Fantasy hanging in the heat of an Italian summer
I look in to your prison cell through the spyhole in the steel door. I see a sturdy oak table and chair, a stainless steel WC, a shower cubicle, and a cot. Dressed only in white briefs, you are lying on the cot, sweating in the summer heat. I check my notes... ah, yes, Luca, 23 years old, found guilty as charged, sentence: death by hanging.
I remember the name. You were found guilty, but the popular feeling is that you are innocent, a victim of a corrupt regime. Did you do it, or did you not? Not my problem. The death warrant is signed, now I'm just doing my job. I enjoy my job. I'm your executioner.
Two prison officers accompany me into your cell. They pull you upright for inspection. You are tall, but I am taller. You try to give me a look of defiance, but then your eyes drop, defeated in the face of my cool appraising gaze. I order one officer to take off your briefs. You are naked, each arm and shoulder held by a prison officer.
In accord with protocol, I take a note of your height and weight. I am more interested, though, in a general assessment of your physical condition. You are slim, but with an athletic build such that no one could call you 'skinny'. Your neck is muscular - I have great hopes it will have great resistance to the noose. Your short-cropped hair is black and glossy with health. Your frightened eyes are a warm brown. You are very good-looking; the cameras will love you in close-up.
Your body is smooth, warmly tanned all over, with only a light brown fuzz on your arms and legs, and a dark trail down from your belly button to your groin. I look down at your feet; they are large but perfectly shaped. I think how good they will look dancing on air, reaching down for the inaccessible ground, and I make the decision there and then to hang you barefoot.
I have already arranged that you will be winched up from the scaffold to hang high above the crowd. At 23 years old you are young enough and fit enough to take a long time dying. That's what the audience wants these days, a good long, hard, struggle at the end of the rope. Your execution will also be filmed, and large screens have been erected on each side of the square to give everyone a better view. I won't make you wear a hood while you hang, so you too will get to watch the progress of your hanging on the giant screens.
I'm looking at your naked body in the condemned cell, trying to decide what you should wear to your death. You'll be shirtless, of course. It would be a crime not to display your tapered, muscular back, your flat stomach, and your firm chest with its prominent nipples. Besides, you have not yet confessed your guilt, and your sentence therefore includes whipping before you are hanged. But should you wear the regulation prison orange trousers, or just a pair of tight white briefs? Thinking that thought I consider your genitalia. Your balls are generous, round and heavy. Your cock is half risen, already above average in girth and length. As I look, it twitches. Whatever fear and shame you may feel, I can see that your cock likes to be the centre of attention. That's it! You're going to the gallows as nude as the day you were born. It's a compliment. A completely stripped victim does happen, but very rarely. Only the most perfect specimens deserve such display. I tell you what is to happen. Your mouth says 'no!' but your cock says 'yes!!!'.
The prison officers turn you round and bend you over the table. From my equipment bag I take a heavy black rubber butt plug, and generously lubricate it. I press its cool rounded end against your sphincter, moving it slowly but firmly, irresistibly finding a way into your body. I feel you tensing, and stroke your back, whispering soothing words, all the time increasing the pressure. Suddenly your resistance is broken and you gasp as the full plug slides in and is trapped by your muscle. I thread thin leather thongs through the loop at the end of the butt plug, between your legs, and around your waist, with a couple of turns around your cock behind your balls. Not only is the butt plug in place for the rest of your life, but your cock, now erect, and balls are held away from your body on full display.
My assistants shackle your feet and cuff your hands in front of you. The prison irons are old, and heavy, and the short chain between your feet could anchor a small ship.
We begin our procession to the gallows, emerging at first floor level from a dark corridor into the blazing light of the Italian summer. The sudden heat is as if someone had opened an oven door. With my black balaclava and black leather jeans, I begin to envy you your nakedness, even though I am shirtless to best show my traditional muscular executioner's physique. The prison officers, though, have it even worse, being similarly masked but fully clothed in black uniform with jackets and ties.
