u/WindsweptWillow

Jackie stared at her handiwork and sighed - not a sigh of relief or regret, but a deep, regulating sigh to reset her brain. A sigh to make peace with herself, with the scene before her and the implications and consequences and-

She sucked in air and sighed again, willing her heart to stop beating so fast. She shook the jitters out of her sore fingers, almost raw from all the rope-handling she’d done. Karl would be home any second-

The 4th of July wreath clattered against the door as it swung open and Karl called out, keys jangling as he hung them on the hook. Jackie bounded up the stairs and beelined for him.

Karl watched her approach and knew - just knew - the woman had big plans for him. He’d poured himself into his work all week and was mentally exhausted. The idea that she would take control, take the reins, allow him to unwind and untwist with her hands and her mouth and that tight little cunt of hers-

Intoxicating.

She was in one of those slouchy house rompers, the linen ones with spaghetti straps and deep open backs, the kind she knew drove Karl absolutely feral. No bra, no panties, just summer-tan skin and her favorite cocoa butter body crème. She had a fresh chopped, ash-blonde bob that tickled her collarbones. He ran his hands up and down her sides and over the bumps in her spine, slipping them under the fabric and palming her ass, digging his fingers deep into her cheeks and pushing his blooming erection into her pelvis.

He flashed her a quick smile, face shifting quickly to surprise when she lifted to her tippy-toes and pressed her lips to his, hands roughly working at his belt buckle and slipping into his briefs and gently dragging her nails across his soft skin. He laughed into her mouth, his breath faintly smoky, and she caught a whiff of cool water from his cologne. She tilted his head to the side to bury her face in his freshly-trimmed beard and sink her teeth into the muscle at his nape.

He jumped, grip tightening, and rumbled his response from low in his chest. “What’s all this about?”

“I have a surprise for you,” she purred against his neck. “A new game for us to play.”

“Do you?”

Jackie and Karl were no strangers to risk - they’d always pursued danger and adventure and general mayhem. Skydiving, bungee jumping, cave diving, rock climbing, the list went on and on. Photos lined their hallway of them in helmets and scuba suits and plummeting downwards at dizzying speeds. Chasing the next high, the bigger buzz, the sharp, exhilarating twinge of adrenaline through the gut. Their thrill-seeking behavior was mirrored in the bedroom - Shibari, impact play, knife play, CNC, limits tested until both of them collapsed into sweaty, somewhat embarrassed heaps.

One night, mid-cowgirl, Karl pulled Jackie’s hands to his throat and asked her to ride him and squeeze until he passed out and, well …

That had been one hell of an orgasm, and the slope had been notoriously slippery ever since.

Now, his spontaneous wife pulled him down the stairs, step by step, reminding him to keep his hand plastered over his eyes and not to peek. “Ta da!” Her voice was sing-song and cheerful despite …

Karl … didn’t really know … what to think. Jackie babbled excitedly, showing him how she’d picked a stud and drilled the hole and hung the eye bolt and-

“We’ll barter. For example, I’ll hang for you for five seconds if you’ll do the same for me.”

“Hang?” The words didn’t sound like they came from him - his ears were buzzing. Logically, obviously, the noose hanging front and center in their semi-finished basement would suggest as such.

She rolled her hazel eyes at him. “Yes, Karl, hang. By the neck.” She jabbed her thumb at the dollar-store clock on the wall. “You’ll have to keep an eye on that for me.”

He was - Jackie thought - adorably dumb-struck. Resisting her, denying her, bucking against her direction, and not doing so maliciously by any means. He was apprehensive and she would guide him through it, she would, because he deserved every ounce of devotion in her body.

“Here, I’ll show you.” Jackie practically pranced to the noose and stepped onto an overturned milk crate beneath it, tossing the loop over her head and taking a moment tighten it and position the knot at her temple. Without a second thought, she flashed him a quick smile, told him to count to five, and stepped off.

Her face grew hot and her lips tingled. She’d told herself to count to five, to hold her breath, but the drag of cord across the delicate skin of her neck immediately robbed her of rational thought. The next thing she knew, she could feel something sturdy beneath her toes and her husband’s forearms wrapped tight around her middle.

“Fuck, Jackie, that was-“ He was shaking. Trembling with adrenaline. “Could’ve fuckin’ warned me.”

Jackie caught her breath and huffed a dry, raspy laugh. “You didn’t think I was serious.”

No, no he hadn’t. He hadn’t really had a minute to even think, to process, but that was Jackie. She got something in her head and you’d better get on board fast or get out the way.

“Was it hot?” Her eyes flicked to his, trying to hide a touch of insecurity. Her fingers shook as she loosened the rope just slightly, regretting the loss of pressure almost immediately.

“You were stunning.” He fingered the thin straps that had fallen to her elbows when she’d jerked to a short stop. He’d barely been able to appreciate the swells of her breasts as they bounced when she fell.

“If- if I went up for ten seconds, what would you do?”

“Whoa, let’s - let’s just take a minute,” he stalled. He had to think. “It’s my turn, remember?”

—

Being in the noose was unlike anything he’d ever experienced. Disorienting, painful, overwhelming, and honestly, terrifying. His vision tunneled almost immediately, head spinning, hands fumbling. Totally and completely out of control, Jackie replacing the milk crate his only mercy.

He almost refused to give his wife another turn.

Instead, they lay naked side by side after a few rounds- nose to nose - on the cool basement floor, admiring the fresh ligature burns and lazily stroking and flicking and teasing one another. Jackie moved like smoke, settling her thighs along his hip bones and draping herself over him, licking the raw skin and blowing to cool it, her sex stroking against his in glorious, rolling waves. She planted her hands on his pecks and raked her polished, almond nails down and across his nipples, she worked him higher and higher and-

“I have a new barter.” A noise came out of Karl that he wasn’t proud of - a high, keening sound, a needy whimper - that Jackie chuckled at before continuing.

“I’ll hang for you for one minute. If you can get me off, you can leave me in the noose.” Karl’s eyes grew wide. “But if you don’t … you hang for me … and if I make you cum,” she whispered into the shell of his ear, “you’ll die with your cock down my throat.”

He shuddered, hard, arousal clouding his thoughts and muddying the seriousness of death, the severity of the risks they were taking. She was talking about choking to death for Christ sakes, hanging from a rope and never coming down-

“Yes. I’ll take that bet.”

—

“I’ll step off. You have one minute.”

