Nooseslave James had been a very bad boy. His crime was not important—he had violated the rules, and as all who violated the rules of the manor soon found out, punishment was decisive and swift. In the middle of the night he was rudely slapped awake by a strong hand. His eyes blinked owlishly in the light of the torch that illuminated the tiny chamber where he and Mistress K's other nooseboys slept.
The woman who woke him was familiar. Her face was in shadow, but he knew the curve of her hip, the shape of her boot, the familiar sight of her lovely yet functional embroidered gown. He kept his eyes properly downcast, though the slight stirring in his groin was anything but proper. He knew what was to come, for he had seen it often enough when other slaves ran afoul of Mistress K's whims, and he'd envied each and every one of them.
The woman snapped her fingers and he rose to his feet and turned around, his hands at the small of his back crossed at the wrist in a symbolic gesture, saying that he was hers to do with as she wished, with no resistance from him. She snorted to herself and slipped a rope around the proffered wrists, binding them snugly together and tying them, before shaking open a small sack. The sound of cloth moving in the air and the feel of the fibers of the rope pressing against his skin made his heartbeat quicken, his breath come faster. He couldn't stifle a gasp as she slipped the bag over his head, enshrouding him in a world of darkness. He could feel his breath hitting the interior of the bag with each exhalation, and the air quickly grew warm and thick. A cool hand on his shoulder encouraged him to turn around, and the woman snapped a lead to the collar around his long, finely formed neck and tugged once, sharply.
No words were spoken. They weren't allowed, but besides that, they were unnecessary. The other nooseboys all lay silently on their cots, none of them daring to move lest the woman's attention be drawn to them, and all painfully alert, watching one of their own hooded and leashed. Nooseslave James licked his lips inside the hood, feeling them already drying with excitement. He knew that he should be afraid, but as the thickening of his cock proved, he was only terribly excited that his time had finally come. He had been amiss in his duties for weeks now, nothing overt enough to be obvious, but enough so that he knew he would be discarded sooner, rather than later. It seems that his subtle carelessness had finally caught up with him, and he followed with his head held high as he was led by the leash out into the stone corridor.
The woman, one of Mistress K's many assistants that shared the manor with the flock of nooseslaves, led him at a brisk pace. He was grateful for the leash, for with his head hooded as it was, he was blind and with his hands bound behind him, he was utterly helpless. They took so many turns, always headed down inclines, ramps, and stairs that he would soon have been hopelessly turned around if he weren't so familiar with the manor. The manor was silent this time of night. The only sound was the footsteps of the woman's boots clicking on the stone floor. His own bare feet made barely a whisper, the cold stone leaching warmth from his naked body. Only the smoothness of the floor and the quality of the construction prevented him from tripping and stumbling along after his guide.
The quality of the air changed as they descended. It grew moist and colder, yet the air within the hood was getting stale and clammy. The tight weave didn't allow much air to pass through it, and he knew that he was breathing harder than he ought, though he didn't know if it was from the cloth blocking the fresh air or his own mounting excitement. Suddenly they stopped moving, and he heard the sound of an iron key turning in a heavy lock, heard the woman's soft grunt as she exhaled, shoving open the thick wooden door that led to the dungeons.
Mistress K relished not only the noose, but also the pain of her boys, and so not all who entered the dungeons died. Slave James knew that there were other nooseslaves locked in the dungeons this very minute, and for all he knew, they were watching from their cells as he was led by, hooded and bound. All who were brought to the dungeons were hooded—nobody knew except for Mistress K and her entourage what kind of punishment those inside would receive. Slave James had a feeling, though, that he was being brought here for the direst punishment of all, and sure enough, the woman kept him moving down the hall, past the confinement cells, past the insidious tools and devices that he knew were there, even if he couldn't see them. The floor grew rougher as well, and he stubbed his toe more than once, even stumbling outright as the woman led him quickly around a corner. She didn't reprimand him verbally; she merely yanked hard on the leash, forcing him back to his feet and hastening him forward. He winced inside the hood as his feet, so long used to the smooth, immaculate floor of the manor were subjected to the uneven stone floor, riddled with sharp pebbles.
