The Executioner's Girl

by Willow Sears

  “That’s almost like incest for you, isn’t it, Blueberry? Or is cross-pollination more accurate? I bet that melon is the best looking fuck you have ever had, and probably the tightest–so much nicer than Lilya’s greedy, dripping cunt. I don’t think I’ve seen a man who loves melons quite as much as you!”

  He was fretting with the humiliation of my derision but if anything it was making him even hornier. He was trying to no avail to keep his eyes from the bizarre spectacle of my shiny gloved fist sliding in and out of the girl. Suddenly he gave up his resistance. It was either the sight of Lilya withdrawing her fingers and pulling mercilessly at her own clit as she came again, the added thrill of my relentless ridicule, or maybe just the realisation that his pointless prick would never have touched her sides anyway.

  Whatever the spark proved to be, he wailed in defeat, let his head drop and pressed the melon hard to hold it in place as his hips jerked back and forth at furious speed. He yelped as he came and I laughed out loud at the ridiculous feminine noise. His orgasm gripped him and he had to stop thrusting, but as he tensed with the power of it the melon suddenly burst from his downward pressure, showering us all in juice and causing him to sprawl forward. It was a ludicrous end to an already pathetic show, his mush-covered penis now free for us to see, covered in pulverized red flesh and dotted with black pips, spitting its own seed into thin air, not even gaining the dubious comfort of spurting inside the body of the fruit.

  I felt a fleeting pang of remorse at my cruelty. His pot-belly he could take blame for but not his tiny cock. I don’t even know why I derided it so when, beneath my spiteful loathing of it, it felt like an ally. If it had been younger and smoother I might even have wanted to touch it with my bare hand. If it had been on pretty-boy Mickey I might have sat upon it and felt a real live prick inside me for the first time ever–felt its warm sleekness, felt the gliding, hard, fast, seamless movement within me that no dildo, however slender, could ever give. I would have felt the heavy balls slapping at my dripping lips and even the hot jets of spurting come inside me. Once I had practised on this little one for some time, I knew I could take gradually bigger, ever fatter and longer ones, without being torn in two. But it wasn’t a young man’s cock, it belonged to a fat, ridiculous man. Perhaps I made Blueberry pay in spades because of some underlying rage and frustration that his laughable and embarrassing physical appearance was robbing me of that single golden chance to allay my fears and take a man inside my body. My fierce derision was of no consequence, though. After my barrage of spitefulness he would just go off to lick his wounds and hate me from afar. As he slunk away I had little doubt that I would ever see poor Blueberry again.

  My guilt wasn’t quite finished for the night either. I got a very late text from X requesting an internet chat. She always claims she forgets the time difference between us but I know she just needs to talk to me and since feeling wanted is one of life’s pleasures, I don’t give her too hard a time. She was missing me so I didn’t tell her what I had been up to that evening or that Lilya had only just left. She was begging me to fly over and see her. We were meant to take turns but she had come to me on the last five occasions and I never seemed to find any time. Her schedule was now way too hectic, what with a couple of side projects as well as preparing for a Stateside tour. She said even if she could have found a single free day then she would have come, and I believed her. I told her I was busy too, which wasn’t far from the truth but I could easily have set aside a few days if it wasn’t for the fact I would have missed SaMmy’s on Friday and a chance to see Ariadne. God, that bitch was taking me over.

  X was full of my latest designs and how excited she was by them. One was a rather bizarre effort even by my standards that I’d completed and had shipped to her just the previous week. It was a creation in black PVC called the Fuck Faun. It took ages to squeeze into and was almost impossible to walk in, since the toes were enclosed inside small shiny goat hooves and the rest of the foot high off the floor. I originally had them with a long heel to give support but these spoiled the look so I left just a tiny hanging spike about two inches long. The wearer could walk in them only if they had very good balance, the forced tip-toe stance pushed their knees forward and their bottom out provocatively. But unless you had the agility and stamina of a true satyr it quickly became tiresome and the wearer soon needed to either sit down or be held up by assistants.

  The legs had black furry fringes along the outer seam and went into chaps, to be worn with matching rubber panties (presuming that you wished to stay decent) or without (presuming that you didn’t). The upper body was tight-fitting with circles cut to leave the breasts exposed, since in mythology fauns and satyrs were seen as beings of freedom and lust, so it was only right that some flesh was left on view. The neck line was high, to keep the head up, and this was enclosed at the sides and back but completely open at the face. There was an aperture at the very top for the hair to be taken through. There were also two long, twisted black plastic goat horns sticking up and slightly outwards on either side of the head. The final touch was the tail. It was not a long latex gel one as I had first planned but a smooth black eight-inch dido formed into the shape of an elongated devil’s tail, hanging nearly to the floor on a black metal chain that attached to the back of the belt worn around the waist.

