As a new member of Cute Dead Guys I offer the following itinerary for a business I’m considering, offering weekend experiences for like-minded men.
EXECUTE-TOURS
Option 1 – The un-missable weekend experience for the man who thinks he has done it all. It is a one-off, never to be repeated, opportunity
Day 1 – 9:00pm Wait in the public house specified in your booking confirmation. Wear white sports shoes, faded denim jeans, and a white t-shirt. Carry a black sports bag containing a brief blue swimsuit and a pair of shorts in thin white cotton, sized to fit you tightly. Have £2000 in cash, but no identification or other documents. You will have made whatever preparations you feel necessary to put your affairs in order. Leave the sports bag on the table, and order no more than one pint of bitter at the bar. You won’t see me, but on your return to the table you will find a beer mat with a location and a car number plate.
10:00pm Follow the directions to a white van. This is your last chance to chicken out. If you decide to proceed, go to the back of the van. The doors will be unlocked. Get inside, and switch on the lantern you will find there. Close the doors. You will see:
• On the floor, a mattress.
• At each corner of the mattress, welded to the floor, anchor points.
• From the anchor points, short chains leading to wrist and ankle shackles.
• A leather gag
• A black leather hood, laces at the back, with no eye or mouth holes, and minimal vents for you to breathe.
You will:
• Take off your shoes, shirt, and jeans, placing them inside your sports bag.
• Put on the white cotton shorts.
• Sit down, spreading your legs so that you can fit the ankle shackles.
• Push the ball of the gag between your teeth and fasten the leather strap behind your head.
• Put on the hood, tightening and tying the laces at the back of your head.
• Lie back and feel for the wrist shackles. Click them in place, leaving you silenced and helpless and spreadeagled in the darkness.
11:00pm You hear the door lock, and someone getting into the driver’s cab. The engine starts.
DAY 2 - 01:30am The journey is over. The van is quiet. You lie waiting in the darkness and silence. Then you hear the doors open. Hands work at the shackles, releasing you. You sense two men. You hear, feel, and smell leather. Nothing is said. There is no response to your muffled grunting. Hard hands force your out of the van. You feel the cool night air on your bare skin. You are marched across cold paving stones, and in to a building. Your captor’s footsteps echo on hard walls. There is the clank and creak and crash of iron doors opening and closing. Then you are pushed forward. One of your captors holds you from behind. His leather-clad arms encircle your chest, pressing your vulnerable flesh against his smooth, hard, leather torso. His fingers idly play with your nipples as other hands, mine, as it happens, tug at your shorts, pulling them down and off. Suddenly, you are left, gagged and hooded, but naked. A door crashes closed behind you, and you hear the rasp of bolts. It is warm, almost stuffy with heat. There is a smell of disinfectant. Footsteps echo away. You sense you are alone. Your hands are free. You reach up to remove the hood.
The light is dazzling. You are in a cell. The floor, walls and arched roof are tiled in blinding white. A single central bulb is in an armoured central light fitting. A bench or cot is also tiled. There is a stainless steel toilet. A shower head is at the end of the cell, and a drain below it. The door is massive, solid but for a peephole, riveted. There is no window, no padding, no material of any kind.
You take off the gag. You lie on the bench. Though it is smooth and unyielding, it is heated from within. Despite the light, despite your fears, you sleep. You know that others, many others, have been here before you. You dream of those men grinning at you as they swing from nooses and beckoning you towards the scaffold.
7:00am I’m standing over you, shaking you awake with a leather-gloved hand. Your first sight of your last day is my shiny leather boots, my tight leather jeans, and my leather biker’s jacket, reflecting the harsh white light of the cell. As you sit up you also see my mate, dressed like me in leather, but also with a sinister leather executioner’s mask. You are destined never to see his face. He’s a bodybuilder and bouncer by trade. Not too bright, but he does as he’s told. I don’t expect you to change your mind, but, if you do, well, let’s just say he’s here to make sure you don’t.
7:15am You’re showering while me and my mate watch. Still wet and naked, you’re held with your arms pinioned to your sides in a seated bear hug by my mate, while I shave the hair off you - all your hair. I take my jacket off to do this. My tight white T-shirt and its encased muscled torso and straining nipples are inches from your face as I guide the buzzing clippers around your head and body. Your erection gives me a handhold as I trim your pubic hair. Then you shower again. We go for our breakfast, but, since you specified your particular attraction to leather in the profile you submitted when booking, I leave my jacket. Even though it’s warm in the cell, you can wrap yourself in the heavy garment, rich with the smell of leather and its owner.