There is a roar from the crowd, which jams the square and must number thousands. The gallows is at the centre of the square, and we reach it by a long catwalk above the heads of the boisterous people. As we move forward we can see ourselves in close-up on one of the giant tv screens. I wonder what you are thinking as you shuffle awkwardly onwards, the chains clanking between your feet. Your face is cast down, and I cannot tell if you are blushing with embarrassment or whether it is the heat affecting you. Your cock, though, is rigid, bouncing slightly as you move, looking almost painful in its weight. I'm beginning to feel my own cock start to swell, and to press against the soft, warm leather of my jeans. Like I said, I enjoy my job, and I'm looking forward to implementing the court-ordered punishment.
Next to the waiting noose on the gallows is a sturdy upright oak pillar, with block and tackle at its top. One of the prison officers clips your cuffs into the waiting hook and pulls you up until you are stretched on tiptoes, facing the stake. The other begins to read the schedule of crimes of which you have been convicted. As I listen... treason... sabotage... murder... robbery... four counts of illegal parking... not paying your TV licence...I realise they really did throw the book at you. The sentence is that you be hanged by the neck until dead, and, unless you confessed, that you be whipped 200 times.
I take a microphone over to you. Before I switch it on I speak softly in your ear. I ask you if you can feel how smooth the warm oak is against your chest, your stomach, your cock. I tell you that it is worn smooth by the writhing of countless men as they have bucked and twisted in the agony of flagellation. All you have to do is to say you are guilty as charged, and you can avoid that pain, which will be worse than you can imagine. I tell you I have whipped men to death in less than 100 strokes, and that it is a far more terrible way to go than the mercy of the noose. What I don't tell you is that I'm not looking forward to the effort of whipping you in this relentless heat. I also feel it would be a shame to turn your perfect body into hamburger meat.
With the microphone on, I ask if you are guilty. Hesitatingly you answer no, the charges are false. The crowd jeers and groans. While the public may think, or even know, you are innocent, they are here for a show. They have seen your good looks, your youth, your fine body, your impressive cock and balls: they want to see you hang!
I shrug, and take up my whip. With careful positioning I draw my arm back and lay a first stroke across your broad back. I hold nothing back, in the hope that I can persuade you that, as you are a dead man, the pain is not worth enduring. You act like a man given an electric shock. Your body slams against the pillar, your back arches, and for a moment your feet leave the ground. Across the centre of your back is a dark weal, with a bright red rose of blood just behind your right armpit.
I know that the first kiss of the whip is a compound of thudding blow, razor slash, and a growing fire. Your first shriek is a reflex of fear, uttered almost before the pain is sensed. To maximise your realisation of the tortured agony I lay on a further five cutting blows in quick succession, and then leave you for five minutes as you whimper and twist, coming to terms with the burning heat spreading from your back through your whole body.
I run my hand over your back, now ridged and criss-crossed by dark weals. You are trembling uncontrollably, but I see you are rubbing your hard cock against the smooth timber. I guess it must give you some comfort to distract you from your injuries. Tears of pain are running down your face, and I guess, rightly, that you have decided that confession is the best policy.
When the crowd hears you say that you are guilty as charged it roars approval. You are unhooked from the pillar and your hands are refastened behind your back. You are taken to the waiting noose. Facing you, looking into your eyes, I lower the thick rope around your neck. I feel your cock jerk and press against the bulge in my leather jeans. I move a little closer to you to adjust the noose to the point where it will give you the longest possible time of consciousness. I enjoy the feel of your bare torso pressed against mine. After giving the signal to start the winch, I move behind you to hold you in place until the slack is taken in. I wrap my arms around you, and play with your hard nipples. On the TV screen I see that your cock is hard and jutting upwards, your balls lifted up and out, and I can hear you moaning with pleasure, so I know that my nipple play is successful in overcoming any fears you may have.
