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Executrix Khalidah

By: bondanon



"Concentrate. Keep still. Don't move" Beverly silently recited, as the antique razor's glittering blade slid across her face and over her neck, then continued downward, pausing briefly at the first of the leather bands which bound her above and below her breasts, tighter almost than she imagined possible, to the gymnastic horse along which she was stretched. 

When my aunt Barbara passed away, the loss of that connection to our family's storied past saddened me more than I expected. Suddenly I was keenly aware of my curiosity about her eccentricities; "Angie" I promised myself, "don't let any more family drift away."

Shafts of pain shot through Bev's body as Barbara twisted the steel clamps biting each of her breasts before removing them completely, awakening every nerve in her engorged nipples.

Born into a well-to-do family just as World War II began, Barbara Wentworth knew her father only as a very young girl. Her mother, still quite young herself, returned to college when the war ended, throwing herself into life with abandon, juggling schoolwork with whatever attention to her daughter she could spare, enthusiastically embracing political activity: women's rights, antiwar protest, and sexual emancipation. While Barbara undoubtedly suffered some benign neglect, she spent her teenage years immersed in a rich, stimulating environment, growing to adulthood among some of the most influential, even notorious, movers and shakers of the 'fifties and 'sixties. Eventually her mother met my grandfather and had one more child, my father. The relationship did not last, hence Ginny and I carry the Wentworth name. 

Bev gasped as Barbara touched the razor's edge to her left nipple. "Don't move" she commanded. Bev felt a wave of trust and admiration for the beautifully leather-clad woman who towered over her naked, helpless body, holding her life in her hands.

Aunt Barbara never seemed to be lonesome or unhappy though she didn't marry or have children of her own. She bought a spacious apartment in the middle of town before prices became astronomical, soon settling into the full, busy life of a well-off urbanite. My older sister Ginny joked disrespectfully about the business she suspected "Grande Dame" Barbara conducted from that convenient location, punishing wealthy men, and sometimes women, for a substantial fee, but when aunt Barbara visited us, I was awed, intimidated by her supreme confidence and dominating personality. Ginny was more self-assured but immature; her suspicious resentment of Barbara, never very well hidden, occasionally erupted into nasty spats – I remember one particularly vividly. 

The knife continued downward, jumping the second leather band on its course to Beverly's dense little pubic forest, obscenely pressed upward by a thick leather-covered pillow under her buttocks, her legs pulled down and firmly secured to the horse on either side. With a few deft strokes Barbara dispatched the furry tangle, then creamed and shaved the freshly exposed mons, making it glow with new color. Bev shivered as the cool air touched her there, breathlessly anticipating Barbara's next move. 

Our family felt the usual business-neighborly obligation to have a December party, though it was becoming more and more difficult for us to put on a good show. I still enjoyed these events, but Ginny, by then a senior in high school, was upset over our social descent. Mom even bargained for the tree that year, to Ginny's acute embarrassment. It was carefully placed to cover a tatty spot in the living room carpet, accommodating our large collection of decorations with difficulty, seeming overwhelmed and gaudy. Guests filled the room, but Daddy wasn't yet home; he was meeting with solicitors to close out his latest business failure, mom gamely holding down the fort. 

"Pleasure me well, smart ass college cunt" Barbara demanded, as she straddled Bev's face, choking her momentarily. The coarse language sounded shocking, but Bev knew where it came from. She worked her tongue fervently into Barbara's vagina, amazed at her delicious clean flavor, doing her very best to reciprocate Barbara's friendship. 

Aunt Barbara stood next to the fireplace, chatting with a small group of guests as she casually rearranged objects on the mantlepiece. I loved watching Barbara from a distance – if only I could be like that in my autumn years, I imagined. She was tall, especially in the high heels she managed so well, and nicely proportioned – not too slender but staunchly, elegantly robust. She exercised religiously all her life, before that became trendy, and it showed; her designer pants flowed over her still shapely bottom, her tailored jacket perfectly smoothing the transition downward from her angular shoulders. She swiveled to answer a question, launching her resonant contralto grandly over an unfortunate lull in the hubbub; her description of our father as pathetically inept, hopelessly incompetent, which was more or less true, sailed over the room just as daddy walked in. 

"Smart ass college cunt" Barbara chuckled, as she read through the creamy colored leaves of notepaper covered with Bev's tidy handwriting. The little package bound in a pink bow with a single red rose handed her by the doorman that morning had to wait for several clients to be accommodated; finally Barbara had a chance to look at it. Though Bev wrote it, Barbara didn't think the description really fitted her, but Barbara's niece Virginia, older sister of Bev's college roommate Angela, that was another matter entirely. Barbara smiled; the hunch to leave a dim light glowing in her dungeon, and the door slightly ajar, was spot-on. Bev took the bait and Barbara caught her, bringing the lights up full. 

The lull turned out not to be so momentary, awkward silence descending on the assembled company like an embarrassing smell. Barbara strode gracefully across the room to greet her half-brother with a kiss. "You heartless, arrogant bitch!" Ginny screamed, deeply hurt and loyal to a fault. She and ran out of the house crying, slamming the front door behind her, Mom quickly slipping out after her to make sure she didn't run away completely. Barbara seemed quite unfazed, certainly not insulted, but it took several long minutes for the evening to right itself, barely escaping a complete capsize. 

Bev lamely apologized for her intrusion, but Barbara's bet was won, hands down. Gazing at the leather horse, the tilted cross, the ropes, straps, whips, floggers and other paraphernalia cascading from the walls, Bev admitted that she was fascinated by BDSM. She had never experimented for real, she said, but she fantasized about it frequently, and knew a little from the internet. Recalling her younger niece Angela's bemoaning the superiority of Bev's writing , Barbara suggested that she send her a BDSM fantasy before her next visit.

My parents' embarrassment was acute, so we didn't see a lot of Barbara after that, but she continued to hover in the shadows. Her generosity enabled the two of us to go to university in spite of our financial straits, the assistance kept secret from me until after I finished, several years after Ginny. In my junior year I roomed with Beverly Greene. 

Barbara's body undulated sensuously over Bev's face, as Bev struggled to satisfy her and breathe at the same time, her whole body aching with arousal, her nipples tingling with anticipation. With her arms securely bound beneath the horse, her tongue was her only means to pleasure, delving deeply, circling around and over Barbara's clit. Barbara came quickly, and Bev recalled apprehensively the next part of her fantasy, in which she screamed as Barbara began punishing her for snooping, whipping her breasts and newly naked twat without mercy. She would need to be gagged, she was sure, or she would make far too much noise even for Barbara's solidly built pre-war apartment. 

Junior year is tough, usually the busiest and hardest year, so Bev and I didn't have much spare time to get to know each other. Bev was a stronger intellect than I, immersing herself in political science and far eastern studies just as China moved to the center of the world stage. Though I had always found aunt Barbara's sharp wit intimidating I thought Bev might enjoy her as an intellectual equal, so I arranged an invitation. I was not mistaken – Barbara and Bev hit it off immediately, their lively verbal intercourse soon making my eyes glaze over. Barbara was a good hostess and steered the conversation almost imperceptibly back into my depth. From there the evening passed pleasantly; Barbara's meal was delicious, and Bev soon received an invitation to return solo. Though Bev and I were almost frantically busy the whole year, she managed to find time to visit my aunt regularly. She also seemed to become inexplicably clumsy, something I hadn't previously noticed, explaining away odd bruises as bicycle accidents. 

"My God, this girl is tough" Barbara muttered as Bev mewled and murfed through the leather panel gag which now fastened her even more tightly to the horse. Breasts dancing and bobbing with each blow, she struggled helplessly against the leather straps as Barbara hit her again and again, the smack of the flogger echoing around the room. Oh, the bitter radiating pain as the leather strips caught her engorged nipples, the exquisite shock of the flogger striking her between her upthrust hips. Barbara usually tried to stop just before a client safe-ed out, but she was starting to worry about injuring Bev, and she'd certainly administered enough punishment for the crime. There would be more opportunities, she was sure. 

After college Bev and I fell out of touch. I knew she had continued her friendship with aunt Barbara to the very end, so I expected to see her at the funeral, and wasn't surprised that she would also be attending the reading of her will. Catching up with each other I learned that Bev had finished graduate school and lined up a good job, but it depended on funding which wasn't yet approved, so she was temporarily at loose ends. I was happy for her success, and jealous as well. I enjoyed the social whirl of the working world but bounced from one entry-level job to another, hoping for advancement that never seemed to come. Ginny wasn't in a great place either, rebounding from her college infatuation. She had hoped it would lead to marriage, but he became increasingly involved in various start-up ventures and found less and less time for her, Ginny eventually dumping him in self-defense. So we were all ready for some change, some adventure, as we sat waiting for aunt Barbara's will to be read. 

Most of Barbara's estate was earmarked for various liberal causes, which was no reason for resentment, as she had already been generous, Ginny and I both thankful to finish college debt-free. The surprise was the nature of her bequest to us. The three of us were given a two month trip through India – there was no choice in the matter, the money could only be used that way, or it too went to charity. India was a surprise too, given Bev's greater interest in points further east, but Barbara had enjoyed a trip there with an early flame, and wanted us to experience something from her own past. Perhaps she wanted to broaden our horizons – China was becoming almost old hat, western feeling and secular, at least in the places most people were familiar with, while the middle east retained its exotic mystery. Then again, perhaps Barbara wanted us to observe the extremes of wealth and poverty, so overt there, not swept under the carpet as in much of the rest of the world. 

The risks made us a little uneasy, but it was risky when aunt Barbara traveled, and she didn't let that stop her. Tourism in the middle east was still robust in spite of the insurgence of religious fanaticism and the plethora of corrupt, ineffectual governments. Most of India would present no problem, but we particularly wanted to spend time in Kashmir, about which aunt Barbara had written glowingly. In fact, Barbara laid out a detailed itinerary for us, acknowledging that political and geographical circumstances might require adjustments. We were able to follow her plan almost exactly and had a wonderful time, always imagining and discussing what aunt Barbara herself might have experienced wherever we went. Our trip was a little more hurried, hers took nearly half a year. 

