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.