword at his side. I almost yell out for him to raise the weapon and drive it down through her, to skewer her to the table and give her one final huge burst of ecstasy, to have the blood and cum gushing from her in harmony, spurting from her as her life fades away, have her screaming to hold on for just one more wrenching spasm before she dies. But he would never do that here. He would take her down like all the others to the small courtyard between the towers, to where the channels to the drains have been cut in shallow inclines to take the blood away. There he will despatch her with a single clean sweep, with his warm seed still dripping from her body.

  I hear the whispers from the left of me and I know that in the shadows the condemned are straining against their bars to catch a glimpse of my wanton and unsatisfactory door-humping. I couldn’t stay anyway–the insistence of my throbbing cunt is way too much to ignore. I drag myself off to the left, into the rounded chamber where the stores are kept. I am already pulling up my nightgown even before I sit down on the hay bale and lean back. Again the dream is so precise that I can actually feel the chill air on my slick pussy as I spread it apart and the prickle of the harsh hay on my bottom, the spiking shock as one stray strand almost goes up my arse. But I don’t care. I am totally lost in desire and my fingers are already up inside me, urging my cunt to flow, getting coated by the silky warmth of my young, fresh juices.

  Despite my tutor monk’s incessant threats of eternal damnation awaiting any follower who seeks the pleasures of the flesh, I am already a highly experienced wanker. I know just how to rapid-flick my tiny clitty to get the tingle started, how to press and slow-rub with fingertips to spread the fire, and then how to squeeze and hold the smooth protective hood against the throbbing bud when the inferno erupts. Before I can take myself to this final point a noise alerts me and I open my eyes.

  I know I let go a gasp of surprise but still my dream allows me to feel the quickly overtaking nonchalance that my unfulfilled desire engenders. A young man is standing there gawping at my puss, his eyes saucer-wide and his stupid smile stretched across his dunce face. I recognise him as one of the underling gaolers but I do not know his name. He is a little older than myself and carries no privileges here. Mine might be the first pussy he has seen so open at such close quarters. The shock of being caught has already passed and the relief that it was not my guardian discovering me bubbles through my belly and loins, increasing my urgency to come. I still have my fingers up me but very slowly I slip them free to give him a view inside my wet snatch. He is practically hyperventilating but just about clings on to consciousness and responds to the invitation laid before him. He pulls at his leggings and his young cock springs free, stretching out at me, thin and smooth, nothing like the venous monster I picture my dragă to possess. It is hard though, and that’s what I need. He comes to me, still smiling, unable to believe his luck.

  I am sneering at him and his skinny tool but nevertheless I open my legs wider to grant him entry. I feel a stabbing pain as he clasps his erection and pierces my virgin cunt, but the rush inside me soothes the sting. I can sense the sticky warmth leaching down my inner thighs and pooling at my arse. He drives his prick home with no finesse, his desire and inexperience making him jerk and then cling–such haph
azard actions in contrast to the smooth deep momentum I saw my dragă produce. I love the penetration but although my puss is tight, I envisaged it crammed full to bursting, of being stuffed and stretched and not a slick open tunnel for his cock to dart in and out of with such ease. His whimpers annoy me, his panting and his little yelps, like I am being fucked by an excitable hound. Worse still, his animal lust is driving him fast towards his finish and I am going to be too far behind him despite the urgency of my need.

  I try to grab his backside to slow him and force him to hold still inside me, but his hips are jerking too fast and wild to grip. The blood of my surrender is smeared on his prick and I hate him for besmirching the honour I have blessed him with and thinking only of himself. My teeth are gritted and I spit at him in my desperation and fury, knowing for sure now that he will erupt and leave me wanting. He doesn’t even notice. His eyes are screwed shut and his whole face is crumpled into a ridiculous grimace. Then there is a flash of silver to the left and his head bends strangely to the right. Suddenly I see my beloved guardian’s face there instead of the dunce’s. It is gloomy and furious, like a ghost vision in the flickering background. I register the thud of my fucker’s ugly head fractions after it actually hits the ground. As the face of my sweetheart becomes more visible the sight is immediately obscured by the fountain spurts of blood from the decapitated body still in front of me. The mess lands all over me, still warm, splashing my bare legs and belly and soaking into my gown. Between the pulsing jets my dragă is still there, his face etched with rage. But I feel no fear, just the surge of excitement rushing through me, making my chest heave.

  I feel my quim clenching on the dunce’s dying erection, trying to bring it back to life, trying to suck the blood back into it and take the pleasure being stolen from me. It is withering inside me though, shrivelling away despite my best efforts. I feel the disappointment burn. The body tilts to the side, belatedly following the course of the head. It is leaning and crumpling in slow motion, the shrunken prick sliding with a barely audible sticky click from inside me in a pathetic finale to its incompetent fucking. The body collapses from view and leaves me alone with my dragă, his arm still across his chest from the death blow he has struck, the broadsword smeared red. I know it’s my turn next to feel the blade but still my fear doesn’t take over.

  I am left panting breathlessly, my desire still unabated, my eyes dropping slowly down his bare midriff and beyond to his crotch. In his haste to halt my lusts he has yet to stuff his cock back into his leggings. My eyes widen with glee and my jaw drops open as I see it for the first time, limp now but still marvellously thick and long, shining with the condemned girl’s juices and leaching a silken string of spunk. I can sense his fury, picture his jaw twitching with ire as it always did when I caused his displeasure, but I just can’t take my eyes off his twitching prick. If the dunce had even half this size I would have come in seconds. It is what I was hoping for, how I prayed all cocks would be.