I'll spare you the travelogue. My lasting impression was one of striking contrasts, the sultry outdoor heat and dust against the air-conditioned chill of cinemas and hotel lobbies, the tediousness of traffic compared to the relative comfort of trains, even if they were often late, the glare of the daytime in the south against the darkness of the early morning mist in the north. And everywhere, color. Beautiful, colorful costumes, gaudy decorations on buildings, trucks and cars, smiling faces surrounded by abject poverty. Our allowance was sufficient to stay in first-class hotels when we really wanted, but aunt Barbara's instructions urged us to explore more modest accommodations when it appeared safe to do so, and especially to travel by train, overnight for longer journeys. It was great fun to share three bunks, one above another, with Ginny and Bev, even though it wasn't very private – it felt a lot like being back in college. 

Bev was good company, much more fun, more relaxed, than I remembered from college, but she could also be weird, occasionally making the oddest remarks. She had an eye for beauty, whether it be a person, a flower, or a building, frequently pointing out sights I would have missed. She often seemed to be mentally undressing the handsome, colorfully dressed men and women around us, sometimes describing her fantasies, which irritated Ginny no end. Mostly, though, her friendship with Ginny seemed to grow stronger. We got to know one another as only traveling companions can.

We agreed to avoid any romantic engagements with people we met, and our relative lack of privacy from each other meant that sexual tension was always a bit in the air. I noticed Bev looking at Ginny rather oddly from time to time, and occasionally at me also, sometimes giving me a little shiver of erotic excitement. But our travels and the ever-changing sights kept us busy and excited enough by themselves. And there was shopping. We loved the gaily colored clothing for sale in the markets and found that we could easily wear the same size clothes, making evening dress-ups and exchanges a regular part of our routine. We didn't make a deliberate show of nudity, but we were hardly prudes. I was surprised the first time I saw Bev's completely hairless pussy. I knew that my sister trimmed hers into a crisp triangle; she had told me recently how much she missed having her boyfriend help her with that, but Bev's smooth furrowed mound was a new concept for me. I didn't bring it up, but it was impossible to predict what Bev might say from one moment to the next, and the next evening she popped a question I wasn't prepared for. 

"Have you thought about shaving your beaver, Angie?"

Well, no, I hadn't really. "Why?"

"Just wondering. If you ever decide to, ask me – you don't want to be itchy." 

Just then Ginny walked in, interrupting our peculiarly intimate moment. 

"Just telling your sister about pubic shaving. You have to deal with that, even though you don't do the whole thing, no?"

Ginny frowned, and I expected her to close off the conversation, but instead the two of them went on to discuss the intimate matter in some detail, the ins and outs of close shaving vs. waxing, and other matters of hygiene. Too much information, I thought, ruefully contemplating my uncultivated bush. 

We spent the last week in Srinagar, staying on a picturesque houseboat on Lake Dahl. It was obvious why aunt Barbara wanted us to do this – it was one of the most beautiful places I have ever been. Though the facilities were rudimentary our bedroom was opulently decorated, and our cook made us memorable Kashmiri dishes. Morning mist gave way to clear, bright days and cool breezy evenings. The short shikara rides to shore, as well as longer ones on the lake, were sometimes mysterious, always magical. The atmosphere fueled Bev's imagination alarmingly. 

"Angie, have you ever wondered what it would be like to be a slave?"

"What?" I responded, nonplussed. Ginny looked annoyed. Thoughts of young women, even girls, suffering a miserable existence at the hands of profiteers or fanatics revolted me. But she kept on. 

"I've heard that slavers operate in this area, and women traveling, especially western women, should be especially careful. But I've always wondered..."

"Bev, shut up – you're creeping me out," Ginny declared firmly, ending the conversation. Fortunately only a few days of our itinerary remained, since I couldn't get the thought of kidnapping out of my mind. Every group of men, every grim-looking vehicle took on an ominous significance as we made our way back to everyday life. 

And nothing happened. We arrived for our international flight safely, our only problem the rather large amount of luggage we had accumulated, in spite of regular visits to Federal Express. Our flight home, involving several connections, was smooth, long and tiring, and eventually the bump of wheels on the runway signaled arrival at our final destination, or so I thought. 

***********

Bev's car was waiting for us at the airport, thoughtfully left by a friend of hers so we would have an easier time with our luggage. Bev was excited about her new job. She hadn't slept much on the long flight back, so she was exhausted and asked me to drive, then curled up in the back seat. The sun was setting in light clouds as I drove out of the airport, the huge red orb resting heavily on the horizon. Before long it was completely dark. Ginny fell into a quiet trance, thinking, I supposed, of boyfriends and the lusty romance she once had. 

The power of Bev's car gave me a thrill once I got used to it, and traffic was light. I drove fast, reveling in the sheer joy of being, enjoying the secure feeling of being back in my own country, Bev's strange questions far from my mind. Rather than all of us trying to get home right away, we had decided to stay that night at Bev's apartment and sort out the rest the next day. I slowed to take the exit to Bev's when suddenly the dreaded flashing lights split the darkness. Shit, I thought, what lousy luck, a speeding ticket on the first night back. I pulled over and watched the officer walk toward my side of the car, starting to roll down the window as he approached. Ginny noticed something odd and cried out, but it was too late – suffocating gas rushed into the car and I lost consciousness almost instantly. 

I woke up in a small cell, barely more than a cage. It was not especially forbidding looking; actually, it was surprisingly comfortable in spite of its size. The bars were of gleaming stainless steel, quite fine, with considerable space between them, though not enough to permit escape. The floor was smooth and neatly tiled in a curious middle-eastern pattern, pretty but meaningless to me, and there was a toilet with a modicum of privacy, along with a small shower, which I anticipated using with some relief, my thirty-hour clothes feeling pretty rank. Adjoining cells contained Ginny and Bev. Ginny's cell was much larger than Bev's and mine, I observed with the lifelong envy of a younger sister. 

Bev and Ginny had been awake for some time, I guessed by their quiet conversation, which was interrupted by the appearance of a woman dressed in a severe black wool abaya. All that could be seen of her were the fine, rounded features of her olive-colored face and the friendly, inviting smile it bore. She explained to us that, as we were probably aware, there had been problems with slavers kidnapping women in the area where we had been traveling, indeed, anywhere that unrest and lawlessness created such opportunities. We had been targeted; the authorities had thwarted an attempt on us just before we left. Smarting at their frustration, the kidnappers contacted accomplices in our own country who captured and returned us, anticipating an attractive price for three nubile western women. 


Executrix Khalidah



But the local authorities intervened, she informed us, rescuing us and arresting them before we could be taken to a more lawless place – we were very lucky. We would have to appear in court briefly, but would soon be turned over to officials from our embassy and returned home. In the meantime, our marshal informed us, we should make ourselves comfortable, and not be afraid. She would return with something to eat, after which we needed to prepare ourselves to appear at the court. 

Good as her word, she soon reappeared with a cart holding three trays which could be clipped to the cell bars. I was puzzled why we were kept separate – I wanted to be with my sister, but at least I could see Ginny and talk with her through the bars. We ate hungrily; hummus and pita, fruit, dates, the aroma of the strong coffee delightfully sharpening the flavors. Before long she returned with three abayas under her arm, and a bag containing black slippers. 

"Your clothes aren't suitable to appear in court, so I've brought you these," our black and olive marshal told us. "After showering I think you'll find them very comfortable, and they provide total modesty. I'll have your own clothes washed for you, so you'll be more comfortable for your trip home. No one will know you have nothing else on," she concluded with an incongruously sexy grin. She handed each of us a garment and pair of slippers, then left again. We showered quickly – I was glad to have my own bathroom and not have to share. The abaya was indeed comfortable, warm, surprisingly smooth against my skin in spite of being wool. I felt quite sexy in it, especially having nothing on underneath. 

The courtroom was handsome, reminding me of architecture I'd admired on our travels. Not large, its polished wood and ornate carvings glowed softly, contrasting with the hard expressions of the officials seated in it. Their clothing was severe, mostly black, except for the varied headgear on the men, some of which was colorful, even ostentatious. The men seemed careful to keep us at a distance. The judge's bench, along with the official sitting in it, resonated with forbidding authority.

A female marshal stood at each end of the bench where we were seated, while the woman who had brought us breakfast and explained our circumstances stood behind us along with a fourth marshal. All the women in the courtroom were dressed in black abayas like ours. I wondered, smiling to myself, what they had on underneath. The proceedings were interminable and unintelligible to us, but our marshal whispered reassuringly that all seemed well, there were a few legal arcana to deal with, but we would soon be on our way. Eventually the court recessed for lunch, and she took us back, putting us all into the large cell. A lunch tray was already there, inside. I was relieved not to be separated from Ginny and Bev. 

We ate with little appetite this time. The meal on the tray was attractive, especially the fresh fruit, but all three of us were tired and anxious to be home, wondering why our release had to be so complicated. Bev urged us to eat anyway, pointing out that we didn't know when we might get another meal, even if we were released soon – Ginny and I reluctantly took her advice, picking slowly through what would be gone in minutes in more cheerful circumstances. Eventually the marshal returned for us and led us back to the courtroom, where the session resumed, no more intelligible to us than before, though the proceedings seemed more agitated than they had been in the morning. 

********

"God damn, this bench is hard as a rock!" Especially with only an abaya for a cushion, I'm thinking, Ginny on one side, Bev on the other, anxiety building, as another tedious hour and a half goes by. This time our attending marshal offers no comforting whispers. Finally the entire courtroom rises, the marshals indicating that we should rise also. 

In a split second the marshal behind me seizes my arms and binds my wrists behind me. "Oww, what are you doing" I cry out, as Ginny and Bev are also bound. 

"It is customary for prisoners to be bound before sentence is given, to show respect for the court," our marshal informs us, her harsh tone contrasting starkly with her earlier friendliness. "Your sentence will be translated for you after it is pronounced."

The presiding official intones an incomprehensible, ominous sounding string of words, at the end of which in one swift, coordinated movement the marshals snap iron collars attached together with chains onto our necks, then take up positions to our left and right, holding tightly to rings fastened to the end chains. The translator, who up to then has said nothing, repeats our sentence. 

"Virginia Wentworth, Angela Wentworth, and Beverly Greene, you have been found guilty of lascivious behavior and blasphemy. You will each be punished by flogging, after which you will be strangled until you are dead. Your sentences will be executed before sundown tomorrow."

Ginny and Bev look utterly astonished as the words sink in. I start to cry out, then catch myself as Ginny frowns at me, urging me to keep quiet. 

