Option B – Another Execute-Tours experience.
The arrangements were made over the internet. You’ve been corresponding with ‘Dave’, agreeing the details of your experience, the costs, and the time. You’ve transferred the money, and put your affairs in order.
And now it’s started.
You’ve been abducted, snatched from outside your local pub and thrown in the back of a black van. Gagged, hooded, and trussed, you’ve been treated as a parcel. Passed from van to plane to truck you’ve been brought to a hot desert country.
Yep, you’re right: this is extraordinary rendition – and it’s happened to you.
You’ve been in army jail for a week. You’re dressed only in tight white shorts. A long chain links one ankle to the immovable cot bolted to the cell floor. Through the barred window you’ve been watching soldiers, stripped to the waist in the heat, build a scaffold in the centre of a hot, dusty, parade ground. You know it is for you, and the sight makes you horny.
On each day since you arrived, as daylight fails, a man has come to your cell.
He is dressed – encased – in black leather: a tight hood, with eye, mouth, and nose holes; a black biker’s jacket; black leather jeans; black boots, shining darkly. The hands that pull down your shorts, are gloved with black leather. The man says nothing, but he carries a noose. Each night, he pulls it over your head, and tightens it, as he forces you face-down on to the cot. Each time your cock jerks to attention. You hear the sound of a zip opening. Still half-strangling you, the man lowers his weight on to you, pressing your hard cock against the rough blanket. You groan as you feel him enter you, hot, massive, painful, and irresistible. Each night your mind has reeled with ecstasy, the rope squeezing your neck, your breath laboured, the heady smell of leather around you, the mass of the man on your back, his steady, pounding rhythm deep inside you, the friction of the coarse cloth against which your erection is forced.
When you are both spent, the man has removed the noose, and left, still without a word.
Yesterday the scaffold was finished. The man did not come last evening. You heard the trap being tested first thing this morning.
Now it is late morning. You hear the tramp of marching feet, the bark of orders. You look out; a platoon of troops is being drawn up around the scaffold.
They come for you. They strip you naked. A big black Sergeant in desert camo forces you down on your knees and handcuffs your wrists behind your back. Then he bends you forward and you gasp as a butt plug is roughly forced into your arse. A young, muscled, army squaddie tightens thin leather straps around your waist, round the base of your stiffening cock, and between your legs to hold the butt plug hard inside you.
“We don’t want to clean up after you” says the black guy.
They drag you out of the cell. You’re being marched down a corridor towards the glaring light of noon.
You feel the cool stone beneath your bare feet. The guards march each side of you, their grip tight and inescapable on your arms above the elbows. Other guards march in front and behind you. There is no way out.
You stare at the guard in front. His close-fitting uniform moves over his tight V-shaped torso. It stretches over his hard arse. You’re marching to your execution, but your body reacts to the sight of the muscled body moving in front of you.
The sun dazzles. A light breeze plays on your skin. You feel the warmth of the sun. You’re in the open air. The ground beneath your feet is sand. You’re between two lines of young soldiers. You see them looking at you. Curiosity. Contempt. Excitement.
With each step you feel the butt plug move inside you. You’re suddenly very aware of the straps between your legs, holding your cock and balls up and out from your body, displayed to all these men. Your face flushes slightly, but your cock swells. It bounces heavily as you move.
You’re at the steps of the scaffold. You don’t want to, but you look up. The gallows arm is black against the copper sky. The noose moves lazily, beckoning you on. You are hustled up the steps. There is a white mark on the platform. Guards push you into place.
The man dressed in black leather, still wearing the black leather hood, steps in front of you. He reaches up and lowers the noose over your head. He stands so close your cock is pressed against the tight leather of his jeans. A warm answering pressure in his crotch tells you that your executioner is enjoying this.
“Hi - I’m Dave. Remember all those emails?”
You would cum, now, but the first caress of the rough hemp noose distracts you. It scrapes your neck as Dave adjusts it just so. Then he steps back, and your cock is free to the air.
