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Offline joyfully

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The trial
« on: March 25, 2009, 05:14:16 AM »
Clint's mud brick cell felt like a dusty, bad smelling oven.

The bright ray of light in the otherwise dark room reminded Clint that the Arab village outside his cell was as harsh, barren, and pitiless a place as his prison. The bitter, acrid, latrine smell of his dungeon, the flies, the fleas, and the gritty, sandy dust and rags that he crouched on, Clint knew, were little worse than the typical hovel outside the prison’s gates.

Jumping up and down allowed jack-rabbit glimpses through his cell’s barred window, but Clint decided the view wasn’t worth the effort – brief little glances of the blazingly hot village square, and the occasional ragged, dusty native, looking up at his window with surly hatred.

And the raised mud-brick platform, with a heavy timbered gallows.

Clint heard Lynn pounding on the rusty metal door of her cell, located across the narrow dirt-floored hall from his own

“I have to use the bathroom!” she wailed.

“Give it up, Lynn” Clint thought. The militia gunmen had captured them the previous afternoon, and they’d been pitched into the cells right after their trial that same night. Lynn had been shouting for hours. The only response, curses from the guards down the hallway, did little to resign Lynn to the lack of amenities in her current situation.

“Poor little blonde, proper, pampered Lynn,” Clint mused. With Clint and Bob as her bodyguards, Lynn thought that using her banking experience to launder drug money through the internet was a safe, sanitary sort of way to get rich.

“I have to pee!!”

Lynn’s plaintive cry evoked more sinister cursing from their guards, and from further down the hall, Clint heard Bob’s annoyed shout. “Shut the fuck up Lynn, - pee on the floor and shut the fuck up for Christ’s sake.”

“But – but, there’s nowhere to sit,” Lynn protested, “I can’t use the floor!”

“Oh, please let me use the bathroom.”

Clint sighed, leaned against the rough cell wall, and thought, “Hell, there’s probably not a bathroom in this whole god-forsaken, camel-crap rat hole.”

Clint knew they were in a rough spot, but it was all the harsher for Lynn. Clint and Bob had seen the world with the warts on during their military service, however Lynn was a slender, 40-something divorced banker from Minneapolis. Lynn’s idea of hardship was a swank hotel in some Arab city that lacked 24-hour room service.

Snatched at gunpoint outside the restaurant where they’d made their last deal, they’d been bound, blindfolded, and forced into a van. Hours later, they found themselves in this nameless dusty village, where they’d been tried last night.

“If it was a trial,” Clint sighed. None of them spoke a bit of Arabic. Their militia captors had slowed the k i dnap vehicle just enough outside the city limits to give themselves a chance to riddle the trio’s translator with AK fire, as his body tumbled down the asphalt behind the slowly moving van. The trial lasted an hour at most. Neither Bob, Clint nor Lynn had understood word one. Several grim hawk faced men sitting at a table watched them with predatory, bitter eyes, while their militia captors displayed Lynn’s laptop computer, Clint and Bob’s guns, and several plastic wrapped bags of heroin.

The courtroom crowd of burka-clad women, and dusty fleshless men, had cheered appreciatively as the guards manhandled each of them – one at a time - Bob first, then Lynn, then Clint, to a position in front of the table. The grim black robed elder at the center of the table pointed to them in turn, and in a harsh voice, seemed to pronounce a different sentence for each

Guards had then drug them back to their cells. Clint had been stripped, searched, and given his pants and shoes to wear. Hoarse cursing from the direction of Bob’s cell told Clint that Bob had been treated the same.

From across the hall, wailing from the grate in Lynn’s door left little doubt that the women who had drug her down the hallway had strip-searched Lynn too, leaving her only with a pair of heels, her skirt, a blouse, and her offended dignity.

Now, with the sun high in the sky, the ray of light on his floor just a narrow strip in the dust, Clint could here the rustle and rattle of activity. Voices in the hallway murmured through the riveted metal of his door. Lynn’s door banged open with a rusty creak.

“Turn me loose!” “Where are we going,” Lynn cried.

“I have to go to the bathroom!” she added.

Clint flinched as his own cell-door was thrown open. Two guards rushed into his cell, pulling him roughly to his feet, his hands still tied behind his back. Through his doorway, Clint saw other guards forcing Lynn out of her cell, her wrists also tied behind her back. It was the first time he’d seen Lynn without her usually perfect makeup, and her blonde hair pulled into a tight bun. Lynn was dusty and disheveled, wearing only her heels, the black knee-length skirt, and white silk blouse she’d had on the day before.

