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Parts 1 to 8 were posted below in the last 4 weeks

The Tyburn Chronicles

Chapter 9: Charlotte’s final dance

This story is dedicated to Noose Slut Sarah. I was very sad to see you go. You are most welcome to return at anytime.

The morning after Stephen’s hanging, Charlotte stood before Thomas Crowley in the small wooden shed behind the gallows, eyes blazing with purpose.

“Thomas,” she said, voice low and steady, “I believe you have become addicted to our noose games. You may even love me. That is why you will never allow me to go all the way when we are alone. But I need the rope. I need the crowd. I need to hang like Eleanor, like Molly, like Stephen - before thousands of lustful people where everyone can see my cunt drip and spasm as I die.”

Thomas’s face tightened with pain. The broad-shouldered hangman, who had fucked her senseless night after night and cut her down every time, had fallen hopelessly in love with the once-respectable merchant’s wife. The thought of truly losing her tore at him.

Charlotte placed a heavy purse of gold on the bench - more money than he would earn in ten years. “Add me to next week’s mass hanging. Six victims. Make it seven. No one will question one more condemned slut. Do this for me, Thomas. Let me die the way I so desperately desire.”

Thomas stared at the purse, then at her flushed, beautiful face. His hands trembled. Love and duty warred inside him. Finally, with a broken sound, he nodded.

The next six days were the most erotic and lustful in Charlotte’s life. She knew that her appointment with the noose was now inevitable. That knowledge roared through her body, making her feel more alive than ever, and she surrendered completely to a fever of insatiable carnal lust.

She rented a furnished room in the roughest part of Whitechapel, bought cheap, vulgar clothes - a low-cut red dress that barely contained her heavy breasts and a slitted skirt that showed her shapely legs. With her cunt laid bare, she prowled the gaslit streets like a bitch in heat. Pretending to be a prostitute, she picked up all sorts of me from rough labourers and drunken sailors to members of the gentry taking them back to her lodgings where she begged them to fuck her brutally and choke her hard just like the Tyburn Strangler.

She rode their cocks with feral desperation, cumming violently again and again in shattering, squirting orgasms as rough hands tightened around her throat. Each choking climax sharpened her obsession for the real rope that would soon claim her at Tyburn.

At last - the moment she had dreamed of for so long was here. The prison gates opened and the death cart rumbled out of Newgate with seven condemned souls to the delight of the huge crowd. Charlotte sat among them wearing only a thin white shift, wrists bound tightly behind her back, the coarse hemp noose already looped loosely around her neck for the journey.

Beside her in the jolting cart trembled a pretty, wide-eyed 18-year-old servant girl named Bess, condemned for theft and a tousle-haired 20-year-old stable boy named Jem, found guilty of poaching. Both were pale with raw terror, their young bodies visibly quivering as the heavy nooses swayed gently against their throats.

Two hardened rogues lounged defiantly among them, appearing not to care one jot about their fate; they had bribed the Newgate guards with their last coins and were now reeling, gloriously drunk on cheap gin, faces flushed and voices thick with slurred, filthy laughter as they crudely joked about how stiff their cocks would get once the noose bit. Finally came the middle-aged merchant couple, sobbing with raw, broken terror, their faces streaked with tears; wrongly accused of poisoning their master, they clung desperately to each other despite their bound wrists, trembling and whispering frantic prayers as the cart rumbled ever closer to Tyburn.

Charlotte leaned in close between the two terrified youngsters, her full breasts brushing softly against their arms, her voice low, warm and deliciously husky with lust. “Listen to me both of you,” she purred. “There is nothing you can do to prevent your death on the rope… but the rope is not the end. If you surrender to it completely, it will grant you the greatest, most shattering pleasure you will ever know. When the noose bites deep into your throat and your lungs begin to burn, your sweet little cunt and your hard young cock will flood with liquid fire. Don’t fight it. Let the rope ravish you. Enjoy every savage second. Cum shamelessly for the roaring crowd. Cum hard and beautifully for yourselves.”

As the cart rolled slowly through the jeering streets, Charlotte slipped her bound hands as best she could and stroked Bess’s small, firm breasts through the thin shift until the girl’s nipples stiffened and she whimpered. She guided Jem’s bound hands between Bess’s thighs, encouraging the boy to rub the frightened girl’s swelling clit while Charlotte kissed Bess’s neck and whispered filthy promises of the orgasm that waited on the scaffold. Soon both were panting, hips rocking, eyes glazed with shameful arousal. Charlotte herself was dripping down her thighs, the sight of their budding lust making her own cunt throb with joy.

The two hardened rogues, now reeling and loud from cheap gin, watched with leering grins and slurred, filthy laughter, shouting drunken obscenities and crude encouragement as they swayed unsteadily in the cart. The middle-aged couple, by contrast, stared in horrified silence, faces pale and streaked with tears. By the time Tyburn came into view, Bess and Jem were openly moaning, grinding shamelessly against Charlotte’s fingers, their initial terror completely replaced by desperate, hungry need.

At the triple tree Thomas lifted them one by one onto the long platform. The crowd roared at the sight of the seven noosed victims. When he reached Charlotte he paused, eyes moist and soft. She smiled at him with pure, radiant lust and whispered, “Thank you, Thomas. Now let me go. Drop me naked and let the world see me for the noose slut I am.”

Thomas pulled her shift down to her waist, then let it fall completely, leaving her gloriously naked except for the rope. Her firm breasts, wide hips, and glistening cunt were displayed to the thousands. The other victims were stripped to varying degrees, but Charlotte shone - almost naked, radiant, alive with joy.