"They can't do this – there'll be an international outcry."

"Just stay calm – I'm sure we'll be rescued." Not at all convinced by Bev's attempt at reassurance, I start to sob. Ginny tries to comfort me, but with bound wrists and the chains on our collars pulled taut she can't help much. We are led back to the cell and thrust inside, still collared, the barred gate slamming with a clang behind us. 

"Western bitches," the chief marshal shouts "I heard the testimony – death is too good for you. How fortunate for us that the slavers returned you - now your doom is sealed. Your government doesn't know – your bodies will be returned with a heartrending apology that we couldn't rescue you alive."

She pauses briefly for us to contemplate the inevitability of our fate. "The slavers will be well rewarded for their assistance. Normally they would be flogged to death, but now they will be beheaded quickly and mercifully."

Ugh, I thought, shivering in spite of the warm abaya. I don't sympathize with slavers – they deserve it, but we're going to be flogged... 

As if she can read my mind, the marshal adds "You won't be flogged to death. We'll stop when you beg to be strangled. We're not cruel."

Tossing a key into our cell she sneers "Thank me that you don't have to stay chained for the night. Ms. Greene, back up to the bars." She unties Bev's wrists, then tosses in a key. Bev picks it up, unlocks our collars, and unties our wrists. The marshal commands us to remove the abayas and slippers.

"Western whores are unworthy to wear those clothes. Take them off and pass them to me with the collars and chains." As we fumble to comply she threatens "Now, or your flogging may not stop the first time you beg."

"God, I hate these clothes anyway," I mutter, Ginny flashing me a warning glance as we pass everything required through the bars. Embarrassed at my exposure, I look down at the tiled inscription on the floor. The marshal hurries away.

"I think it means 'God is Great'," Ginny whispers, her face contorted with irony, as we sit together on the cot in silence, naked and shivering, though the cell is still warm.

The shadows in the corridor lengthen, fading into soft artificial light as evening descends. Our cell has no visible window or lighting of its own, at least nothing switched on, and I'm not ungrateful – better dim than an ugly glare. Cool night air seems to waft in from somewhere; without clothes we have little choice but to huddle together on the cot under the one blanket supplied. The cot is surprisingly large and comfortable, and the single blanket luxurious. I marvel at the cleanliness and comparative luxury of our imprisonment, especially after we were sentenced, concluding eventually that this is more likely for the benefit of visitors from the Red Cross than for ours. Ginny's encircling, protective embrace is comforting after spending years struggling to escape it. Ginny is furious and seems more frightened even than I am. Bev tries to calm and comfort her, gently rubbing her back and shoulders. Sleep seems remote. 

"Ginny," Bev says softly, "Help your sister relax - we need some sleep. Let me help you too." She loosens Ginny's arms from around me and turns her on her back, stroking her shaking body, gradually calming her down. As Bev's mouth draws closer, Ginny's breathing slows, gentle rhythmic rising followed by soft exhaling, their warm breath mingling as they gaze into each other's eyes. Bev massages her erotically, kissing her lightly on the neck and shoulders, daring eventually to suck gently on Ginny's nipples, one momentarily, then the other, then back. Ginny gasps, but does not push her away. "Ginny, you are so beautiful. Close your eyes, give yourself to me." Watching Bev weaving her spell over Ginny, binding her in her web of ecstatic enchantment, I find my own fear melting away as arousal floods my consciousness. 

"Touch me, Ginny," I whisper, inhibition banished by the warm bodies next to me and the prospect of this being my last night on earth. Ginny begins to massage me gently as Bev continues to give her pleasure.

"Let me show you what to do," Bev murmurs, moving her head between Ginny's legs and parting her with her tongue. Ginny moans softly, Bev pushing me gently around so Ginny can do the same to me. 

Oh, my God, the feeling which rushes through me, the exhilaration, as Ginny's tongue finds its way between my lower lips, slowly, sensually seeking my clitoris, her hands gently massaging my breasts, her own excitement mounting under Bev's skill and diligence. Writhing with pleasure, I succumb to my sister, sensations of delight rising in my groin, rippling through my body, mingling with fear and anticipation of the day to come. The climax starts small, like a distant tornado, then descends suddenly, swirling through me as I squirm and flail, locking my arms fiercely around Ginny as she thrashes explosively with Bev's urging. Orgasm surging, I swing around to sink my tongue into Bev's glistening bare mons to taste her taut readiness. She promptly erupts, the three of us convulsing as one, the pent-up energy from our travels burning fiercely, then fading into the ruddy glow of affection as we lie together exhausted and much calmer, drifting finally to sleep. 

We wake the following morning to the sound of our abaya-clad marshal rolling up a trolley with food. She does not open the cell door, but reaching through the bars isn't difficult, and we eat the breakfast of breads and fruit and drink the strong coffee with the anxious gloom of those eating their last meal. Once more Bev urges us to eat, warning that if anything in her past experience is remotely like what we are going to endure, there is no point adding hunger to our suffering. Otherwise, we eat silently. 

No guards are evident, but we are surely being watched. A few minutes after we finish the marshal returns to take away the cart, saying nothing. Bev urges us to use the bathroom and shower, and especially to make ourselves as clean and empty below as we can, explaining that it will reduce the possibility of embarrassment. Ginny seems pretty irritated by the recommendation, but takes the warning seriously nonetheless. I'm not sure how this could possibly matter, but anything which might reduce my suffering seems like a good idea – I also find the idea oddly arousing. One by one we follow Bev's recommendation, returning to sit on the cot together, wrapped in the blanket. The cell gradually warms as the sun rises, dispelling the shadows in the corridor. 

We sit for some time, saying little. I think about the previous night, wistfully reflecting on the pleasures and opportunities I've missed in my short life, when the marshal returns with another trolley. This one is piled with various leather and wooden items; it's impossible for me to make out much about them, stacked neatly as they are. The marshal speaks for the first time that day.

"You may choose to be punished separately, or together. If you choose separate punishment, do nothing – I will return with the other marshals in an hour to take one of you away to be flogged and executed. We will return for the next an hour later. But if your choice is to be punished together, you must bind yourselves together in the prescribed fashion before we return." Pointing to the cart, she concludes enigmatically. "Ms. Greene, I think you know what to do with these." She turns and walks away briskly, her abaya flowing gracefully as she moves. 

Bev looks awkwardly at the cart, then at Ginny and me, as the obvious question starts to form. Ginny gets there first. 

"Bev, what did she mean? Why would you know what to do..." Ginny's voice trails off in confusion in response to the embarrassed look on Bev's face. 

"Ginny, I... I wrote about them." 

"You wrote about them?" Ginny replies with a puzzled frown.

"I was in a sort of, uh, relationship... with your aunt Barbara, starting when Angie and I were room-mates" Bev confesses, looking first at Ginny, then at me. "After you introduced us she invited me back and we got to know each other a lot better. Sometimes she would tie me up and, and, uh, punish me... that is, it was play. She never hurt me badly, though I sometimes had to hide bruises from you for a few days." Recalling Bev's "bicycle accidents", I suppose I might have figured it out, if I'd just given it a little more thought. 

Ginny still looks puzzled, but I guess she understands now why aunt Barbara included Bev in her will. Responding to Ginny's quizzical look, Bev continues, "Your aunt read some of my college writing, and asked me to write some erotica for her. I wrote maybe a dozen stories. Once she asked me for an erotic execution story - I think we're living it now."

"Bev, did you publish them?" Ginny asks, frowning again. 

"No, but I didn't understand computer security very well, and I liked reading them myself. I had several of them on the tablet which was stolen during our trip. They reminded me of... of... your aunt." Bev started to cry a little. 

The reason for our conviction, instead of our release, is suddenly, terrifyingly obvious to both of us. Seething with anger, Ginny continues questioning. "OK, I get the lascivious part, but what about the blasphemy?"

"There were other stories..."

"Bev, you IDIOT. You BLOODY fool. How could you be such a moron?" Ginny grabs me around the waist and retreats to the corner of the cell, dragging me with her. 

"I'm... I'm sorry" Bev mutters. 

"You're SORRY! Bev, we're going to DIE because of your stupid carelessness, and God only knows how much we'll suffer beforehand. Oh, I forgot – we don't need to ask God - you already know." 

"In my story the victims get rescued before they are strangled." Bev doesn't look very convincing.

"Oh, great, bully for them. What's the chance these maniacs will follow that part?"

Bev doesn't answer. She sits on the cot, avoiding our eyes as a tear slips down her face. Ginny grips me tightly, her expression shifting between fear and rage, though she finally stops shaking. Not me. Crying in my sister's arms, I simply can't sort out my feelings, alternating between sheer terror and a strange erotic tingling. What will it be like to be flogged? How will I be bound, if at all? What is it going to feel like to be strangled? How much will it hurt; how long will it take? Is there really any chance of rescue?

"What an idiot I was to open the car window."

"Angie, how were you to know. I tried to warn you, but it was too late," my sister replies, cradling my head in her arms. A half hour ticks by, with little more, it seems, to discuss. Ginny and I hold each other in the corner, Bev sits on the cot on the other side of the cell looking the other way. Suddenly I remember – there is more to discuss. 

"Ginny, I don't want to die alone."

"Angie, I don't want to die period, especially with that numbskull over there." Glaring in her direction Ginny shouts "Bev, if we ever get out of here I'm personally going to wring your ne..." Recognizing the excruciating irony of what she was about to say, she bites her lip and continues more quietly "Bev, I think you'd better help us with your wacko junkpile before it's too late." 

Bev winces, then reaches through the cell bars to retrieve the stack of devices. Trying not to look either of us in the face, she hands Ginny and me each a wide leather belt and tells us to snap it around our waists, latch to the right. The buckle has no adjustment I can see, just two mating ends, and my belt is extremely snug – I have to work hard to engage it. When Ginny, wincing a little, finally manages to snap the ends of hers together I notice her name, Virginia, in elegant script across the front. Mine is engraved similarly. Even though I buckled it on my right, once I get it fastened, the design is symmetrical – there is a similar looking buckle on the left, and both sides have a sort of keyhole, perhaps for adjustment, perhaps for release, I wonder. Bev puts hers on, then hands us wrist and ankle cuffs. These too snap on snugly. The cuffs do not have rings; instead a small round metal post pokes out of the side. The belts have similar fittings in front and back. 