The rope is shortened. You feel the noose tighten around your neck. You rise on to the balls of your feet to keep breathing. A drum beats, slowly, insistently. You are stretched alone on the scaffold. You have no hood, no blindfold. You can see the prison building, your recent, but temporary, home. You can see the far hills shimmering in the mid-day heat. You can see the ranks of soldiers below you, a thousand pairs of eyes devouring every movement of your body. Your senses crackle with intensity. A distant cry of a hawk; a suppressed snigger at a lewd comment among the troops; the soft creak as a timber moves beneath your feet: you hear all with a crystal clarity. The touch of the rope at your throat; the grain of the wooden boarding; the cold steel pinioning your wrists and pressing against the small of your back; above all the strapwork around your hips and arse and cock; the feelings are all supercharged.
And the sexual arousal is incredible. You can’t believe your cock can grow so large, so heavy, so rigid. Yet when you put a little more weight on the noose, to ease the ache in your legs for a moment, it is like an electric bolt down your spine, jerking your cock up that little bit higher.
You lose track of time, but time moves on to the midday hour, marked by the beat of the solitary drum. Then, you have just time to register the absence of the drum beat; to hear the deeper silence of a thousand men ceasing to breathe.
A metallic noise, as the catch is withdrawn. Dave has thrown the lever. The support beneath your feet falls away. The crash as the trap hits its stop. The groan and creak of the rope as it takes your weight.
So what does it feel like, this that you have waited so long for, dreamed so much about?
At first it’s surprising. It doesn’t hurt much – the drop of a few inches as the rope stretched hasn’t done you any physical harm. The thick rope squeezes your throat rather than cuts. The first feeling is the strangeness of your body stretching down from your neck, instead of being compressed by the force of gravity. It seems as though you have an almost weightless freedom of movement.
You cannot move your head, of course, but your whole body slowly rotates, so you get a panoramic view of the troops, your guards and your executioner. Your hanging has clearly aroused many of the onlookers, and you notice the big black guard is stroking his considerable erection. The sight brings you back to your own arousal, and you twitch your hips to feel the weight of your own cock as it swings heavily.
It’s been maybe eighty seconds. In the pool you can hold your breath for two minutes, but now you really, really need to get some air. The muscles of your chest twitch and strain as you force air out, and then drag some in. You manage a few breaths, with much gurgling in your throat, but the rope is slowly crushing your windpipe. As it gets harder to take air, so your body works harder.
You know it’s hopeless, but your body fights ever harder to live. Your arms tug at the shackles; your legs kick and beat at the air; at times your knees almost reach your chest as your powerful stomach muscles contract. You feel your body acting like this, with shocks of pain from cramping muscles and from the noose at the end of which you dance, with no power to stop it.
All the violent motion does is to finally tighten the noose so air is forever denied to your body.
Are you thinking of the pleasure you’re giving to the audience? The sight of the cruel punishment being inflicted; of the panic in your eyes; of your darkening face; of the thin line of drool spilling from your wordlessly moving lips; of your sweat slicked body glistening as it bucks and twists and kicks; of your heavy balls and huge, rigid, jutting cock swinging and bouncing; and of your bare feet pointing and reaching for the ground that they will never touch again. Few onlookers will remain unaffected, aroused either by the simple pleasure of your peril, or by the secret wish to be there with you at the end of a rope.
But now your movements slow. Red mist is closing in on your sight. Lack of oxygen is having its inevitable effect. Now it is your pleasure that consumes you. Even as the outer world dims, your awareness of your body increases. Sensations of pain become warm flows of ecstasy. A pressure builds in your loins, until all of your life force expands, pulses, and rushes to your cock. Your whole body shudders as your semen spurts in huge eruptions, again and again. Fireworks explode behind your eyes, and then you fade slowly into oblivion.
A little later the last stream of piss flows from your hanging, cooling, corpse, to vanish into the sand. The butt plug does its job in keeping the area clean.
You are taken down, after an hour, and laid in a simple pinewood coffin. The soldiers detailed for the job make a few comments about your still-rigid cock which means the coffin lid has to be forced down. One or two of them privately think you’ve shown it’s not a bad way to go, and wonder if they’d have the guts to follow you onto the scaffold.