Another turn and another sound of keys in a lock. The creak of a door, and a push against his back to guide him through. The hood was pulled from his face and he took a deep breath of the dank, cooler air. The room was full of flickering shadows from the dancing of the woman's torch. He got a better look at her dress—a soft emerald velveteen, cut low, revealing the swell of her breast. He still didn't dare look at her face, but he could see black hair in ringlets, spilling down into his line of sight. He kept his eyes glued to the curve of her breast as it pressed against the lacing of her bodice. She seemed to take no note of his attention, but merely placed the torch in a sconce on the wall and pushed him against the stone bench that served as a bed for the condemned.
"Lie down," she snapped, her voice cold, echoing in the tiny, windowless cell.
Slave James obeyed, his cock now standing at full attention. She took a chain that was attached to the wall near the head of the bench, removed the leash, and attached it to the ring on his collar. He had enough slack to sit up, but nothing more, and his hands were still bound behind him, forcing him to lie on his side. It was far from comfortable, but he knew that it wasn't his place to be comfortable. It took some adjustment to keep from crushing his genitals between his thighs, and the woman didn't seem to care in the least. Without another glance to spare for him, her duty now discharged, she removed the torch and hauled the door closed behind her. The clunk of the lock being turned seemed to be very final indeed.
It took several minutes for his eyes to adjust to the near-total lack of light. Only a thin slit of light came from the crack in the doorframe. The room was about seven foot square, and the walls were cold stone, slightly chilled from moisture this far down. The ceiling pressed in close, barely tall enough for a grown man to stand without hitting his head—not that Slave James would be doing much standing. His hands were bound securely and the chain affixed to his collar was thick, having withstood the test of time. He didn't know how many nooseslaves Mistress K had sent here, their final solitude before the potent dawn, but from what he could make out in the dull light that seeped through the cracks in the doorframe, this was a cell that did not invite escape.
Not that he would have dreamed of any such thing.
Slave James had served Mistress K for two years, and in that time, he had been subjected to all manner of indignities, torments, punishments, and carnal rewards for his service to her. He was hers, utterly devoted and mad to please her. Not only was she beautiful, regal and remote, but he knew full well when he took his position in her manor, no slave lasted longer than a handful of years before they performed their final dance for her delight. And that was what he longed for most of all. In his service he had seen many nooseslaves perform this final service, and the beauty of their struggles, the energy and desperation in their kicking, the strength with which they came as they danced for her, was addictive to watch and seductive to contemplate. And now his time had come.
The hours passed in darkness, with Slave James unable to sleep. He lay curled on the stone bench, his cock finally deflating slightly from lack of stimulation, but always partially erect with anticipation. He twisted his hands in their rope bonds, feeling the scraping of the fibers against his over-sensitized skin, then began scooting down the length of the bench to feel the chain tug on his collar, all physical reminders of the fact that he had no way out. His fate was sealed, his hours numbered. Each breath he took, each beat of his heart, was counting time down to his glorious end.
His heartbeat slammed into overdrive as his ears picked up the sound of footsteps outside his cell door. He heard the rattle of keys, the turning of the lock. His eyes were glued to the door as it opened. With no light this far down, it was impossible to tell the time. Was dawn approaching?
A small figure stood in the doorway, a silhouette whose identity he couldn't make out. Whoever it was took small, measured steps toward him. His eyes widened as he identified her: another of Mistress K's acolytes, one who relished her position in the dungeon. A small woman with hard, narrow limbs and slits for eyes, who despite her short stature was well known for her cruelty and the strength of her arm as it wielded whip or paddle. She turned her thin smile on Slave James now, and withdrew her hand from behind her back. In this hand was a wide leather strap.