About to hand me one of the rods, Bev hesitates a moment. "If we finish this, we'll have to stay standing until they come to get us. Do you want to wait until they're about to arrive?"

"Bev, in case you haven't noticed, Angie and I have been standing up since you explained why we're here. What's another half hour of standing compared to what's coming? Let's just get this over with."

Without replying, Bev takes a tee-shaped rod and inserts the crossbar into a fitting on the wall near where we've been standing. "Angie," she said, "these fittings aren't all mix and match. You'll be following your sister, with me in front. I didn't choose that. You need to back up to the rod until it snaps onto your belt." Bev guides me backward, holding the rod up, and with a soft click I'm attached to the wall, standing out about eighteen inches. The snap at my back swivels, allowing me to rotate from side to side, but I can no longer move sideways, backward or forward. 

"I'll have to help you with this. Spread your legs a bit." Bev picks up another rod about sixteen inches long and bends down to insert the fitting from one of my ankle cuffs into one end. She has me lift my other leg while she snaps that cuff's fitting into the other end. Now spread by the bar, I can't close my legs - the coolness of the air passing between my helplessly exposed thighs is peculiarly exciting. Bev snaps another rod onto the front of my belt, this one with a six inch cross-piece just far enough out that if my wrists were attached there it would prevent my fingers from touching my cleft. But they are not yet attached – with considerable effort I stifle the urge to masturbate. Something moves in the corridor; Ginny looked alarmed.

"Hold your rod out straight," Bev commands me as she positions Ginny, uncharacteristically cooperative, into position in front of me, latching my front rod into the rear of her belt, then helps her with her leg spreader. 

"Bev, help us fasten our wrists, quickly," Ginny whispers, hearing another noise in the corridor. Bev takes my wrists and plugs the snap-fittings into my cross-rod, ending any possibility of self-relief, then assists Ginny similarly. A surge of excitement ripples through my body. Bev finishes up quickly, attaching her front tee with a chain to the front wall, then binds her ankles. Standing upright she snaps herself into the front tee. 

"Ginny, quickly. Hold your rod forward and get it onto my back." Ginny strains toward Bev, stretching me forward to get the fittings to reach, as Bev yanks back on her chain as hard as she can, reaching behind to guide the rod into place. It seats with a click and Bev jerks backward and forward quickly, checking the security of the fittings, then latches her own wrists into place. 




Executrix Khalidah



We are ready just in time.

The cell door opens and four marshals clad in black abayas enter, one taking up a position at the front of our lineup, another at the rear. The third appears ready to move behind me and take up the other side of my rear tee-rod the moment I am released from the wall. 

The fourth addresses us. "Excellent, choosing to be punished together – it's so much more beautiful, and it saves us trouble too. And Ms. Greene, special thanks to you for designing such an effective punishment process – perhaps you're not aware that your story's been circulating for some years. Our young girls are terrified when we show movies of an execution using your system – they've become far more obedient. Of course, we didn't know for certain whose work it was until your tablet turned up just as we were about to release you – how considerate of you to sign it. I hope you find everything satisfactory. Sorry you won't be able to offer much feedback, though."

Ginny's shivers with anger, shaking her bonds, the motion transmitted eloquently through our joining rod. The chief marshal continues, "As you can tell, escape is quite impossible." She grabs Ginny and Bev's connecting rod and gives it a pull, shaking all of us. I know my sister well enough to imagine her furious glare even from behind. "But you do have a choice to cooperate as we march you to the punishment chamber." She pulls a nasty looking electrical prod from a pocket in her abaya and presses the tip against Bev's exposed left inner thigh. Bev squirms, trying to escape, pulling us all tighter, but she cannot move away. "A choice to cooperate, or not, as you please" she repeats, pressing the trigger. Bev convulses and screams, yanking the rest of us back and forth painfully. "In case you're wondering, we each have one."

The marshal holding Bev's front tee-rod detaches its chain, which falls against the wall with a sinister rattle. The chief marshal moves deftly past the end of the bar, taking up her position on the other side. Bev, hobbled by her ankle spreader, is now securely held at the front of her belt by two strong women armed with prods. They move toward the cell door, Bev and Ginny hopscotching sideways in response. I rotate behind them as the marshal next to me releases my rear rod from the wall. When the coffle starts to move forward the fourth marshal takes her place on the other side of my tee. Now I too am held from behind by two strong abaya-clad women. We exit the cell and rotate awkwardly into the corridor. Once moving in a straight line, I find it not too difficult to walk even with my ankle-hobble; the attachment points seem to swivel somewhat. 

Of course I'm frightened as we progress toward the punishment chamber, but we are moving almost silently, not very fast, and there's some time to reflect. Our bondage is sumptuous, not crude. Our wide black belts are intricately tooled in gold leaf, filigree designs weaving around our torsos. Our cuffs are just as beautiful, the patterns winding around our wrists and ankles like artful tattoos. The rods connecting and hobbling us appear to be made of ebony, with elaborate, delicate silver inlay. "Bev, how much of this is your design?" What a sight we must be, three naked, elegantly bound women surrounded by four women almost fully encased in black wool. While traveling we found it easy to share the colorful Indian clothes we bought, such a contrast to these severe abayas. How remarkably similar Ginny, Bev and I are in height and build. How beautiful Bev is, marching in front. Ginny too – am I? It's strange how I feel so much more beautiful bound than I ever did before, an erotic frisson swirling through my body. My hands tug involuntarily inward, but are restrained by the cuffs. Perhaps this too is part of the punishment. 

It's not long before our entourage starts to pass into the hall of punishment. Intensely curious about what's inside, I try to gauge Bev's and Ginny's reactions as they each enter. Bev seems surprised, but she's not fooling anyone. Ginny seems more puzzled than shocked, then I pass the doorway. 

It hardly looks like a torture chamber. The floor is spotless, like all the floors we've walked on, and there's very little in the room – no obvious equipment for punishment. The walls are mostly mirrored, making it difficult to estimate its size, and it is well lit. The only outstanding feature, obviously where we will be bound, is a steel pole extending down from the ceiling to just reachable height, with three short spokes at the bottom projecting horizontally about six inches, each ending in some sort of clamp fitting with a ring in the center.

The pole extends no lower than the spokes, but a thin steel cable extends down from it to the floor, disappearing into a short stack of more ominous devices, including, at the bottom, a large hub with another set of three spokes extending quite a bit further out than the high spokes on the pole. My examination is interrupted as the coffle swivels around and I'm backed up to the wall and re-immobilized, my rear tee-pole latched as it was in the cell. The punishment stack is mostly obstructed by Bev's and my sister's naked, belted bodies. 

Freed from the task of holding me, the rear marshals prepare to move Bev into position. One walks to the pole, reaching up to grasp and extend a chain from its center. Passing the chain through the ring on the nearest of the short spokes, she reels it out as she walks back, clipping it to Bev's wrist crossbar. The chain arcs across the room from the high spoke to Bev, inviting her to her final assignation. Taking an ebony rod from its hook on the wall next to where I am attached, the other marshal places it across the rod joining Ginny to Bev, where it latches in place. She takes up a station on one side, while the first marshal, finished with Bev's chain, takes her place on the other. Ginny is now secure - Bev can be detached for her terminal journey. 

She makes the passage with aplomb. A little taller than the two marshals in front, Bev walks smoothly and gracefully in spite of the silver-spangled spreader between her ankles, the chain reeling in as she glides to the place of binding. "How can she do this?" I wonder. "Has she... practiced? Quite possibly – who knows what she did with aunt Barbara." Once she arrives her wrist crossbar is released from her front pole and pulled rapidly upward by the chain to her punishment pole spoke, where it latches in place. The marshals remove the tee-bar from Bev's belt, then, grasping her by the legs, they maneuver her ankle spreader to her bottom spoke where it also latches. Bev is secured above and below, legs spread, wrists hoisted above her head, leaning slightly forward, naked except for her belt and cuffs. The pole retracts momentarily, hoisting Bev off the floor, as it and her ankle spoke rotate her to one side and set her back down, pointing the next set of spokes toward us. The chain is returned through the second high spoke ring, and attached to Ginny. 

How proud I am of Ginny as she walks regally to the pole. Standing tall, naked behind the two woolen-women, she radiates freedom; the right to think, write and do anything we want, in the service of life, not death. Impressed by Bev's example she's determined, I'm sure, to show these people that she'll hold her head high, demonstrating the courage of an educated, secular western woman, bondage, flogging and strangulation notwithstanding. Filled with admiration for my sister, I resolve to do at least half as well. In a moment she's stretched next to Bev, the two of them rotated, and the chain is coming for me. 

How can this be? I should be convulsing with terror, but instead I'm surging with excitement. It can't be more than a few hours – I'm not facing a life in prison or of slavery, I'm returning to my sister and my friend, and if they can face what's coming with courage, so can I. With every step my excitement mounts; I feel like I'm about to come as my bound wrists are drawn up next to theirs and my ankles are locked into place. Ginny is clearly experiencing some erotic excitement also – she looks at me, our faces quite close together, and says quietly "I never thought I'd feel this way. I suppose we'll soon see how long it lasts." Bev's eyes are closed at the moment, her head hanging a bit sheepishly. A minute or so passes, during which the chief marshal exits and returns with four carts while the other three marshals take up positions behind each of us. Except for one, each cart contains a pile of rope. 

Turning to my sister, I murmur, "Ginny, You've been such a good friend, all my life. I'm thankful we're facing this together." 

"Me too Angie. Courage – it's not over yet." Ginny touches my hand with her fingers, and runs her toes over the top of my foot, sending an erotic shiver through my entire body. 

The chief marshal distributes the carts around us, and the three behind us go quickly to work binding our breasts. It seems to take a mile of rope; my marshal loops five or six turns high around my chest, then ties them off behind me. They're not terribly tight, but they are certainly snug. Another half-dozen turns are looped below. It's quite a sensual effect, especially watching Bev and my sister encircled at the same time. The rope is not particularly thick, but it appears to be of very high quality – glistening white, smooth and supple, caressing me like an insistent lover. Once the second set is tied off she reaches around in front of me with another short length, looping it between the upper and lower sets of turns, cinching them together, squeezing my breasts uncomfortably. All the same, an unaccountable thrill whistles through me as I watch Ginny's and Bev's breasts also cinched, pressing them forward into beautiful, tight mounds. The marshals have been generous with their hands as they work, and our nipples point forward attentively. 