The seven condemned now stood in a line on the long platform, nooses already snug around every neck, the rough hemp resting against flushed skin. The middle-aged couple sobbed openly, tears streaming down their faces as they clutched each other’s bound hands, whispering frantic prayers.

Bess and Jem stood side by side, still panting from the cart, their young bodies trembling with a shameful mix of terror and lingering arousal. The two rogues tried to look defiant, but their faces had gone pale and their knees shook. Only Charlotte stood tall, nipples stiff, cunt visibly dripping in long, glistening strands down her inner thighs, a dreamy, lust-drunk smile on her lips.

The massive crowd erupted in a deafening roar of approval - thousands of voices howling, men openly stroking their cocks through their breeches, women pressing thighs together or fingering themselves beneath skirts, all eyes locked on the naked beauty who seemed to welcome the rope with open, shameless ecstasy.

The traps opened together.

Seven bodies dropped short distances. Seven ropes snapped tight.
Charlotte’s world exploded in white-hot ecstasy. The hemp crushed her throat with brutal suddenness. Her eyes bulged, her tongue pushed out thick and wet, her face flushed then deepened to a lovely purple. Yet she felt only joy - pure, overwhelming, sexual joy. Thomas was not going to cut her down this time.

Her legs kicked in long, lewd scissor strokes, breasts bouncing wildly, cunt openly spasming and squirting powerful jets that sprayed across the platform while the mob screamed its approval.

Wave after wave of shattering orgasms tore through her. The first crashed over her like lightning, her cunt clenching so violently it felt as if her womb itself were pulsing, thick ropes of clear girl-cum gushing out in forceful, rhythmic spurts that soaked her kicking thighs and splattered the scaffold.

Before the peak even began to fade, a second, far stronger climax slammed into her, drawn out endlessly by the merciless pressure on her throat. Her swollen clit throbbed in time with every strangled heartbeat, her pussy contracting in deep, milking spasms that sent fresh floods of hot juice spraying between her spread legs.

Pleasure and agony fused into one blinding, endless peak - each frantic kick of her legs made the noose bite deeper, each desperate thrust of her hips drove the next orgasm even higher until her vision sparkled white and her mind dissolved into pure, squirting bliss.

A third, devastating wave followed, her cunt convulsing so hard her whole body jerked and shuddered in the rope, piss and cunt juice mingling in shiny rivers down her calves while the crowd roared louder than ever. Still the orgasms kept coming, each one longer, wetter, more consuming, until her final, dying climax rolled through her like a slow, rolling thunder that left her toes curled, her breasts heaving, and her pussy gushing helplessly in one last, endless, squirting flood.

Beside her, young Bess and Jem - inspired by Charlotte’s earlier encouragement - came together in the rope, their bodies thrashing in shared, terrified bliss, the girl’s cunt visibly spasming around the boy’s straining cock as they both squirted and shuddered in the noose. The merchant couple and the two rogues danced their own final, obscene dances. But the crowd’s eyes were on Charlotte. She was the star - lewd, lustful and beautiful, smiling even as saliva ran from her protruding tongue onto her heaving breasts, her cunt still squirting in helpless, dying aftershocks.

Thomas stood on the platform, hands clenched white at his sides, forced to watch the woman he loved strangle and cum and die in front of all of London. Tears cut tracks down his weathered face, but he did not look away.

Charlotte’s final thought, as consciousness faded, was one of perfect, radiant fulfilment. She had never been happier. Her body gave one last long, shuddering kick, then hung limp and still, slowly rotating in the morning sun - a well-hanged, dripping, naked corpse on glorious display for the satisfied crowd.

Thomas left all seven there for the full hour, as custom demanded. He never took his eyes off Charlotte’s beautiful, darkened face and the faint, dreamy smile that remained on her lips even in death.

The Tyburn Chronicles were finally over.

Epilogue

Lost in the vast, roaring sea of spectators, an eighteen-year-old girl named Mary stood pressed against the barrier, eyes wide and unblinking. This was her first hanging, and she could not look away from Charlotte - the naked, radiant woman who danced so joyfully in the noose, legs kicking lewdly, heavy breasts bouncing, cunt visibly spasming and squirting in open, shameless ecstasy as the rope stole her life.

Mary’s breath came short and shallow. A strange, liquid warmth spread across her stiffening nipples and pooled hot and slick between her trembling thighs. She squeezed her legs together, cheeks burning, trying to make sense of the unfamiliar ache that made her clit throb in time with every one of Charlotte’s dying convulsions.

As the crowd began to disperse and Charlotte’s beautiful, purpled corpse rotated slowly on the rope, Mary slipped away on shaky legs, heart pounding. She hurried through the thinning throng toward home, desperate to be alone in her small attic room where she could lock the door, lift her skirts, and finally explore the mysterious, shameful fire now burning inside her.

Perhaps the Tyburn Chronicles were not yet over…

Parts 1 to 7 were posted below in the last 4 weeks

The Tyburn Chronicles

Chapter 8: The Aristocrat’s Last Dance

The arrest of the Tyburn Strangler sent shockwaves through London that no one could have predicted. When the police dragged the elegant second son of Viscount Stephen Harrington into the street in irons, the entire city seemed to stop breathing. The newspapers screamed the headline for weeks:

“TYBURN STRANGLER REVEALED: ARISTOCRAT MURDERED WOMEN WHILE FORNICATING WITH THEM”

Society was scandalised. Gentlemen who had dined with him turned pale. Ladies who had once flirted with the handsome, charming Stephen now shuddered in their drawing rooms. In the taverns and coffee houses men spoke in hushed, excited whispers about the monster who could make a woman cum while he killed her.

