The Executioner's Girl

by Willow Sears

  I let only angels devour my peach.

  Yes it’s another of Harvey’s odd phrases and yes I read it over and over, committing it to memory. It didn’t sound like the ideal pick-up line, or something you could just shoe-horn into the average conversation. No girl was ever going to visibly melt and proclaim, “Just shut up! You had me at ‘peach!’” But I knew it would work, without question. There can’t be anyone who would wish Harvey’s prick inside them less than I do, yet I would have let him do just that. I was fortunate that he only wanted to play silly games, rather than take full advantage. “Trigger” words, you see; if they are programmed within you then you have no option but to act. He had sown the seed in me and he must have done the same to Ariadne at her party. That’s why I had no qualms about going to Vincent’s fancy dress ball. I didn’t care who was there or what they thought because they would see me walk out with her on my arm. I would be seen to have regained my power.

  The theme of the ball was Georgian Splendour and I found that incredibly portentous considering that it was back in those very days that Ariadne and I were first lovers, and we would doubtless have used our ill-gotten gains from whoring and robbing to attend precisely such elegant soirees, although I doubt I would have worn then what I was wearing now. I had adapted one of my designs for a wedding gown, producing it in black and lilac latex. The bodice was laced and low cut, heaving my chest up and nearly spilling my pale tits right out. I made the backside of the flowing skirt larger to incorporate a bustle and put a cut down the front so that the rubber could be swept open to reveal my deliciously crafted spiked ankle boots in purple patent leather with black laces, and my knee-length bloomers in soft white cotton. There is something so unutterably sexy about bloomers, they really turn me on. I wanted to stick to them and them alone but they were split all the way up the crotch and almost any movement would have exposed my bare puss. I really tried but couldn’t find the courage and so in the end I had to wear something extra underneath, opting for my hot pants with a huge purple cock built in, its foreskin rolled back to show off the bulbous head, and with thick veins running all over, just as Ariadne likes so much. It stuck out of the slit in the bloomers but the skirt could be closed around it so my underwear was not on show until I wanted it to be.

  The guests really had gone all out. Vincent didn’t like to do things by halves and I know he had used his theatre connections to obtain many costumes for those who couldn’t find their own. There was grandeur expressed everywhere, a good mix of authentic costumes and fetish adaptations. There were tight britches for the boys and huddled cleavages for the girls, bejewelled eye-masks and tall wigs in all colours. The Lords and Ladies wore the brighter, full dress clothes while some designated footmen were attired in darker, simpler versions. The serving wenches were given plain long skirts so easy to get your hand up, and frilly white cotton blouses, so low-cut their ample bosoms were barely contained.

  Vincent’s vast house was just right for it too, reflecting his taste for the baroque, many of the paintings and ornaments carrying that sense of thinly disguised sexual excess. The largest picture, hanging above his large satinwood sideboard featured a group of wealthy Georgian gentleman sat at a feasting table, the closest subject turned slightly towards the viewer and gazing out serenely whilst his companions talked animatedly beside him. If you looked very closely, peering into the shadows beneath the table, you could see that the main subject had his erect penis out and the gentleman beside him was secretly grasping it for him. I was told the painting was an original.

  I had arrived late and bustled in with my head high after my arrival was announced by the master of ceremonies. I expected some gasps, so was at least pleased when I got a few, along with a little smattering of applause from a couple of the more sycophantic hangers-on. I turned many heads and got some nods and smiles, but clearly my few weeks’ absence on the social circuit had not been as impacting on them as it had felt to me. I was given a drink and a couple of my regular groupies hurried over to court my favour. I still felt a little uncomfortable and scanned the room for Blueberry, assuming that he would somehow have sneaked himself an invite as he seemingly always did, although forgetting that even if I hadn’t cut it to shreds he would not have gained entry dressed in his normal suit. There were a few short round men present, but he was not amongst them as far as I could tell. The doors to the adjoining banqueting hall were open and a few guests had leaked into it, so I went through to scout around.