As this is taking place I have a chance to examine the stack at the bottom of the steel cable extending downward between us. On top I see what appears to be a triple bit gag, the three short spokes from its hub on the cable each ending in a rubbery crossbar with rings on each end. Small leather straps dangle from the two rings, a buckle on the end of one of them. I wonder what it's like to be gagged, I think with some apprehension, looking down at the three bits and their six little straps. Underneath the gag is something whose purpose is a little less a little less obvious. It has three rather long spokes, each ending in a vertical ring, the spokes extending out between us. Moving to positions beside us, the marshals reach in and lift it together, the gag riding up on top. 

The ringed triple-spoke's purpose is revealed as the ceiling pole suddenly extends downward, pushing our wrists down and angling our arms, bringing all three of us more or less upright. The relief of the tension on my arms is welcome as our bodies move outward, aligning our breast ropes with the rings at the ends of the spokes. Quickly the marshals loop lengths of rope through the rings and around the ropes under our arms, tying us together through the rings. As these are tightened, our top ropes squeeze more firmly around us, compelling us into the communion of bondage. Each little movement of Ginny's or Bev's body is instantly telegraphed to mine. We are being punished together, without a doubt. 

The upper work is completed with short lengths of rope looped in our armpits between our top and bottom chest ropes, further clamping our breasts between the encircling bands, rather more painfully this time. The ceiling pole descends a little more under the control of the chief, as the marshal on my left loops a leather band around my leg and Ginny's at our knees, while the one on my right secures my other leg to Bev's. As these bands are pulled tight and cinched I'm spread almost unbearably. I'm feeling helplessly exposed, as once again every little twitch of my sister on one side, Bev on the other, passes unattenuated into my legs and up though my body. The marshals bind our elbows similarly. 

The remaining device in the stack, still down at our feet, looks truly threatening. A kind of triple saddle, each arm extends outward from the cable with a rounded plate at the end. It's pretty clear that when raised the cup-like plate will seat firmly into my crotch, rounding up over my pussy as it widens outward across my belly, where it appears it will couple to my belt. The plate looks padded, and at the appropriate place a large phallus angles upward; a second one, thankfully a little smaller, hinges off the back end of the saddle on a narrow circular strap. This round strap will, I suppose, wind up between my butt-cheeks as it snakes its way back to my belt. 

Ginny looks down at this contraption, frowning, evidently discerning the function of each part also. She glances at Bev, with a look more of defeat than anger. I sense that both of us are resigned to our fate, as we squirm against our common bonds. 

"Bev, you sure have a vivid imagination. Is this how you described it?" Ginny asks wryly.

"Pretty much. If anything, it looks a little more comfortable – not that that's a good thing."

But it appears we require further preparation before we can receive the saddle's caress. Imagine my feeling of utter helplessness as, legs bound at the knees to Ginny and Bev, breasts bound above, I watch in the mirrors as my marshal reaches into the cart to lift out a small electric shaver and a stainless steel bowl. Holding the bowl between my legs she runs the shaver quickly over my unruly pubic hair, which falls neatly into the shiny basin, the sudden coolness making me feel even more naked. Switching heads on the device, she smooths me over. The vibration sends shivers up and down my spine. Not as thorough as the process Bev recommended on our trip, but adequate, I suppose, for the short time I have remaining. 

Watching this with dismay, Ginny struggles heroically, momentarily thwarting her marshal's effort. Bev's temporarily redundant marshal observes the commotion and moves over beside Ginny, while the chief takes up a position on her other side next to me. Together they subdue Ginny with little effort, grasping her firmly by the thighs while her assigned marshal completes her task. Ginny's futile thrashing is conveyed only slightly diminished to Bev and me as her neatly trimmed triangle falls into the basin. "God damn you, Bev, why this?" Ginny yells, then with a wave of superstitious-sounding anxiety adds, "I'm sorry, I didn't really mean that."

"It lets the electrodes contact better," Bev explains, a bit ominously. "Trust me, it will hurt much more if they don't."

"Fuck you," Ginny growls at Bev with an air of finality.

We won't be talking much any more. The marshals raise the triple bit-gag. I observe that its spokes can telescope in and out as, holding my bit against my mouth with one hand my marshal reaches around and pinches my left nipple smartly. Ginny and Bev receive the same treatment; we yelp and squirm in unison, the gags go in, and they are tightly buckled behind our heads. Our three marshals take a long moment to pull on latex gloves and smear their gloved hands with gel. The chief marshal touches her pad and the triple saddle rises slowly between our bound legs, suspended by the steel cable, which reels out of the hub of our ankle spreader spokes as it is drawn into the ceiling pole. She stops the saddle about half way up on its journey as my marshal reaches between my legs once again. 

Her fingers slide between my naked labia. "Oh my God, she's lubricating me," I gasp, as she prepares me for invasion. Though she concentrates on my vagina, she doesn't avoid my clitoris, forcing a powerful erotic shiver. She finishes up by oiling my anus, circling my sphincter sensually; the agitation in my legs and arms assuring me that my neighbors are experiencing similar sensations, however hard Ginny may be trying to resist. This is odd punishment indeed, but I suspect that Bev knew what she was doing when she described it in her story - I'm pretty sure this all sprang from her fertile imagination, observing the almost indescribably wry, embarrassed expression on her face. My marshal lubricates both my saddle devices as the chief sets the saddles rising again. When the front phallus comes into contact with me she guides it to its destination. The saddle slows its rise once it has penetrated me an inch or so, giving my marshal a moment to insert my anal plug. Ginny continues to struggle and resist, but to no avail – her ultimate lovers finally slip into place just like mine. The saddle continues upward until it presses firmly against me, against Ginny and Bev also, I can tell as they squirm against it. In addition to our frequently touching fingers and toes, we now communicate in five other places, through the common binding of our elbows, breasts, legs, mouths, and now, as the saddle rocks gently against its suspending cable in response to our squirming, through our impaled crotches. The purpose of the keyholes in my belt is now revealed. Inserting a key in each side, my marshal turns them, easing them enough for her to slide the top of the saddle plate between my belt and my waist, where it latches into place. She turns the keys the other way, squeezing me exquisitely, the saddle plate sealing itself securely against my belly, its clit contactor pressing firmly onto its target, along with whatever other mystery electrodes Bev referred to – I suppose I'll find out soon enough. When my marshal attaches the strap from the anal plug to the back of my belt, I notice it's also lubricated, since it slides smoothly into my buttocks-cleft. It nestles deeply as she pulls it tight, pressing the plug securely in place. Ginny groans and squirms as she experiences this attention in parallel, finally relaxing in submission. As a final step, my marshal attaches something rather like a grease gun to a projection on my pelvic plate. When she squeezes the handle the penetrating coolness of the gel entering all around my newly shaved mons is indescribably erotic. Ginny gives Bev a withering look as this happens to her. 

Our preparations complete, the marshals leave the room, taking the three empty carts with them. The fourth cart remains next to us. Straining a little I can see the flogger which will be used on us, as well as some other devices neatly fitted into compartments or hanging on the side. Bound tightly, yet able to move a little if we move together, surging with unaccountable excitement mingled with dread, I try to picture what is going to happen. What did Bev imagine? What is she imagining now? Though a little gurgling speech is possible through the gag, I'd just as soon not ask. At some point this will surely deviate from her fantasy, if it hasn't already. My sister seems to have descended into her own private space for now – I'd rather not disturb her. The chief marshal's return interrupts this revery - she will be our tormentor and executioner. 

Covered by her wool abaya, her modesty contrasts starkly with our splayed legs and bare buttocks. Bev designed this bondage well. Though we are tied quite closely together, I can see clearly over Ginny's and Bev's shoulders, their pinioned elbows just above my line of sight. The only obstruction is the thin steel cable; no pole or stake intervenes. Taking advantage of this, our tormentor circles our carnal carousel, gazing into each of our faces in turn. I'm starting to understand the purpose of the burka; understand the reason for covering women's faces. This face, framed in the black covering of her hooded garment, is devastatingly, terrifyingly erotic. As she drills into me with her eyes, I seem to hear her saying "Yes, I know I'm beautiful. Drink in my beauty, enjoy me now, before I flog you and kill you." Bev squirms and struggles a bit as she and the tormentor connect, but our nemesis spends longer with Ginny. The unspoken battle of wills radiates through Bev's and my bodily connections with Ginny, then dies away as she finally, inevitably, submits. 




Executrix Khalidah



"My name is Khalidah," our tormentor informs us, speaking softly but clearly as she steps behind me. Since when, I wonder, does an executioner tell her victims her name. Since Bev wrote it, I suppose. She runs her hands over my back and bottom, then down between my legs, stroking the inside of my thighs. Standing back up she reaches around me and eases herself against my back, sliding her hands over my chest from just above my belted saddle plate to the ropes below my breasts. My intense arousal, combined with the tightness of the ropes, has made my engorged nipples acutely sensitive; she gives them the barest touch, sending fire through my body. Whispering in my ear, she asks "Have you ever been flogged?"

I wasn't expecting a question, but I manage a barely understandable "No", through the gag.

"I think you'll find I'm very, very good at it." Not exactly reassuring. I'm shivering with anticipation. 

Moving over to Bev, she fondles her hair almost tenderly, sliding her hands over Bev's shoulders and along her arms, then down to her erect nipples, pinching them hard. Bev struggles, letting out a loud yelp, shaking Ginny and me. Khalidah moves her hands around her neck and squeezes. "Bev, have you ever been strangled, even just a little?"

"Yes, Mistress, I have," she gurgles, to Ginny's and my puzzled surprise. Bev screams and thrashes, jerking us violently and painfully through our common bonds, as Khalidah delivers a furious blow with her palm to Bev's bottom. 

"Ms. Greene, this is not play, and I am not your mistress. I am your executioner. Do you know what 'Khalidah' means?"

"No," Bev replies, more easily that I did.

"It means 'immortal'. But you are not immortal, are you? It will be a privilege to watch you struggle to draw your last breath as I send you into the darkness, in the manner of your own devising." 