The rope is tightening, and beginning to lift you, first on to your toes, then up into the air. I step back to watch as your big feet pass my head, the heavy chain hanging down between them. At first you are relatively still, twisting slowly at the end of the rope. Your eyes are moving intelligently, looking down at me, then out at the crowd, then at the screens as the pass your field of view. Your chest is rising and falling, and there is a wheezing from your throat, so I guess you are getting a little air, as I had intended. I wonder what you are thinking as you see the close-ups of your darkening face, of your body stretching down from your neck, of your disproportionate sexual arousal, of your great feet bending and stretching high in the air.
After five minutes it is clear that you are running out of time. Your hands grasp and twist, trying to get free of the unyielding cuffs. Your gut muscles start to work trying to suck air into your congested lungs.
Your legs begin to kick and jerk, at times your knees reaching your belly button. With the sun glinting off your sweat slicked muscles you look magnificent. The heavy chains jangle and the rope creaks. The air dance is violent and prolonged. Your face is darkening, your eyes bulging. Your expression is one of panic. These violent movements tighten the noose and seal your throat for ever. There is no air, and your brain begins to die from the interruption of its blood flow.
Fourteen minutes ten seconds after your feet first left the gallows platform you are moving more gently. Your expression is becoming more peaceful. There is perhaps just a glimmer of consciousness left in your eyes. All this time your cock has been rigid and engorged, moving with the struggles of your body. Then, at fifteen minutes your hips begin to move. Your cock convulses with a huge orgasm that shakes your whole body, and that spurts a white arc of semen right to the edge of the gallows platform. Against the cheers of the crowd I wonder, is that death? No, your body is still twitching, and your cock, instead of subsiding, rises again to spurt out another load from your balls, although not so vigorously. Unbelievably, after a few minutes, you cum again as your body ceases almost all movement. At twenty two minutes, only a slight trembling of your toes indicates the life that once was.
We leave you hanging for an hour before taking you in to the cool of the mortuary. One of the perks of being executioner is that I get to wash down the bodies of those I have hanged, and, if I want, to have some quality time with their corpses.
You are laid out on your back on the cool marble slab. I have removed the shackles, cuffs and butt plug and washed you inside and out. Your sightless eyes are bloodshot, and I close your eyelids. Like that, you could be asleep, but for the dark groove left by the noose around your neck. Your flesh is cool but pliable, although your cock appears to have premature rigor mortis, and stands up to attention. Angel lust, I suppose.
I run my hands over your big feet, wondering if you were ticklish in life. Now I can freely enjoy the texture of your soles, and the feel of your toes. I look along your body to your flat stomach, your hard nipples, your handsome face, and to your cropped black hair. You are too good to waste. The opportunity is too good to miss.
I slip out of my surgical greens. Standing by your feet I look across at the mirror wall. I'm looking good; a powerful body, hard with muscle. My cock has risen, almost the equal of yours. I grab hold of your legs and pull your body to the edge of the cold marble slab. I put my hands under your arse and raise you slightly before thrusting my cock deep inside you. There is a delicious temperature gradient, as your body has retained a little of its heat within its core. I lean forward a little, to let your cock rub against my stomach, and reach out to play with your hard nipples. The passivity of your corpse, the tightness of your arse, and the coolness of your skin played against the warmth of your guts are intensely erotic. I gasp and moan with pleasure as I try to prolong the experience, moving my cock slowly inside you, until at last the pressure in my balls becomes unbearable and I shudder to a climax, filling your cleaned out guts with my semen.
Now I'm relaxing in the shower, I look back on a glorious day of whipping, execution, and sex. Are you in some afterlife, I wonder, looking down on all that has happened after your amazing death orgasms? I do hope so.
My assistants are now bagging up your body to take it to the abattoir. We have a slightly shady arrangement for the disposal of corpses, but it pays well. There are a lot of cannibals with money out there, and photographs of you both hanging and as a corpse will stimulate their appetites no end. With a body as good as yours you may even end up being spit roasted whole. It may be that you were innocent, but I'm sure you would be glad to know that your 23 years of life were not in vain – you will end up as prime meat, better than any cow, pig or sheep.