  This was my very favourite of Vincent’s rooms. It was panelled in oak and the high, plastered ceiling was beautifully carved. A minstrel’s gallery ran along the left side as you entered, also wood-panelled and lined with paintings of fuck-scenes through the ages. I had fond memories of the wet T-shirt competition he had instigated during one of his many parties, taking place just there, a large plastic sheet trumpeted in and laid with great ceremony between the wall and the huge banqueting table. Two big-titted beauties had been selected to participate and they stood looking shocked as twenty hired bare whores jostled for position on the gallery above, thrusting their hips to the balusters so that their cunnies could be seen pushing forward through the gaps, their thick golden gushes spurting out and raining down upon the two contestants below and drenching them to the skin. I remember soaking the knees of my bloomers whilst getting down in the subsequent melee to fuck one of the slave girls who was on all fours trying to lap up the pools of whore-piss. I was so annoyed that I had ruined the white of my lovely lace underwear that I dragged my unfortunate victim up and over the table and forced the meat-end of a chicken drumstick up her arse!

  That very table was now decked out with fabulous platters and delicacies, the centre-piece being a huge oval plate in blue and white china, some three feet long and maybe two feet wide. It was no doubt specially commissioned and might have taken two to carry it. If ever you feel that money is not important in life then one look at this plate would dispel your foolish notion. Just imagine having the vision and then having the money to just go out and make it happen, expense being no object. I loved it; the brilliance of absolute wealth made me glow. I should mention that huddled upon this plate was a naked pretty blonde, her pale skin shining with its covering of oil, her knees and arms tucked under her belly so that she fitted upon the platter, an apple forcing her jaws apart at one end and her pink piglet arse stuck out at the other, inviting you to sink your teeth right in. She was easily the most tempting dish on the table.

  At the far wall was the vast open stone fireplace, which always drew me in. The fire had a few logs burning, spitting and crackling away and exhaling wisps of smoke that tinged the air with that lovely autumn aroma. The fire could not be kept too high for obvious reasons: in front of it, standing on the hearth, was an iron rotisserie almost as wide as the fire pit itself, with two great hand cranks at each end to turn the spit. This had been adapted, with other bars soldered onto the central one to give a wider platform to sit the huge roast that it was intended to take, in this case not a boar but a petite brunette, her olive skin shining with the sweat and basting oil upon it. She had her arms and legs wrapped around the supporting pole and to keep her in place thick ropes had been bound around her limbs. She too had an apple in her mouth and as I approached and caught one of her slow turns, I saw the smudged words written all down her back in black, still legible though running in the heat, the words scrawled as if written by someone who was feeling as manically dirty as I was myself. Her message read:

  This fuck-hog was caught wallowing in her own mess. Eat her.

  Two male servants were placed at either side of the fire to turn her intermittently, heaving on the handles to rotate her small body and give it an even toasting. The servants were bare-chested and their oiled torsos were covered in a glowing sheen of perspiration. Their leggings had been unzipped and their bare erections stuck out proudly, unwaveringly stiff, no doubt with the aid of pills as much as with the titillation of their duties. I got closer still to examine the scene
in fine detail, able to detect the sweet scent evaporating from the hog-girl to mingle with the wood smoke. The pricks poked out at her from either end, not as long as many I had seen but perfectly straight and iron hard, like the skewer itself. If somehow she fell or wriggled free from her perch these two cocks had only to thrust forward to impale her once more. They were strong enough to support her little frame for sure, holding her and turning her through circles on their pricks, slapping or squeezing her tits and arse as they came into view.

  I could see her sweat trickling and feel the warmth from the flames that weren’t quite strong enough to burn but would scorch her if she wasn’t turned. I was at her rear end, I could have stooped and bitten into it and the temptation to do so was almost overwhelming. I wanted to fill my mouth with the warm flesh of her soft arse, sink my teeth in and tear off a chunk. Her rude bottom was open for me and I wanted to bend and press my face into it, breathe in its cooking smell, taste the sweat-saltiness of her crack and feel the heat from her little hole in my nostrils. Her quim squashed to the rails supporting her, one right at the centre of her sex, spreading her slit-lips and shining with her juices. She was pressed so tight to the rail that I had to bend forward to see for sure that it didn’t go inside her, that she wasn’t actually spitted all the way through her body. The thought made me tremble. Imagine witnessing her slow piercing, of seeing the iron pushed inside, her pussy too slick and hungry to prevent it, of hearing her cries as the skewer was driven ever onwards, through her core and eventually out through her open waiting mouth, somehow keeping her alive to shiver with the bliss of it. On a low stand beside her was a little iron pot holding her basting oil, warmed from beneath by a pair of candles. I took a ladle-full and slowly poured the clear thinned oil all over her perfect rump, coating her delicious cheeks and oozing down into her crack to make her gasp and jerk from its heat. I wanted to take her down, pour hot gravy over her arse and fuck her deep, right to her belly.