"You don't think I'm going to let the mistress keep all of your delights for herself, do you?" whispered the dungeoness, slapping the strap into her free hand once for emphasis. Slave James opened his mouth cautiously, but she silenced him with a swift gesture. "Impertinent little nooseslut," she hissed, and roughly stuffed a ball of rags into his mouth, pushing him down on his back in the process, so that his hands were trapped uncomfortably between his back and the stone bench. The rags were clean, but the material was coarse, and he couldn't close his jaws at all. She shoved the rags in very deep, so deep that he felt his jaw creak and pop. He pushed his tongue ineffectually against the gag, but couldn't dislodge it. He saw the corner of her mouth turn up in a smirk, and she glanced down. He followed her gaze long enough to realize that her line of sight pointed right at his cock, which had grown at her rough treatment until it stood tall and proud.
Casually she reached out and slapped it, watching it bob back and forth with vindictive curiosity. Slave James whimpered into the gag and his hips bucked quite without his permission, so aroused that he couldn't contain himself. The dungeoness laughed and lifted her skirts. She wore no undergarments, and Slave James could smell her arousal. His great cock strained upward, longing to be sheathed for a final time in the warm, wet folds of a dominant woman. The cruelty of her smile promised no such relief, however, and she climbed up on the bench, standing and straddling the poor nooseslave. His eyes were locked on her body and widened as she paced up his torso until his head was directly between her legs. She turned around and lowered herself down, spreading her skirts so that his head and upper body were completely engulfed in the velveteen, warm from her body heat, and the salty heat of her moistness.
She hovered her slit over his face in the stuffy darkness for a moment before lowering herself down. With the gag in his mouth he couldn't please her with his tongue as he longed to to; he could only bear it as she rubbed herself with his nose, grinding against his face for her own pleasure. His nostrils flared as he tried to drink enough air along with her intoxicating scent, and he grunted in pain as she pressed down. Finally his airway was completely enveloped in the warm, soft swelling of her nether regions and he squirmed, keeping the initial panic of having his airway blocked well in hand. She pressed down painfully, grinding, working herself on his face, and though he could not see, he could hear her breathing change as she took pleasure from him.
Blind and breathless as Slave James was, he was completely unprepared for the sharp, stinging blow of the strap to his erect, straining cock. He groaned and his whole body jerked and she responded with a sinister giggle and tucked her legs more firmly about his head. The combined weight of his body and hers worked in concert to press down on his hands and wrists, already screaming with pain of their own, and beginning to tingle and go numb. The strap snaked out again, making contact with his thigh, and then again. She began to get into a rhythm- grind and strike, grind and strike, only lightly on his cock, hard enough to leave deep flaming welts everywhere else.
The pain and his futile struggles made him use his precious oxygen even more quickly than normal and soon enough he found himself bucking beneath her, face completely wrapped in her pussy and held in place by her powerful thighs, hands numb, legs on fire. The ball of rags had absorbed all the saliva in his mouth and the texture of the cloth rubbed the roof of his mouth raw. The only sounds were the slap of leather on flesh, the pants and moans of the dungeoness, and the pathetic whimpers that poor Slave James was able to force out from his prison of skin and sweat. His chest felt hollow, his heels drummed on the stone bench, and the slamming of his heart and his need for air were the only things he was acutely aware of. Everything else seemed to slip into a haze of sensation. His vision was completely blocked but he could still sense things going fuzzy, and he knew that had he been able to see, that the world would be fading into a gray fog.
The dungeoness redoubled her efforts, both with the strap and the motion of her own hips, and as Slave James slipped into the pleasant embrace of unconsciousness, he thought he heard her voice rise in a soft gasp of pleasure, and he was sure that the fresh wave of moisture that slid over his face and up his nose was more than sweat from her exertions. He knew that he was to die at dawn, but if his final torturer was a bit overzealous in her ministrations, at least he would die in this haze of pleasure, knowing that the woman who smothered him had gained a final pleasure from him as well.
A line of fire down his back. The deep impact that would leave a bonebruise beneath the red welt that surely already raised its angry face on his skin. Slave James was brought from the soft warm pool of darkness into a cold stone room, the only illumination from the torch that still burned merrily in the sconce in the wall. His mouth was free of the rag, his jaw sore, and he could feel the evidence of the dungeoness's pleasure, half-dried on his face. His mouth split open. He took a ragged breath, the first in who knew how many minutes, and his first conscious sound was a scream.