9:00am We come to fetch you. I retrieve my jacket and put it on, enjoying the warmth of your body that it retains. We dress you in the tight shorts. My mate shackles your legs with a short chain while I handcuff your wrists in front of you. We part march, part drag you down a stone corridor into a high vaulted room, with a platform some four feet high, like a stage, at one end. On the brightly-lit stage is a sturdy, rough, gallows about thirteen feet high, carrying two nooses of heavy, rough rope. In the shadows you see an audience of twenty to thirty men – it is their contributions that are paying for the show.
9:30am We are on the stage. Your arms have been raised up and the handcuffs have been secured to a shackle on the post. You have to stand on tiptoe to keep the weight off your wrists. You are sideways on to the audience. At 9:30 precisely, I lay the first stroke of a cat-o-nine tails on your upper back. You scream. Though I aim to redden, rather than break your skin, the flogger is savagely painful. I will continue for about 30 minutes, criss-crossing your back, thighs, and calves with red weals.
10:00am After a few minute’s break, just as you believe your flogging is over, I take up a cane and land twelve stinging strokes on your backside, through the thin, stretched cloth of your shorts. As you slump into semi-consciousness, you dimly hear a round of applause from the audience. Me and my mate unhook you and take you back to the cell. The audience breaks for coffee.
10:15am While my mate watches, I strip off, and hold your naked body under the shower, reviving you and cleaning your wounds. Then I lay you on the bench, give you my folded leather jacket as a pillow, and rub a soothing ointment into your body. As I massage you, I tell you stories of the men who went to the gallows before you, of their courage or cowardice, of the way they died, whether slow or quick, and of the reputed pleasures of hanging. In doing so, I try not only to soothe the immediate pain, but to stiffen your resolve, to make sure you have a good end.
10:45am You and I are naked. My mate, still masked and in full leather takes hold of you and firmly presses you to your knees forcing your lips towards my straining erection. Although I do not wish to cum now, it is an important opportunity for bonding and mutual pleasure for you to suckle as much of my shaft as you can manage.
11:30am Final preparation: I bend you over and push in a lubricated butt plug, fitting it with thin straps around your hips to keep it in place. I slide the tight white shorts up over your hips. They accentuate the smooth mounds of your arse, and the bulge of your substantial erection. Then, you get a surprise. While you watch, my mate fits me with a matching butt plug and straps. I put on first the blue speedos from your sports bag and then the full leather outfit. You are barefoot; I wear leather boots but no socks.
Mid-day Back on stage. You are standing next to one of the nooses, which is at the height of your chest. Your legs are shackled. Your hands are cuffed behind your back. Squinting through the footlights, you can just make out the audience. You can sense their excitement. I walk in front of you and smile. I take off my jacket and drape it round your shoulders. You feel my warmth and smell the special smell of the jacket.
I go to the front of the stage, turn, and wink to you. I peel off my white T shirt. I take off the heavy boots. I drop the leather trousers, and throw them into the audience.
Now dressed only in the pair of blue speedos, I come back to you, taking a black denim hood from my mate, who waits beside the scaffold. I stand behind you, slipping the leather jacket from your shoulders. I throw it to the audience. I put the black hood over your head. Now you have no vision, only darkness and the feel of the heavy cloth swelling and contracting in time with your breathing.
Standing so close you can feel my erection pressing against you I drop the noose and tighten it around your neck, the heavy knot against the back of your neck. I step back to take in the sight: your hooded body, shaking slightly, still pink from the lash, stretched from the tightened noose: the light glinting on the shackles and chains at your wrists and ankles.
Then I get beside the other noose, and my mate fits it around my neck. By my choice, I have neither hood nor shackles.
12:10pm Running a little late, my mate throws the switch that starts the winches running for both ropes. In 30 seconds we are pulled up into the air, to be left swinging four feet above the stage. The ropes are close enough that our bodies frequently touch as we dance the dance of death.
12:35pm The last twitch of either corpse has happened, and our spirits are with the men who have ridden the scaffold before us. Our cooling bodies are lowered to within six inches of the ground, and left to dangle. Members of the audience who wish to are able to come on stage to get up close and personal with the cooling bodies.
1:30pm Our bodies are cut down, and carried to a kitchen. Our remains are stripped, gutted, and cleaned like wild deer by members of the audience. Our body cavities are stuffed with vegetables and herbs. We are mounted face-to face on a spit and barbecued over an open fire.
7:00 pm Meat from our carcasses is served to the audience with barbecue sauce, pitta bread and salad. After the feast, our bones are boiled, and mounted for sale as demonstration skeletons for students.
Although I find my ideas for Execute-tours attractive, it’s possible the bank might quibble about the business plan. The legality is, maybe, questionable. The bank might consider that there would be few customers. Lastly, it would appear that the plan involves the managing director, me, ending up as a longpig sandwich. Would they lend money on that basis? Possibly not.