  The sound of the laugh jarred me. It was so familiar. It was one that had variously drawn me in, melted me, and then chased me out of rooms. Ariadne was visible through the double doors, just inside the drawing room. I had expected her to be sporting the tallest, most extravagant of wigs, but instead she wore a very authentic white powdered one, with curls at the sides and a tail at the back. In fact her whole costume was that of a rich gentleman, the tails and waistcoat in fine cream silk with embroidered gold thread, and tight cream britches down to buckled black shoes. Despite her manly attire her face was emblazoned with make-up: huge false eye lashes and dark, glittery eye shadow, rouge on the cheeks and a single black beauty spot, plumped black-cherry lips stretched across her white smile. She looked the epitome of strength, but I would take all that power tonight with just seven short, magic words.

  I left the roasting hog-girl and inched my way towards the Goddess. She was as full of herself as ever, bright with her excitement, talking over everyone and making herself the centre of attention. All eyes would see me take her. She was demanding to see a fight, proclaiming with a laugh that the duel simply must go ahead and that she would act as a “second” to one of the protagonists. I couldn’t see who was meant to be fighting and there didn’t seem to be any kind of rumpus or even tension in the other room, just smiling faces all turned to her. Nonetheless she was scanning her horizon, trying to find another second to get the duel underway. I stopped by the side of the first piglet girl, not wanting to be spotted or look like I was being drawn to the Goddess. I stroked the piglet’s flank, pretending I was busy with her, although my head was turned towards the door and Ariadne. She had been sidetracked with some joke and was absorbing the warmth her crowd were so eager to give. My cunt was tingling for her. I felt indestructible and nasty, my belly alive with the rude things I could and would make her do, flashes of filth bursting in my mind’s eye. It was like the demons had never left me.

  My hand had crept down between the piglets bum cheeks, pushing them apart, my middle finger dabbing at her anus and making it twitch and contract. I idly picked up a large roasted chestnut from the huge platter and put it to the piglet’s bum-hole, pressing the sharper end to the centre of her rosy pucker–not hard, just enough to force a little stretch. Ariadne was trying to quieten her audience, to get them back to her previous idea. The fight was still on, she ordained, so who was to be the other “second”? Hands sprung up all around her, eager voices vied for her attention as her gaze swept the room. I knew where it would eventually fall; it was surely pre-ordained. I breathed deep and waited, my finger pressing at the chestnut, my nerves rising as her head turned ever towards me. And then she was looking straight at me and the chestnut had gone right up the piglet’s bum, making her squeal and drop her apple. The Goddess looked triumphant that she had found me, but then she wasn’t aware that she was about to seal her own fate. Her arm slowly stretched out towards me, her long finger extending to point all eyes in my direction as her smile grew even wider.

  “Her!” she gleefully exclaimed.

  My insides were bubbling but I fought hard not to betray my lack of composure. I had to stay focused so that my victory was witnessed in all its clinical ruthlessness. There were nerves for sure, but born of excitement rather than trepidation, from the certainty that all my dirtiest dreams about this girl were about to come true. I didn’t allow myself to get pulled in too quickly. Instead, I let my hand drift from the piglet’s rear end and then bent to examine her pretty face and smile at her consternation at having had a chestnut pushed up her bottom.

  “I will be back later,” I said to her, “to watch you shit that back out.”

  My rudeness buoyed me again, giving me a new surge of confidence. I replaced the apple in the piglet’s mouth and then unhurriedly made my way towards the crowd. Ariadne watched me all the way and I kept my eyes locked on hers, showing no weakness. The group backed away to allow my entrance and I stood toe to toe with the smiling Goddess. I felt no fear whatsoever, only joy and longing. There was perhaps a hint of uncertainty in her eyes, a little sign that she was unnerved that the old “me” seemed to be back. The duel, it transpired, was to be between the Ten Inch Brothers, who were standing to one side, their frilly white shirts undone but still tucked into their very tight britches which in turn were tucked into leather knee-length riding boots. Just like the rotisserie servants, their zips were undone and their bare rock-hard erections stretched out like swords from their groins. Ariadne picked her fighter, the slightly larger of the two, the one who had come so hard in my mouth. Odd, that incident just couldn’t faze me now, not with me feeling so dirty and potent.