Karl wanted to ask if she was sure about this, if she meant it, if she truly understood what she was offering - but he didn’t. He took her hands and offered his grounding touch as Jackie lifted a foot and slid it slowly off the crate, swallowing as the rope whined and flexed, allowing the tension to build slowly until her delicate feet slipped free and she swayed, weightless.

Karl allowed himself three precious seconds to admire his dancing, dangling wife, his rough hands moving reverently on her hips, thumbs drifting over her hip bones, her skin warm and velvet soft. Her breasts bounced, supple nipples puckering and hardening to points, hands twitching and falling to her sides, grasping and clawing into her own skin.

He carefully spun her, his fingers finding the perfect notch of her waist and pulling her towards him, plush cheeks flush against his lap. He pressed against her first, savoring the sensation of her glistening flesh against his and forcing his throbbing dick in the exquisite cleft of her ass. Her pussy was weeping down her thighs in thick, drippy rivers, perfectly swollen and slick. He slid into her, eyes rolling back in his head at the ecstasy of each vise-tight inch, at the way her body undulated. Her thighs sat against his, ankles knocking his shins, a trickle of sweat working down her spine and landing on his chest.

Karl fucked Jackie thoroughly, his hips pistoning into her, juices bursting out of her and dripping down his balls, sloshing obscenely with every brutal, wild thrust.

The time ran out and he groaned, his balls high and tight to his body, aching to fill her with cum. He wanted to watch his seed dribble out of her, out of her perfect pussy and down her tan thighs. He wanted to spin her round and drink in the agony on her face. He wanted to watch her go completely, utterly silent and still. He wanted-

Karl yanked out of her body and wrapped Jackie in his arms, tugging the rope until it loosened enough for her to drag in a ragged breath.

He knew … he knew exactly what he wanted.

“I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” he murmured into her collarbone, holding her tight as she fought for air and came to her senses.

“K-Karl,” she choked. “I thought-“

“Thought you’d get away without having to suck me off, didn’t you?”

—

Jackie gazed up at the rugged body of her husband. She loved him - fucking hell - she’d loved him so much, so incredibly deeply and fiercely. She loved how big he was - how he could lay across her prone body and hold her down almost effortlessly. He wasn’t that much taller but goddamn was he thick. She loved how hard he worked and how he melted at her touch, how willingly he submitted and did his best to meet every new challenge she set.

“You let me go.” She whispered it, almost to herself, as she tickled the coarse black hairs around his chest, between his nipples and down his stomach, stopping to twist a curl just below his belly button. He’d stepped up on the stool and was waiting there for her, hands at his sides, simply … waiting. Calm, relaxed.

“I did.”

I don’t know that I’ll let you go, K.

She didn’t dare say it. She didn’t understand it herself. How could she possibly imagine his death with anything but sorrow? She loved him. She craved him.

But she also craved the desperate noises he would make for her, the way his lips would swell and shine with saliva, the flutter of his long lashes as his body gave its final tremors. His throbbing, painfully-erect cock bobbing between his thighs with every kick.

She grabbed her makeshift step stool and climbed up behind him, tracing his powerful biceps and running her fingertips over his shoulder blades, across to sweep along his collarbones, gathering the thick loop and smoothing it along the line of his jaw. He felt so incredibly powerful, muscles firm beneath his flushed skin. He could wrestle her off him in an instant. He could overpower her, wrap a fist around her throat, and have her airborne in less than ten seconds. Instead, he leaned into every touch - he let her take care of him, he trusted her to lead.

She slid the coil down, gently but firmly, until it closed the loop around the muscular column.

Jackie purposefully avoided touching him where he wanted, needed, and instead retrieved two sturdy strands of soft, cornflower blue rope. She’d had them for years - too short to fashion respectable nooses or coils, the ends slightly frayed, the fibers soft instead of abrasive. They’d played with them in the past, shoved into her bedside table between session, tucked away for year after year, always saved just in case, Jackie never really knowing why, but as it turned out-

They’d been waiting all this time, just for this.

“Hands behind your back, my love.”

He obeyed. It broke her, just a little, to hold his calloused, masculine palms between her fingers. She laid one over the other and lashed his wrists together, winding tight circles around each one before joining them with a bowline knot at the small of his back.

Jackie raked her nails down his thighs and brought the other to the dip of his knees - she couldn’t have him wrapping his legs around her and getting too much leverage, wrangling himself more oxygen than he was allowed.

His wife went to her knees in front of him, admiring the puff of his chest with his elbows pulled back. Holding the backs of his thighs so he didn’t lose his balance, she nuzzled her nose against the trimmed black pubic hair covering his mound. She’d always loved how it thinned at the tops of his muscular legs, that flesh pale and smooth, then got thicker as it grew above his kneecaps and over his shins. She licked a stripe up one side, then the other, nipping at the thin skin of each inner leg, his dick weeping precum down her neck and shoulders and across her cheeks when she teasingly brushed against him.

“Tell me you want it,” she breathed against the blunt head of him, her plush lips brushing his tip and sending Karl’s hips jolting.

“I want it.” He felt mindless with need, a puppet on a string, a raw nerve being stroked relentlessly, mercilessly. She licked his frenulum and rolled the taste of him across her top lip, lapping at that bundle of nerves again and again as he whimpered and groaned.

“You’ll do your best for me?”

Yes, yes. He might’ve wept it, begged her, maybe he just nodded in a blind haze for all he knew.

She cooed, “You’ll kick for me? Last for me?”

God, yes. His toes curled as he felt her lips closed around the tip of his cock, wet heat enveloping him as she swallowed him inch by inch. Her ministrations found his sack and she rolled the pillowy globes in her palm.

“Fucking my throat will be the last thing you ever do,” she told him, rising to tongue one nipple and roll the other between her teeth. His breath came in quick pants as she brushed the pad of her thumb along his lips and fanned her fingertips across his cheekbone. She had to see him say it. “Tell me you want to hang for me.”

“I want- I want to, please, please- Jackie,” he begged, rutting against her belly. She watched his pulse hammer beneath the skin, visible just below the edge of the rope. “I need to.”

She kissed Karl, drinking him down ravenously before peppering wet kisses down his chest. Jackie’s hands roved across his skin, adoring every inch, gazing up to find his dreamy eyes and swallowing around the tip of his cock, drawing it deeper down her throat. She felt his thighs tighten and flex beneath her fingertips, the cadence of his thrusts between her lips growing more frantic, more erratic. Soon. It all would be over soon.