  I had designed the outfit for my new range but gave her first option as always. She told me she had put it on the first night she received it and spent two hours wanking because it turned her on so much. She had wanted to wear it out on the streets the next day but couldn’t walk around in it well enough to avoid being papped countless times sprawling in the gutter. One of her current side projects involved a charity collaboration with a female singer even more famous than herself (a genuine diva, no less). The collaboration was a skit with the two of them as models at a catwalk show, playing all sorts of dastardly tricks to get one over on the other before belting out a “hilarious” show-stopping duet (I guess you had to be there). It seems X got a bit carried away on the day, excited at working for the first time with the Diva, a girl she had both admired and wanked over for years (the Diva is a year or two older than me, therefore only some five years older than X, but has been on the music scene for maybe a decade now). Despite being married the Diva still likes to present a raunchy image and this came through in the video they were shooting, which got poor X all hot and bothered (“She really is dirty!” she excitedly squealed to me at one point).

  Once the shooting was a wrap a number of the all-girl cast went back for a bit of an after-show party at X’s hired apartment. The guests gradually bled away until there was just X, the Diva, and a model–a curvy half-caste girl with a bubble butt and an apparent liking for my girlfriend. X, in her drunken excitable state, decided it was high time to model the Fuck Faun outfit. After maybe half an hour getting it on she teetered back out to give them their own private show. It seems she neglected to wear any panties. She stumbled about giggling for a few minutes before the model caught up with her, pressed her to the wall and kissed her passionately. It was not a short kiss; it went on and on. There was no other fondling, no tit feeling or arse squeezing, just the embrace and the kiss, deep and warm and wet. With her cunt bare, ready and willing, X had been desperate for more, but the longer the kiss went on the more it became enough, the more she just melted into the model. It was, apparently, one of the most erotic things she had ever experienced, helped no doubt by the sight of the Diva, who enjoyed watching so much that she lifted up her short skirt to expose her naked shaven puss, opened her legs wide and masturbated slowly, alternately rubbing her pierced clitoris and pushing her fingers inside. She didn’t care that X was watching her all the time, in fact it seems she quite enjoyed it, lifting her legs high and shifting to the edge of her seat to show herself in all her glory.

  The embrace only finished once the Diva had come, thrusting her fingers hard inside as she screwed her face up and shook with silent pleasure. She lapped the trickling juice
s from her hand and then crossed to the kissing couple, forcing them apart and planting her mouth on the model’s as if suddenly jealous. X did the only thing she could: she reached behind her for the chain, hauled up the devils-tail dildo and ravaged her own soaking cunt with it. She came so hard her legs buckled beneath her and made her slump to the floor. It took only two minutes from the first entry of the dildo to the on-set of her orgasm, in which time, once she opened her eyes again, the Diva and the model had gone. She said she wished I had been there. She said she wished the Diva could have seen how beautiful I was because she knew I liked her and felt sure I could have conquered her despite her toughness and spirit. She said the Diva had a tiny pink anus that I would have adored.

  It was strange how X wanted these things for me. She was so intent on my pleasure that she would do anything for it, even exalt in my being with someone else if she knew it made me happy. I could barely give her a second thought most of the time, even though on some level I knew I loved her. She wanted me to be with her and I should have been, but I wasn’t. It was only later (once I had wanked furiously thinking about fucking the Diva) that I felt a pang of envy. This was generally something alien to me. It stabbed me at my core, the vision again of my girl being seduced by the model. Before it had just been an image that made me wet, but afterwards I saw the seriousness of it. If I didn’t go to her I would lose her that was for sure. If someone hangs their heart on the line for you there is only so long you can wait before someone else notices and takes it. Even thinking this I knew I wouldn’t get my selfish arse across the Atlantic to be with her. It was the bastard devil inside me again; for some inexplicable reason I wanted to be mean to X, I wanted to defeat the undeserving Ariadne and make her mine. Someone save me, please. Release me from this thing that kicks me in the backside all day long and ruins my life. Please someone identify it and exorcise it.

  But who could do that for me? Only Harvey–that paunchy, pervy wanker. He is my one potential saviour and the thought of that just empties me out. Has he unearthed the secret of my dreams? No. Has he discovered in me the Executioner’s Girl, the key to it all? All he talks of are characters I do not recognise: jailed orphans and James Frobisher, all nonsense to me. So let me dream tonight. Let me dream of James Frobisher so that I can hang to the thread of hope that Harvey is making real progress and not just stringing me along, because if he cannot help me, then I am finished.

  I did dream that night, but not of James Frobisher. This dream was vivid but confusing, one that I may have had once before, many years ago, but I cannot remember for sure. If it has come once before then I probably consigned it to a forgotten place because of its puzzling content. Odd though, I woke up full of it, my body alive with the action as if I had just lived it for real, as often happens with my dream-memories. And as with all of these the background knowledge was all complete and seemingly innate, with no fill-in explanations necessary. It is a surreal dream though, one that calls into question whether any of these dream-memories have an actual basis in fact. It goes like this:

  We are in the parlour of a sparse hovel at night, the musty room lit only by flickering flames (I must have a thing about open fires). The woman is standing blindfolded before me, wearing only loose cotton bloomers that end at the knee, and a white lace corset cut low so that her full breasts are threatening to spill out with each heaving breath. I turn her around and remove the material covering her eyes so that she may feast them on the painting. The subject matter is odd to say the least: a Friesian cow with grotesquely distended udders standing in a field, its head raised awkwardly, the eyes wide with alarm. At its rear is a naked younger man, a farm-hand as it happens, although this isn’t necessarily discernable from the picture. Gauging the sex of the young man is difficult; the skin is pale and there seems to be a swell of breast hidden behind the arm, but the limbs look a touch too muscular to be feminine. It’s no good looking to the face to find the answer because the head, in its entirety, has been forced into the cow’s rear end. A sturdy farmer hunches behind the younger man, gripping a thigh with one hand and helpfully holding up the beast’s tail with the other. The farmer has his trousers around his knees and the base of his colossal erect prick can be seen before the rest of it disappears between the arse cheeks of him. All this detail comes in a flash–in fact I’m not sure if I even look at it during the dream, being otherwise busy noting the expression of my guest. Her excitement at the picture is obvious. She pores over it as if Leonardo himself had created the filthy depiction. Her cheeks flush and her bottom lip trembles. Her eyes are wide and moist and when her hand comes up to cover her open mouth it is visibly shaking.

  “Oh, Michelle!” she gasps.

  She cannot take her eyes off the painting even as I bend her over. I can see the cane in my hand, a thin switch gripped by aging fingers, my nails long and painted black. I give her one gentle stroke just below her bloomered arse, followed by a slightly harder one mid-way down the backs of her thighs. Then I deliver a forceful strike square across her buttocks and she yelps and breaks wind with the shock of it. The dream jump-cuts and I have moved her only a couple of feet from the fire and pulled her underwear down around her ankles. Her bottom is pushed right out towards the flames and I can catch only a quick sight of it before the heat drives me back. Her arse is plump and open, her anus a pronounced, vulgar oval of maroon skin that looks to have been stretched many times over the years. Her cunt and buttocks have been powdered with floral talc but I still catch the whiff of bittersweet pungency from her crack. Her ordeal is unsaid but understood: her rude farting has earned her extra punishment and I will spank her while the heat from the fire roasts her bottom, her only hope of succour being to piss on the flames to douse them.

  I have to stand away from the raw heat of the fire and take up a position near her shoulders. This means I have to stretch to reach her arse, since on such a hot bottom it is imperative I use my open palm in order to enjoy the pliancy of her near-melting flesh to the full. I will also be able to feel when her skin is in danger of blistering. The heat will be intense and although she wishes to serve me she must be held in place or she will be unable to stay. I would hold her by the hair but, like my own, her flowing locks are false and would just come away in my hand. Instead I reach down and grip her by the throat, squeezing it a little to give her something else to think about. I spank her hard from the outset, since her rump is already hot and the senses will have been dulled. She cries out and my hold at her throat chokes her. Her skin reddens immediately as my slaps rain down in quick succession, first one cheek and then the other so that her arse is always dancing. I feel her panic rising and she tries to shuffle forward but I hold her in place.

  The mass of her wobbling bottom feels delicious. The heat robs her muscles of any resistance and my hand sinks deep into her flesh each time it lands, delivering the pain right to her core. Usually when you spank someone the skin shrivels and hardens, eventually giving even the smoothest surface an orange-peel texture, depriving the bottom of its innocent beauty. Here the heat defeats the transformation, thinning the skin and making the meat below ever more malleable. I urge you to try it. Just before it reaches breaking point the surface is gossamer-thin and the bum beneath almost liquefied, bouncing and rippling and threatening to burst from its weak sausage-skin constraints. The softness makes the cheeks slap together with a delightful sound. More importantly it keeps the defences of the victim down, so that the pain can continue for much longer before the numbness takes over completely.

  My poor girl does her very best but I feel the skin start to shrink at last, a sign that it is beginning to burn. She is bucking her hips back and forth in desperation and I feel her belly clenching. I choke her a little harder to persuade her to concentrate her endurance, but I know she is beaten. She finally lets go with her last chance: a swift stream of thick yellow-brown piss. Sadly for her she has neither the angle nor the aim for any good to come of it and she simply messes her thighs and my hand, and spurts
most of it down into her bloomers. I should really keep her there until her arse toasts. I should hold her and spank her while she cooks and then maybe even slice off a fillet so that she can watch me enjoy her backside one last time. But my hand is too hot now to continue and as much as I long to eat her arse, I don’t want to be left with nothing.

  Again the dream jumps. I have moved her forward a few paces but kept her bent over. I see now that her tits have indeed fallen out of her corset and hang firm beneath her, full and swollen like the cow’s udders. Her nipples are thin but very long and absolutely taut. I reach below her and pinch them, squeezing the hard teats between finger and thumb until I feel the drips exuding. I bring one hand back to noisily lap her milk from my fingers. Now comes the part of this dream that perplexes me. In my excitement at tasting her fluid I gather up the loose white gown that goes nearly to my knees and lift it up to reveal a thin, stubby, ugly erect prick. I consulted my books on dream interpretation and all they can muster between them by way of explanation is penis envy. But there is nothing to be envious about here–I can even feel in the dream a momentary pang of self-hatred that it is so pathetic. And it is definitely mine too–it is no primitive strap-on dildo but a real flesh and blood appendage that is warm on my palm as I wrap my fingers around it and present it to my sweetheart’s anus.