Charlotte had devoured every detail of the Strangler’s murderous campaign in the newspapers. She sat alone in her drawing room each morning, heart hammering, cunt already wet and aching, as she read the latest reports. Another well-to-do lady found dead in a cheap lodging house, face purple, tongue out, signs of violent sexual congress. Another pretty shop girl missing, only to be discovered strangled in an alley with her skirts around her waist and semen still leaking from her body. Charlotte’s fingers slipped under her skirts as she read, circling her swollen clit while she pictured herself in their place - the killer’s strong hands slowly tightening around her throat, his thick cock buried deep inside her as he squeezed the life from her body. She came hardest when she imagined their final, choking orgasms, envying every woman who had felt that exquisite death at his hands.

The trial was the sensation of the year. Charlotte attended every day, veiled and seated at the back of the Old Bailey. The moment Stephen stepped into the dock - calm, composed, dressed impeccably even in chains - her breath caught in a sharp, electric jolt of recognition. It was him. The aristocratic stranger who had fucked her so perfectly from behind while Eleanor Carver strangled and squirted at Tyburn. The same thick cock that had flooded her cunt while she watched the Tyburn Widow dance. Jealousy burned through her like liquid fire. Those other women, those dead woman, had felt that same cock pulsing inside them as their faces purpled. They had convulsed in dying ecstasy around him. She envied them with every fibre of her being, her cunt throbbing so fiercely she had to press her thighs together to keep from moaning aloud in the courtroom.

The public’s reaction grew more fevered with each witness. Crude woodcuts of a shadowy male figure with his hands wrapped around a woman’s throat circulated everywhere. Mothers warned their daughters never to speak to strangers. Gentlemen double-checked the locks on their doors at night. Yet the crowds outside the Old Bailey swelled daily, hungry for every salacious detail. Charlotte sat among them, veiled, fingering herself discreetly beneath her skirts whenever the testimony turned to the victims’ final moments - the bulging eyes, the protruding tongues, the helpless kicking and squirting. She came silently in the gallery more than once, biting her lip bloody, aching with envy for the women who had died exactly as she now longed to die.

When asked if he had anything to say before sentence was passed, Stephen simply smiled - that cold, beautiful smile - and replied: “I gave those women the most exquisite death a man can bestow. They came for me as they died. I regret nothing.”

The judge, white-faced, pronounced the only possible sentence: Death by hanging. At Tyburn. The date was set for the first Saturday in July. A public spectacle. The nobility would watch one of their own dance on the rope.

On the morning of the execution, Tyburn was packed tighter than it had been in years. Thousands had come to see an aristocrat die. Charlotte pushed her way to the front, heart hammering, cunt already dripping down her thighs. She wore the same modest blue gown she had worn the day their eyes had met after Eleanor’s hanging.

When Stephen was led out onto the scaffold, wrists bound behind his back, the crowd roared. He looked calm, almost serene, as the noose was placed around his neck and tightened behind his left ear. Then his eyes scanned the crowd. They locked onto Charlotte. Time seemed to stop.

Stephen’s breath caught. In that single heartbeat he understood everything. The woman in blue whose cunt had clenched so perfectly around him while Eleanor died… was here. She had come to watch him hang. Their brief, wordless meeting in the crowd that day had been destiny - two dark souls brushing against each other, each craving the rope in opposite ways, now brought together at the very end so that one could watch the other die.

He smiled and in his mind he spoke to her silently: You wanted to be the one on the rope. I wanted to put you there. Fate decided I would hang instead… and that you would watch. This is our ending.

Charlotte’s knees weakened beneath her. A lightning strike of pure, lust slammed through her: this was the man who had once claimed her so brutally while Eleanor strangled, the same man whose hands had taken so many lives, the man she had fantasised about strangling her while he spent inside her. Their eyes had met once in the chaos after Eleanor’s death - a single glance that had sealed both their fates. Now, months later, destiny had brought them here: he on the trap, she in the crowd, about to watch the man who had once filled her cunt take his last breath on the same rope she had begged to feel around her own neck.

A stranger’s hand slid under her skirts from behind in the press of bodies. She did not stop him. She let him push two thick fingers deep into her soaked cunt as Stephen stood noosed and ready. Their eyes never left each other.

As the hangman asked if Stephen had any last words, he spoke clearly, loud enough for the front rows to hear: “I only regret that I never got to put the rope around her neck.” He looked straight at Charlotte.

The trap dropped. Stephen fell. The rope snapped tight. His body jerked violently, legs kicking in a strong, elegant dance. His face darkened quickly. His tongue pushed out. His cock - visible through his breeches - hardened obscenely as he strangled.

Charlotte came instantly, hard and wet around the stranger’s fingers, her eyes locked on Stephen’s bulging, dying face. She watched every kick, every spasm, every helpless thrust of his hips as the noose took him. She came again when his struggles weakened, and a third time as he finally hung limp, slowly rotating, tongue out, cock still twitching in death. Each orgasm rolled through her in powerful, shuddering waves, her cunt clenching and squirting around the stranger’s fingers while she stared at the man who had once claimed her so perfectly.

The stranger behind her kept fingering her through it all, but Charlotte barely felt him. All she felt was the rope. All she saw was Stephen — the man who had fucked her while Eleanor died - now hanging where she had so desperately wanted to hang herself.

As the crowd cheered and jeered the dead aristocrat, something inside Charlotte cracked open and flooded with sudden, crystalline clarity. The private games in Thomas’s shed, the near-misses, the rope burns hidden beneath scarves - they were no longer enough. She wanted this: the roaring thousands, the total exposure, the obscene public spectacle of her own cunt spasming and squirting for the mob while she strangled. She wanted to die on the Tyburn Tree, displayed and worshipped by London itself - not in the jealous shadow of Stephen’s victims, but as the star of the greatest hanging London had ever seen.