Ahead of them, down the dark hallway, two other guards forced Bob, his wrists bound behind his back, out through the jail’s door into the bright light of the public square beyond. Clint paced ahead of his guards, one grasping each of his bound arms.

Lynn’s guards alternately pushed, and dragged, her down the hall and out the door. As her eyes adjusted to the bright light, Lynn screamed, and kept on screaming as she tried to push herself back into the jail with her outstretched, peddling feet, her eyes fixed on the raised brick platform with its’ gallows, and single dangling noose. On the edge of the platform, at the top of the steps, stood a small black clad figure.

Lynn was a slender woman, her guards simply grabbed her under her arms and pulled her up the steps behind Bob, as she writhed, and cried. The crowd hooted, trilled, and clapped happily.

Clint strode up the mud-brick steps. He wanted the guards to hurry after him, rather than drag him up. He paused at the top of the platform steps, momentarily confounded by the shock of finding the black robed figure strapping Bob’s ankles to the supports on a small bench in front of a post behind Bob’s back. Bob’s wrists were tied together behind the post. A short rod leaned against the post, and a rope hung through a hole in the post behind Bob’s neck.

Lynn whimpered and struggled; her wide eyes fixed on Bob as the executioner threaded the scratchy hemp rope around Bob’s neck, and through the posthole behind his head. With a short length of twine, guards roughly pulled Lynn’s arms together behind her back, binding her above the elbows. Her small breasts strained against the grimy silk fabric of her blouse, the sheer cloth illuminating her small well-formed chest, and her fear-aroused nipples, in a way that made her seem more vulnerable that mere nudity ever could.

On the far side of the platform, Clint saw two more guards waiting by a rough, heavy-beamed cross lying on the hot dusty brick. A blow from a heavy staff to his calves caught Clint by surprise, driving him to his knees. With practiced efficiency, guards threw Clint on the cross, and tied his wrists and legs to the splintery wood.

Bound to the cross, lying on his back, Clint looked through the guard’s legs as Lynn was being drug toward her noose.

“No, Oh God, No, No, No!,” Lynn shrieked. With a guard pulling either arm behind her back, Lynn threw her chin down onto her chest to prevent the executioner from positioning the noose, however with a wrenching tug on a handful of Lynn’s blonde hair, the executioner positioned the bottom of the noose beneath her chin. Reaching behind, he pulled the knot down behind her Lynn’s left ear, then moved to the cleat on the gallows frame.

While the executioner took up the slack, Lynn’s guards raised her up, until her feet were positioned on a small stool. Still whimpering and crying, Lynn tried to kick the stool away. The executioner simply tightened the rope on the cleat so that Lynn was forced to stand on the stool, her head tilted to her right, the rope tight beneath the smooth white skin of her jawline, her breath rasping as she gasped for air. As Lynn struggled to raise herself up on her toes to loosen the noose tightening around her throat, Clint watched as one of her heels clattered to the bricks below. Lynn’s well-manicured red toenails on her exposed bare foot seemed so out of place in the dusty, heartless, grimy execution platform.

As the crowd surged toward the platform with anticipation, the executioner moved to the post behind Bob’s back.

“Don’t watch, don’t look!” Clint called to Lynn, however he saw that she couldn’t pull her terror filled eyes away as the small executioner began to twist the rod through a loop in the rope around Bob’s neck.

Bob gasped and bucked, his face, first red, now purple, swelled as his eyes bulged. The executioner slowly twisted the rope, leaning forward to look over Bob’s shoulder. He placing a small boyish hand on Bob’s arm, and looked into Bob’s face as his tongue protruded, his hips bouncing up and down obscenely from the narrow bench. Bob’s head thrashed from side to side above the tightly constricted rope.

Apparently pleased with the degree of tension in Bob’s garrote rope, the executioner slipped a loop of twine over the rod twisted through tight hemp, and walked around onto the platform in front of Bob to enjoy the torment of his execution with the crowd. Bob’s head was no longer tossing from side to side, and his gaze was fixed on Lynn, teetering beneath her gallows. Bob’s knees were now spread wide above his tied ankles, and his hardening cock created a fist-sized bulge in the crotch of his pants, as his hips continued to buck up and down. At the front of the crowd, women trilled their tongues, and hard-faced men smirked, as Bob’s hips trust upward rigidly, a small wet stain spreading through his pants, his now dull eyes rolling back.

The executioner turned to Lynn, whose small firm chest was heaving in and out, straining her breasts against the smooth film of her fine blouse. Lynn’s hands, reddening below her bound wrists, clenched and unclenched as the executioner walked toward her. Clint watched in fascinated horror as the executioner reached out with his fine brown hands to grasp Lynn by each naked calf, looking up into Lynn’s tear-filled eyes through his facemask.