Ginny squirms and struggles a little as Khalidah moves into position behind her, though not yet touching her. "Ginny, do not reject the pleasure I can give you – it is the last you will receive. Arousal is a strong anaesthetic – I can make your passage easy or hard, as you will, but you will submit to me no matter what." She runs her hands over Ginny much as she did over me, Ginny at first struggling fiercely. Gradually her movements become more sensual, less uncomfortable for Bev and me, as Khalidah casts her spell. 

She steps away from Ginny and picks up a tablet, rather like the one stolen from Bev. I already know Khalidah can adjust the extension of the ceiling pole and the height of our saddles; I wonder what else her touch on the tablet controls. Glancing at Bev, I see apprehension in her eyes, glancing at Ginny, reluctant resignation. For myself, the fire of anticipation rages. What is this strange mysteriously hooded woman going to do to us next? 

"My gentle western guests, we must end this banter. I have a flogging to perform." She touches the tablet, and our saddles seem to come alive, my intimate invaders expanding and thrusting deeper, quivering slightly. Ginny glares at Bev, who again looks downward sheepishly, while my arousal surges higher yet. Khalidah touches the tablet again, and our saddles begin to move. I wondered why the spokes connecting them to the central hub seemed thicker than the others; now I realize they are hydraulic cylinders. 

The expanding ring of plates presses us inexorably outward. As we move apart our legs, bound together at our knees, splay outward more and more, spreading us wider, as our chests rotate around the ropes joining us there. My saddle appears to be hinged where it attaches to its spoke; as I bend over it rotates with me, supporting me underneath like a giant's hand, my bottom rolling upward. The increasing tension between our chest ropes squeezes our breasts tighter, the stress in our legs adding to the discomfort. The pressure is relieved slightly as Khalidah lowers the ceiling pole, also lowering our breast bonds little, allowing our bodies to drop down as we bend over further. The pain is considerable, but the feeling of exposure and vulnerability trumps any physical sensation – my legs, at least down to my knees, are stretched and turned out obscenely wide, the insides of my thighs excruciatingly exposed, my bare buttocks grotesquely displayed. Every motion is shared with my companions, tripling the sense of helplessness. 

Once we are fully extended, Khalidah presses the tablet again. The ceiling pole retracts upward along with the cable holding the saddle, and we rise into the air. I suppose she's locked the cable from reeling out of our ankle spoke hub, since it too lifts off the floor, mercifully taking some of the weight of our legs as our feet leave the floor. Though it's exceedingly uncomfortable to be so suspended, it's not unbearable; our weight seems distributed about as well as possible between our bound arms and chests, the saddles, and our cuffed ankles. Bev? 

Khalidah laughs and asks, "Bev, did you enjoy the experience you described in such detail in your story? I do hope so. Ginny, Angie, what do you think of your friend's ergonomic engineering? I so enjoy watching the expressions on our victims' faces when I make that happen, though they're a little hard to see. Perhaps we can fix that, though not for you, I'm afraid. But there's one more thing I have to do before I flog you." She reaches into the cart and lifts out a covered basin and a sponge. After hooking the basin to the side of the cart she removes its cover and squeezes the sponge in the oily-looking liquid. She sponges Ginny's back, buttocks and thighs, spreading the thick liquid on every square inch. Ginny grimaces as Khalidah tells us how the coating will enhance our experience, making every blow exquisitely more painful. She proceeds around the circle to Bev, then to me. When she sponges my back an intense tingling, almost a stinging, but not so painful, perhaps an itch, but not so infuriating, rises from my skin. Finishing my preparation, she positions herself behind Ginny and rears backward with her flogger, ready to strike. How cruel, to make Ginny go first – do me instead, I beg silently.

The stroke lands with a muffled whack. Ginny thrashes against us, letting out a high keening wail. Somehow her reaction seems out of proportion to the blow, which didn't sound that severe. 

"Oh, I forgot to warn you," Khalidah apologizes with a smirk. "If you clench your ass in preparation for the blow, you shock your clit. More clench, more juice – that's just the way it works." 

"Just the way it works - as God decrees. Bev, you jerk," Ginny mutters as best she can through the gag.

"Let's see how Angie does." She takes up her position behind me and prepares the blow. My clit explodes with agony, fire shooting into my groin as I tense helplessly, the blow landing moments later. WHAM. A dull shock erupts in my ass, followed by a searing flow of pain, as I scream helplessly, thrashing like my sister. Khalidah touches the pad again, and the ceiling pole starts to rotate, carrying our bound wrists with it. It takes a few moments for the motion to settle completely through our bodies, as we shake back and forth a little, but in a second or so our carousel is indeed slowly revolving, allowing Khalidah to stand in one place to flog us. 

"I like this feature. It's not fair for me to concentrate on the prettiest one, is it? This helps me attend to everyone equally. In your case, though, it would be hard for me to choose. You're such a gorgeous triple, so well matched. Some victims have to wait weeks for us to make up a balanced set – just think how they suffer, wondering when someone who matches their height and weight will come along. How utterly, demeaningly arbitrary, don't you think?"

She thrashes us for perhaps fifteen minutes as we slowly rotate, but it seems like eternity. A dull fire rages in my ass as the blows fall over and over. Gradually I learn to relax and accept them before they land, and the pain in my clit diminishes – my companions appear to be doing the same. The effort of adjusting ourselves to try to maintain a little comfort, the squirming, the struggling against our bonds as each blow falls is physically demanding. We're starting to drool and perspire profusely, a pungent feminine aroma rising through the chimney formed by our three hot, sweating bodies, wafting past our downward-facing faces. One welcome feature is the watering device in the gag, which prevents our mouths from drying out too much, though it doesn't do much for the drool. A shallow basin built into our ankle clamp ring catches most of it. Khalidah picks up her tablet from its little shelf on the cart and halts our rotation – we sway backward and forward as we come to a halt. It occurs to me that, while my sight line out of our circle is obstructed by the cable alone, from the gag downward and especially from the saddle assembly there appear to be quite a lot of wires and small hoses which disappear through the raised center of the basin into the hub from which our ankle binding spokes project. The hub must be totally self-contained and powered, I suppose, to allow us to be raised off the floor and rotated that way, and pretty complicated, to control us so utterly. I wonder, morbidly, how long it takes to recharge it between uses. 

Khalidah interrupts this revery. "Good work if you can get it, but physically demanding," she laughs, in contrast to our sullen, submissive, increasingly hopeless feelings, "so I need a break. I suppose you do too." To my relief she releases the pressure in our saddle pistons, drawing us nearly upright, allowing us to stand on the floor as before. Our bonds feel almost comfortable now. 

"Let's get to know each other better. I know lots about you, but you know nothing of me, and I'll be the last friend you make." Friend, I wonder to myself. What is she talking about? I've heard about people falling in love with their torturers, but I thought that took weeks, not minutes. Though I admire the beauty of her face, I can't say I'm feeling any affection. 

"Punishing western bitches is such fun – they try so hard to stay above it all. You're not religious, are you?" Without waiting for an answer, she continues, "I thought not. It's so hot in here, why don't I slip into something more comfortable, or shall I say, slip out of something less comfortable. You won't be offended, and there are no men here."

She casts off her abaya, and walks, naked except for a leather g-string, all the way around us. The sight is enigmatically, breathtakingly stunning. A compact, perfectly conditioned Iranian body builder, her powerful muscles ripple sensuously as she moves. No wonder she can hurt us so much. Bizarre, because her entire body is covered, from her ankles to her partially hidden pussy, then upward over her excellently proportioned, tightly domed breasts, across her shoulders and down her arms to her wrists, with an extraordinarily elaborate tattoo. Thorns and roses intertwine with grotesque beasts and every imaginable symbol, woven artistically in every possible direction on her olive-colored skin. My eyes can't focus on one place – the meandering vines lead me helplessly over her body, unable to concentrate on any one part, though each design seems perfectly at one with its location. Phoenix wings rise around her breasts, fire from her loins, and everywhere, the twisting vines and thorns tie it all together, much as we are tied in our circle of sorrow. She rotates, as we did, giving us a view of her back, equally stunning, the dragons on her shoulder blades guiding me to her bulging biceps, the prime mover of my chastisement, the thorned vines leading me down to her circled wrists, a short, naked step from there to her hands, the hands that caressed me in preparation, the hands I expect soon to end my life. 

Responding to our puzzled gazes, she continues, "Yes, Sharia forbids tattoos, though it doesn't require their removal. The abaya covers them perfectly, don't you think. So few people know, but you do. You won't get to tell anyone, though," she laughs. I shiver at the prospect of our soon to be resumed flogging and eventual strangling by this remarkable, strange, beautiful woman. She must be pretty resistant to pain to endure all that tattooing. How can she be so cavalier, almost flip, about terminating our lives? Practice, I suppose, looking once again at her body with unalloyed awe. She walks up behind Bev and runs her hand over her reddened buttocks, making her wince in pain. 

"I think you know what comes next, in a manner of speaking," Khalidah says softly to Bev, who nods her head, otherwise looking submissively downward. "Perhaps it's better if I touch you in front. You didn't think about that, did you?" Bev nods again, as Khalidah kisses her neck softly, hands moving over her as yet unpunished back and shoulders. She runs them gently down over Bev's torso, lightly brushing her still engorged nipples, massaging her more firmly below. She touches her pad, and Bev starts to moan softly, writhing gently in her bonds. Ginny looks irked. 

"I won't forget you," she assures her. A gentle buzzing starts on my clitoris, along with an erotic stimulation from the other electrodes in the saddle, while my two penetrators begin pulsing insistently. Ginny looks even more irked. But for the moment, it's Bev's turn. Khalidah fingers her pad, then continues massaging Bev's stomach and shoulders. She squats and runs her hands up and down Bev's legs, pausing now and then to touch the pad. "I can still touch you without pain on your thighs, can't I," she says softly, ominously. Bev is writhing sensuously, gracefully, her movements communicated to us through our common bonds and, after a minute or so, by rhythmical rocking of our saddle-spokes. A few moments later, Bev erupts in orgasm, to Ginny's extreme irritation. 

Bev thrashes in ecstasy, surging and gyrating in the bonds, pulling us first this way, then that, as she releases her pent-up excitement, finally settling into an exhausted slump. She starts to twitch, then to squirm in obvious discomfort as Khalidah continues, "It's just as you said, isn't it? Everything hurts more after sexual climax." Bev nods sadly, squirming even more. "Not worth forgoing it just on account of that, though, is it?" Bev nods again, completely drained. 

