The Executioner's Girl

by Willow Sears

  He didn’t answer. He squirmed and possibly gave a tiny shake of his head, but he didn’t open his mouth to speak.

  “Let me rephrase that,” I said, withdrawing the cane and giving him one hard stroke across both cheeks. He yelped and his hips danced with the pain, but he didn’t jabber his hasty confession as I had hoped. I hit him three more times in rapid succession so that he had no time to absorb the pain of each. This left him sucking in breath and stifling sobs, but still not talking.

  “You want me to have her, don’t you?” I said. “You want what’s best for your Mistress, surely?”

  He was nodding but not saying anything. I struck him three more times and I knew the hurt would be like red flashes behind his eyes; searing, screaming pain that rose and exploded in an instant and made him tug on the wrist cuffs in a futile attempt to break free and run. Another stroke landed and as the bile rose from his stomach he must have felt his chances of getting my pussy had gone. I had to salute his resolve, though. He was hanging on when most would have capitulated, desperate to feel my tightness clenching his little prick. For all my admiration his stubbornness was starting to be irksome so I lashed the backs of his thighs too.

  “You must tell me,” I insisted, gave him another stroke to enforce my point.

  “You have to...” he stammered through sucked in breaths. I hit him before he had time to finish. I could feel my triumph rising now that he was broken.

  “I have to what?” I crowed loudly, placing the cane on the backs of his thighs so that he knew exactly where the next strike would land if he was not quick about it.

  “You have to...” I hit him again and cut him off once more.

  I had been getting a bit frustrated by his silence but now he was ready to talk I was rather enjoying myself. I crouched down so that my mouth was near his ear and I could hear his heaving breaths and see the saliva and snot that had leaked from him with his wracking sobs. He tensed at my whisper as if it were another blow to his body.

  “Tell me, Blueberry,” I taunted, “tell me exactly what I have to do.”

  He sucked in another breath but I didn’t hit him this time. He looked straight at me and I could see the tears in his eyes. He sniffed and licked his lips and quietly said, “You have to do something for me first.”

  I jumped up, utterly incredulous, unable to believe his effrontery. I lashed him again but what was the point? He had an arse of steel! I struck his back and he squealed but my rage was unfocused and all my control was falling away. He wanted my cunt and he was prepared to fight for it.

  “What must I do, Blueberry, you shit-wallower? This?”

  And with that I caned his arse one more time, harder than before, although it made me jittery to do so. I knew what I had to do: surrender my pussy. He would ask for it any minute and then what? How would I yield and retain any grace? How would I pull out his prick and sit upon it and ride him with the nonchalance I needed in order to make it seem like nothing to me? Even his silly prick would be hard to take. I would have to ease him into me and try to bite my lip when the shivers shook me. I would have to sink down as gently as I could and not squeal my delight when I felt the press of his crotch against my aching clit. I felt manic and desperate. I threw down the cane and went to the rack for the Samurai sword. His blue arse was mocking me, stuck out as if to say go on, do your worst. I put the tip of the sword between his cheeks, pressing at the stretched rubber of his suit with the razor-edge tip until it broke through. It would be less than an inch from his anus. I felt him quivering at the closeness, detected by the hairs that surrounded his foul hole.

  “Must I do this?” I asked, my voice wavering now.

  I didn’t want to force the answer from him but how else would I get my Ariadne? I could feel my puss leaking and I knew when the time came he would think it was him that made it so. I flicked downwards with the sword. It was an instinctive action and it flushed me with adrenalin. He squeaked and jerked his hips forward and I stood frozen like a naughty child, not quite sure what had possessed me to do what I did but glad of it nonetheless. I bit my lip and blinked, still unable to move, watching his big backside come obediently back out towards me, the rubber now split all the way down his arse crease, his bulbous tight ball sack now visible from the rear, seeping blood from the short, neat, vertical gash I had inflicted in the skin.

