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.