He felt her withdraw, allowing his cock to nearly slip out of her mouth, forcing him to pop his pelvis forward. He felt her talons grind hard into his ass cheeks, dragging him towards her, and Karl instinctively chased the heaven of her throat, pushing his hips out, leaning forward, stepping-

He jolted downwards sharply.

Jackie yanked the stool over and beneath her knees, then swallowed him to the hilt as quickly as she could, gagging hard as his jerking length bashed the back of her throat, matching the wet *guck* that was forced out of Karl. She ran her tongue over the veins and ridges of his cock, pulling back to lap quickly at the bundle of nerves beneath the head, lips sealed tight around his crown. Her tongue, her lips, the feverish pace, the blood pooling to his hyper-aroused dick and balls, it was-it was-

Cum erupted from his body in musky, bitter bursts, coating her tongue and spurting in heavy pulses. She swallowed what she could and let the rest seep out of the corners of her lips and down her chin, dribbling between her breasts and speckling across her thighs. She savored the fullness and feeling of his flesh on her tongue until the pulses stilled.

Jackie tumbled backwards, exhausted and sticky and sore, sitting on her ass on the ground while Karl dripped saliva and semen.

The heels of his feet stomped downwards sharply in violent thrusts, toes spread wide and legs straight and rigid. His neck was flushed pink and mottled red in splotches, the fibers of the rope burnt into his skin in white, raised slashes. He croaked in a long, wet gurgle, followed quickly by another. She’d done it too - it was the awkward noise your throat made when your reflexes forced you to swallow against whatever was choking you.

Karl’s elbows slid back and forth, sawing across his back as he fought the restraints, bound hands shaking as his fingers clamped down tight on each other.

Jackie’s hand slid down into her sopping folds as he dangled - his head was thrown back and to the side, the coil upright, the loop wrenched deep into the line of his jaw, head whipping as hard as it could against the agonizing bite. She was mesmerized by the flurry of emotions that crossed his flushed face - the dazed ecstasy the end of his orgasm, then pain and panic, shock flitting through his wide coppery eyes as he failed over and over to draw in breath.

Her eyes rolled skyward when he finally managed to gasp for air - his chest convulsed in laborious, painful spasms, drawing only the slightest whisper of oxygen through his crushed trachea. He wheezed and thrashed and pulled his knees halfway up, feet overlapping and one foot pushing against the other as if it could create solid ground.

Every movement, every excruciating moment was a gift, freely given.

Her own orgasm tore through her and she moaned through every thunderous wave, fingers working her clit in a punishing pace, cunt throbbing and dripping on the basement floor. She circled the sensitive, swollen bud as tremors wracked across Karl’s chest and ribs. He was drooping - he had to be utterly spent.

It wouldn’t be long now. Jackie got to her knees, swayed, and somehow found her balance enough to stand in front of him. His blurry eyes swept to her so, so slowly, half-closed and exhausted.

“I’m here,” she assured him softly, “I’ve got you. I’m so proud of you, my love.” She swept the tips of her nails across his chest and felt the muscles slowly, slowly relax.

She ghosted her fingertips over his limp, slumped shoulders, down the expanse of his ribs, down to the hollow between his stomach and his hipbones, holding on loosely as dying nerves fired and sent twitches skittering through her husband. She held him long after he went still, her cheek resting against his eerily-still sternum. This hadn’t been the plan - had it? She loved him, truly and dearly and desperately, and she’d - and yet she’d-

Jackie eyed a beam two spots over, glanced at the clock, gave Karl a quick peck on his swollen, cooling lips and pulled on her romper.

She had to run to the hardware store and if she hurried she would make it there before closing. Jackie could’ve kicked herself - she should’ve bought the second eye bolt the first time around, and she’d need more rope. Rookie mistake.

(TW - infertility)

Cheyanne stared at the three plastic sticks before her, three negative results, three final failures. They were right there on the kitchen table, sitting pretty in a neat line on a piece of paper towel. Her husband chewed his nail beds to angry ribbons on her left while the woman across from her tried to catch her eye, her ebony gaze gentle and tender. Mrs. Deshpande had dusty cocoa skin and inky, shiny hair that curled elegantly at her shoulders. Her beige pants suit was tailored perfectly, paired with creamy velvet flats and a smattering of classy jewelry.

To top it all off, she sported a prominent baby bump. That made Cheyanne blindingly furious.

She’d come with an armed, unnamed guard. He stood in the doorway, some sort of lethal, intimidating assault rifle slung over his shoulder, a pistol at his hip, encased in bulletproof gear and dark camo. He’d not offered to take his boots off when they entered.

Mrs. Deshpande - or Anagha, she’d insisted warmly when they’d let her into their home, but Cheyanne wasn’t going to call her by name, ever - typed rapidly on her laptop before setting it to the side and straightened her spine, fingers laced over her swollen belly.

“Mrs. Hock, as you’re aware, we’ve reached the fertility deadline and you’ve been unable to conceive. You can request a blood test - at your expensive, just be aware - if you think there’s any chance-“

“There’s not,” she interjected firmly, ignoring David’s wince. “I’m not pregnant.”

“In that case, we must continue as mandated by federal law with euthanization under the Fertility First act. Do you understand?”

Chey did, in fact, *understand*. She’d been throughly educated in school - produce a minimum of one living male or female via natural birth or C-section prior to age 36 to avoid termination. Those unable to reproduce were considered frivolous and unnecessary - why steal resources from the fertile and their precious offspring?

She’d known it was coming. She’d known for six years. Brent was tested and found to be perfectly able, full of energetic and robust swimmers. Cheyanne, on the other hand …

She pushed those thoughts aside. Didn’t do much good now. She was his second wife, he’d already sired children, he was safe. And soon, single.

“I understand.”

“We can arrange for you to be transported and processed in a facility today, or you can choose to pass at home. Either way, death must occur before midnight tonight. Have you given it any thought?”

They’d discussed it. Federal termination facilities were supposedly efficient and practical - that’s what the ads said, anyway. They alluded to swift and ‘nearly painless’ dispatches. No one ever came back out to tell the truth. The surviving spouse should keep an eye out for a plastic bag of ashes in the mail, give it two weeks to a month, they said.

“I want to do it here.”