  Still he would not speak. He just would not say those words I knew were coming. His buttocks were striped with shocking red lines from the cane but he had taken it all just to break me and make me promise myself to him. I grabbed a bottle of lube and pushed the nozzle into his arse, not caring for delicacy.

  “Must I do this?”

  I squeezed and sluiced his passage with the cool liquid. His head jerked back and his wrists tugged at the restraints. Talk, for fuck sake! Give up and give me the secret! Don’t make me go through with this! But he wouldn’t. He must have known what was coming because the dildo at my waist was brushing his backside as I emptied the container inside him. Fucking him was a hideous thought but I had long since lost any measure of decorum or reasoning. One way or another I had to hear him speak, either to have him break down and tell me how to ensnare Ariadne, or to tell me what forfeit I must make for the information. If I had retained any vestige of rationality I might have realised that I had now stopped trying to force his confession and was merely trying to extract the nature of my forfeit!

  He was enjoying it all too much to play ball. I was no longer sure what was going on and what my aims were. I seemed to be dealing out a punishment that, although withering, was just what he wanted and when he had taken all the pleasure he could from it he would then demand my pussy on a plate. I had made my plan and dragged this blue fool off the streets and into my web, yet somehow he was now in control of the situation! The blood was throbbing in my head and making me dizzy, my anger and frustration clouding everything. Poor X probably didn’t imagine that her dildo effigy would be used on the arses of repulsive men but I had no option. Her shape in plastic was exact so the breasts and bottom were small and pert and her arms were in front of her, shyly covering her otherwise bare crotch. But any protrusions would be hard to take and her back was arched, so an easy passage was far from guaranteed. He could still rue his reticence yet.

  “Must I do this?” I cried out once more, and grabbed his hips hard.

  I didn’t wait to see if he would answer. I pushed forward and stretched his reluctant anus with X’s head, her plastic face gradually forcing him open and making his passage weep the clear lubricant.

  “You want my cunt, don’t you, you fucking fat perv?”

  “No, Mistress!” he finally cried out, but I wasn’t going to show any mercy now. I drove on despite his pleas, pushing forward to break the resistance of his sphincter, forcing the jut of X’s breasts past an anus that was gripping her slender neck for all it was worth. I pushed on and felt his surrender, the shaped body of the dildo suddenly sliding onward to fill him. He was shaking and crying but I had only just begun.

  “You dream about my pussy and now you think you can take it from me!”

  I gripped him harder, ripping the rubber away from his skin so that I could grab the bare flesh at his hips to give me greater purchase as I fucked him.

  “No, Mistress–please!” he wailed but I just pumped deeper and harder.

  When I tired I rammed it hard into him. I don’t know why I did what I did next because for once I was wearing gloves that left my fingers bare, but I reached around and pulled open the flap that covered his prick and grasped it as it popped free.

  “You disgusting pig!” I shouted, almost incandescent that his twig prick was so iron-hard and ready for me. “You think you are going to stick this miserable thing in me, don’t you?”

  “Please, Mistress!” he sobbed.

  I gripped and squeezed his cock, using it for leverage as I forced X in and out of his backside. He pulsed against my fingers. It was hot and would feel even hotter inside me. He was smooth
, silky almost, and would glide within me and not bump my tight insides. His head bulged but the foreskin still covered it and he would not be able to bludgeon my womb, no matter how hard he slammed it into me. I wish I could have come inside him. I wish I could have shown him how dirty it was to have a scalding sticky mess spraying into your body, how used it could make you feel. In the end I just ran out of steam. He took his fucking and I had to release him before I pulled his prick clean off. I slid X from his body and couldn’t help but feel a pang of defeat.

  “You want my cunt, don’t you?” I said, having nowhere else to go.

  “No, Mistress,” he replied, still sobbing.

  His words jarred me. He had been saying them all the way through the rough fucking but I had assumed he was just begging me to stop. Was I hearing right? Was this thankless, pitiful pig actually turning down my virgin puss?

