The sound came first. Ringing ears merging into roaring, with a rhythmic pulse. Voices? A huge crowd? Football? His mind wandered. There was pain. A sore throat, an ache in his neck. His eyes fluttered. Blurred vision, dazzle. He shut out the light. Other feelings: he was naked? Cool air seemed to play all over his body. A source of heat to the left? Rough boards against his back. Not lying down, not standing; somewhere in between. Hard, cold, steel at wrists and ankles. Unable to move. Darkness washed over him. A time later – seconds, minutes, hours? - he came to. Cool massaging of his cock. He squinted against the sun, trying to focus. He was chained to a board. He was looking out at a baying crowd. To his right, a burning brazier. To his left, a gallows, a severed rope swinging gently. The roaring sound took on meaning; a chant. Many voices: “Gut him, gut him, gut him”. A man was wiping him down with a damp flannel, sponging semen off his groin. A man, shirtless, leather jeans, a black leather mask; a man he somehow recognised, dressed like... like an executioner.
Memory... it flooded his mind. A week ago, that was it. The advert: “Medieval Fayre – Re-enactors wanted”. He'd answered, been accepted. The man now flannelling his body had said how good it was to find someone in their twenties and so well built for the starring role. No worry about acting experience; everything would come naturally.
Yesterday - the castle, a real castle, with a real dungeon. He'd spent the night in chains, playing the role of a man condemned to death for treason. On the morrow he was to be hanged, drawn, and quartered. As he shifted in his chains he'd felt the excitement of the scenario. The man had visited that night, to explain the details: that he would be taken out on a scaffold from an upper window of the castle; that he would be dressed only in white cotton briefs, representing a medieval prisoner who wanted to deny the executioner the rights to the condemned man's clothes; that he would be hanged to unconsciousness, taken down and revived; that he would be cut open, his guts would be 'drawn' and that his carcass would be cut into four.
He remembered asking what was the secret of the illusion. Had there been an answer? The man had distracted him, complimenting his body, telling him how exciting it would be. He had been excited, and the man had taken every advantage of his evident arousal. The sex had been overwhelming, and he had drifted into sleep, exhausted and satisfied, but still unknowing of the details of the show.
That morning: A whirl of preparation; washing, shaving, the addition of shackles and chains. Getting bent over a table. The executioner forcing a dildo into his arse, securing it with leather thongs before sliding up the white briefs that barely contained his sudden erection. Still no understanding of the rapidly approaching illusion of execution.
Now as he lay on the board, he felt the dildo move inside him as he shifted against his restraints. It reminded him of the executioner's hard cock last night. Though his balls felt drained his own cock began to stiffen again. The executioner was now working his nipples, tight firm nubs of pleasure. He was coming to full attention, and he remembered the walk out to the scaffold.
A raised platform. To the right, a gallows with waiting noose. To the left a large board propped at forty-five degrees and a burning brazier. Ahead and on each side, a vast crowd, all men, on tiered seating. A huge cheer as they saw him, muscles glistening in the sun, briefs tented by his obvious erection, chains clanking as he walked. He moved a little awkwardly, the dildo working inside him. He remembered feeling a little apprehensive, but mostly it was a feeling of pride in his body and excitement at being the focus of a thousand doubtless horny men.
He'd stood with his neck in the noose, waiting. A list of his 'crimes' was being read out. A 'priest' inaudibly mumbled passages from the bible. He could see there was no trapdoor beneath his feet. He wondered how this could proceed without disappointing the onlookers. He'd been ecstatic, though, the rough rope against his neck, his exposure, the chains and shackles. It was a dream re-enactment. Then the rope had moved, tightening around his throat. He was being lifted up, slowly. His bare feet left the boards of the scaffold. He swung slowly around, dangling from a ring of fire.
Blood thumped in his brain. He had begun to dance.
As he lay now on the board, he remembered that death had not come quickly. He had once researched hanging, and unconsciousness was considered to happen between five and thirty seconds, but in his experience time seemed to have slowed. Was it fifteen minutes, an hour, two? He'd been aware of every particle of his body, its moves, its shudders. It seemed like the executioner was slowly fucking him. It seemed like his own cock was swelling almost to the point of bursting. Waves of pain became engulfing orgasmic fire as he came and came and came again.
And as he remembered this, with the executioner working his nipples his cock again became fully engorged. The hooded man leant over him and whispered “there is no illusion”. The full thrill of the confirmation of what the victim had already known made his cock jump. The executioner took the hard cock and swollen balls in one hand. The condemned man raised his head to look down his honed body in time to see the executioner's knife sever the genitalia in a single stroke. The pouring blood from the wound felt to him like a constant ejaculation as he watched his cock and balls tossed carelessly into the brazier, where they twitched and sizzled as they were consumed.
A sensation of tugging and pulling followed the knife as it cut upwards through muscle and flesh to the breastbone, and then sideways in a slash across his belly button. The coils of intestines and offal slithered out of the wound into a waiting bucket.