EXECUTE-TOURS
Option 1 – The un-missable weekend experience for the man who thinks he has done it all. It is a one-off, never to be repeated, opportunity
Day 1 – 9:00pm Wait in the public house specified in your booking confirmation. Wear white sports shoes, faded denim jeans, and a white t-shirt. Carry a black sports bag containing a brief blue swimsuit and a pair of shorts in thin white cotton, sized to fit you tightly. Have £2000 in cash, but no identification or other documents. You will have made whatever preparations you feel necessary to put your affairs in order. Leave the sports bag on the table, and order no more than one pint of bitter at the bar. You won’t see me, but on your return to the table you will find a beer mat with a location and a car number plate.
10:00pm Follow the directions to a white van. This is your last chance to chicken out. If you decide to proceed, go to the back of the van. The doors will be unlocked. Get inside, and switch on the lantern you will find there. Close the doors. You will see:
• On the floor, a mattress.
• At each corner of the mattress, welded to the floor, anchor points.
• From the anchor points, short chains leading to wrist and ankle shackles.
• A leather gag
• A black leather hood, laces at the back, with no eye or mouth holes, and minimal vents for you to breathe.
You will:
• Take off your shoes, shirt, and jeans, placing them inside your sports bag.
• Put on the white cotton shorts.
• Sit down, spreading your legs so that you can fit the ankle shackles.
• Push the ball of the gag between your teeth and fasten the leather strap behind your head.
• Put on the hood, tightening and tying the laces at the back of your head.
• Lie back and feel for the wrist shackles. Click them in place, leaving you silenced and helpless and spreadeagled in the darkness.
11:00pm You hear the door lock, and someone getting into the driver’s cab. The engine starts.
DAY 2 - 01:30am The journey is over. The van is quiet. You lie waiting in the darkness and silence. Then you hear the doors open. Hands work at the shackles, releasing you. You sense two men. You hear, feel, and smell leather. Nothing is said. There is no response to your muffled grunting. Hard hands force your out of the van. You feel the cool night air on your bare skin. You are marched across cold paving stones, and in to a building. Your captor’s footsteps echo on hard walls. There is the clank and creak and crash of iron doors opening and closing. Then you are pushed forward. One of your captors holds you from behind. His leather-clad arms encircle your chest, pressing your vulnerable flesh against his smooth, hard, leather torso. His fingers idly play with your nipples as other hands, mine, as it happens, tug at your shorts, pulling them down and off. Suddenly, you are left, gagged and hooded, but naked. A door crashes closed behind you, and you hear the rasp of bolts. It is warm, almost stuffy with heat. There is a smell of disinfectant. Footsteps echo away. You sense you are alone. Your hands are free. You reach up to remove the hood.
The light is dazzling. You are in a cell. The floor, walls and arched roof are tiled in blinding white. A single central bulb is in an armoured central light fitting. A bench or cot is also tiled. There is a stainless steel toilet. A shower head is at the end of the cell, and a drain below it. The door is massive, solid but for a peephole, riveted. There is no window, no padding, no material of any kind.
You take off the gag. You lie on the bench. Though it is smooth and unyielding, it is heated from within. Despite the light, despite your fears, you sleep. You know that others, many others, have been here before you. You dream of those men grinning at you as they swing from nooses and beckoning you towards the scaffold.
7:00am I’m standing over you, shaking you awake with a leather-gloved hand. Your first sight of your last day is my shiny leather boots, my tight leather jeans, and my leather biker’s jacket, reflecting the harsh white light of the cell. As you sit up you also see my mate, dressed like me in leather, but also with a sinister leather executioner’s mask. You are destined never to see his face. He’s a bodybuilder and bouncer by trade. Not too bright, but he does as he’s told. I don’t expect you to change your mind, but, if you do, well, let’s just say he’s here to make sure you don’t.
7:15am You’re showering while me and my mate watch. Still wet and naked, you’re held with your arms pinioned to your sides in a seated bear hug by my mate, while I shave the hair off you - all your hair. I take my jacket off to do this. My tight white T-shirt and its encased muscled torso and straining nipples are inches from your face as I guide the buzzing clippers around your head and body. Your erection gives me a handhold as I trim your pubic hair. Then you shower again. We go for our breakfast, but, since you specified your particular attraction to leather in the profile you submitted when booking, I leave my jacket. Even though it’s warm in the cell, you can wrap yourself in the heavy garment, rich with the smell of leather and its owner.