  “What?” I said. “What did you say?”

  He put his head down, unable to look back at me as he had been during his buggering. He mumbled, “No, Miss Willow–I am not asking for your pussy.”

  I couldn’t fucking believe it! The ungrateful shit-heap was actually turning down the chance to fuck me! I should have been washed through with relief but I am not entirely convinced that I was. I felt hollow and besmirched. I felt robbed.

  “And what the fuck may I ask do you want?” I said, trying to hide the strain in my voice. This time he did look at me.

  “Please, Miss Willow,” he said, “I want the shears.”

  So that was all. He would give up the chance to be my first cock-fuck in order to play some silly game which he had already witnessed before and therefore knew the outcome. The trick would not work on him, so it didn’t matter that Kitty was not here to help. I should have been celebrating my lucky escape but I couldn’t seem to shake the feeling of disappointment and rejection. I unshackled him from the spank couch and led him to the whipping post. I thrust his wrists through the loops above his head but didn’t even bother to tighten them. He had just taken a caning and a buggering without giving in, so he was unlikely to stop short and escape during a simple tease for which he already knew the hoax denouement. I didn’t blindfold him. What was the point? I went about it all in a slap-dash fashion, avoiding any build-up of tension, as if I was punishing him for refusing me.

  He was in his element though. As soon as I grasped the shears his chest started to heave and off went his wandering eye. His cock hadn’t flagged one bit and still stood bolt upright, inviting the blades. I closed them slowly by his ear to let him hear the grating of the sharpened steel. Then I opened them wide and manoeuvred them over his erection. I thought he might pass out. I slowly closed the blades, inching them together until they touched his cock and pressed into the flesh. I held for just a moment and then released the pressure, seeing the white line across the width of his penis, slowly pinking as the blood returned. Despite my inner ire I couldn’t help but get into the game.

  It is feeling the victim’s panic that grips me. It is hearing the breath quicken and catch, seeing the fright in the eyes and the whispered pleas for clemency, always so quiet in case you heard them and decided to grant their wish. His eyes never left mine, bright and intense, tearful. I bent my wrists back towards me so that without him knowing the blades were no longer over his cock, and then I swiftly slammed them shut. He jumped and almost hyperventilated, babbling whispered oaths as his whole body shuddered. I just smiled and put the blades back over his cock, pressing them in a little harder this time, not quite hard enough to break the skin.

  “It’s coming off, Blueberry,” I sang, “this time it’s coming right off.”

  I opened the blades and bent my wrists back once more, playing the same game and snapping the blades shut against thin air. Again he jumped and babbled, saliva now dribbling down his mask and stringing to the floor. I was quite worried now that I had ripped his suit to pieces that he would shit himself all over my nice floor. Still his eyes stayed on mine. I played the trick once more, this time leaving the skin of his cock marked and even leaking a drop of blood before I moved the blades away and closed them on nothing. I thought he might come without being touched. I could see the pulse in his prick and the little head poking out and almost bursting. Once more, I thought, and then I would coax out his secret and send him on his way.

  “I’m going to chop your little piggy prick clean off!” I jeered.

  He was shaking, tears and snot now sliding down the mask; his eyes still so intense, the wandering one now back from its travels so that they were both locked onto mine.

  “My prick wishes to die for you, Goddess,” he said.

  I hadn’t wanted him to speak. It broke my flow. It was an odd phrase but I didn’t know what on earth to say in reply. My thoughts felt like they were scurrying away. I should have hit him or shrieked at his impertinence but I didn’t know how to. I felt a surging rise of rage but at the same time my mind was blanking, like white paint was being poured into it. If I am honest I don’t really know what happened from then on–my brain saw only white. I felt the resistance of his flesh against the blades and I think I pressed on. I saw his eyes widen (still so bright) and I heard him gulp and whisper one final, desperate oath.