She knew exactly what she had to do.

To be concluded ……

Parts 1 to 6 are all below - posted in the last 4 weeks

The Tyburn Chronicles

Part 7: The Strangler’s Rampage

The newspapers had a name for him now. “The Tyburn Strangler.” It appeared in bold black type across the front pages of every London broadsheet. “Respectable ladies and shop girls alike are being lured to their deaths by a fiend who strangles them during the act of carnal knowledge,” one paper declared in horrified tones.

Another printed crude woodcuts of a shadowy male figure with his hands wrapped around a woman’s throat while she lay beneath him, legs kicking. The public was both terrified and morbidly fascinated. Gentlemen double-checked the locks on their doors at night. Mothers warned their daughters never to speak to strangers. In the taverns and coffee houses, men spoke in hushed, excited whispers about the monster who could make a woman cum while he killed her.

Charlotte devoured every word. She sat alone in her drawing room each morning, heart hammering, cunt already wet and aching, as she read the latest reports. Another well-to-do lady found dead in a cheap lodging house, face purple, tongue out, signs of violent sexual congress. Another pretty shop girl missing, only to be discovered strangled in an alley with her skirts around her waist and semen still leaking from her body. The details were sparse, but Charlotte’s imagination filled them in with vivid, obsessive detail: strong hands slowly tightening around a soft throat, a hard cock thrusting deep while the victim’s cunt fluttered and spasmed in its final moments, the desperate kicking, the choking gasps, the wet sounds of a dying orgasm.

She would lock the door, lift her skirts, and fuck herself furiously with two or three fingers while she read and re-read the articles. She came hardest when she pictured herself in their place - the Tyburn Strangler’s next victim - his hands around her throat, his thick cock buried deep inside her as he squeezed the life from her body. She wanted it so badly it hurt. She wanted to feel those hands. She wanted to feel that cock taking her while she died.

Yet even as her obsession with becoming a victim deepened, Charlotte continued her own dark rituals with Thomas Crowley. Night after night she returned to the small shed behind the gallows. She begged him to hang her again and again - real drops now, the noose biting cruelly into her throat, her feet kicking inches above the floor while Thomas fucked her. Each time he brought her right to the edge of death. Each time she came violently, squirting and sobbing as the rope crushed her airway and her vision darkened. Each time, at the final second, Thomas cut her down. She lived. But only just.

The rope burns around her neck grew darker, thicker, and more permanent. She hid them with high collars and scarves during the day, but at night she would stand before the mirror, naked, and stroke the livid marks with trembling fingers. The raised, tender skin still smelled faintly of hemp and fear-sweat. Each touch made her cunt clench and drip. She was no longer satisfied with fantasy or near-misses. She wanted the real thing. She wanted to hang until she was gone.

And all the while, the Tyburn Strangler continued his work. Stephen had grown bolder. He continued to target the wives and daughters of the respectable middle and upper classes - women whose disappearances caused genuine panic and front-page outrage. He lured them with charm, with money, with the promise of discreet passion. He took them slowly, seducing them for hours before the moment his hands closed around their throats. He made them cum while he killed them, savouring the betrayal in their eyes when they realised the gentleman they had trusted was going to murder them with his cock still buried inside them. He killed a Baroness, a famous actress and the unfaithful wife of a Member of Parliament.

The police were frantic. Rewards were offered. Descriptions circulated. But Stephen was careful, clever, and protected by his aristocratic name. No one suspected the quiet, elegant second son of a viscount.

Charlotte, reading yet another lurid headline, came so hard she had to bite her own wrist to stay quiet. She whispered to the empty room, voice hoarse from the previous night’s hanging: “Whoever you are… find me. Use me. Strangle me while you fuck me. Let me be your perfect victim.”

She had no idea that the man she fantasised about - the one whose hands she imagined around her throat—was the same stranger who had fucked her so perfectly from behind while Eleanor Carver danced her final dance at Tyburn.

And Stephen, reading the same newspapers in his Mayfair rooms, smiled coldly as he stroked his cock. He still searched every crowd at every hanging for the woman in the blue gown whose face he had glimpsed for a single heartbeat. He had no idea she was already dreaming of the very death he longed to give her.

The noose was waiting for both of them.

To be continued ….

Parts 1 to 5 are all below - posted in the last 3 weeks

The Tyburn Chronicles

Chapter 6: The Executioner Awakens

Stephen’s hunger grew like a living thing. What had begun as a single, frenzied murder in a filthy Covent Garden room soon became an almost nightly ritual. At first he returned to the same streets, seeking out cheap whores like Kitty - women whose disappearance would barely be noticed. He would pay them well, take them to their squalid rooms, and slowly tighten his hands around their throats while he fucked them. He learned to savour the exact moment when fear turned to panic, when their cunt would flutter and clench around his cock as the life drained from their eyes. Each one gave him a more powerful orgasm than the last.

But prostitutes were no longer enough. Their bodies were too used, their fear too familiar. Stephen began to crave something purer - fresher terror, higher status, greater contrast between respectability and the obscene reality of dying with a cock buried deep inside them. So he moved on.

He started with shop girls. Pretty young things who worked in the drapers’ shops and milliners along Oxford Street and Bond Street. He would watch them during the day - modest, well-dressed, smiling politely at customers. At night he would choose a victim and follow her home through the darkening streets. He became skilled at it: a quiet word, an offer of extra money for “a little company,” a gentle hand on the small of the back as he led her into an alley or a cheap lodging house.

The first shop girl was named Emily- a slender 19-year-old with soft brown hair and wide, innocent eyes. She thought he was a gentleman looking for a discreet rendezvous. She giggled nervously when he pushed her onto the bed and entered her. She still giggled when his hands closed around her throat.