“Passing at home can be a comfort, I think,” mused Mrs. Deshpande, clicking away with manicured French tips. She dug in her work bag and pulled out a little e-signer and scribe. “Please sign when I say. This is the official acknowledgement of notification of termination under the Fertility First Act.” Cheyanne scribbled haphazardly, causing the rep to purse her lips, but she continued. “Sign agreeing to expedient and willing termination in your home today.” Scribble, scribble, smiley face. “Sign if you’d like to be cremated, free of charge. If you waive that service, your surviving spouse will need to make arrangements.” Again, scribbles. Little heart. “Finally, would you like to leave a tip?”

Cheyanne froze and felt her husband do the same beside her. “Fuck. No.” She bit out, canines flashing, rage boiling over. Mrs. Deshpande remained impassive - Chey thought it was total bullshit.

“I’ll select decline. Please sign and date, and Brent, we need your signature as well.”

Cheyanne tossed the plastic pencil down on the table and stared daggers at the federal staff as Brent signed. She knew she was dying, but no law mandated that she had to be happy about it.

“Now, we have only a few options for home dispatches, we do restrict blood-loss terminations to facility processing only. The most common method in-home is suffocation, you can use an air-tight hood or we’ve got industrial rope. I’ve had a few attempt carbon monoxide poisoning in the garage space, but it’s time-consuming and dangerous for the rest of the household. Drowning isn’t popular, but I’ve seen it done. Electrocution is not advised, neither is-“

“Jesus,” Cheyanne muttered, rolling her eyes, Brent luckily stepping in to mediate and end the macabre parade of options.

“Hanging - er - suffocation or whatever will be, uh, fine.”

Mrs. Deshpande tried so desperately to appear morose when she asked, “And where would you like this to take place?” Cheyanne fought the urge to gag.

“There’s a decorative truss in the sunroom, and it’s load bearing. We thought … you know, we hoped that would work.” He tried to join hands with Cheyanne but she pulled away. It wasn’t personal, it just … she just couldn’t take his pity right now. Anagha continued on - Chey supposed shed witnessed all of this before, the bitter moments between lovers before the end. Nothing special.

“Good. We don’t recommend ceiling fans, never seems to go well,” she said, a shade too brightly as she repacked her briefcase. “We should proceed immediately but we will gladly give you a moment of privacy, if you’d like,” Deshpande offered. “Before we begin.”

Cheyanne looked over at Brent, thinking of the past six months or so, meeting his watery gaze with one of her own. They’d discussed her options, fought over it, fucked over it. Laughed and cried and fucked some more. He’d been a good husband, a fine man - saddled with her by force to attempt procreation, but he took that in stride and did his best. They’d said their goodbyes, over and over. He’d baked her a birthday cake and she ate it for breakfast earlier this morning, both of them bawling. She offered him a bittersweet smile and shook her head.

“Let’s continue.”

Anagha produced a large bubble-mailer and handed it across the table to Chey. “Please take a moment to disrobe, remove all jewelry, no bra or panties. I’ve got a set of clothes for you to wear for the procedure. Please use the facilities when you change.”

The stupid little linen shirt and pants felt itchy and scratchy and thin. Industrial. Impersonal. Faded mint, what an odd color to kill someone in, but it did compliment the copper hair that hung down to her shoulders. Chey tossed everything she’d worn that day into the tiny bathroom garbage can. She overheard Anagha say softly, “A chair, Brent?”

She was waiting for her just outside the door, tablet in hand, a stethoscope draped over her shoulders. She scanned the QR code printed on the back of the shirt with her phone and recorded the serial number. Cheyanne padded barefoot behind her like a condemned duckling to the sunroom.

Brent produced a wooden chair from their kitchen with a high, decorative back and thin spindles, one of six she inherited from her grandmother. It groaned under the weight of the silent, stoic guard, wondering if it would make that noise when-

She tried not to think about it, honestly, everything suddenly feeling incredibly overwhelming.

Anagha’s lap dog had busied himself with a section of thick rope with a loop at each end, shorter than Chey had envisioned. He’d tossed it over the beam, set one eye through the other first to secure it and then pulling the other through to create-

Fuck. That - that thing’s going to kill me.

He gave it a yank and opened the loop wide, the rough movement sending goosebumps skittering across her skin. It wasn’t like she’d imagined - no thick coil, just two eyelets, so plain and yet so sinister.

Cheyanne’s heart pounded, spurred to a sudden gallop at the horrific simplicity of her death, at the sight of a looped coiled rope slung just below her vaulted ceiling - swaying in the brilliant sunlight that streamed in through tall windows. It was bright white, ivory really - was that normal? Brass eyelets glimmered on the ends, ensuring a smooth slide and cinch.

She endeavored to be positive. She was going to die surrounded by her aloe and spider vines and string of pearls and that pesky little cobweb in the far corner. Bathed in sunshine in her favorite room in the house. There were worse ways to go. She wasn’t crammed in a van headed to a mysterious destination where someone would kill her in ways she probably wouldn’t enjoy-

Anagha broke her spiraling thoughts.

“Would you like your hands cuffed behind your back or in front?” Cheyanne’s eyes tracked the long tendrils of the tactical ziptie cuffs held loosely in the man’s fingers, pulled from a pocket in his vest. It looked uncomfortable. Sharp. Everything was moving so fast, faster than she’d imagined, so out of control-

She heard herself speak, somehow, “I would really prefer not to … be restrained.”

“Unfortunately, for our safety, that’s not possible. You may choose how you’ll be restrained but we cannot have your arms free during the procedure.” Ugh. Again with that fake fucking face, that practiced tranquility and calmness. Yuck. Hearing Deshpande lecture her was almost as bad as swinging from the ceiling. “I’ll be checking your vitals periodically and-“

Cheyanne’s lip curled as morbid confusion twisted her face. “What? Why?”

“I need to record your official time of death, and I’ll be checking to see if your heart is still beating as the termination progresses to its final stages. Front or back, Mrs. Hock?”

She wanted to bolt. She wanted to run to the door and let him shoot her in the street instead. She wanted less decisions and more more options and-

But it didn’t matter what she wanted, not really. Cheyanne tamped down those frenzied thoughts and attempted instead to negotiate.

“Fine, I guess … it just freaks me out, the idea that … I mean …” Cheyanne struggled to describe her blooming anxiety, the fear of … immobile balled fists. Complete constriction. Powerlessness. “Can you, like, tie my elbows to my ribs or something?”

Anagha looked doubtful, maybe a tad exasperated and annoyed, a reaction that poured gasoline Chey’s flaming temper.

“I’m being executed, I think the least you can do is have a little patience and wait until I’m done flailing to check if I’m dead.”

