This is a story inspired by the two pictures below (numbers 10 and 12) from the "Lustful Teens" series by the wonderful Sologeek.
Lustful teens 10 

Lustful teens 12

I first encountered the pics on another site and had no idea who the author was, or even what they were supposed to show.  I was therefore free to imagine what the hell I liked and wrote the following story around the pictures.  I've subsequently discovered that they were by Sologeek and, since joining DeviantArt and looking at the rest of the series, I've seen that my own narrative is quite divergent from Sologeek's own intentions.  I'm therefore extremely grateful to Sologeek not only for inspiring the pictures but for encouraging me to publish this story here anyway.  Enjoy!  If you'd like to look at the entire series for yourself - something I very much recommend - here's a link:

Lustful teens


The verdict was no surprise to anyone. Emily Lakeland had betrayed state secrets to feed a drug addiction, before killing several people in a futile attempt to prevent her crime from being revealed. Nothing but hanging could even begin to satisfy our collective lust for the girl's blood; and even the last argument of our justice system hardly seemed sufficient: had she been sentenced to be boiled in oil, few would have believed her treatment unduly harsh. The only mystery concerned the person to whom the execution would be delegated. One of her victims had been the official town hangman, so we had all assumed that a replacement would have to be appointed before the execution could be carried out.

 

The panel of judges, however, had arrived at a novel solution: it decreed that, as her crime had been against all citizens of the city, so all citizens would have the chance to step forward and act as her executioner. It had also invoked an old clause that few had heard of – and those who had done so had assumed was redundant – to decree that, as she had hidden her actions under a cloak of secrecy, all her garments be stripped from her and she be executed naked. A system had been implemented whereby any citizen of age willing to act as her executioner or assistant executioner could put his name down on a list and the two...winners would be selected by a lottery on national television.

 

Everyone had registered, of course. Politicians and TV personalities had made great show of doing so at public gatherings. Anyone who admitted to not having done so was seen as unpatriotic. There were countless jokes told by countless men in countless bars about the joys of hanging a naked traitor, watching her writhe like the snake she was and such like. Others felt the publicity afforded by having executed Emily Lakeland would afford career opportunities. Others, I suspect, were desperately hoping to be passed by: everyone wanted to see her treasonous neck stretched, of course, but they would prefer to read about it in the newspaper after the body had been disposed of. I cannot say which category I had belonged to; but, after receiving days worth of congratulations and encouragement to "make us proud", we now stand at the door of the state penitentiary. Francine and I took an opportunity offered by the authorities and registered as a pair. This meant that, if either name was drawn first, the other person would be automatically selected as her assistant – many people said they had used this because it gave them a higher probability of selection. I'm not sure why Francine proposed it, but I accepted simply because, if I was going to kill someone, I wanted a friend to be there to provide moral support.

 

The prison governor meets us at the gates and shows us in. We are given a warm, slightly deferential, welcome by everyone we meet – which seems odd given that, while these people are old hands at dealing with felons, neither Francine nor I have ever stepped inside a prison before yesterday, when the executioner's assistant and probable successor gave us a lesson on how to conduct the process. I confess that I remember little of it aside from his reassuring, somewhat chilling final words: "I shouldn't worry about it too much – provided the bitch is fuckin' dead when you've finished, no one's gonna bother about the niceties!" I nervously talk nonsense incessantly, while Francine is unusually taciturn, as though overawed by what we are about to do. The governor takes us to his office and offers each of us a glass of champagne. I accept eagerly and gulp it down; Francine silently refuses with a smile and a wave of her hand.

 

"Oh, well," says the governor, "Shall we get on with it?"

"Yes – please," I nod vigorously, trying to appear enthusiastic but in reality just keen to get the job over with. Francine, seemingly unperturbed, remains silent, offering a single nod and an elliptical smile.

 

The governor leads us through the labyrinthine corridors of the maximum security prison, passing through countless doors, until we reach one with an armed guard on either side, marked "DEATH ROW". He leads us through it and on, down a wide corridor with cage-like cells on either side, filled with prisoners of all ages – most male, some female, all with the trauma of years lived in the shadows of their own deaths etched onto their faces – until we pass through another door into a tiny antechamber-like space. Before us stands a further steel door labelled "DEATH CELL". The governor stops.

 

"All right, ladies. Are you gonna be OK to take it from here?" he says, with a warm good humour that should be reassuring, but seems strangely inappropriate. Before I can think of an answer, Francine offers that same elliptical smile and says softly, "Sure, we'll be fine. Thanks." I am supposed to be the executioner and she the assistant, but I can see already that things will not play out that way.