By the time her face turned purple and her tongue pushed out, she was no longer giggling. Her cunt spasmed beautifully around him as she died. Stephen came so hard he saw stars, flooding her dying body while she twitched beneath him.

After Emily came others: a blonde assistant from a glove shop, a red-haired seamstress, a quiet bookseller’s daughter. Each time he took them slower, drawing out the strangulation, making them believe it was still rough sex until the very last moments. He loved the recognition of betrayal in their eyes when they finally realised he wasn’t going to stop.

But even shop girls eventually felt too ordinary. Stephen’s obsession demanded more. He began targeting well-to-do ladies - married women of the middle and upper classes who slipped out for secret assignations, or young widows looking for excitement. These women were riskier. They had husbands, reputations, families. Their disappearances would be noticed. But the danger only made his cock harder.

The first was a 28-year-old banker’s wife named Margaret. She was elegant, curvaceous, and bored in her marriage. She met Stephen in a discreet tea room and agreed to go with him to a nearby hotel. She undressed slowly, proudly displaying her full breasts and soft belly, thinking she was about to have a thrilling affair.

Stephen fucked her tenderly at first, letting her moan and writhe beneath him. Only when she was close to orgasm did he wrap his hands around her throat. Margaret’s eyes flew open in shock. “W-what are you-“ He squeezed. Her cunt clenched hard around his cock as panic set in. She fought beautifully- nails raking his arms, legs kicking, full breasts bouncing with every desperate thrust of her hips. Stephen rode her through her terror, fucking her harder as her face darkened and her tongue began to protrude.
When she finally came - a violent, choking orgasm that made her whole body convulse. Stephen emptied himself deep inside her dying cunt, groaning with pure, godlike pleasure.

He left her body arranged neatly on the bed, hands folded, as if she had simply fallen asleep after a passionate encounter.

After Margaret, the pattern continued. A solicitor’s young widow. A merchant’s daughter visiting from the country. A beautiful 32-year-old lady of leisure whose husband was often away on business. Each one was taken slower, more ritualistically. Stephen would spend hours with them - talking, seducing, building their trust - before the moment he closed his hands around their throats and watched the light leave their eyes while he fucked them to death.

With every kill his technique improved. He learned exactly how much pressure to apply, how long to hold them on the edge, how to time his own orgasm with theirs. He began keeping small souvenirs - a lock of hair, a ribbon, a torn piece of lace from their undergarments.

And all the while, in the back of his mind, burned the image of the woman in the blue gown - the one whose face he had seen for just a single heartbeat at Tyburn. He still searched for her at every public hanging.

He still imagined her cunt clenching around his cock while he strangled her slowly, lovingly, taking her life as the ultimate act of possession. Stephen was no longer merely watching women die. He had become the hangman.

And somewhere in London, Charlotte - equally obsessed, equally broken - was preparing herself to take her place on the rope he now so desperately wanted to tie.

To be continued …..

The Tyburn Chronicles

Parts 1 to 4 are all below - posted in the last two weeks

Chapter 5: Charlotte’s Growing Obsession

Charlotte could not stop thinking about the rope. Even days after her last session, the raw, livid burn around her throat still throbbed with every swallow. The thick, rope-shaped weal felt hot and tender under her fingers whenever she traced it in secret - in the quiet of her bedroom while her husband snored beside her, or in the carriage on the way home from church. Each gentle press sent a sharp, delicious sting through her neck and a hot, liquid pulse straight to her cunt. The mark smelled faintly of hemp and sweat when she pressed her nose to it in the dark, and the scent alone was enough to make her thighs slick. She had come so violently while truly strangling. She had felt the exact moment when terror and ecstasy fused into one overwhelming sensation, and now nothing else could satisfy the aching void inside her. She was obsessed.

In the weeks that followed, Charlotte began visiting Newgate Prison in careful disguises. The air inside was thick with the stench of unwashed bodies, damp stone, urine, and fear. She bribed the turnkeys with silver and whispered promises, then sat with the women who were scheduled to hang.
She held their trembling hands, felt the rapid flutter of their pulse, smelled the sharp tang of their nervous sweat. She stroked their hair and whispered soft, reverent words about how beautiful they would look on the rope, how their cunts would glisten and drip for the crowd, how she wanted to hear every choking gasp and wet slap of flesh as they danced. Some shrank away in horror. Others, those who had already accepted their fate, looked at her with dark, hungry understanding and nodded.

One evening she met Rose - a beautiful young servant girl condemned for poisoning her mistress. Rose had full, heavy breasts and wide hips that strained against the thin prison shift. The fabric was damp with fear-sweat. When Charlotte ran her fingers lightly over the girl’s cunt through the coarse material, she felt the heat radiating from her and the slickness already soaking the cloth. “I’m frightened,” Rose whispered, voice cracking.
Charlotte leaned close, her breath warm against the girl’s ear. “When they hang you, I will be there in the front row. I want to see your cunt drip as you die. Will you cum for me, Rose? Will you let the rope take you while I watch?”

Rose shuddered, a soft, broken sound escaping her lips, then nodded slowly, tears sliding down her cheeks. Charlotte left the prison that night soaked to the thighs, her fingers still carrying the musky scent of Rose’s arousal. The smell clung to her all the way home.

Next day she went straight to the small shed behind the gallows and waited for Thomas Crowley. When he arrived, she was already naked on her knees, holding a fresh noose in her hands like a sacred offering. The rough hemp smelled of fresh tar and old death.