The armed guard uncrossed his arms, Brent took a protective step towards his wife, and Anagha drew in a calming breath, releasing it slowly with several thoughtful nods. “We can … make that work. Please keep in mind, I’m not here to fight you, Cheyanne, I’m here in compliance with federal law and I would appreciate it if-“

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Let’s keep this moving.” Cheyanne waved a hand dismissively at the pair, wishing she could share a different thought instead.

Suck a fat cock, you arrogant twats.

“A belt, Brent.” Off he went again, at the representative’s overly-demure request.

The chair wasn’t tall enough - she could barely get her chin through the noose, so Brent ran once again through the house, bringing back a few books and adding a handful of inches to her position. The guard gave her a few simple pointers - the brass eyelet should settle beneath her left earlobe, and she should tighten it to almost uncomfortable snugness so it didn’t slip. It had a silicone ring that could be adjusted and placed against the loop to keep it tight to her skin. Cheyanne carefully pulled her hair out of the way and swept it off to the opposite side. She stared down at them, palms laid across her thighs, vision hazy as she grew lightheaded.

Ironically, in that moment, she reminded herself to take deep breaths, to try to relax. Chill out, babe, it’s not a big deal, just die already.

Chey let her husband reach up and place the belt, his belt, around her waist and in the crooks of her elbows, pulling it snug, the metal bits cool and clicking into place at her spine. The guard inspected, roughly working a finger between her skin and the leather.

“One notch tighter, please.” Cheyanne didn’t feel that was entirely necessary - sure felt secure to her - but he complied, giving a few sharp tugs to adjust it.

Mrs. Deshpande set her feet wide and put her hands below her bump now, swaying slightly. “This is it, Cheyanne. You can step off or the chair can be pulled, which do you prefer?”

Fuck, her heart was pounding so hard it felt like it would explode. Adrenaline coursed through her, stabbing into her stomach and making her lips tingle. “I’ll step off.”

“Take your time.”

“I love you, Chey,” Brent blurted out, hands shoved deep in his pockets. He opened his mouth again, hesitated, then shut it. Cheyanne blew him a kiss, not trusting herself with words. She had no parting thoughts, nothing to offer them - certainly nothing the agents wanted to hear, anyway.

Her first steps took her off the books and to the tips of her toes. She leaned into the bite of the rope, allowing it to tighten, trying to adjust slowly and ease into it. Her eyes darted to the three witnesses below as she inhaled raggedly, allowing her knees weaken and the loop to grind mercilessly into her throat. Be strong, Chey, she pleaded with herself. Be brave.

Her second steps kissed only air.

Cheyanne was instantly struck by the impossible tightness of the noose, the sharp cinch as her full weight pulled the rope so tight it crackled like simmering bacon. Her hands balled into fists at the pain at her sides, every muscle flexed stiff, rigid and trembling. She swallowed against it on instinct, again and again, knowing she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t, knowing- logically understanding-

Logic failed. Her frantic brain sent distress signals, blaring, screaming, demanding pleas for air, for breath, outraged and confused and ravenous for oxygen. The urge to breathe, breathe, breathe, BREATHE had her jaw working, her throat, her chest, her shoulders, her diaphragm flexing uselessly in her ribcage. She gasped, again and again, the noise barely escaping her crushed larynx, a string of pathetic mewls of agony and desperation and the chirping clicks of a closed throat. Her hands rammed upwards, fingers flexing and tightening to balled fists, biceps straining against the belt. Her nails clutched at the fabric of her shirt, clawing into her own skin, one digging deep into the meat of her breast, the other fumbling for purchase and finding none.

cant breathe can’t breathe can’t breathe

Her legs swung in tense, chaotic arcs, knocking the chair sideways and sending her whole body twirling, bare toes curling and soles arched, frantically searching for solid ground. Her pulse pounded in her ears, her throat, the tips of her fingers, her heart valiantly fighting and pumping despite the impossible odds. Her vision spiraled, bursts of blinding light and color and fractals and shapes.

let me die please please let me die please let me die

Mostly ignorant of the extent of her suffering, Brent shuffled his feet and sighed. The whole ordeal should’ve felt chaotic and violent, but it really didn’t. The rest of the house was tranquil, the plants around them not even fluttering, a clock ticking annoyingly somewhere down the hall. Cheyanne had forced out a handful of terrible sounds that made his stomach churn, and the chair clattered a bit, but aside from that the only noise was the whine of tightened rope and rustling fabric. He watched intently, morbidly fascinated by the dying process, the way his wife’s body convulsed, her movements jerky and stilted. Her cheeks were puffy and mottled a deep shade of pink, lips nearly violet, the thinness of her neck surreal and unnatural and so incredibly captivating. Red striations bloomed along the edge of the white rope as it cinched deeper. The shirt pale rode up along her belly but the pants slid down, settling low on her hips, the little swaying drawstring tied in a delicate bow.

“The first minute or so is very intense, she should calm down shortly,” Mrs. Deshpande assured him quietly, though the words came from underwater. They were even muddier to Cheyanne, like her ears were stuffed with cotton.

Cheyanne didn’t know how long her body fought - in the moment it was endless, the demand for air so deafening she lost herself to the chase, the struggle. She was hyper-conscious of the rhythmic thud of trapped blood in her veins, the intense torment of her crushed throat, but slowly - mercifully - it all softened. It dulled. It quieted to a thrum, a suggestion, and she felt herself slip into something calmer, something fuzzy and heavy and warm. Cozy, almost. Her muscles still jerked, legs and arms wracked with spasms, but she didn’t mind it. Her consciousness was no longer a prisoner to her death throes - her focus shifted in slow-motion. The roughness of the dry fabric tickled her nipples in a way that drove her wild, she realized, with each involuntary flex of her ribcage. Blood pooled and swelled, especially between her legs, her cunt nearly bursting with need. She chased the growing, building sensation low in her gut. The spasms rocked through her stomach and down, thighs clenching tight instead of kicking, hips thrusting and back arching and-

She wanted to cum. God, she wanted to get off.

A quickly-numbing hand brushed against the crotch of her pants, bumping her clit for a single, blissful, excruciating moment. She tried with the other, willing it to fall and relax, to dive into her slippery cleft. She rocked her pussy back and forth and ground hard against the fabric, against her wooden hands, thighs pushed so tightly together, and she-

The orgasm crested, exploding spectacularly, her near-corpse jerking with every slick pulse of her dying pussy as it jutted forward in obscene little thrusts. Cheyanne rode those waves to oblivion, ecstasy mixing with agony, every sensation so blurry between the two that she couldn’t really feel the difference. Over and over until it ebbed and smoothed to tremors, to finger twitches, her eyes unfocused and dreamy and hooded. Brent watched her long legs relax, then her shoulders, then the crinkled pinch of her eyes, lips engorged and slightly parted, every inch going blessedly slack and calm.