"Wake up!" the dungeoness commanded, and the strap came down again, carving another line of acidic flame into the smooth, pale skin of his back. He took stock even as he screamed again. His hands were an agony of pins and needles. His thighs, so punished by the strap, pressed against the hard bench. Someone had rolled him over, exposing his back to the air. The chain attached to his collar twisted around his neck halfway as well. She must not have bothered to adjust it when rolling him over. Why should she? It was just another potent reminder of what awaited him at dawn.
He moved and squirmed, sobbed for breath and mercy. Having proven that he was still alive and conscious, she wasn't interested in his words, although his desperate cries of pain warmed her considerably. She continued with the beating, criss-crossing his shoulders, down his back, his buttocks, even the backs of his thighs and calves. Slave James wept with the pain, tears wetting the stone bench. His hands—the fingers now quite likely blue, tight as the ropes were, constricting the circulation- were given no relief. It was a chilling and exciting reminder of that the rope would soon do to his neck, and the chain looped across his throat only heightened the impact of the realization. Still his tormentor whipped and taunted. Slave James could feel his erection still present, now pressed uncomfortably between his body weight and the rough texture of the stone. As he writhed and squirmed, trying to avoid the relentless blows from the strap, his cock rubbed against the stone. It was trapped, pressed between his hips and the surface of the bench, and as he cried out and jerked his body, he became aware of the effect that the steady friction was having on his erection. The dungeoness either didn't notice or didn't care, for he doubted highly that she cared a whit about his pleasure.
His universe had shrunk. All sensation, all awareness, was in the here and now. The rain of hell on his tender back. The painful pleasure of the pressure and friction on his cock. The soreness of his jaw, the pinched feeling in his lungs from having his air cut off for so long, the throbbing in his hands. He shuddered as he came quietly, but with an intensity of pleasure that would have been crippling had he not already been bound.
In her own good time, the dungeoness left his tortured flesh alone. She scoffed under her breath as she surveyed his helpless form. "You seem warmed up enough for Mistress K's pleasures," she said to him in a cold voice, as though she couldn't care less one way or the other. "I've got what I want out of you. Sleep, if you like, though you'll be sleeping forever before too long." She took the torch and left the room, locking the door with the groan of old locks and older wood. Slave James was alone, with who knew how long before dawn, and his final moments. He shuddered in the cold room, body aflame, groin aching. He had trained for years, with little petty torments and long exhibitions, preparing for the moment he would dance before Mistress K. He knew that no slave in her manor lasted longer than a few years, had known it when he was accepted into her service. He sobbed for breath—or was it trepidation? Or even hope?
There was no way to keep time in his tiny cell. The air didn't move, but lay flat and stale. The stone room leached all warmth from his body, save for the countless welts and bruises. He tried to twitch his fingers, but couldn't feel them. He didn't know if they responded to him or not. If he weren't about to die, he would be worried about permanent damage to his hands. But he was going to experience permanent damage of an entirely different sort before too long.
Slave James closed his eyes. He didn't sleep, exactly, but he drifted with his eyes closed. He reflected over his life—over the events that brought him to Mistress K's service, to the years of training and pleasure and pain. He'd known all along that every step he took, every breath, were counting down to this night, and the events of the dawn. Was it any wonder that as he reflected and tried in his own clumsy way to make peace with his life and his death, that he was half-hard again?
When dawn began to approach, heralded by faint lightening of the sky, he was completely unaware. This far down below ground, no light penetrated. Time was meaningless. When he heard the rattle of the key in the lock, he stopped breathing for a moment, but when his heart began beating double-time, he forced himself to breathe again. Air was suddenly a priceless commodity and he would enjoy every breath he was granted, until his Mistress's rope cut off his breath forever. By now, Slave James had done away with all pretense of reluctance. This was what he wanted. This was why he swore himself to Mistress K, those few years ago. He had erred intentionally, hoping to serve his Mistress's pleasure in this one, final sacrifice, but part of him wondered if his execution was part reward, as well as part punishment.