9:00am We come to fetch you. I retrieve my jacket and put it on, enjoying the warmth of your body that it retains. We dress you in the tight shorts. My mate shackles your legs with a short chain while I handcuff your wrists in front of you. We part march, part drag you down a stone corridor into a high vaulted room, with a platform some four feet high, like a stage, at one end. On the brightly-lit stage is a sturdy, rough, gallows about thirteen feet high, carrying two nooses of heavy, rough rope. In the shadows you see an audience of twenty to thirty men – it is their contributions that are paying for the show.
9:30am We are on the stage. Your arms have been raised up and the handcuffs have been secured to a shackle on the post. You have to stand on tiptoe to keep the weight off your wrists. You are sideways on to the audience. At 9:30 precisely, I lay the first stroke of a cat-o-nine tails on your upper back. You scream. Though I aim to redden, rather than break your skin, the flogger is savagely painful. I will continue for about 30 minutes, criss-crossing your back, thighs, and calves with red weals.
10:00am After a few minute’s break, just as you believe your flogging is over, I take up a cane and land twelve stinging strokes on your backside, through the thin, stretched cloth of your shorts. As you slump into semi-consciousness, you dimly hear a round of applause from the audience. Me and my mate unhook you and take you back to the cell. The audience breaks for coffee.
10:15am While my mate watches, I strip off, and hold your naked body under the shower, reviving you and cleaning your wounds. Then I lay you on the bench, give you my folded leather jacket as a pillow, and rub a soothing ointment into your body. As I massage you, I tell you stories of the men who went to the gallows before you, of their courage or cowardice, of the way they died, whether slow or quick, and of the reputed pleasures of hanging. In doing so, I try not only to soothe the immediate pain, but to stiffen your resolve, to make sure you have a good end.
10:45am You and I are naked. My mate, still masked and in full leather takes hold of you and firmly presses you to your knees forcing your lips towards my straining erection. Although I do not wish to cum now, it is an important opportunity for bonding and mutual pleasure for you to suckle as much of my shaft as you can manage.
11:30am Final preparation: I bend you over and push in a lubricated butt plug, fitting it with thin straps around your hips to keep it in place. I slide the tight white shorts up over your hips. They accentuate the smooth mounds of your arse, and the bulge of your substantial erection. Then, you get a surprise. While you watch, my mate fits me with a matching butt plug and straps. I put on first the blue speedos from your sports bag and then the full leather outfit. You are barefoot; I wear leather boots but no socks.
Mid-day Back on stage. You are standing next to one of the nooses, which is at the height of your chest. Your legs are shackled. Your hands are cuffed behind your back. Squinting through the footlights, you can just make out the audience. You can sense their excitement. I walk in front of you and smile. I take off my jacket and drape it round your shoulders. You feel my warmth and smell the special smell of the jacket.
I go to the front of the stage, turn, and wink to you. I peel off my white T shirt. I take off the heavy boots. I drop the leather trousers, and throw them into the audience.
Now dressed only in the pair of blue speedos, I come back to you, taking a black denim hood from my mate, who waits beside the scaffold. I stand behind you, slipping the leather jacket from your shoulders. I throw it to the audience. I put the black hood over your head. Now you have no vision, only darkness and the feel of the heavy cloth swelling and contracting in time with your breathing.
Standing so close you can feel my erection pressing against you I drop the noose and tighten it around your neck, the heavy knot against the back of your neck. I step back to take in the sight: your hooded body, shaking slightly, still pink from the lash, stretched from the tightened noose: the light glinting on the shackles and chains at your wrists and ankles.
Then I get beside the other noose, and my mate fits it around my neck. By my choice, I have neither hood nor shackles.
12:10pm Running a little late, my mate throws the switch that starts the winches running for both ropes. In 30 seconds we are pulled up into the air, to be left swinging four feet above the stage. The ropes are close enough that our bodies frequently touch as we dance the dance of death.
12:35pm The last twitch of either corpse has happened, and our spirits are with the men who have ridden the scaffold before us. Our cooling bodies are lowered to within six inches of the ground, and left to dangle. Members of the audience who wish to are able to come on stage to get up close and personal with the cooling bodies.
1:30pm Our bodies are cut down, and carried to a kitchen. Our remains are stripped, gutted, and cleaned like wild deer by members of the audience. Our body cavities are stuffed with vegetables and herbs. We are mounted face-to face on a spit and barbecued over an open fire.
7:00 pm Meat from our carcasses is served to the audience with barbecue sauce, pitta bread and salad. After the feast, our bones are boiled, and mounted for sale as demonstration skeletons for students.
Although I find my ideas for Execute-tours attractive, it’s possible the bank might quibble about the business plan. The legality is, maybe, questionable. The bank might consider that there would be few customers. Lastly, it would appear that the plan involves the managing director, me, ending up as a longpig sandwich. Would they lend money on that basis? Possibly not.