  My actions are all but involuntary. I writhe against the bale beneath me as my hands squeeze my little tits hard and then pull at the gown to free them and allow me to pinch my swollen nipples. He will strike his precious little hussy down dead at any moment but I just don’t have it in me to stop my wanton show. He is so close I can feel his hips brush the insides of my open thighs. His chest is rising and falling as heavily as mine. Suddenly I see his prick jerk into life and my heart skips a beat. It stirs, weighed down by its own fatness but waking for sure. I am willing it to rise, whimpering with excitement as I watch it lengthen with the blood filling it once more. I manage to drag my eyes up and see with delight that his stare is fixed upon my open, saturated little cunt. I almost burst out laughing with joy. Then his prick manages to lift its heavy head and slowly, inexorably, it makes its slow journey upwards, unstoppable now that it has defeated its inertia.

  His erection billows, growing continuously as it comes up, stretching the skin thin over vein and muscle. The bulbous head stands smooth and glorious, shining purple and fit to burst. He is huge, even beyond my imaginings. My poor little slit couldn’t possibly take him and yet it is screaming to try. I am so proud of him and elated at his response to my body. He brings the sword up in front of his chest but the smile stays on my face. If only I could feel him inside me before my end comes. I open my legs wider and push my hips out, trying to beckon him in. The rage has dropped from his face but still he frowns, fighting the desire within. His sword comes down but gently, going away from me and resting harmlessly upon the hay bale. He mutters something under his breath but I don’t catch it. He bends forward and his erection touches my quim. As he plants a tender kiss on my forehead my little cunt lips give his fat cock-head a wet kiss in return. I reach up and put my arms around him, hold the giant body that always protects me, stroke the raised spines down his back as I have done for comfort so many times before. He doesn’t shrink from my wet contact and I know for all his anger that he loves me, just as much as he always says he does, just as much as I love him.

  With my heart banging out of my chest I realize I am going to get what I have been silently praying for. My hips jerk upwards and my lips slide up the length of his pole. He breaks the embrace and straightens up to part my thighs further, holding my legs up and gently shifting me into position, wordlessly getting me to raise my bottom slightly and bring my soft quim up to bestow another light kiss on the tip of his huge cock, showing me exactly what to do. Then he mutters again and crosses himself, closes his eyes, and pushes his hips forward...

  In the dream and perhaps in reality I shriek, and it is this that always wakes me. I never get to feel him inside me, although my scream says it all; it is the same sound his victims make, the same sound that my victims make and that I now live to hear. It is a scream of panic and pain and ecstasy, all rolled into one. It is the most exhilarating sound I can possibly imagine. Each time this dream wakes me I am obliged to frig myself furiously, driven by the reality and sharpness of the detail. Every single element, not just the beating and the sex, combine to turn me on. There are intricacies which are hard to fathom, like how, when my dunce fucker’s body is spurting blood I feel no horror, only a buzzing thrill, or how I am aware without the dream spelling it out that the sight is nothing new and that I have seen beheadings before, that I have hidden in one of the rooms looking out onto the courtyard and secretly watched my guardian go about his grisly business. Although it is not part of the dream I know that I have trembled at the sight of his bare torso as he brings down his sword on the prone naked figures at his mercy. I know I have wondered whether, if it is true that he does abuse the victims before their death, he uses the men’s arses with the same impunity as the women’s cunts. I even know I hope he does.

  There is another detail that I am sure of: physically, the person in this dream is my double, not as I am now but younger, as I was when it first came to me. “I” am identical in the dream to how I am now, from the tiny nipples and little tight cunt, the pale skin, even the two small black moles above my belly button that make a face of two eyes and a nose, with the crease of my belly forming a thin, wide smile whenever I sit down. If I could see my reflection in a mirror within the dream, I would see me looking right back. In all the other dreams I am never sure and my appearance is often less unspecific. In this one though, it is absolutely definite and it is me.

  I used to have “normal” dreams once, I think. They were abstract or random and I didn’t feel all the emotions and elements to them like I do now. I cannot remember if they carried the complete background information like my “memory dreams” do, but maybe they did. Perhaps as the creators of the fantasy we know all the intricacies in the same way that authors know their characters, know how they once spied on their gym mistress and watched her come, how they first forced another pretty girl to kiss them, what their favourite meal is and even what songs they hum when they shit it all back out again–none of which will appear in the final story but is known regardless. But these dre
ams simply cannot be the work of my imagination. The detail is just too specific and never varies. Just how does your brain conjure the stench of some ancient dungeon with the same precision each time? No, I am sure that in some way I am possessed, the spirit of cruelty lying either in my essence or in my genes, driving my actions. It is why my body and senses cannot thrive unless I am in control. It is why I insist on being the author of my own downfall, why I stop people from ever getting too close.

  You may think we have free will but our mind dictates what pleases it in everything from music to art to humour and sexual pleasure. We do not pick our perversions, they are inherent, formed from the cocktail of genetic information we are blessed or damned with. The seed in me was sown centuries ago, dictating my desires in my every life. And it is still in me today, somehow passed through the generations in the DNA that he planted within me: the blood of the executioner, haunting my soul in its various incarnations, following me down the years. Love them or loathe them I cannot escape my dreams because they are real. I will always carry the strain inside me that responds to the sound of your pain. It is why my desire to hold you will be defeated by the need to debase you and eat you, to spank your pussy or cut off your cock. Unless I can cleanse myself of this demon than I will never be able to love you in the way that I want. I will always remain the Executioner’s Girl.

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