I look in to your prison cell through the spyhole in the steel door. I see a sturdy oak table and chair, a stainless steel WC, a shower cubicle, and a cot. Dressed only in white briefs, you are lying on the cot, sweating in the summer heat. I check my notes... ah, yes, Luca, 23 years old, found guilty as charged, sentence: death by hanging.
I remember the name. You were found guilty, but the popular feeling is that you are innocent, a victim of a corrupt regime. Did you do it, or did you not? Not my problem. The death warrant is signed, now I'm just doing my job. I enjoy my job. I'm your executioner.
Two prison officers accompany me into your cell. They pull you upright for inspection. You are tall, but I am taller. You try to give me a look of defiance, but then your eyes drop, defeated in the face of my cool appraising gaze. I order one officer to take off your briefs. You are naked, each arm and shoulder held by a prison officer.
In accord with protocol, I take a note of your height and weight. I am more interested, though, in a general assessment of your physical condition. You are slim, but with an athletic build such that no one could call you 'skinny'. Your neck is muscular - I have great hopes it will have great resistance to the noose. Your short-cropped hair is black and glossy with health. Your frightened eyes are a warm brown. You are very good-looking; the cameras will love you in close-up.
Your body is smooth, warmly tanned all over, with only a light brown fuzz on your arms and legs, and a dark trail down from your belly button to your groin. I look down at your feet; they are large but perfectly shaped. I think how good they will look dancing on air, reaching down for the inaccessible ground, and I make the decision there and then to hang you barefoot.
I have already arranged that you will be winched up from the scaffold to hang high above the crowd. At 23 years old you are young enough and fit enough to take a long time dying. That's what the audience wants these days, a good long, hard, struggle at the end of the rope. Your execution will also be filmed, and large screens have been erected on each side of the square to give everyone a better view. I won't make you wear a hood while you hang, so you too will get to watch the progress of your hanging on the giant screens.
I'm looking at your naked body in the condemned cell, trying to decide what you should wear to your death. You'll be shirtless, of course. It would be a crime not to display your tapered, muscular back, your flat stomach, and your firm chest with its prominent nipples. Besides, you have not yet confessed your guilt, and your sentence therefore includes whipping before you are hanged. But should you wear the regulation prison orange trousers, or just a pair of tight white briefs? Thinking that thought I consider your genitalia. Your balls are generous, round and heavy. Your cock is half risen, already above average in girth and length. As I look, it twitches. Whatever fear and shame you may feel, I can see that your cock likes to be the centre of attention. That's it! You're going to the gallows as nude as the day you were born. It's a compliment. A completely stripped victim does happen, but very rarely. Only the most perfect specimens deserve such display. I tell you what is to happen. Your mouth says 'no!' but your cock says 'yes!!!'.
The prison officers turn you round and bend you over the table. From my equipment bag I take a heavy black rubber butt plug, and generously lubricate it. I press its cool rounded end against your sphincter, moving it slowly but firmly, irresistibly finding a way into your body. I feel you tensing, and stroke your back, whispering soothing words, all the time increasing the pressure. Suddenly your resistance is broken and you gasp as the full plug slides in and is trapped by your muscle. I thread thin leather thongs through the loop at the end of the butt plug, between your legs, and around your waist, with a couple of turns around your cock behind your balls. Not only is the butt plug in place for the rest of your life, but your cock, now erect, and balls are held away from your body on full display.
My assistants shackle your feet and cuff your hands in front of you. The prison irons are old, and heavy, and the short chain between your feet could anchor a small ship.
We begin our procession to the gallows, emerging at first floor level from a dark corridor into the blazing light of the Italian summer. The sudden heat is as if someone had opened an oven door. With my black balaclava and black leather jeans, I begin to envy you your nakedness, even though I am shirtless to best show my traditional muscular executioner's physique. The prison officers, though, have it even worse, being similarly masked but fully clothed in black uniform with jackets and ties.