“Fuck me with this around my neck again,” she pleaded, voice trembling. “Tighter this time. I need to feel it. I need to know I’m really going to die.”
Thomas took the rope and looped it around her throat. The coarse fibres scraped deliciously against the still-tender burns from previous sessions. He fucked her slowly at first, letting her feel every thick inch of his cock stretching her soaked cunt while he gradually tightened the noose. The pressure built in waves - first a warm squeeze, then a burning crush that made her vision sparkle and her lungs burn. Charlotte’s eyes rolled back in ecstasy. She came within minutes, cunt squirting violently around him as the rope bit deeper, her choked gasps echoing off the wooden walls.
But it still wasn’t enough.

Night after night she returned. Each session grew longer and more dangerous. Thomas would hang her from the beam with her toes barely brushing the floor, fucking her while she strangled. The rope would tighten until her face turned purple, her tongue protruded, and her cunt spasmed in helpless, dying contractions. She could taste the copper of her own blood where she bit her lip, hear the wet, obscene sounds of her juices dripping onto the dirt floor, smell the sharp scent of her fear-sweat mixing with Thomas’s musk. She came harder each time, sobbing and squirting, tears streaming down her purple face as she begged him not to cut her down.

One night she knelt before him, tears streaming down her face, voice raw and hoarse from the previous sessions. “Hang me for real next time, Thomas. Put me on the scaffold. Let me stand on the trap with the noose around my neck. Let me feel the drop. I want to hang like Eleanor. Like Molly. I want to die for you… for them… for the pleasure of anyone who wants to watch.”

Thomas looked down at the once-respectable merchant’s wife - now broken, trembling, rope burns fresh and livid around her throat, cunt visibly dripping onto the floor. “You’re not playing anymore,” he said quietly. “You really want to die on the rope, don’t you?” Charlotte nodded, eyes shining with desperate, obsessive lust. “Yes. I want to hang until I’m gone. I want my last moments to be my cunt spasming while strangers cum watching me. Please… help me make it real.”

Thomas smiled darkly and pulled the noose a little tighter around her neck as he pushed his cock back into her dripping cunt. “Then we’ll make it real,” he whispered. “But not yet. First, I’m going to take you right to the edge again… and again… until you’re ready to beg me to let the trap fall.”

Charlotte moaned like a woman already lost, pushing back onto his cock, the rope tight around her throat, her mind filled with nothing but the image of herself hanging, kicking, cumming, and dying for the pleasure of others.
Her obsession had consumed her completely. She no longer wanted to watch.

She wanted to be the one on the rope.

To be continued….

The Tyburn Chronicles

Parts 1 to 4 are all below - posted in the last two weeks

Chapter 4: Stephen’s First Kill

Stephen remained at Tyburn long after most of the crowd had dispersed. Eleanor Carver’s body still hung from the triple tree, slowly rotating in the breeze, her tongue slightly protruding, her cunt still glistening.

But Stephen was no longer looking at the dead woman. He was looking for the woman he had just fucked. The woman in the modest blue gown but with the beautiful face. The stranger whose tight, anonymous cunt had milked his cock so perfectly while Eleanor strangled and came for the mob. After they had both lustfully orgasmed she had simply smoothed her skirts and slipped away without turning around. Now he hunted for her.

He pushed through the thinning crowd with urgent purpose, tall and elegant in his dark coat, eyes scanning desperately. Every blue dress made his heart leap. Twice he thought he saw her - once near the ale stalls, once by the road leading back toward London. The second time he caught a clear glimpse: the pale, beautiful face flushed with shame and satisfaction, full lips slightly parted, dark eyes still glazed with lust. Their eyes met for just a few seconds. Then the crowd swallowed her again.

Stephen stood frozen, breathing hard, cock twitching painfully in his breeches. That brief flash of her face burned itself into his mind. He wanted her. He wanted to know who she was. He wanted to fuck her again while another woman died in front of them. But she was gone.

That night, back in his luxurious Mayfair rooms, Stephen locked the door, stripped naked, and stood before the tall mirror. He looped a length of coarse hemp rope around his own throat and pulled it snug, trying to recreate the feeling he had experienced while buried inside the stranger as Eleanor danced in the noose.

He stroked his cock furiously, eyes closed, imagining the woman in blue, imagining her cunt clenching around him again while another condemned girl strangled. The orgasm, when it finally came, was weak and unsatisfying - a thin, frustrated spurt that left him angry and empty.

He stared at his reflection, rope still around his neck. This wasn’t enough.

Slowly it dawned upon him: he didn’t want to be the one hanging - he wanted to be the one who made them hang.

The realisation hit him with cold, delicious clarity. The woman in blue wanted to take Eleanor’s place on the rope - to be the willing victim. Stephen wanted the opposite. He wanted to be the one who placed the noose around a woman’s neck, who watched her eyes bulge and her tongue push out, who felt her cunt spasm and die around his cock while he took her life.

That hunger - dark, absolute, and growing - would no longer be denied.

He dressed in plain, unremarkable clothes and went out into the night, walking the filthy backstreets behind Covent Garden. The gas lamps flickered over wet cobblestones. Within an hour he found her: a cheap, black-haired prostitute named Kitty, barely twenty-two, with heavy breasts and a tired, knowing smile.

“Looking for a warm cunt tonight, sir?” she asked, already lifting her skirts a little to show him a flash of dark curls.

Stephen paid her double without speaking. He followed her up the narrow, stinking stairs to a tiny room that smelled of cheap gin and old sex.

The moment the door closed, Kitty turned to him with a practised laugh. “You paid extra, so I’ll let you hurt me if that’s what you want. Just don’t mark my face.”

Stephen said nothing. He stepped close, grabbed her by the throat with one hand, and slammed her back against the wall. Kitty gasped, but her eyes sparkled with excitement. She thought it was just another customer who liked a bit of rough-and-tumble.

