Cloe on the Gallows

I open your cell door while thunder echoes down the darkened halls as if to greet you on your last day — it rumbles with anticipation and makes you shake with fear. The only light, other than an occasional flash of lightning, come from a single bulb that dangles above you. Dangle — that word, innocent as it may be, now carries with it a sense of doom and even thinking about it brings out an army of chills marching down to the small of your back. You are only minutes away from dangling by your gorgeous neck which you have been unconsciously touching throughout your final hours. How can this be? To hang by this lovely column, such a fragile part of your body, the most delicate part, far too delicate to be squeezed by a cruel noose.

"It's time, Cloe." My words make you shake in fear and you shrink in the corner of your cell.

"No...please no!"

"Come on now Cloe; you must be brave."

"No, I won't go! You can't do this to me. Get back!" You show me your claws.

"Guards!" I call out and Linda and Alexis appear by my side. They bind your hands behind your back as you struggle, and pry you from your cell.

"Now we can either drag you to the gallows or you can walk. Which do you prefer?"

"I'll walk," you reply in a shaky voice of resignation.

We walk down the concrete hall into the courtyard under a blanket of rain. You strangled your lover to death, now her family has come to watch you hang by your sweet neck, a semblance of what you put her through, they think. You couldn't convince the jury it was an accident, not your fault, that it was what she wanted. And her parents said no, that doesn't sound like their darling daughter, not their little angel. A fitting punishment, the judge said. He orders a short drop to make your death struggle last longer. You pull back when the gallows comes into view and whimper. The girl's family applauds and cheers when then they observe your fear and apprehension.

The judge also ordered that you be dressed like the little tramp he thinks you are...a little slut. You wear a wrinkled mini skirt, stained with Day-Glo paint, black, ripped stockings, punk style, a cheap blouse, cinched at the waist with more rips in the shoulder seams. You have no shoes, only slippers for your final walk and you slosh along in the rain, your dainty feet soaking and cold. You require assistance to climb the slippery wooden steps, pelted by the relentless rain. I ascend first and wait for you on the platform.

You have already lost your motor function and must be half- carried to the spot below the waiting noose. Alexis places it around your beautiful neck and Linda adjusts it, making sure to touch the soft flesh with her fingertips. She notices your faint Venus rings as the first hints of pleasure enters her clitoris. You feel it too, unbidden pleasure this time but a noose encircling your neck carries with it the seeds of your passion.

You stand there alone listening sound of the rain and the mournful cry of a bird far off in the distance. With the next flash of lightning, I nod to Em, our smooth throated executioner, and she pulls the lever. I am unable to determine if that is a smile on her face or a smirk. As the platform upon which you are standing disappears, you only drop a foot or so because this is a hanging of strangulation — your lover's family's choice — and you dangle free. The noose tightens immediately and the rope creaks under the burden of your body and you struggle, swinging in a revolution. The song playing over the loudspeaker is Hector Zazoo's "I'll Strangle You." My choice.

Linda looks close to rapture and Alexis looks positively entranced. The noose, hugging your neck like an over possessive lover, chokes off every bit of oxygen and your lungs already burn. Em stands with one hand leaning against one of the beams of the gallows structure, with an attitude of nonchalance. As for myself, my nipples are erect and so is my clitoris.

You strangle slow and fight all the way; but buried deep inside you, a strange warmth begins to emerge....a delicate exchange of pleasure and pain seems to mimic your little dance. You eyes become twin flames, burning their way out of their sockets, taking most of your blurred vision with them. Your grimace gives way to the opening of your mouth, even though the pressure beneath your chin prevents it from opening too wide. Your tongue bulges on the inside, forcing its way out and it struggles in the air.

Your body becomes consumed by itself and all that's left in the end is a super-massive orgasm that shreds your consciousness into tiny black shards of eternity. You hang free, limp and spent, the noose cutting deeply into your beautiful neck. I can hear that bird again, calling out in a mournful cry.

"Cloe, Cloe," it seems to say.