"Now for you two. I love making sisters come together – they're so embarrassed by it!" Ginny twists and struggles, glaring furiously. At this point I'm so frustrated with unrelieved arousal, in spite of the pain, that I can't really think clearly about any consequences. Besides, what consequences can there be? Does anything really matter now?

Khalidah massages my belly and touches my fiery nipples gently, but mostly she concentrates on Ginny. Positioned between Bev and me, looking into Ginny's eyes, she increases our stimulation. I've never been fucked both places at once, and the sensation is uncannily delicious, combined as it is with the stimulation of my clit. Ginny will require work on Khalidah's part, I imagine, and some of that is through her eyes. Ginny struggles with renewed intensity as they lock their gaze together, Khalidah speaking softly to her between Bev and me. 

"You've nothing to gain by resisting, nothing to lose by submitting, proud woman. You're not so special, I know all about you. I've experienced orgasms at hands I hated. Do you hate me so much? I assure you, you'll beg me to end your suffering when the time comes – let me pleasure you now. I'm a powerful woman too, and I believe I've won – you've lost. Give yourself to me, let the delights of my touch surge through your bound, helpless body while they can. Aren't I beautiful, dangerous, luscious? You can't touch me and I can do with you as I will, wherever I want. Give yourself to me." 

Returning to Ginny's back she stoops and caresses her thighs with one hand, while her other flies over the tablet resting on the cart. I feel our stimulation changing as she reads Ginny's response - her increasing arousal telegraphs through our bonds. The memory of the previous evening when I responded to Ginny's urging flows over me warmly. "Ginny, remember last night. Let yourself come," I gurgle softly, selfishly. She seems to relax, starting to undulate sensually, as Khalidah continues to stroke her legs, occasionally reaching over to stroke mine also. The buzzing and throbbing increase steadily, Ginny and I dancing in our bonds, writhing together, surging toward mutual climax. Thrashing and quaking, bucking and twisting, we dissipate our desire, Bev bouncing in cadence with our convulsions. A flicker of a smile crosses Bev's face, a grin crosses Khalidah's. We hang together exhausted, heads flopped downward as much the gags will allow, the pain of our bondage surging back as Khalidah turns away to pick up her abaya from the floor where she cast it so dramatically a few minutes before. She hangs the abaya on the wall and returns to resume her story. 

"I grew up in your country, and learned your ways. My family, mired in poverty after the war, begged me to come home. I sold myself into slavery for the sake of my brothers." She paused to let that sink in. "But I was a failure as a slave – my tattoos made me haram, unclean, and I escaped, finally getting a job here as torturer and executioner. I'm still a slave really – if I refused to do my job, I'd be bound like you, as soon as two matching companions could be found." I feel a wave of sympathy, imagining that matches for her might take quite a while to turn up.

"But," she continues with a grin, touching the tablet to press our pelvises outward again, "that's not going to happen. I love my work. I get to do this almost every day." Hoisting us back up, she resumes our rotation. 

Each blow from this exotically decorated woman hurts more than ever after coming, but each is still excruciatingly erotic. As we rotate she dances lasciviously, reminding me of one of our crimes, landing the leather thongs subtly differently each time I circle back. I almost long for the next, though most of my mind swirls in fury and pain. She includes our backs in this session. My sister winces and cringes; I'm furious at both of them, while Bev seems lost in a stoic trance. I know I'm wincing and cringing too, upsetting Ginny, and both of us break into sobs from time to time. We thrash and pull against each other, adding to the agony. My breasts never hurt so much, though it's nothing compared to my ass and back. How much longer, I wonder. I'm starting to wish for the end. Finally she stops, allowing us to stand once again, exhausted. 

"Just ten minutes that time – you're tiring, aren't you. I'm not," Khalidah informs us with a grin, giving Ginny a hard smack. "But we need to be getting on – I'd better prepare you for strangulation." I find her cheerful, emotionally but by no means physically hands-off treatment of our gloomy fate bizarre in the extreme, but strangely intoxicating, as if I should see it the same way. I've never quite understood the fearful attitude toward death of some who profess so ardently to believe in a merciful God and an afterlife of bliss; I don't. Perhaps this woman thinks she's sending us to bliss. But she already told us we weren't immortal, even if she thinks she is. 

Khalidah has to return momentarily to her abaya. She reaches deep into a pocket and returns with an ornate brass key which she dangles before us from its delicate gold chain. Bending over the cart, she unlocks a compartment and removes the first of three collars, our execution collars, I'm pretty sure. Taking up a position between Bev and me, in Ginny's sight line, she fondles the collar lovingly. 

"Isn't it handsome? You'll each look so pretty wearing one. Don't you want to try it on?" The collar, a two inch wide band of darkly gleaming bronze, is artfully made like everything else so far in this strange ritual, with silver filigree twining over it in delicate patterns. It carries no deathly symbols, as if to belie its sinister purpose. Inside, though, I can see a rubber lining, and it has a thin tube several feet long extending from one side. Khalidah strokes the inside with her fingers and continues. "The inside expands against your neck when it's inflated. There are special places here," she fondles the front, opposite the tube, "where it expands more, compressing the arteries to your brain. You'll hardly feel any pain, you'll just," she paused momentarily, "fade into unconsciousness. It's a beautiful way to die – so clean – it leaves hardly any marks." God, as if I cared, I think to myself, shivering.




Executrix Khalidah



Khalidah walks behind Ginny, touching her pad momentarily as she opens the collar on its hinge. The gag spokes, which up to now have been quite loose, allowing us considerable head movement, extend, rather like the saddle spokes did earlier. My bit gag presses into my mouth, forcing my head upward. Ginny and Bev are forced to look straight ahead also. The hub also seems to have locked itself to the cable – as Khalidah moves behind Ginny she tries to bend her head down, but it just seems to force our heads further upward, resisting her effort . 

"Ginny, you've given me such a difficult time today; you've tried so hard to resist me," Khalidah whispers to her as she snaps the collar around her neck, "so I'll give the first collar to you. I'll love watching you struggle against your ropes and cuffs as you try to escape its caress." Ginny thrashes and struggles now, but she can't move much, especially not her neck. The movements she does manage remind me that every struggle here is intimately shared. She shivers as Khalidah plugs the other end of the tube onto a fitting on her saddle-spoke. "It's a faithful lover, Ginny – though you'll be unconscious, the collar will embrace you firmly, steadily pressing on your neck just the right amount until your brain stops forever." Khalidah returns to the cart and removes another collar, moving behind Bev.

"Bev, did you enjoy designing this? Did you ever dream you would actually die in one? What a privilege it will be to watch the designer of our execution system experience it for herself. Just yesterday those ropes around your chest encircled another woman as she struggled to live. You should be proud – it works so well. She was younger than you, but not as pretty. I have a real treat coming." She snaps Bev's collar onto her neck, and attaches its tube. Bev winces, closing her eyes. 

Khalidah moves behind me, but she has not fetched the third collar. Reaching in to fondle my sensitive, bound breasts, thankfully gently, she asks softly, "Angie, do you love me?"

How am I supposed to answer that question? This woman has just beaten me. In all honesty, it's not yet been as bad as I was expecting, but soon she's going to kill me. What on earth does she mean - what will be the consequence of my answer, whatever it is? 

"No, I don't," I struggle to reply. Khalidah whacks me on my exposed front, forcing a howl. By now it would have been much worse anywhere on my rear. I'm grateful. 

"Good! You're an honest western bitch. You can't imagine the pathetic simpering I have to put up with in here. It takes weeks to fall in love with your torturer, and we only have this morning. But do you find me attractive, arousing, exciting?" 

"Yes, Khalidah, I do." Finding I can be understood better than I expected in spite of the gag, I see no reason to lie. 

"Would you like to come for me again before you die?"

God, what a question! But her spell is hypnotic, and my arousal is unbearable. "Yes," I reply quietly through my gag. 

"Angie, you whore," Ginny mutters. 

"Ginny, it will buy time," I mutter back, disingenuously.

"I suppose..." Ginny quietly gurgles. 

Khalidah's caresses are magical; she seems to know how to excite me ineffably, even when touching places she's flogged, without hurting me more. The pain of my bondage melts away as my arousal climbs. The mechanical lovers inside me, controlled by her tablet, seem an extension of her own body; she brushes my thighs and carefully strokes my tender breasts and flaming nipples. Even there the pain is dying away, replaced by seething desire for Khalidah's tongue, which, denied easy access to my front, circles over my shoulders and as yet uncollared neck. 

As my excitement mounts she increases the vibration on my clit, pushing me higher and higher. "Come for me Angie," she whispers. I'm so close, my orgasm seems a hair breadth away, just starting, when suddenly her caresses stop. An agonizing electrical spasm shoots across my waist, then through my anus, vagina and clitoris, squelching my orgasm instantly, forcing a keening cry of frustration and anguish. Khalidah steps away laughing, as she reaches into the cart for the third collar. "Oh, I forgot to tell you," she says as she snaps the collar in place on my neck, "When you come, your sister's collar will inflate, Bev's also, and then they will die. Oh, the same goes for you two as well," she adds, looking into Ginny's and Bev's faces. "If you come, your companions will strangle. That's how it works, doesn't it, Bev." With a flourish she plugs my little hose into place as I watch, horrified at having come within an inch of ending my sister's life, desperately excited and frustrated as well. Khalidah gives us time to consider all this, to wonder just how near we are to the end, before she resumes her task.

"No, it's not time yet. Your flogging's not over." Mercifully, our gag spokes unlock, allowing our heads to move as our butts are once again pressed outward, as I am again spread open with my companions. Lifted, we begin rotating helplessly, Khalidah waiting patiently for each of us to arrive in turn. She does not land a blow every time I come around – the anticipation is intense, almost breathtaking. When she does strike, she puts her all her furious energy behind it – I scream over and over. Often my clit erupts in pain as I clinch helplessly in anticipation; my exhaustion, combined with the uncertainty, makes it that much harder to stay relaxed. Ginny's cries and screams sear my brain as she thrashes in agony, anger, fear; perhaps even reluctant arousal, I'm sure I can feel through the bonds. Bev is stoical, but screams just the same. After an eternal ten minutes, Khalidah stops again, and lets us relax. 