“There is no illusion.” The words echoed in his fading mind. This was hardcore re-enactment. And he LOVED IT! He watched the executioner plunge his hands into the cavity left by his eviscerated guts. His last sight was of his own heart, twitching in the hands of the man who had just killed him. He died satisfied, and the crowd went wild with appreciation of the spectacle.
The castle would certainly be repeating its Medieval Fayre next year, complete with its most popular event.
Memory... it flooded his mind. A week ago, that was it. The advert: “Medieval Fayre – Re-enactors wanted”. He'd answered, been accepted. The man now flannelling his body had said how good it was to find someone in their twenties and so well built for the starring role. No worry about acting experience; everything would come naturally.
Yesterday - the castle, a real castle, with a real dungeon. He'd spent the night in chains, playing the role of a man condemned to death for treason. On the morrow he was to be hanged, drawn, and quartered. As he shifted in his chains he'd felt the excitement of the scenario. The man had visited that night, to explain the details: that he would be taken out on a scaffold from an upper window of the castle; that he would be dressed only in white cotton briefs, representing a medieval prisoner who wanted to deny the executioner the rights to the condemned man's clothes; that he would be hanged to unconsciousness, taken down and revived; that he would be cut open, his guts would be 'drawn' and that his carcass would be cut into four.
He remembered asking what was the secret of the illusion. Had there been an answer? The man had distracted him, complimenting his body, telling him how exciting it would be. He had been excited, and the man had taken every advantage of his evident arousal. The sex had been overwhelming, and he had drifted into sleep, exhausted and satisfied, but still unknowing of the details of the show.
That morning: A whirl of preparation; washing, shaving, the addition of shackles and chains. Getting bent over a table. The executioner forcing a dildo into his arse, securing it with leather thongs before sliding up the white briefs that barely contained his sudden erection. Still no understanding of the rapidly approaching illusion of execution.
Now as he lay on the board, he felt the dildo move inside him as he shifted against his restraints. It reminded him of the executioner's hard cock last night. Though his balls felt drained his own cock began to stiffen again. The executioner was now working his nipples, tight firm nubs of pleasure. He was coming to full attention, and he remembered the walk out to the scaffold.
A raised platform. To the right, a gallows with waiting noose. To the left a large board propped at forty-five degrees and a burning brazier. Ahead and on each side, a vast crowd, all men, on tiered seating. A huge cheer as they saw him, muscles glistening in the sun, briefs tented by his obvious erection, chains clanking as he walked. He moved a little awkwardly, the dildo working inside him. He remembered feeling a little apprehensive, but mostly it was a feeling of pride in his body and excitement at being the focus of a thousand doubtless horny men.
He'd stood with his neck in the noose, waiting. A list of his 'crimes' was being read out. A 'priest' inaudibly mumbled passages from the bible. He could see there was no trapdoor beneath his feet. He wondered how this could proceed without disappointing the onlookers. He'd been ecstatic, though, the rough rope against his neck, his exposure, the chains and shackles. It was a dream re-enactment. Then the rope had moved, tightening around his throat. He was being lifted up, slowly. His bare feet left the boards of the scaffold. He swung slowly around, dangling from a ring of fire.
Blood thumped in his brain. He had begun to dance.
As he lay now on the board, he remembered that death had not come quickly. He had once researched hanging, and unconsciousness was considered to happen between five and thirty seconds, but in his experience time seemed to have slowed. Was it fifteen minutes, an hour, two? He'd been aware of every particle of his body, its moves, its shudders. It seemed like the executioner was slowly fucking him. It seemed like his own cock was swelling almost to the point of bursting. Waves of pain became engulfing orgasmic fire as he came and came and came again.
And as he remembered this, with the executioner working his nipples his cock again became fully engorged. The hooded man leant over him and whispered “there is no illusion”. The full thrill of the confirmation of what the victim had already known made his cock jump. The executioner took the hard cock and swollen balls in one hand. The condemned man raised his head to look down his honed body in time to see the executioner's knife sever the genitalia in a single stroke. The pouring blood from the wound felt to him like a constant ejaculation as he watched his cock and balls tossed carelessly into the brazier, where they twitched and sizzled as they were consumed.
A sensation of tugging and pulling followed the knife as it cut upwards through muscle and flesh to the breastbone, and then sideways in a slash across his belly button. The coils of intestines and offal slithered out of the wound into a waiting bucket.
“There is no illusion.” The words echoed in his fading mind. This was hardcore re-enactment. And he LOVED IT! He watched the executioner plunge his hands into the cavity left by his eviscerated guts. His last sight was of his own heart, twitching in the hands of the man who had just killed him. He died satisfied, and the crowd went wild with appreciation of the spectacle.
The castle would certainly be repeating its Medieval Fayre next year, complete with its most popular event.