 

As the governor closes the door behind us, I look at Francine nervously, hopping from foot to foot. She stares straight back into my eyes, lifting her hand to my face and brushing my chin with her fingernails, before turning her hand over and allowing her warm, moist palm to rest against my cheek. "Tamara, relax," she says softly, "We'll do fine." I have known Francine for years, but only now, as I stare up at her soft face with its warm, cocoa-coloured skin, do I realize what an extraordinarily beautiful woman she is, with athletic shoulders, long, slender legs and firm, full breasts – clad today in an eye-catching flame-red dress. In one unbroken movement, she takes her hand from my cheek and places it on the door release.

 

The door springs open abruptly to reveal the terrified, elfin figure of Emily Lakeland, seated on a chair next to her bed in an orange cotton prison uniform. She stares up through her matted blonde hair, revealing blue eyes that, reddened with tears, seem nothing like the ferocious ones staring out from the mugshots on the TV news. As soon as she sees us, she realizes who we are, and instinctively tries to spring to her feet and run – even though, in this small cell, there is nowhere to run to. However, her legs give way in fright, and she ends up crawling pathetically away. I step towards her, making a transparent attempt to sound authoritative:

"You, have to take your clothes off," I say.

"What?" she says, looking around like a cornered cat. She must have heard the sentence before now, but she seems to have blocked out the reality.

"Take your clothes off...please", I repeat, sounding almost as nervous as her.

"I'm not fucking doing it!" screams Lakeland.

 

I begin to panic, but Francine, seeing this, steps forward, standing directly over Lakeland, before crouching down and speaking softly – her voice commanding the kind of effortless authority that I have striven hard for and failed to achieve:

"Emily," she almost whispers, "We're not judges, and we didn't choose this – but you know your sentence: you are to be hanged completely naked. That means that, either you have to take your clothes off, or we will have to take them off you. Now which is it to be?"

Lakeland does not answer, instead staring straight at Francine; her feline terror seemingly reduced to a catatonic stupor by the intensity of Francine's gaze. Francine does not ask again, instead silently beginning to unwrap Lakeland like a joint of meat, gently caressing her back as she slides off her orange pyjamas and unfastens the clasp of her bra. Lakeland offers no resistance.

 

When Francine is finished, she helps the nude Lakeland to her feet and, without attracting her attention, she turns to me and nods. Nervously, I nod back and press the door release: immediately an entire wall in the cell springs apart, revealing, behind what had appeared to be a wardrobe, the execution chamber. The room itself is brightly lighted, with white-painted walls and a pale, soft wood floor; but this only sets into starker relief the terrible object at its centre. The white-painted gallows is not as I have always pictured in my imagination: instead, with its hydraulic platform, electronic winch and glossy exterior, it looks more like a high-tech piece of gym equipment. Only the thick, rough hemp rope, already tied into a noose, hanging from the end of the single lever arm, betrays its terrible purpose.

 

The abruptness with which the chamber appears before our eyes takes me aback, so it is hardly surprising that the sudden revelation that she has spent the previous two weeks unknowingly residing less than twenty feet from the implement of her imminent doom sends Lakeland into blind panic. "No!" she screams, "I can't!". She tries desperately to turn away, but Francine's steadying grip turns instantly into a vice-like grasp, and, with the air of an experienced professional, she begins to march her swiftly towards the noose and on to the platform, holding her tightly under both arms.

 

I am rendered speechless by this awesome sight, but Francine snaps me out of this with a sharp command, quite unlike her previous sonorous, soothing tone. "Tamara! The rope!" she barks. I snap out of my stupor and sprint to catch up with her, throwing the noose over Lakeland's head and tightening the knot at the back of her neck. "The slack!" says Francine, still wrestling to hold Lakeland still. I push another button, activating a reel that retracts the rope until resistance is felt, thereby removing any slack. When this is completed, Francine is finally able to let go of Lakeland, for any movement off the platform would send Lakeland to the death that, in any case, awaits her shortly. She continues, however, to sniffle piteously, her eyes streaming with tears. "Do you want to read the charges?" says Francine, her voice its calm self once again.

 

"No...let's just get on with it," I say, haltingly.

"You're the executioner," Francine smiles, gesturing towards the control panel.

I take a deep breath to steel myself and push a button marked with an arrow pointing downwards. Immediately, the platform begins to lower beneath Lakeland's feet and, as she feels the rope bite on the front of her neck, she emits an ear-piercing scream, which continues as she is pulled up onto the balls of her feet. As the platform finally retreats out of reach and her weight falls completely on the rope, the noose pulls tight around her neck, cutting off her desperate scream into an almost inhuman squawk. Almost immediately, she begins to buckle and writhe – paddling her legs and waving her arms as she continues to emit a choked gurgle.