  His prick was pulsing and ready to go off. Just the slightest touch would have seen him spurt. Then I opened the blades and there we were together in that instant of stretched silence, so close, almost kissing, his eyes on mine, waiting and praying. He might have broken the silence with a whispered, wavering “Oh God!” but I wouldn’t know now if it was a sign of his dread or of the onrush of his climax. It might have been these sudden words that made me jump because the next thing I knew I had jammed my hands together and the blades had sheared shut. I don’t remember if I bent my wrists backwards that time. His eyes sprang further apart and he let loose a shrill piggy shriek. I felt a warm burst on my hand but I cannot tell you if it was blood or shooting spunk. It all went dark after that; I just slipped away, too tired to do anything but close my eyes on the whole scene and let sleep wash over me.

  When I came to there was no sign of him. There was no mess or blood, no dead prick lying limp on the floor, no nothing. The more I racked my brain for memories the more the details edged away. I couldn’t remember moving the blades from him. I thought I could recall the briefest spring of resistance before my fists met and the metal closed together. I couldn’t be sure though, not totally. There would have been gore everywhere if I had done so. There would be blood on the floor and on me and on the whipping post. And what of him? How had he managed to crawl off without summoning at least an ambulance and more likely the police too, to lock me up for the crime I had committed? Even if he wanted to get away unseen, how would he have managed to stop the blood flow and remain composed enough to clear up every last spot of evidence before he left? Only a medical man, a surgeon would have been able to stem the wound quickly enough before they fainted. Only a doctor could have done it...

  There was one thing left, one item that let me know the whole thing wasn’t just a strange dream. It was an envelope bearing my name, with a note inside with a single typed sentence. It said:

  When you want Ariadne, say this to her:

  I let only angels devour my peach.

  ***

  I have spent my life getting what I wanted, most of the time without even trying. Humans have an instinct to defer to certain characteristics in others, like height and intelligence and maybe most of all beauty. I am well aware that the advantages I have in life have little to do with me and that I probably don’t deserve half of what I have, but I am also well aware that my looks and character provide me with a comfort zone in a world in which I am not quite as confident as I might appear, so please don’t blame me for using what nature gave me.

  Ariadne was my stumbling block. It was so strange coming up against someone who didn’t fold the moment I set eyes on them. It wouldn’t take a genius to deduce that I have pursued her for so long for the simple reason that s
he didn’t cave in. I don’t know if I pushed aside others more deserving and more compatible because I can innately sense that she is right for me, or because I couldn’t bear the dent to my ego if I didn’t win this battle of wills. Whatever the reason, I now have victory in my grasp, quite literally–my triumph typed onto the piece of paper that Harvey left for me. I find it all so strange. I met my match in Ariadne, for all the power I thought I possessed. For all my looks and strength and wiles I had no answer to her, and yet a paunchy, non-descript man in his fifties could make her crumble with just a few short words. Imagine that power! Of course you have to be damn good at it and your target must be susceptible, but if they are, they have no defence against you.

  I wonder what the good doctor is doing now. It is over two weeks since the “incident” and I have heard no word. I have come to the conclusion that I couldn’t have executed his cock, despite what the scraps of evidence floating in my memory were telling me. He presumably just wanted me to think I had because it made the whole fantasy more real for him. It was impossible for me to have gone through with it and for him in his agony to have removed any trace. It would have been hugely ironic if I had actually turned executioner now that my demons had been removed but I seriously doubt I had it in me, which meant either a miscalculation on his part, or the highly debateable notion that he actually wanted me to do it.

  There was a nagging doubt, however. He could have fucked me. He could have taken me in my pussy or in my bum. He could have made me do the rudest things–just as I would have in his position–and then cleaned all that evidence up without a trace. He could have made me do anything he wanted and I doubt I had the ability to stop him, so is it plausible to assume that all he made me do was play some harmless game? I should have been filled with spunk and emptied of everything else. What would you do in such a situation? Whatever, I had obviously given him what he wanted because he had given me my reward.