He ripped open the front of her thin dress, freeing her heavy breasts, then shoved two fingers roughly between her legs. She was already damp. He stroked her clit hard while his other hand squeezed her throat just enough to make her gasp.

“Mmm, strong hands,” Kitty purred, grinding against his fingers. “You can choke me a little if you like. I can take it.”

Stephen’s cock was throbbing. He freed it, thick and leaking, and drove into her in one brutal thrust. Kitty moaned loudly, wrapping one leg around his hip as he fucked her standing up against the wall. She still thought it was rough sex. She still thought she was in control.

He fucked her harder, deeper, one hand still around her throat. Her cunt clenched around him with every thrust. Her breathing grew ragged.

“Fuck… yes… squeeze tighter,” she gasped, eyes half-lidded with pleasure.

Stephen obliged. He tightened his grip slowly, watching her face. Kitty’s eyes widened slightly, but she smiled, thinking it was part of the game. Her hips rolled against him, fucking him back eagerly.

He kept the pressure steady as he pounded into her, savouring the way her cunt fluttered every time he cut off a little more air. Her face began to flush. Her breathing turned into wet, desperate gasps.

“Harder… I can take it…” she whispered, voice already hoarse.

Stephen smiled coldly. He slammed into her with long, savage strokes and squeezed harder. Kitty’s eyes bulged. Real panic flickered across her face for the first time. “Wait… too tight…” she croaked, hands coming up to claw weakly at his wrist. Stephen didn’t stop. He fucked her even harder, hips slapping loudly against hers, cock buried to the hilt with every thrust. He watched her face turn from flushed pink to deep red. Her tongue began to push out between her lips. Her cunt spasmed wildly around him as fear mixed with unwilling pleasure.

“Yes…” he hissed, voice low and trembling with lust. “Just like that. Fight me. Just like Eleanor fought the rope.” Kitty’s legs kicked frantically. She tried to scream, but only a wet gurgle came out. Her cunt clenched and fluttered uncontrollably around his cock as oxygen deprivation sent violent spasms through her body.

Stephen felt the power surge through him like lightning. He tightened both hands around her throat now, crushing her windpipe as he fucked her with brutal, relentless force. Kitty’s eyes rolled back. Her tongue protruded fully, thick and wet. Her hips still jerked involuntarily, her dying cunt milking his cock in desperate, rhythmic contractions.

He came with a long, savage groan, flooding her strangling cunt with thick, powerful jets of cum. He kept squeezing, grinding deep inside her as her body convulsed in its final death throes, savouring every last flutter and spasm of her pussy around him.

Only when she finally went completely limp did he release her throat. He stayed buried inside her corpse for a long moment, breathing hard, staring at her purple, ruined face and protruding tongue.This was what he needed. Not to hang. But to be the hangman.

Stephen slowly pulled out of the dead whore’s cunt. Cum and her own juices leaked onto the dirty sheets in a wet trail.

He knew this was just the beginning.

To be continued….

Comments welcome, requests welcome

The Tyburn Chronicles

Chapter 3: The Death Cart Ride

Charlotte walked home from Eleanor Carver’s hanging in a trance, her thighs still slick with the stranger’s cum and her own juices. Every step made her cunt throb with fresh shame and need. She could still feel that thick, anonymous cock stretching her while Eleanor danced and squirted in the noose. The memory alone was enough to make her clit pulse again.

Watching from the crowd was no longer enough. She needed to be closer. Much closer.

Three days later, Charlotte learned of Molly.

Molly was a pretty, black-haired pickpocket of twenty, condemned to hang at Tyburn for theft. The broadsheets called her “a bold slut with fine tits and a wicked tongue.” The moment Charlotte read the description, her cunt grew wet. This was her chance to get closer to the rope.

She bribed the Newgate turnkey with twenty guineas and a promise of more. He arranged for her to ride in the open death cart with Molly from Newgate Prison all the way to the gallows. No one would suspect the quiet, well-dressed lady was anything but a curious spectator.

On the morning of the execution, Charlotte arrived early. Molly was already in the cart, wrists bound tightly behind her back, wearing nothing but a thin, dirty white shift that clung to her full breasts and the dark patch between her legs. The girl looked terrified but tried to appear defiant.

Charlotte climbed into the cart and sat close beside her. The cart jolted forward. The long, slow procession through the crowded London streets began. As the jeering mob grew thicker and louder, Charlotte leaned in and whispered hotly into Molly’s ear, “I can make this easier for you… if you let me touch you.”

Molly’s eyes widened in shock, but after a moment she gave a tiny nod. Charlotte’s hand slipped beneath the thin shift. Her fingers found the girl’s cunt already shamefully wet. She stroked her slowly at first, then more boldly, circling Molly’s swollen clit while the cart rolled on through the roaring streets. Molly whimpered and spread her thighs wider, hips rocking helplessly against Charlotte’s hand as hundreds of people shouted and spat at them. By the time they reached Tyburn, Molly was panting and dripping. Charlotte’s own cunt was soaked.

The hangman, Thomas Crowley, lifted Molly onto the platform. Charlotte remained in the cart, skirts already hiked up, two fingers buried deep inside her own cunt as she watched with feverish eyes.

The noose was placed around Molly’s slender neck. The heavy knot was positioned perfectly behind her left ear. Molly’s full breasts heaved, her nipples stiff and dark against the thin fabric. When the hangman pulled the shift down to her waist, exposing her completely, the crowd roared. Molly’s cunt was visibly glistening in the sunlight.

The trap dropped. Molly’s body fell only a short distance before the rope snapped brutally tight. Her eyes bulged, a raw choking sound tore from her throat, and her legs began kicking wildly. The shift flew up, fully exposing her dripping cunt and arse to the thousands watching.