  I stood behind my man as the Goddess mocked up some rules of engagement. The boys were to swordfight with their cocks. They took up fencing stances with one hand on hip and another held up to the side for balance, and then they bounced on their toes and skipped back and forth at each other, feigning thrusts from their huge weapons while the crowd cheered. Then they met at the centre of our circle, wiggling their hips from side to side to slap their erections together before jumping backwards out of range. It was tremendous fun, seeing the two big cocks clashing and rubbing up and down the other’s length. To think I had so recently been showered by both these monsters. To think I had run!

  The boys duelled with theatrical brilliance, even going chest to chest, eyes blazing and pricks upright between them before pushing each other backwards again to a loud ovation. I could have listened to the sound of bare meat slapping together all night but the boys soon tired and became too cock-sore to jump back into the fray. They stood bowing and flourishing salutes at each other, unsure quite what to do next. But Ariadne knew. She was behind her man, dropping to her knees and reaching around to grasp his weapon, peering out from behind him to fix me with her look of mischief. Her teeth were gritted but she was smiling, the devilment bright in her eyes.

  “First to come wins,” she said to me, “and winner takes all!”

  She didn’t even let me draw breath, never mind accept he
r challenge and take up my position. Her fingers were already rubbing up and down his shaft, trying to tug the victory spunk from him in a flash. So, the duel had ceased to be between the boys and was now between us girls. I knew very well what “winner takes all” meant to her. Once she had tossed herself to glory she would put me to the sword, probably to all the swords present in the room, saving the very biggest ones for my bottom no doubt! I reacted before I had even thought, scuttling down behind my fighter and reaching around to grab his prick. It was huge in my palm, pulsing and warm and rigid. I could see her delight, not only at doing what she did best but also in savouring her inevitable triumph. It was clear that she must win. She had been doing this since she was still in school uniform and she specialized in making the very biggest pricks spurt. I was an utter novice, but I was also a dirty bitch with a raging demon inside me. I yanked at him and tried to build up a rhythm but I felt him draw his hips back as if pained by my fierce tugging. I picked out a face in the crowd, a young fresh-faced girl.

  “Spit on it!” I yelled at her.

  She stared at me quizzically for just a second before she leant forward and complied, depositing a thick wad of saliva onto the head of the great cock in my hands. I was already wanking him again, letting his foreskin work the spit over his glans. I picked out other faces and shouted the same instruction to them, watching them bend down in turn and shower his cock-head with saliva to keep him lubricated. Ariadne might have been slicker and more practiced but I was more devious. I had already unbuttoned my man’s britches and heaved his balls free to give them a squeeze of encouragement before she even realised that it required audience participation and not just hastily smeared spit from her own mouth to free up her fighter’s glans and allow the gliding friction that would yield results.

  I had got into my stride and was pumping away like mad, glaring over at my beautiful opponent as she took up a slower but longer rhythm, running her hand all the way from base to tip and back again, like the expert she was. But I wasn’t dead yet, despite her snarls of glee. She had only just followed my lead and set her man’s balls free and that would surely cost her valuable time. I was already thinking ahead because this was war. I dragged my man’s britches further down, right to his knees, and sucked on the middle finger of my free hand, hiding behind him so that my bitch adversary couldn’t see. Then I raised his shirt tail and put it between my teeth to keep it away from his otherwise bare bottom. I could feel his prick getting even harder and I was sure he wasn’t far away if I could only maintain my draining pace. To help him on his way I shoved my wet finger into his arse, all the way up to the knuckle. It was the first time I had ever done anything so filthy to a man and the thought of my un-gloved finger being clenched by his nasty rectum made me shiver and curse. There was no alternative though, and I was feeling too manic to back down. I fucked his hole as rabidly as I tugged upon his cock, not caring how disgusting and slavish I looked.