There is a roar from the crowd, which jams the square and must number thousands. The gallows is at the centre of the square, and we reach it by a long catwalk above the heads of the boisterous people. As we move forward we can see ourselves in close-up on one of the giant tv screens. I wonder what you are thinking as you shuffle awkwardly onwards, the chains clanking between your feet. Your face is cast down, and I cannot tell if you are blushing with embarrassment or whether it is the heat affecting you. Your cock, though, is rigid, bouncing slightly as you move, looking almost painful in its weight. I'm beginning to feel my own cock start to swell, and to press against the soft, warm leather of my jeans. Like I said, I enjoy my job, and I'm looking forward to implementing the court-ordered punishment.
Next to the waiting noose on the gallows is a sturdy upright oak pillar, with block and tackle at its top. One of the prison officers clips your cuffs into the waiting hook and pulls you up until you are stretched on tiptoes, facing the stake. The other begins to read the schedule of crimes of which you have been convicted. As I listen... treason... sabotage... murder... robbery... four counts of illegal parking... not paying your TV licence...I realise they really did throw the book at you. The sentence is that you be hanged by the neck until dead, and, unless you confessed, that you be whipped 200 times.
I take a microphone over to you. Before I switch it on I speak softly in your ear. I ask you if you can feel how smooth the warm oak is against your chest, your stomach, your cock. I tell you that it is worn smooth by the writhing of countless men as they have bucked and twisted in the agony of flagellation. All you have to do is to say you are guilty as charged, and you can avoid that pain, which will be worse than you can imagine. I tell you I have whipped men to death in less than 100 strokes, and that it is a far more terrible way to go than the mercy of the noose. What I don't tell you is that I'm not looking forward to the effort of whipping you in this relentless heat. I also feel it would be a shame to turn your perfect body into hamburger meat.
With the microphone on, I ask if you are guilty. Hesitatingly you answer no, the charges are false. The crowd jeers and groans. While the public may think, or even know, you are innocent, they are here for a show. They have seen your good looks, your youth, your fine body, your impressive cock and balls: they want to see you hang!
I shrug, and take up my whip. With careful positioning I draw my arm back and lay a first stroke across your broad back. I hold nothing back, in the hope that I can persuade you that, as you are a dead man, the pain is not worth enduring. You act like a man given an electric shock. Your body slams against the pillar, your back arches, and for a moment your feet leave the ground. Across the centre of your back is a dark weal, with a bright red rose of blood just behind your right armpit.
I know that the first kiss of the whip is a compound of thudding blow, razor slash, and a growing fire. Your first shriek is a reflex of fear, uttered almost before the pain is sensed. To maximise your realisation of the tortured agony I lay on a further five cutting blows in quick succession, and then leave you for five minutes as you whimper and twist, coming to terms with the burning heat spreading from your back through your whole body.
I run my hand over your back, now ridged and criss-crossed by dark weals. You are trembling uncontrollably, but I see you are rubbing your hard cock against the smooth timber. I guess it must give you some comfort to distract you from your injuries. Tears of pain are running down your face, and I guess, rightly, that you have decided that confession is the best policy.
When the crowd hears you say that you are guilty as charged it roars approval. You are unhooked from the pillar and your hands are refastened behind your back. You are taken to the waiting noose. Facing you, looking into your eyes, I lower the thick rope around your neck. I feel your cock jerk and press against the bulge in my leather jeans. I move a little closer to you to adjust the noose to the point where it will give you the longest possible time of consciousness. I enjoy the feel of your bare torso pressed against mine. After giving the signal to start the winch, I move behind you to hold you in place until the slack is taken in. I wrap my arms around you, and play with your hard nipples. On the TV screen I see that your cock is hard and jutting upwards, your balls lifted up and out, and I can hear you moaning with pleasure, so I know that my nipple play is successful in overcoming any fears you may have.