Further reflection was impossible. Three women stood in silhouette. He squinted over his shoulder, trying to see them. A voice rang out. "Eyes down."
The voice belonged to the beautiful Mistress K herself. Joy swelled in Slave Jame's heart. He had hoped to see her one last time before the hood was placed over his willing head, and it seemed his wish was to be granted. Her voice was flat, cold, calm and direct, but he couldn't stop the smile that curled his lips as he listened to the familiar cadence of her stride. Mistress K herself approached him, and silently unfastened the chain, unlooping it from its neck, where it had pressed into the skin. She guided him to a sitting position and tilted his chin up, examining the mark. She touched it tenderly with one fingertip, and he dared glance briefly, too briefly, at her autocratic face. The look in her eyes was one of—not quite kindness—of understanding. She bent down, placed perfectly sculpted and painted lips to his ear. Her breath was warm and sweet.
"I know you will give me great pleasure this morning, my slave." The sound of a new lead being clipped to his collar echoed in the stillness of the room. "I am grateful for the gift of your obedience. I reward you with the gift of death." She kissed his cheek once, her lips cool as death itself in contrast to the warmth of her breath, of her breast brushing his abused torso.
Slave James tried to maintain his composure, but his breath caught at the soft pronouncement of the formal sentence. His eyes flicked madly about, not willing to break her edict and raise his face to hers, but still searching, taking in every detail that he could, for he knew that he would soon see nothing at all.
His Mistress slipped a hood over his face, tugging it down firmly into position, before tugging on the lead. Clumsily, his body afire and his limbs cramped and aching, he rose to his feet. His hands were utterly numb now. He could feel nothing beyond the rope that cinched tight around his wrists. He felt a slight pressure as someone, perhaps his very own mistress, tugged at his hands, and a lofty giggle. "I suppose his face will look just like that when all is said and done," said an unfamiliar voice.
Mistress K contradicted her. "No. I'm sure that this slave's face will look much finer than these hands." And with another tug, they set off. He was blind, trying not to stumble, but Mistress K was as gentle with him as her acolytes were cruel. She kept him at a slow enough pace, murmuring encouragement to him on occasion, telling him how happy he was making her, how honored he was to dance for her, just for her, that she would remember this morning for always. His cock soon stuck straight out, stabbing the air before him as he followed, dumb and blind.
More blind turns. He paid no attention to the sounds around him now. Every step took him closer to the crush of the noose, the feeling that he longed for, lived for, and was soon to die for. The state of his hands mattered not a bit. The only thing that Slave James was aware of, the only thing he lived for, was the cool voice of his Mistress and this, his final walk to his end, and his Mistress's pleasure.
He could hear a door opening, the sounds of their two escorts stepping back. Slave James knew that only his Mistress's favorites were given a private hanging, and if he hadn't been in such a heightened state, he'd have smiled for the simple joy of the knowledge that he was to be so honored.
His Mistress led him inside. The door shut. He could hear only the sound of his breathing, unnaturally loud in the thick hood. Suddenly, the hood was removed. He blinked, and looked around. The room was very well lit. It was a small chamber, with a single comfortable armchair toward one end. In the center of the room, was a gallows.
The gallows was simple. Two supports cradled a round log beam, the wood dried and treated, but still covered with the knots and whorls that bespoke a long life in the forest, before being cut down and used for this dark work deep underground. The rope looked new, thick and purest white. It had been draped over the beam, with the long loose end wrapped around the support and held in place with a loose, simple knot. Slave James could see the wear on the beam, where ropes had hung and worn away the finish for who knows how long, how many times. The room smelled of fear, of pleasure—of death, and sex.
Mistress K smiled at him, and he remembered himself and kept his head down. She murmured to him, "We are alone now, my pet. You will dance just for me. No other eyes will be permitted to watch you give yourself over to me, completely." She led him to the gallows by the lead. There was a very short stool on the floor, with a rope affixed to one leg. The rope led from the stool to the seat of the armchair, and dangling above the stool itself was the noose. Nine thick coils, hanging perfectly still in the air, beckoning. Waiting. There was a bit of folded black cloth that had been placed in the curve of the noose. His final hood. It looked like the hem was embroidered, fine. Perhaps velvet. Mistress K wanted her nooseboys to make a good end, especially with such a private audience as this. Slave James could feel a surge of something purely sexual as he gazed upon the noose, lusting for his neck.