"Like that? I could go all day. But I need to get you out of here by noon – this room's needed for second shift. And," she pauses to fondle me again, "I need time for whoever comes first. When that happens, your companions are useless to end your misery – you're all mine, you won't have to share my attention with anyone else." I'm quivering, shivering, in spite of the heat of my exertion. Ginny and I look at each other as best we can, the only way out of this dilemma gradually sinking in. Khalidah continues. "None of you believe there's anything beyond this, do you? Some think that regardless of their crimes, executed virgins go straight to paradise. Helps supply the seventy virgins for martyrs I suppose – there's pressure on us to deliver. That's why your bindings are so beautiful. Prepared, preserved and delivered, perfectly packaged – that's how you put it, Bev, didn't you?"

Ginny snorts angrily, thrashing furiously against her connections to Bev's arm and leg, the outburst painfully telegraphed to me, and gurgle-growls "Jesus Christ, Bev, couldn't you piss them off any more?"

Khalidah swats Bev with the flogger. "But you aren't virgins, are you – you'd have received different saddles if you were. Well, no matter. There's something more, something perhaps you do believe. Your scientists tell us that as your brains cease to function, whatever you are experiencing at the time seems to last forever. So," she fingers her pad menacingly, setting our intruders throbbing exquisitely, "I hold heaven and hell here in my hand. I can send you to paradise in a paroxysm of pleasure, or" she smiles devilishly, "into the abyss in a blaze of pain." My groin explodes with electrical agony as Khalidah demonstrates the capability of the saddles, the three of us screaming through the triple gag as one.

Forcing us outward and hoisting us up again, she resumes our flogging. Exhaustion is taking its toll, my mind retreating into a tiny space, an inward focused, self-protecting trance. Ginny and Bev seem be there also, hovering between consciousness and anticipated un-being, though something inside still struggles to be, to exist, to live. Each blow sends a dull surge of pain through me, each blow to my companions delivers me a shaking, less than before. We've had a little more than half an hour of flogging altogether, not much in the grand scheme of things, but I feel subjugated totally. Khalidah continues for another few minutes, then stops, halting our rotation, but she does not release our tension or let us down. 

"I'm done flogging you. Now I have something especially delightful - you'll soon beg for the end." She keeps us waiting for a minute or so, wondering what's next, then asks, "Bev, when you wrote your story, your scientists had not yet reached their conclusions. Do you believe them now?"

"I don't know – I suppose I'll soon find out." Bev replies sadly. 

"Well, I believe them. The court does not know the power it grants me. I must do as I'm ordered, but I'm not so cruel, or so arrogant, as to deliberately send any woman to hell. When you, Ginny and Angie decide it's time, I will make your end as pleasurable as I can." 

She picks up a thin rod and swings it at my exposed thighs. "AIEEE..." Pain shoots from the point of contact – it's far worse than the flogging. 

"How did that sound to you, Ginny? You won't be able to take much of this, and you don't have to – I'll stop when all three of you signal me to." She strikes Ginny, who cries out in anguish. Bev is stoical, to which Khalidah responds, "Stubborn woman, how long do you think you can hold out? I'll deliver three strokes a minute, one a minute for each of you. What's the chance of rescue in ten minutes, half an hour, an hour? Do you really think you could stand sixty of these?"

Whack. "AIEEE..." I scream again, then Ginny, and this time Bev also, thrashing against Ginny and me. 

"Don't torture yourselves – submit to me," Khalidah invites. Who's torturing us, I question silently. But Ginny has decided; I don't think she can stand my screams, and I can't help them.

"Bev, Angie, shall we?"

"Yes," I gasp.

"Yes," Bev agrees. 

Khalidah does not answer, just touches her tablet and draws our saddles in, setting our feet on the floor. She stiffens the gag, forcing our heads upright, a rather terrifying motion given what I'm expecting. 

"Ginny, Angie, I think you figured out the conundrum. Bev may just have to take her chances, but I'll do my best." The now familiar stimulation starts. As I become more aroused, my pain and exhaustion seem to die away. Khalidah is beautiful in my eyes as she touches us gently, kissing first Ginny's shoulders, then mine. "Close your eyes when you come," she warns us. 

"Ginny, are you going to be OK? I gurgle. 

"Yes, Angie, I'll be all right. Just give me a little time – don't rush me. I love you" Ginny signals more with her eyes than her muffled voice.

"I love you too, Ginny. I'll hold back as long as you need me to."

Khalidah walks around us, speaking softly, as she manipulates her pad. "Give yourselves to me. You're caught, bound helplessly in my web; let me weave my magic around you, drawing you close together, close to me. Struggle as you will, you cannot escape my spell. Let me send you to paradise in glorious ecstasy. Feel your sister writhe and seethe with pleasure next to you, bound to you in heavenly delight." 

I'm riding higher and higher, but I'm not yet about to come. Khalidah is in control, I don't need to hold back. She knows how to hold me steady as she brings my sister close to climax; all I need to do is submit, allow her to take over my body utterly. Ginny is swaying and twisting sensuously, submissively, beautifully. I can tell she's almost there. God, is this possible? I'm falling in love with Khalidah, even with strange, careless Bev; I wish I'd gotten to know you better in college. None of this diminishes my affection and love for my sister, undulating sinuously beside me. 

"Angie, I'm ready" Ginny signals.

"Let yourself go, Ginny. I love you." Ginny's orgasm surges through her; she's thrashing against me as mine erupts in response to Khalidah's final push – I feel the collar tightening around my neck, the soft rubber lining pressing me harder and harder. I'm struggling, thrashing – it feels like Bev is coming too, good for her. There's a strange rush of liquid in my pelvis, quite unexpected, which adds to the explosion within. The climax goes on and on and on as my consciousness slips away.

**********

I woke up in a delightfully comfortable bed, Ginny snoring softly beside me. Although the covers were perfectly white, the room seemed like an ordinary, earthly one, not like something from the movie 2001. The pictures on the wall were seriously erotic, but I recognized several which hang in museums around the world. There was a real window; through the sheer curtain I could see in the distance the outlines of reassuringly familiar buildings. Bev was stretched out in a nearby chair, fully clothed, though Ginny and I were naked under the silky covers. 

"Uh, where am I?" I asked, a bit groggily. 

"You're not in heaven, you're in a bed at JenLiz Productions, with your sister, quite alive, sleeping next to you." Bev answered with a gentle laugh. 

"OK, explain..."

"Well, it's a long story, but I'll cut to the chase. Your aunt's estate was quite a bit larger than you realized. It paid for our vacation, and some went to real charities, but your aunt decided Ginny needed a special lesson, and you might benefit too. She contracted with LizJen to re-enact my story with you – that cost quite a bit – though they got some great new facilities out of it. But there's still about a million each left over for the two of you. Her will stipulated that in order for you to get the money, the enactment had to take place with you two in it along with me, and the scene had to last at least until the beginning of the flogging. You and Ginny were terrific – we went to the very end."

"You mean, you were acting?" I asked, astonished. 

"Yes. I envy you and Ginny. You got to experience it without knowing it wasn't real – I had to fantasize. And I had to do my best to get us past our triple binding and into the flogging – then it took on a life of its own. I had such a great time!"

"Bev, you are totally over the top. How come I didn't learn this about you in..."

"Never mind, your aunt was just teaching me then – how could I possibly tell you? Besides, you would have freaked out." 

"I'm freaked out now, but I'm pretty excited too."

"I'm honored. But there's one more piece of business your aunt stipulated."

"Do you have to beat me some more?" I asked with a grin, only half-jokingly.

"No, not unless you refuse! You have to sign this release, exonerating LizJen, and me. Technically we didn't kidnap you - you probably don't remember, but you signed a release at the start of our vacation. It might not stand up, though, since you didn't actually read it or pay much attention. By the way, Ginny woke up earlier; she's already signed it."

"I'm astonished – how did you get her to do that? I can't believe I didn't wake up – it must have been a seriously heated discussion."

"Well, you were pretty knocked out. Sorry about the drugs up your ass and twat at the end. It's not safe to choke someone unconscious. Those collars are very dangerous toys. Even though they release by themselves after a few seconds we are super careful with them. Still, if you want to try it again..."

"Later maybe. Did you drug Ginny into signing?"

"No, that wouldn't be much fun, or legal. Your aunt, bless her soul, had a much more devious idea. You see, if I failed to get us to the first flogging, or you and Ginny don't both sign, the money goes to the Ku Klux Klan. You bet I worked hard! Ginny was good-natured about it – she signed right away."

So did I. As I passed the pen and papers back, Ginny stirred. "Where am... Oh, right. Hi Angie, I see you signed it too. What day is it now?"

"It's Wednesday," Bev informed us. "We got off the plane Monday night, but we compressed time in the reenactment – we figured you wouldn't notice, and spending all day in court would have been far too cruel – for the extras too! By the way Ginny, I believe you swore that if we ever got out of there alive you'd wring my neck. Shall we make a date. How about I pencil you in for Saturday night?"

"You're on – I can hardly wait. By the way, how long until my ass stops hurting?"

"Another day or so. Khalidah didn't actually hit you very hard – that liquid works really well to get a good effect without permanent injury, don't you think? She was harder on me – she was really pissed that I was away with you all that time, especially after having to watch me play with you the night before over security while nicely tied up. By the way, she wants to see you – I'll get her and bring you something which will help. You and Angie should take good care of each other for the next couple of days, but the first application's on me, so to speak. Be on your fronts, butts up and exposed, when I come back." 

Ginny and I pushed the covers off and took up the specified position side by side, while Bev left the room briefly. She returned with a bottle of liquid, some towels, and Khalidah - this time without even a thong. I twisted my head around, a little painfully, to take her in, the tattoos drawing my eyes up and down the entire length of her lithe body. Definitely intended to be viewed naked, I concluded. 

"Turn back around and relax – you'll get to see me again soon if you want," Khalidah ordered. She worked the delicious balm into my back and bottom, as I surged with arousal, remembering the day before, while Ginny enjoyed Bev's ministrations simultaneously. 

"Angie, your sister's date with Bev is private – I'm afraid you can't join in. Yes, that older sister thing – don't you hate it! But if you'd like to get together with me on Saturday night..."

"Yes, I'd love to!" Ginny glared at me, then smiled. 

"Relax now, and let me oil your backs. Go back to sleep – I'll see you soon."

THE END