The rope is tightening, and beginning to lift you, first on to your toes, then up into the air. I step back to watch as your big feet pass my head, the heavy chain hanging down between them. At first you are relatively still, twisting slowly at the end of the rope. Your eyes are moving intelligently, looking down at me, then out at the crowd, then at the screens as the pass your field of view. Your chest is rising and falling, and there is a wheezing from your throat, so I guess you are getting a little air, as I had intended. I wonder what you are thinking as you see the close-ups of your darkening face, of your body stretching down from your neck, of your disproportionate sexual arousal, of your great feet bending and stretching high in the air.
After five minutes it is clear that you are running out of time. Your hands grasp and twist, trying to get free of the unyielding cuffs. Your gut muscles start to work trying to suck air into your congested lungs.
Your legs begin to kick and jerk, at times your knees reaching your belly button. With the sun glinting off your sweat slicked muscles you look magnificent. The heavy chains jangle and the rope creaks. The air dance is violent and prolonged. Your face is darkening, your eyes bulging. Your expression is one of panic. These violent movements tighten the noose and seal your throat for ever. There is no air, and your brain begins to die from the interruption of its blood flow.
Fourteen minutes ten seconds after your feet first left the gallows platform you are moving more gently. Your expression is becoming more peaceful. There is perhaps just a glimmer of consciousness left in your eyes. All this time your cock has been rigid and engorged, moving with the struggles of your body. Then, at fifteen minutes your hips begin to move. Your cock convulses with a huge orgasm that shakes your whole body, and that spurts a white arc of semen right to the edge of the gallows platform. Against the cheers of the crowd I wonder, is that death? No, your body is still twitching, and your cock, instead of subsiding, rises again to spurt out another load from your balls, although not so vigorously. Unbelievably, after a few minutes, you cum again as your body ceases almost all movement. At twenty two minutes, only a slight trembling of your toes indicates the life that once was.
We leave you hanging for an hour before taking you in to the cool of the mortuary. One of the perks of being executioner is that I get to wash down the bodies of those I have hanged, and, if I want, to have some quality time with their corpses.
You are laid out on your back on the cool marble slab. I have removed the shackles, cuffs and butt plug and washed you inside and out. Your sightless eyes are bloodshot, and I close your eyelids. Like that, you could be asleep, but for the dark groove left by the noose around your neck. Your flesh is cool but pliable, although your cock appears to have premature rigor mortis, and stands up to attention. Angel lust, I suppose.
I run my hands over your big feet, wondering if you were ticklish in life. Now I can freely enjoy the texture of your soles, and the feel of your toes. I look along your body to your flat stomach, your hard nipples, your handsome face, and to your cropped black hair. You are too good to waste. The opportunity is too good to miss.
I slip out of my surgical greens. Standing by your feet I look across at the mirror wall. I'm looking good; a powerful body, hard with muscle. My cock has risen, almost the equal of yours. I grab hold of your legs and pull your body to the edge of the cold marble slab. I put my hands under your arse and raise you slightly before thrusting my cock deep inside you. There is a delicious temperature gradient, as your body has retained a little of its heat within its core. I lean forward a little, to let your cock rub against my stomach, and reach out to play with your hard nipples. The passivity of your corpse, the tightness of your arse, and the coolness of your skin played against the warmth of your guts are intensely erotic. I gasp and moan with pleasure as I try to prolong the experience, moving my cock slowly inside you, until at last the pressure in my balls becomes unbearable and I shudder to a climax, filling your cleaned out guts with my semen.
Now I'm relaxing in the shower, I look back on a glorious day of whipping, execution, and sex. Are you in some afterlife, I wonder, looking down on all that has happened after your amazing death orgasms? I do hope so.
My assistants are now bagging up your body to take it to the abattoir. We have a slightly shady arrangement for the disposal of corpses, but it pays well. There are a lot of cannibals with money out there, and photographs of you both hanging and as a corpse will stimulate their appetites no end. With a body as good as yours you may even end up being spit roasted whole. It may be that you were innocent, but I'm sure you would be glad to know that your 23 years of life were not in vain – you will end up as prime meat, better than any cow, pig or sheep.
Very nice. Love execution stories and this turned all my buttons!