 

I tear my gaze away – then equally quickly I look back. The site of Lakeland's writhing, twisting frame, with its rapidly-reddening face, furiously-kicking legs and bouncing breasts and buttocks, is at once terrible and strangely hypnotic. Francine begins softly to run her fingers through my hair, gently stroking the soft hairs on the back of my neck. I take a step towards her, placing the fingertips of my own right hand on her left shoulder. As Lakeland continues to wriggle and squirm barely five feet from us, I wrestle with conflicting emotions: as a human being, I have the opportunity – and it feels like the duty – to save her; yet as an executioner I have the licence – and mandate – simply to savour every last detail of her futile struggle against the rope. It seems strange...terrible to say, but in the presence of inevitable and imminent death, I feel more intensely alive than ever before. As Lakeland's body begins to weaken, her convulsions dying down and her face slowly turning from red to blue, Francine begins to unbutton my white blouse and slides her left hand down the back of my collar. I can feel her soft nose nuzzling my shoulder. She must feel it too.

 

I turn to face Francine, tilting my head to the right and planting a firm kiss on her lips. With one impassioned movement, she tears open my blouse, sending the remaining buttons flying across the chamber. I wriggle out of the garment and kiss Francine's exposed collarbone. With my assistance, she lifts off her dress and throws it casually to one side, while I unfasten the clasp of her bra. After she casts off this too, I place my nose between her glorious breasts and inhale deeply the wonderful, womanly aroma of her sweat. I pause to suck her left nipple before resuming downwards, planting deep, wet kisses on her chest and navel.

 

As Francine spreads her legs and I begin to savour the heavenly aroma of her vagina, a loud snort from the gallows draws our attentions back to Lakeland's convulsing body. Her face is now dark blue, her protruding tongue almost black. She has evidently bitten that tongue in her desperate attempts to breathe, and bloody foam now streaks down her face, running off her chin and onto her breasts. Her spasmodic movements no longer appear an attempt to fight the noose, but instead look involuntary.

"My God! I wonder if she can still feel anything...and what it feels like," I say, awestruck by the sight.

"I know, it looks amazing – that desperate struggle for every breath, and the knowledge deep down that it's hopeless," replies Francine in a whisper. As I turn over onto my back to witness the sight, Francine slips her legs around my neck and begins to press her crotch against the back of my head while her warm, muscular thighs press my breasts and her heels massage my own thighs.

 

Suddenly, an idea hits me like a thunderbolt. "Do me!" I say excitedly, "Right here. With your hands. I'll tell you what it feels like afterwards." As soon as the words leave my lips, I wonder whether Francine will think I am insane – and whether she will be right. But as I feel her hot, sweaty palms against the soft flesh of my neck, I realize that she clearly needs no further encouragement. I inhale deeply in nervous anticipation – or try to – for, before I can take more than a sip of air, Francine's muscular hands bite deep into my throat. My lungs desperately draw for air, but almost nothing comes. At first, the feeling is indescribably wonderful – somewhat like bondage, but far more intense: the muscles being restrained are not those of my arms or legs, which scrabble freely, slipping futilely against the smooth, wooden floor, but the very ones that keep me alive. My most pronounced sensations are the smooth, powerful legs of Francine stroking my chest and her bristly pubic hair pressing rhythmically into my shoulders. I want to let go, to scream, to cry out...but I can't, so the orgasm just keeps building and building inside me like the ocean drawing back farther and farther before a tsunami.

 

As a pounding headache and a high-pitched whine start up in my head, flashing lights begin to fill my vision. We should have agreed on a safe word. Does Francine know I want to stop now: does she even care? I can now see Lakeland – has Francine turned me to face her deliberately? She jumps around in my field of vision – is my head moving, is it my vision or is she still twitching in the last agonies of death? My limbs feel heavier and heavier – she's going to kill me – maybe I'm going to die at the exact moment Lakeland does. My head is swelling up and feels like it's going to explode. What have I unleashed in my friend? I can't feel my arms or legs. I can't see anything any more – all I can hear is the humming...

 

...The first thing I notice is the crashing sound in my head, as well as the loud whistle. I gasp for breath, coughing and spluttering. Soon I become aware of agonizing shooting pains in my arms and legs, which gradually die to a tingle. I hear a creaking and detect the overwhelming stench of urine. As my vision begins to return, I look up, and, on seeing the hanging, twisting, lifeless body of Lakeland hanging above us, a puddle on the ground beneath her, I remember where I am. I feel wetness between my own legs and place my hand in my crotch. On placing my fingers to my nose, I discover, to my disgust, that I too have wet myself.

 

Kneeling above me, rooted to the spot – her attention focused solely on the dangling, dead body – is Francine. I try to scream at her, but all I can force through my throat are snorting sounds, and these do not distract Francine from her monomaniac focus on the limp carcass. Eventually, I manage to cry out, in a voice that I still do not recognize as my own, "What the fuck do you think you're doing? I thought I was gonna fuckin' die!" Francine finally turns to face me. Her eyes seem to look straight through me with an expression not of malice, nor of sympathy, but simply of frighteningly-intense euphoria. She speaks in a hushed whisper:

 

"What does it feel like?"