“Uh, uh, uh, Oh God, Oh God, mommy, mommy” Lynn gasped and spluttered, her hair wafting around the noose rope, as she twisted from one side to the other on top of the stool. The executioner, slowly running a smooth hand down each of Lynn’s willowy calves, gently grasped the edges of the stool, and slowly slipped it out from underneath Lynn’s feet.

Clint watched as Lynn’s eyes jerked wide in perfect syncopation with the noose rope gouging tightly into the smooth skin of her neck. Lynn’s other shoe pitched into the hooting crowd as her feet, at first extended rigidly, toes pointed toward the platform, began to flutter back and forth in a swim like scissors kick.

Lynn’s eyes, wide with terror, bulged she franticly rotated her head in small circles, trying to loosen the rope’s vice like grip on her slender throat. She threw her bare legs apart as widely as her skirt would allow, kicking down and raising them again, much to the delight of the men looking up along the edge of the platform. Lynn felt the warm torrent of her urine running down her dusty, bare legs as she kicked and strangled. Lynn knew her tongue, dry and parched, was protruding from her darkening lips. Her face, turning red and swollen where once it had been blond and fine, looked out into the crowd, surging about for a better view, while her body began to buck and quiver in the throes of the orgasm which carried her off.

With his head turned to the side, Clint watched as the executioner walked past Lynn’s body, swaying slowly beneath the gallows, wisps of her blond hair gently brushing the noose-rope, as small drops of pi$$ dripped from her toes onto the dusty bricks.

The executioner walked toward Clint, and, stepping over his stomach with one foot, straddled his body as he stood, hands on hips, looking down at him.

Clint looked up into his black-masked face, noting how the bright brown eyes stared directly into his own. Suddenly, the executioner knelt, a knee on either side of Clint’s waist, and brought his mouth down next to Clint’s ear, a hand on each side of his face.

In a soft voice, Clint heard him say, “ Ferengi pig, you do for me, I do for you. If not, the sun shines hot and long here.” The soft hands caressed his face, and Clint gasped.

“Motherfuck,” Clint thought, “It’s a woman.”

Turning to face Clint’s feet, the executioner settled herself down until her black-clad womanhood was pressed urgently into Clint’s crotch through her tunic, and his trousers. Imperceptibly, but unmistakably, she wriggled herself as she leaned into him, bending forward to slowly untie first one shoe, then another.

Clint thrust his hips up slightly from the wooden beam, and she responded with a subtle back and forth movement. It was a motion that was lost on the baying crowd of villagers, who craned their heads as they watched her preparations for driving the spike through Clint’s feet.

His shoes gone, his naked heels pressed against the post, Clint felt her cutting away at his pant’s legs, as she slowly pushed herself in slight motions back and forth on his hardening cock. Whatever favor she offered, he figured, was better than none at all, and he did his best to force himself into her sex through their clothes, as she sat on his crotch, cutting away the legs from his trousers.

Clint rocked into her urgently as he saw one of the guards hand her a long, needle sharp and rusty spike, along with an iron headed mallet. She pushed down onto Clint with vigor, presenting the appearance of pinning him more firmly to the cross ahead of her blow. The trembling in her thighs Clint could feel through the fabric told him there was a different reason, and the wetness he felt soaking into his pants from her as she gasped and leaned forward to swing her hammer told him he’d also hit a mark.

The dull thud and piercing pain of the spike driving into the arch of his top-most food erased the momentary erotic sensations that Clint had experienced from her pleasure. It took her a second blow to drive the spike through his bottom foot, and into the post behind.

She stood, as Clint writhed, the grating sensation of the nail against the bones in his foot almost blinding him to the image of the executioner looking down on him, a contented smile beneath the mask that covered her nose and eyes.

“Your hands, next, Ferengi, then we raise you up, and I repay your favor.” Clint gasped and cried through clenched teeth as she placed a smooth, warm, strong hand first on one wrist bound to the cross, then on the other, driving spikes though the palms of both hands into the wood below.

The crowd hooted and bellowed, taking note of Clint’s wet crotch, thinking he had pi$$ed himself in fear, as guards raised the cross up, settling it in a hole in the platform.

Walking to headsman’s block on the stage, the executioner returned to Clint with a long, slightly curved sword. Looking up at him, bound and nailed to his cross, she placed the point of the sword beneath his ribs, and smiled as she slowly pushed the shiny, sharp blade up through his abdomen into his heart.

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