He felt warm fingers on his arm and jumped, Anagha still smiling in that syrupy way she must’ve felt was soothing - had she been trained to pour it on so thick? He would’ve preferred cold ambivalence to whatever brand of counterfeit comfort she was offering.

“I’m going to check her heart rate, she might react physically but I’m confident she’s unconscious at this point. Total brain death should occur after about four minutes, it can take a while for them to fully settle, but we leave them up for an hour to so, to be safe.”

He watched the pregnant woman place the instrument against his wife’s left breast, listening intently and adjusting her position, Cheyanne’s body occasionally shuddering, nerves flicking and firing just beneath the skin. Brent zoned out with his gaze plastered to the outlines of her erect nipples almost poking through the fabric. At some point Mrs. Deshpande declared a time of death with little emotion or ceremony. She whined to her guard about swollen ankles or heartburn or something, and luckily stepped directly into his space and breaking his trance before speaking.

“We’ve got a service coming for the body in an hour or so, we’re departing as I’ve got another appointment today. Please leave it where it is. It can be difficult for some, which is understandable, but-“ he yanked his arm away as she attempted to touch him again, sick and tired of the whole song and dance.

“My wife was a person,” Brent snapped, suddenly aware of how callous the whole process had been, how cruel it was to send a woman with child to murder one who couldn’t conceive. “And now she’s hanging from a rafter in our home. I get it. I won’t take her down. You can go.”

Brent stared at the limp woman before him for a long time. He didn’t take her down, that wouldn’t do any good at all, but he did touch her. Brent knew what he’d seen, even if the other two chose to ignore it or play dumb. He palmed her cooling breasts and marveled at the still-puckered skin of her nipples. He slid the cloth pants down and ran a finger through her bubbly, sticky folds, sticking them between his lips without a second thought and growing hard at the taste of her arousal. She’d milked one last moment of pleasure from herself at the end of that horrid noose and he couldn’t be more proud.

About ten days after the termination, Cheyanne’s cremains arrived as promised, shoved in the mailbox with a set of coupons and the light and power bill. Brent scattered them in the backyard along her hydrangeas and coneflowers and clusters of stone crop - hopefully his next wife would enjoy gardening as well.

My cell block housed ten comfortably. Today it held eighteen. Naked aluminum toilet in the corner. Fold out beds with unwashed sheets and thread-pilled blankets. Pillows that probably carried lice. One water fountain that dribbled day and night. Cold concrete. No clocks. No calendars.

“Inmates 18643 and 8660!”

Holy shit. I looked down at the patch sewn roughly into my gray and white prison-issued uniforms, the numbers upside down but matching.

I stood and met the other woman at the gate, four officers waiting, strings of chain and cuffs tinkling between their fingers. She was Asian, middle-aged, petite and pale, swimming in her oversized, over washed stripes. Deep black eyes set into almond-sliver lids. She and I nervously faced the grim armed guards.

Somehow, they all looked the same. They all felt the same. Barely contained malice and pubic-hair beards and Axe body spray. They shouted orders at us as if we weren’t mere inches apart. Not a single female officer to be found. “We’ve got legal coming down for you, you’ll be seeing your attorneys shortly.”

I felt my skin prickle. I’d been here six weeks - or more? - without a single phone call. My family knew better than to ring and ask for information. We all knew the state of immigration enforcement these days - probably wasn’t even safe to call from a pay phone. How would I have an attorney?

The woman beside me in shook her head and said in broken English, “I can no afford-“

“We supply the initial consultation. Hands through the slot.”

They cuffed us head to toe. Wrists in front, ankles together, a section around our waist, all completely unnecessary - not a single one of us had criminal charges that I knew of. I’d been sitting in that cell with line cooks and hotel housekeepers, even a nanny who was flown in from overseas, employed specifically to teach some wealthy kids to speak French.

We were escorted through the doors, down a hallway to a set of elevators. Another inmate waited there, a man flanked by two officers, confusion and wariness written on his face as well. He was mid-forties maybe. Darker features, caramel skin, possibly from India, tall and lanky.

The elevators went down a flight, we shuffled down a hallway, then another, then through doors that looked new, into a hallway that looked freshly constructed - glossy enameled brick, scuff-free coated concrete, lights that didn’t flicker. The male inmate attempted to ask various questions, most of which were ignored or pushed off with a brisk, “Ask your lawyer.” We came to a hall with a series of doors, and one produced a keycard and pressed it to a pad that opened-

I felt my heart stutter as the doors slid apart, brain struggling to process the sterile scene in front of me. A long room filled with stalls, maybe twenty on either side, each square cubicle shiny and new, brushed stainless steel and white pebbled-plastic walls, fluorescents leaving not a single shadow or doubt or ounce of mercy. The only color to be found were in the red and green buttons in every station. UP and DOWN. Garish and impersonal, like a factory or a slaughterhouse. An eyebolt sat directly above every single one, and from every bolt … was … was strung …

A noose.

The other woman immediately started screaming, pleading, wailing. Guards struggled to force the man forward, his legs scrambling, elbows flying in every direction, curses flying. My vision was quickly shrinking to a pinpoint as we were drug forward, breaths sawing in and out of me, panic stealing any rational thought, sandwiched on either side by loops hanging directly at eye level in threatening stillness. Two guards handled the man, his thrashing and bucking so violent they had to pick up his ankles and carry him face down.

My fingers were clenched so tightly they cramped. I couldn’t feel my legs but somehow they carried me forward, down the chamber to the small group of men waiting at the far end, their voices hushed but bouncing off the walls toward us.

“-exploring mild sedation as an option for future executions, but for the demonstration we wanted to provide an authentic experience. We do need some time to test products and take competitive offers from various pharmaceuticals, it will be an enormous contract.” He raised his voice to attempt to speak over the screaming. “Obviously, bringing numerous inmates at once causes chaos, we hope to establish a standard procedure going forward for efficient and streamlined processing. This is our first dry run.”