The end.
The arrangements were made over the internet. You’ve been corresponding with ‘Dave’, agreeing the details of your experience, the costs, and the time. You’ve transferred the money, and put your affairs in order.
And now it’s started.
You’ve been abducted, snatched from outside your local pub and thrown in the back of a black van. Gagged, hooded, and trussed, you’ve been treated as a parcel. Passed from van to plane to truck you’ve been brought to a hot desert country.
Yep, you’re right: this is extraordinary rendition – and it’s happened to you.
You’ve been in army jail for a week. You’re dressed only in tight white shorts. A long chain links one ankle to the immovable cot bolted to the cell floor. Through the barred window you’ve been watching soldiers, stripped to the waist in the heat, build a scaffold in the centre of a hot, dusty, parade ground. You know it is for you, and the sight makes you horny.
On each day since you arrived, as daylight fails, a man has come to your cell.
He is dressed – encased – in black leather: a tight hood, with eye, mouth, and nose holes; a black biker’s jacket; black leather jeans; black boots, shining darkly. The hands that pull down your shorts, are gloved with black leather. The man says nothing, but he carries a noose. Each night, he pulls it over your head, and tightens it, as he forces you face-down on to the cot. Each time your cock jerks to attention. You hear the sound of a zip opening. Still half-strangling you, the man lowers his weight on to you, pressing your hard cock against the rough blanket. You groan as you feel him enter you, hot, massive, painful, and irresistible. Each night your mind has reeled with ecstasy, the rope squeezing your neck, your breath laboured, the heady smell of leather around you, the mass of the man on your back, his steady, pounding rhythm deep inside you, the friction of the coarse cloth against which your erection is forced.
When you are both spent, the man has removed the noose, and left, still without a word.
Yesterday the scaffold was finished. The man did not come last evening. You heard the trap being tested first thing this morning.
Now it is late morning. You hear the tramp of marching feet, the bark of orders. You look out; a platoon of troops is being drawn up around the scaffold.
They come for you. They strip you naked. A big black Sergeant in desert camo forces you down on your knees and handcuffs your wrists behind your back. Then he bends you forward and you gasp as a butt plug is roughly forced into your arse. A young, muscled, army squaddie tightens thin leather straps around your waist, round the base of your stiffening cock, and between your legs to hold the butt plug hard inside you.
“We don’t want to clean up after you” says the black guy.
They drag you out of the cell. You’re being marched down a corridor towards the glaring light of noon.
You feel the cool stone beneath your bare feet. The guards march each side of you, their grip tight and inescapable on your arms above the elbows. Other guards march in front and behind you. There is no way out.
You stare at the guard in front. His close-fitting uniform moves over his tight V-shaped torso. It stretches over his hard arse. You’re marching to your execution, but your body reacts to the sight of the muscled body moving in front of you.
The sun dazzles. A light breeze plays on your skin. You feel the warmth of the sun. You’re in the open air. The ground beneath your feet is sand. You’re between two lines of young soldiers. You see them looking at you. Curiosity. Contempt. Excitement.
With each step you feel the butt plug move inside you. You’re suddenly very aware of the straps between your legs, holding your cock and balls up and out from your body, displayed to all these men. Your face flushes slightly, but your cock swells. It bounces heavily as you move.
You’re at the steps of the scaffold. You don’t want to, but you look up. The gallows arm is black against the copper sky. The noose moves lazily, beckoning you on. You are hustled up the steps. There is a white mark on the platform. Guards push you into place.
The man dressed in black leather, still wearing the black leather hood, steps in front of you. He reaches up and lowers the noose over your head. He stands so close your cock is pressed against the tight leather of his jeans. A warm answering pressure in his crotch tells you that your executioner is enjoying this.
“Hi - I’m Dave. Remember all those emails?”
You would cum, now, but the first caress of the rough hemp noose distracts you. It scrapes your neck as Dave adjusts it just so. Then he steps back, and your cock is free to the air.
