A Last RequestbyLiquidPearl©
The prisoner sat in the middle of the room. The chair was bolted to the floor directly below a single dusty bulb, its weak, milky glow reflecting dully off the man's shaved scalp. He sat perfectly still, the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest the only sign that he was indeed a living breathing creature, and not simply a perfectly sculpted mannequin.
A heavy steel door at one end of the room opened with the metallic shriek of neglected hinges and still the prisoner made no movement other then a barely discernable flaring of the nostrils. He could smell her, even if the blindfold prevented him from seeing her. She moved across the room, closing the distance between them, her presence nothing more to him then the click of heels on concrete and whiff of lavender. He was no danger to her, but still she approached with caution. Her eyes jumped from his wrists to his ankles, reassuring herself that each one was still encircled by a thick metal cuff, chained to a bolt driven into the solid concrete floor.
Stopping in front of him, she made a leisurely examination of his body. Her eyes follow the contours of his muscular arms and broad chest. His rough workman's pants clung to a pair of firm, strong thighs. The careless way his boots were left loose and untied to accomodate his leg irons added an appealing, almost wanton touch. She knew he was aware of her, and she admired the restraint he showed by refusing to lift his head to aknowledge her presence.
She reached out and took his chin, yanking his head up, and imagined the rage in the eyes hidden behind the blindfold. Ice blue eyes, they were, with thick black brows that arched above them, a striking contrast of light and dark. Desire flooded through her as she remembered the first time she saw him. He had just arrived and as she passed by he had looked up at her, those pale, almost colorless eyes penetrating her as thoroughly as any man ever had. She looked down at him now, fighting the urge to tear the strip of leather from his face and allow him to look upon her again. She saw his nostrils flare again as he inhaled a deep breath. Could he smell her desire? His hands clench into fists and the slightest tremor pass through his body. She could see the conscious effort he made to relax, opening his curled fingers and stretching them out before allowing them to hang limply once again.
Those hands. She studied them. Those hands had stolen the lives of a dozen innocent women. Such powerful hands to be able to knot themselves around the neck, to slowly squeeze, never relenting, until the body lay limp and lifeless in their grasp. Could those hands be gentle as well? Could they just as easily stroke a woman's body to the brink of ecstasy? How would those thick, calloused fingers feel on her skin?
She unbuttoned her crisp white blouse, letting it slide off her shoulders to the floor. Her grey wool skirt joined it. Naked, except for a pair of polished black heels, she lowered herself onto his lap. She pulled his shirt up and pressed her body against him, soft curves meeting hard muscle, causing a reaction he could neither hide nor deny. Pressing her lips against his ear, she whispered her desires to him. His response was a harsh quickening of his breath. She released a long victorious sigh against his neck. To have power over this man, to feel his body beneath her, wanting something she could give or take away at will, this man who had once possessed such power, and had shown no mercy. Should she show him mercy, she wondered, as her lips traveled along the line of his jaw towards his mouth. She nibbled at his bottom lip. He had such full, sensual lips, lips designed for pleasuring a woman.
He suddenly sprung foward without warning, a single fluid, predatory movement, straining against his chains. The animal intensity of this unexpected display of lust caught her off guard and all she could do was wrap her arms around his neck as his lips and tongue ravaged her own. She ground her hips against him, against the hard ridge inside his pants. He wrenched back finally, breaking the savage kiss, then bowed his head to run his tongue along the tops of her breasts, up her neck to her ear. It was his turn to speak of his desires, in deep animal grunts that left nothing to interpretation. She reached down to unbutton and unzip his pants, exposing that one vulnerable part of him. Her hand ran up and down its length, his low moans of pleasure sending a thrill through her body. He was begging her now, pleading for her to end his torment. She wondered how many pleas he had turned a deaf ear to, how many times he had been begged to cease much less pleasurable torments.
Rising up, she guided him into position, then slowly eased herself down onto him. At first, she did nothing, just sat perfectly still, allowing her body to rhythmically squeeze and release the fullness inside of her. She could feel his body, tense with anticipation, his breath ragged, as she drove him slowly mad with the gentle massage that wasn't quite enough to bring him the release he sought. His frustration was quickly approaching a dangerous intensity. With flushed skin, sweat beading on his brow and chest, veins pulsing in his neck, he gritted his teeth and pushed his hips violently upwards in a desperate attempt to thrust deeper, to create some kind of friction. Only then did she begin to move, sliding herself up and down, slowly at first, but quickly picking up the pace. He was growing hotter and harder inside her, and she knew he wouldn't last long. She reached down to help her own pleasure along and her body reached its shuddering conclusion within minutes. Seconds later he threw his head back, calling out his ecstasy to a god he didn't believe in.
His body sagged, limp and spent, as she pulled away. She dressed herself without looking at him. Voices were echoing from down the corridor and she knew she had to be quick. The priest was coming to deliver the last rites and offer him one final chance to confess his sins. She turned to him, averting her eyes from his face as she put his clothes back in order. One last check of her uniform, blouse buttoned, skirt smoothed, badge clipped in its proper spot at her waist, and she took her place by the prisoner's side. She looked back briefly towards the other door, standing ajar at the back of the room. In the weak light she could just make out the crude wooden chair, with its mass of wires and electrodes, that sat waiting for him inside the execution chamber.
There were footsteps in the hall outside the door, and she snapped to attention. The warden entered the room, followed by the priest. Two male officers stood flanking the door, waiting to escort the prisoner on his final walk. The warden gave her a single cold but knowing glance before dismissing her. She walked away, pausing for a moment at the door, then exited the room without looking back.