At the very far end stood two men in hospital scrubs, one light and the other dark, holding tablets with stethoscopes hanging down across their chests. Young. Unbelievably young. We were going to be executed by barely-pubescent college drop-outs. Preppy hair cuts, synthetic gym honed bodies, brand new Hokas. White as skim milk.

A gaggle of people in suits looked on. A slender, pale man in a suit wore an extremely smug and satisfied expression, tittering at us as we were frog-marched to our deaths. “Should’ve put bags over their heads.” It hit me then. He looked so familiar. They all did. Top tier officials. Appointed and constantly under fire for cruel policies and endless corruption.

“This is murder! Help! Help us!” She - I didn’t know her name, Jesus, I’d never asked - screamed in another language, possibly Mandarin or Japanese, tears streaming down her face, babbling, swaying on her feet and weeping uncontrollably. I wish I’d been strong enough to offer her a hand, to console her, but I was barely holding on myself.

“Shut that bitch up!” the Secretary of War snapped, as slimy and snide in person as he’d ever been on television. “I can’t even hear myself think.”

*Probably hungover, more like it.* I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. He looked at us like he wished he could use his bare hands to get the job done himself.

A guard stepped to a rolling medical cart, grabbed a terry cloth, rolled it up, and shoved it so far down her throat her gagging couldn’t expel it.

The man ardently repeated, “No! No! Nonononono!” as they forced him into a stall and looped the rope quickly around his neck. I watched in utter horror as a guard pushed the UP button until he was forced to stand on the pads of his feet, Adam’s apple bobbing against the wound tether.

The orderly in cornflower blue, the cheerful narrator, stepped forward and scanned the barcode on his wristband, managing to capture it even as his hands jerked and fought against the restraints, tapping away on an iPad with a stylus as if they were ordering labs.

Another monster wearing Tom Ford and too much cologne - incompetent Director of the FBI, I thought - huffed and crossed his arms like a child. “Why don’t you just get it over with? How is this efficient?”

*I’m so sorry you aren’t shotgunning beers in an Olympic locker room, you scrotum licking-*

The teenager masquerading as a medical professional didn’t mind the question at all, showing the small group the tablet and pointing out the features.

“The barcode brings up his profile. I verify their identity via his intake photo, we record how long it takes to expire, then log time of death. We are dedicated to properly tracking and recording these disposals to make it easier to fabricate the deportation information down the line. In the future, the barcode will also tell us if we’re harvesting organs or executing a person of interest who could be tortured prior to death for information, the possibilities are endless.”

18643 slumped to the floor, either overcome or unconscious, and the guards simply let her fall where she dropped. I was shaking so hard the chains rattled.

“As long as this is correct, we can begin.”
He nodded to another man, one in black scrubs, who simply reached over and pushed the green button-

*Jesus-mother-fucking-Christ!*

The rope slid unrelentingly through the eyebolt and stretched the man’s neck painfully thin, drawing him upwards with a low mechanical whine and the sound of stretching, tightening rope fibers. He gasped out a single desperate choke before going eerily silent, shock painted across his face as it flushed deeper and deeper crimson. Rubber soles squeaked faintly against the floor before leaving it entirely. The department heads watched with cool, detached interest.

He bicycled his legs - as much as the chains would allow - arms jerking upwards, tensing, then falling back down before trying again. Blue scrubs seemed pleased with himself as he continued with what I now understood to be a death chamber sales pitch.

“We incinerate all remains. Any ash is thoroughly macerated and disposed of discretely and securely. I’m hopeful we will be able to staff this portion of the facility twenty-four hours a day, both processing and destruction.”

I wanted to rake my nails across his perky face, gouge out his eyes and crush them between my fingers. I’d like to light this room on fire and watch them burn alive. Rage warred with panic and sorrow and fear and hatred. Perhaps he felt my seething, the same mellow expression plastered on his face as he twisted to me.

“Let’s move along. 8660.”

Fingers, toes, lips, everything went numb when they shoved me into the stall directly across from the squirming, jerking, dying man and hauled the noose over my head, the orderly taking a moment to position the knot and tighten it, his fingers warm against my neck and soft compared to the harsh texture of industrial jute. My hair was braided - not much else to do most days, now it seemed like a waste of my increasingly finite time - and he pulled it free and laid it down my back. I shivered uncontrollably.

*If I allow him to set it right, it … it could be quick. Please, make it quick.*

So many emotions roiled through me I couldn’t single out where one ended and the other began, shock and panic robbing me of rational thought. A tepid smile played across his degenerate mouth, shoulders easing down with a sigh in relief. “I appreciate your cooperation.”

I willed myself not to pass out, to stand up tall, to dissociate as precious seconds ticked by, chains barely tinkling on a near-corpse only a few feet away, hyper-aware of the feeling of air rushing into my lungs.

The iPad made a different sound this time, a wonky noise, and he frowned.

“Oh.”

“Oh?” A woman, actually, that blistering cuntsore of a press secretary. She’d been cowering at the back of the group. Fucking harpy bitch.

“This one was requested to be held for, um,” he stumbled. “Other purposes.”

“Our very first clerical error,” the other said with a smirk, arms crossed over his chest as someone choked violently not two steps from him. Did he feel powerful in black? *Pencil dick grim reaper.* Blue asked nervously for a few moments, tapping the screen rapidly and worrying his lip.

The men in suits muttered back and forth, their eyes assessing me with blatant disdain, the Cuban staring at my chest and shrugging, the men in scrubs obviously unprepared. The higher-ups wandered around, pointing out features and asking hushed questions, some of them openly smiling at the set-up.

They did all of these morbid, careless things as a human being fought for breath in the last horrific moments of his life, lips swollen and face nearly purple. I tried to ignore the obvious tent in his pants, a final humiliation as blood was trapped and pooled. Fingers laced together and white knuckled, toes fluttering, then twitching, then slowly relaxing as his body gave its final tremors. The murderer in black scrubs donned a pair of surgical gloves and pressed a stethoscope to the inmate’s chest, listening for the final desperate thumps of his heart. My mouth dropped open as his dick suddenly twitched and pulsed, a wet spot blooming against the fabric and trailing down his leg.

*He … he came. That’s cum.*

His hip thrusts were weak but unmistakable. The tension slowly left his muscles and he sagged, completely limp, eyelids hooded. If anyone else noticed, they didn’t show much interest. The catastrophically-appointed medical fanatic mumbled some nearly unintelligible garbage, presumably pondering the possibility of harvesting a foreskin or taking the entire penis for himself.