Mistress K reached up and unfastened the collar he had worn for years. "You don't need this anymore," she explained, and set the collar and lead down beside the chair, coiled up neatly. "The rope will be your final collar." She placed a hand on his shoulder and guided him toward the noose. His neck felt naked, empty without the familiar collar that had been his constant companion. No matter. His neck would feel the bite of the noose soon enough, and that was all the clothing he wished for.
He stepped willingly, if slowly. He was transfixed, his eyes glued to the deceptively simple twist of rope. She reached out and removed the hood, unfolding it and draping it over one arm. "Stand," she directed, and supported him as he stepped up into the stool. He was transfixed, in a daze. The noose brushed his face and he shuddered, his erection twitching, a spot of precum oozing out. Mistress K saw this, as she saw all things, and with a charming little smirk she brushed the end of his cock with the tip of her index finger. She put it to her lips and licked off the pearly silken fluid. Slave James thought that he would die with anticipation and pleasure right then. He felt the full weight of honor and lust and need all at once, and impulsively, kissed the knot of the noose.
Mistress K also sighed, and he got his first clue at how aroused she truly was. She made sure that he was positioned securely on the stool, and then lowered the heavy black hood down over his face. Yes, it was velvet, and if it was hard to breathe through, the texture felt heavenly on his skin. He trembled as he heard and felt her grasp the noose. He could hear acutely as the knot was pulled, as the noose was widened, and he let out a half gasp, half groan as it was lowered down around his face. He could feel it brushing the other side of the hood. When she slowly tightened it, positioning it behind his left ear and giving it a brief tug to make sure that it was positioned correctly, his knees weakened and he swayed in place.
Mistress K slapped his cock for that, sharply, and he whimpered and forced himself to hold still. He would hang when she decreed it, and not a moment before. He didn't break the solemnity of the ceremony with his fumbling apologies. He resolved instead to show her his apology as he danced into his death for her.
Every nerve quivered as he heard her unhook the rope from the gallows support and take out the slack. He felt it in the noose as it was pulled up snug, a bit too snug for comfort, but comfort wasn't the goal. His erection strained, his hands bound, useless, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered. Slave James felt a sense of great relief, a lifting of all responsibility, and a sense of absolution. This was the end. No more of this life, no more struggling, trying, tears, laughter, pleasure, pain. Just a simple, glorious conclusion on an otherwise utterly unremarkable life, an end that Mistress K said would stay with her forever. In that sense, only in this final act, his willing execution, would he attain immortality.
He heard her pace to the chair. He could feel the vibration in his feet through the wooden stool as she took up the end of the rope that would pull the stool out from under him.
His breath was stale in the hood. It pressed on him, held firmly in place by the unforgiving noose. He turned his head, feeling the pressure of the noose on all sides of his neck. His cock pointed toward Mistress K, his balls were tight with the ache of wanting one more release. His heart pounded so quickly, so heavily, that it was a wonder he could hear anything else.
"Die well, my slave," Mistress K said quietly, and tugged on the rope.
The stool slid out from under him. His toes instinctively gripped the wood. Mistress K was too strong. The stool slid toward her, away from him, and Slave James dropped into the air.
The noose warred with gravity, and the noose won. Slave James fell a mere couple of inches, and suddenly found himself suspended, not moving. The noose was padded by the black velvet hood and didn't cut into his neck right away. He could still breathe slightly, although only a thin stream of stale air made it into his lungs. It was a curious sensation, having one's feet swaying inches above the lifesaving ground. He squirmed, stretching his feet down toward the stone floor, and was rewarded by feeling the knot of the noose slip a centimeter or so tighter around his neck. His mouth was open, pressed against the fabric of the hood, and his lungs burned as they worked harder than they ever had to pull lifegiving air into his body.
