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.