*Will … will that happen to me?* I felt shame and desperation and longing and guilt, followed by grim resignation. I was a dead woman walking. Might as well take a final orgasm where I could get it. They’d cuffed my hands in front, after all …

Blue seemed more and more flustered. Must be embarrassing fucking up in front of an entire group of cabinet members, who were checking their watches and scrolling their phones. Just another day of ends justifying means, after all. Probably the least dastardly thing they’d done all week was watch a few illegals die.

“Give me a moment. Let me …” he trailed off, looking around as if one of the dangling ropes that surrounded us could fix it. “Well, let’s get 18643 up and going. We’ll try to show you how it should flow day-to-day, and then we’ll tackle the snag.”

They forced that poor woman to pretend to walk to her death - well, be drug, really, in a macabre parade. She didn’t walk. She was nearly incoherent and had to be held by her elbows on either side as they wrapped the rope around her throat and pulled up her profile. Blue nodded his approval, black pushed the button, and she had a moment of stark clarify as her finals breaths were spent screaming and wailing and thrashing until the noose reduced her windpipe to a crushed straw. Blue rushed off with the tablet clutched to his chest, leaving his audience to their enjoyment.

Her movements were more fluid - she made a few forceful downward stomps with her feet that set her swinging back and forth, shoes landing softly beneath, almost undulating at the end of the rope, brushing against the walls and twirling in an agonizing spiral, body curving as her spine curved and feet dolphin-kicked. They’d caught her black hair in the noose and it bunched around her neck and face in a greasy curtain. Her hands formed claws, drawn tight against the cuffs as she reached out for anything, anyone to save her.

Her struggles lasted maybe sixty seconds, giving me a shred of time to try to come to terms with my imminent demise and disposal. I was dying. Today. Now. Nameless. Tossed into an incinerator. Burnt to ash with thousands, tens of thousands, maybe millions of others. Some supercharged AI data center would cook up fake footage of us being released. My mother, my brothers, my friends never knowing the truth. The world finding out from a series of leaked emails but never given justice, the elite laughing from their untouchable pedestals and private yachts, getting richer placing black market bets on how long it took us to strangle to death.

I pushed the dark thoughts aside to stand witness to her passing. Her hands drooped. Her mouth was set in a jagged line, tear-soaked cheek pulled awkwardly by the rope. She’d been able to wheeze once or twice, probably air escaping her lungs, the sounds desolate and pitiful. I watched as her petite overlapped feet pressed against each other, toes curled before relaxing and dangling limp. Approaching, eager footsteps broke the near-silence.

“I spoke with the gentleman who placed a bid for 8660, he understands the situation and accepted a replacement from another holding facility.” Blue walked quickly, framed by death bringers on either side, almost bouncing as he came to my side and made another adjustment to the noose. “So let’s-“

He stood close enough for me to spit directly in his face, the slick wad landing in his eye.

“Definitely going to need hoods,” the ICE Crypt Keeper remarked dryly, some muffled chuckles coming out through wrinkles hands over mouths. He was really the architect of this whole mess - shocking he didn’t want to take responsibility for its piss-poor operation. It was a shame I didn’t have enough spit for all of them.

I’d debated my final words and landed on none. Nothing. Nothing I said would make a single bit of difference. They’d live, I’d die. They’d jeer at my thrashing body. They’d mock me as my eyes rolled back. I wouldn’t give anyone the satisfaction. My last precious moments were spent enjoying the pathetic mewling of an untrained Nazi wanna-be in front of bored stuffed suits who didn’t really care about the process at all, only that it was done. We could’ve been tossed into the flames alive and they’d call it a cost savings on rope. More money for the ballroom.

“Ugh, just do it,” blue scrubs griped, wiping my saliva from his face and gesturing to his coworker. I faced forward resolutely, fearing I’d lose any shred of remaining courage if I watched him activate the hoist. I sucked down a few panicked breaths as the rope lost slack and pulled taut, so incredibly tight, agonizingly tight, it surely would tear the skin and rip me in half. Tighter, tighter, tighter until-

My feet left the floor. My pulse hammered until, suddenly, it didn’t, the blood flow successfully cut to a trickle, a terrifying silence in its wake. The room slid sideways when my neck was wrenched into an odd angle. One canvas slipper slid off, the other hanging by a toe.

Edges blurred, colors dimming quickly. The urge to breathe was overwhelming - crushingly insistent, demanded and denied, my brain refused to accept the inability and forced every cell into overdrive. Their voices grew muffled, muddied by oxygen depravation, probably discussing the various ways to speed up and streamline executions.

The chilled stethoscope brushed my breast and I jerked, my unfocused eyes finding his. He’d slid his hand beneath my shirt to touch bare skin, the edge of his fingers exploring languidly while he checked his watch. Fucker.

“Shhh, just relax. Try not to think about it.”

I tried to buck him off, but my body merely jerked and spasmed. My knees rose halfway, one then the other, then together, toes now bare, my violent kicks finding no purchase. The bodies in front of me blurred into melded colors. My lungs screamed for air, demanded it, pushed every muscle and tendon to fight for even a whisper of oxygen, but none came. The noose tightened. I couldn’t feel the pricks of pain from my overgrown fingernails as they dug into my palms, as they grabbed at my pants and pulled the fabric tight against my skin, only the vise of the noose. The unimaginable terror of gasping for air and finding none.

My fight waned to tremors and muscle spasms and erratic nerve-firings, causing my nipples to brush against the rough fabric and tighten to stiff points. My body acted on its own. The pressure of my clenched thighs, the adrenaline, the blood pooling in my swollen sex. All of it built low in my belly, warming and surging in waves just as the feeling in my limbs melted from sharp prickling to warm numbness. I felt a hand ghost across my stomach, feeling the undulation of muscles in my core, black bursts of fireworks obscuring my failing vision. So close, so close - so-

I was hyper-aware of the strong, rhythmic spasms of my inner walls, my engorged clit, my dripping cunt - over and over and over, a beautiful small mercy, the only speck of humanity to be found in this hell hole. Cresting so powerfully it eclipsed the agony of being hanged with unbridled pure, pleasure, if only for a handful of moments. Arousal slid in thin rivers down my thighs. My shoulders sagged. I sunk deeper into the velvet darkness of death, of the merciful end. I imagined the sight of a slow drip of saliva down my chin from blood-red lips, nipples still painfully tight and erect. The satisfaction of watching one dip a curious finger into my pussy to find me molten and puffy and faintly pulsing, my body still fighting even

as I

slip

away.