The rope is shortened. You feel the noose tighten around your neck. You rise on to the balls of your feet to keep breathing. A drum beats, slowly, insistently. You are stretched alone on the scaffold. You have no hood, no blindfold. You can see the prison building, your recent, but temporary, home. You can see the far hills shimmering in the mid-day heat. You can see the ranks of soldiers below you, a thousand pairs of eyes devouring every movement of your body. Your senses crackle with intensity. A distant cry of a hawk; a suppressed snigger at a lewd comment among the troops; the soft creak as a timber moves beneath your feet: you hear all with a crystal clarity. The touch of the rope at your throat; the grain of the wooden boarding; the cold steel pinioning your wrists and pressing against the small of your back; above all the strapwork around your hips and arse and cock; the feelings are all supercharged.
And the sexual arousal is incredible. You can’t believe your cock can grow so large, so heavy, so rigid. Yet when you put a little more weight on the noose, to ease the ache in your legs for a moment, it is like an electric bolt down your spine, jerking your cock up that little bit higher.
You lose track of time, but time moves on to the midday hour, marked by the beat of the solitary drum. Then, you have just time to register the absence of the drum beat; to hear the deeper silence of a thousand men ceasing to breathe.
A metallic noise, as the catch is withdrawn. Dave has thrown the lever. The support beneath your feet falls away. The crash as the trap hits its stop. The groan and creak of the rope as it takes your weight.
So what does it feel like, this that you have waited so long for, dreamed so much about?
At first it’s surprising. It doesn’t hurt much – the drop of a few inches as the rope stretched hasn’t done you any physical harm. The thick rope squeezes your throat rather than cuts. The first feeling is the strangeness of your body stretching down from your neck, instead of being compressed by the force of gravity. It seems as though you have an almost weightless freedom of movement.
You cannot move your head, of course, but your whole body slowly rotates, so you get a panoramic view of the troops, your guards and your executioner. Your hanging has clearly aroused many of the onlookers, and you notice the big black guard is stroking his considerable erection. The sight brings you back to your own arousal, and you twitch your hips to feel the weight of your own cock as it swings heavily.
It’s been maybe eighty seconds. In the pool you can hold your breath for two minutes, but now you really, really need to get some air. The muscles of your chest twitch and strain as you force air out, and then drag some in. You manage a few breaths, with much gurgling in your throat, but the rope is slowly crushing your windpipe. As it gets harder to take air, so your body works harder.
You know it’s hopeless, but your body fights ever harder to live. Your arms tug at the shackles; your legs kick and beat at the air; at times your knees almost reach your chest as your powerful stomach muscles contract. You feel your body acting like this, with shocks of pain from cramping muscles and from the noose at the end of which you dance, with no power to stop it.
All the violent motion does is to finally tighten the noose so air is forever denied to your body.
Are you thinking of the pleasure you’re giving to the audience? The sight of the cruel punishment being inflicted; of the panic in your eyes; of your darkening face; of the thin line of drool spilling from your wordlessly moving lips; of your sweat slicked body glistening as it bucks and twists and kicks; of your heavy balls and huge, rigid, jutting cock swinging and bouncing; and of your bare feet pointing and reaching for the ground that they will never touch again. Few onlookers will remain unaffected, aroused either by the simple pleasure of your peril, or by the secret wish to be there with you at the end of a rope.
But now your movements slow. Red mist is closing in on your sight. Lack of oxygen is having its inevitable effect. Now it is your pleasure that consumes you. Even as the outer world dims, your awareness of your body increases. Sensations of pain become warm flows of ecstasy. A pressure builds in your loins, until all of your life force expands, pulses, and rushes to your cock. Your whole body shudders as your semen spurts in huge eruptions, again and again. Fireworks explode behind your eyes, and then you fade slowly into oblivion.
A little later the last stream of piss flows from your hanging, cooling, corpse, to vanish into the sand. The butt plug does its job in keeping the area clean.
You are taken down, after an hour, and laid in a simple pinewood coffin. The soldiers detailed for the job make a few comments about your still-rigid cock which means the coffin lid has to be forced down. One or two of them privately think you’ve shown it’s not a bad way to go, and wonder if they’d have the guts to follow you onto the scaffold.
The end.