Slave James froze, hanging as still as he could, quietly strangling. The white noose dug deeply into the black velvet hood, and the contrast of the black hood with his pale skin was an effect of aesthetic pleasure to Mistress K's eyes. She sat in the comfortable armchair, confident in her privacy with one of her favored slaves. One hand crept between her legs, stroking herself softly through the fabric of her full skirt before slipping inside. Her eyes were glued to the hanging young man. His feet quivered, and she could hear the choking sounds coming from the hood. His cock was so hard that it was a pure throbbing purple, twitching with strain and need. Mistress K would not touch him. No hand would be laid upon him until he was lowered down from her gallows. Until then, if he needed release as badly as the state of his cock indicated, he was on his own.
He stayed still for as long as he found it possible, swaying slightly, the creak of the rope and the subdued choking sounds echoing in the chamber. The noose kept getting tighter, tighter, as the stubborn pull of gravity slowly tugged him closer to the earth, and the noose just as stubbornly refused to give him up. His legs cried out to kick, his lungs cried out for air, his swelling head and thickening tongue begged for a relief of this wicked, decadent, terrifying pressure.
He began to kick.
Even as the panic began to overtake him, he tried to retain enough presence of mind to resist the urge to kick too strongly, because he knew that the harder he kicked, the faster he would lose consciousness, therefore cutting short his own and his Mistress's pleasure. But instinct and sheer biology were more than a match for a strangling nooseslave's will, and his kicking grew more frantic, more intense. The noose soon closed off his air completely, and it cut so far into the black velvet hood that the noose could not be seen at the lowest point, where his head tilted over. Soon after that the choking, retching, heaving sounds disappeared as well. Slave James was a creature of sheer instinct now, fighting for his life, futilely fighting the noose and the will of his Mistress. His useless, bluing hands twitched once or twice, his arms and shoulders heaved at the ropes that kept his hands bound. His hips bucked, his legs danced a morbid jig, and he could feel the same close, graying feeling as before. Like a landed trout he fought, not thinking anymore, just painfully aware of the constriction, the swelling, the feel of his tongue so far distended that he was distantly aware of the texture of the velvet as his tongue pressed against the fabric that sheathed his face. His neck was compressed now, the noose having slipped so tight that only the strongest of Mistress K's women would be able to haul it open.
His sense of awareness, his sense of self, began flickering, out and back in, and he felt himself stop kicking. Kicking was useless. He hung limply as his brain began to die, crying out for a fresh supply of blood, and his lungs stabbed at him with demands that the tight noose would not allow him to comply with. Mistress K was working herself into a fine frenzy at Slave James's last dance, and she gasped and shuddered with her own release as he finally went limp and hung with what seemed to be peace. Mistress K had been hanging nooseslaves for far too long to think that this was the end.
Gasping for breath herself, she flung herself out of the armchair and to her knees before her dying slave. She reached up, barely resisting the urge to touch slim hands to his thighs, crisscrossed with beautiful welts and bruises that contrasted so well with his pale skin, the black hood, the white noose—and he was a beautifully shaped young man in his own right, and his cock was still straining, even as he slipped away.
Then came the final shudder. Slave James's body—for the consciousness that was Slave James had long ago imploded, crumpling in his mind as his body gave into the weakness of flesh, bowing to the power of Mistress K and her noose—bucked, writhed with a specifically loose-limbed, limp series of spasms. This was the true end. This was Slave James's true death, and Mistress K held herself close to his manhood, watching with bright eyes as it twitched, seemed to swell further, and....
And as the rest of Slave James passed on, leaving just a cooling shell hanging beautifully in her private execution chamber, his hips bucked one last time, and his deathseed shot forth, hitting Mistress K's face and making her orgasm again. She closed her eyes and felt it coat her skin, pulse after pulse. Finally Slave James's final orgasm had reached its conclusion, and Mistress K carefully wiped away his seed and put it in a small jar. It would be made into lotion, to keep Mistress K's skin firm and young, and in this way she would use her slave long after his demise.
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