Charlotte fingered herself frantically, eyes locked on the dying girl. Every desperate kick, every frantic thrust of Molly’s hips, every wet spasm of her cunt sent electric jolts through Charlotte’s body. She had never been so close to a hanging woman before. She could hear every gurgle, every strained breath, every slap of flesh.

When Molly’s first shattering orgasm ripped through her - her cunt visibly contracting and squirting in front of the screaming mob - Charlotte came hard, biting her own wrist to keep from crying out as her juices flooded her hand. The climax tore through her in violent, pulsing waves that left her gasping and trembling.

Molly danced beautifully. Her legs scissored and kicked, her tongue pushed out thick and wet, her face slowly turning a deep, lovely purple. Her heavy breasts bounced obscenely with every convulsion. Charlotte came again, even harder, as she watched the girl piss down her kicking thighs while still strangling. This second orgasm crashed over her like a tidal wave, her cunt clenching rhythmically around her fingers, squirting in hot spurts that soaked the cart floor.

Finally, Molly’s struggles began to weaken. Her body twitched and shuddered in the final throes. Charlotte stared, mesmerised, as the young woman hung limp and still, slowly rotating, cunt still glistening, a perfect hanged corpse on display. The crowd cheered wildly.

Charlotte sat in the cart for a long moment, trembling, her fingers still buried inside her dripping cunt, Molly’s death scent still filling her nostrils. The need inside her was now unbearable. She needed to be fucked - hard, deep, and immediately.

Her eyes found Thomas Crowley standing on the scaffold beside Molly’s slowly turning body. Their eyes met. He saw the raw, shameless hunger written across her flushed face and gave her a slow, knowing smile.

Charlotte walked straight toward Thomas Crowley on shaking legs, her soaked cunt aching so fiercely she could barely think. Molly’s warm, limp corpse still turned slowly on the rope above them, tongue out, cunt glistening in the sunlight. The sight only made Charlotte’s need sharper.

She reached the hangman and whispered urgently, voice hoarse, “Not here where anyone might recognise me. Behind the scaffold. Please. Fuck me now.”

Thomas Crowley’s eyes darkened with understanding. He had seen her at Eleanor’s hanging, had watched the way she came while the Tyburn Widow strangled. He knew exactly what this respectable merchant’s wife craved.

Without a word he took her arm and led her quickly behind the gallows to the small wooden shed where spare ropes and tackle were stored. The moment the door closed he spun her around, shoved her forward over a rough wooden bench, and rucked her skirts up to her waist.

Charlotte gasped as the cool air hit her dripping cunt and arse. “No one must know who I am,” she begged, even as she spread her legs wider. “Please… just fuck me hard.”

Thomas freed his thick, heavy cock. It was already rock-hard, veins pulsing. He rubbed the fat head along her soaked slit, coating himself in her juices, then slammed into her in one brutal thrust. Charlotte cried out as he stretched her wide. He was bigger than the stranger at Eleanor’s hanging, and he fucked her with raw, punishing force - long, deep strokes that made her heavy breasts swing and her cunt squelch obscenely.

“That’s it, my lady,” Thomas growled low in her ear, his voice rough with lust. “I’ve seen you before. I know what you are. You don’t come to watch them hang… you come because you want to feel the rope yourself.”

He reached for a coil of used hemp rope hanging on the wall. While still pounding into her, he looped it around Charlotte’s slender throat and pulled it snug. The rough noose settled against her skin, the knot resting at the side of her neck exactly like the ones he used on the condemned.

Charlotte’s eyes widened in shock and raw, filthy ecstasy. “Yes…” she moaned, pushing back onto his cock. Thomas tightened the noose slowly as he fucked her harder. The rope bit into her throat, cutting off her air in measured degrees. Her cunt clenched violently around him. Every thrust now made the noose tighten and loosen in rhythm with his hips.

“You feel that, don’t you?” he rasped, slamming into her so deep his balls slapped her clit. “That’s the same rope I hanged Eleanor Carver with. And now it’s around your pretty neck while I fuck you like the noose-slut you are.”

Charlotte’s vision began to tunnel. The pressure was exquisite - crushing, terrifying, perfect. Her face flushed deep red, her tongue pushed against her teeth, and still she thrust back onto his cock like a woman possessed. The lack of air made every sensation sharper: his thick shaft stretching her cunt, the wet sounds of their fucking, the distant roar of the crowd outside, Molly’s corpse still turning gently just beyond the shed wall.

Thomas pulled the noose tighter, almost to the edge. Charlotte’s eyes rolled back. Her cunt spasmed wildly around his cock as a shattering orgasm tore through her. She came harder than she ever had in her life—squirting around his thrusting cock in powerful, rhythmic jets, her whole body convulsing, piss and cunt juice running down her thighs while the rope strangled her. The climax rolled on and on, each wave stronger than the last, until she was sobbing with pleasure.

Only when her struggles began to weaken did Thomas loosen the noose just enough for her to gulp desperate lungfuls of air. He kept fucking her through the aftershocks, long, punishing strokes that drew out her orgasm until she was sobbing with pleasure.

He finally buried himself to the hilt and came with a deep groan, flooding her cunt with thick, hot jets of cum. Charlotte felt every pulse, every spurt, while the loosened noose still hugged her throat like a lover’s promise.

Thomas stayed inside her for a long moment, one hand gently stroking the rope still around her neck. “You hanged beautifully in my imagination just now, my lady,” he whispered. “Next time… maybe we won’t stop at the edge.”

Charlotte trembled, ruined, leaking his cum down her legs, the rough hemp still warm against her throat. She knew she would be back. She needed more. And one day, she would beg him not to loosen the rope at all.

To be continued ….