This piece was inspired by the artwork created by Relik93 called TVimage01:
(My attempts to make a live link to the image seem to be unsuccessful. Perhaps that isn't allowed.)
I have a strong visual imagination but sadly I possess no visual arts creative skills myself. I envy all of you who do. But I can write, I think. Relik's highly erotic 'hanged' picture spoke to me very personally and what follows is, if you like, a possible 'back story' to that image. I suggest loading it in another window alongside the text below before you start... You probably should anyway so you have an idea what the subject matter is. If you don't like his artwork you certainly won't enjoy this! Happy reading!
Dying To Please - Ch.1
She has practiced this many times before: getting the balance weight just so, just a few hundred grammes heavier than she herself, working out how long to make the ropes that secure her ankles to the heavy iron rings set in the floor either side of her, how short she dare let them be for her needs. She's carefully tested the length many times, standing and raising a knee so that when the rope to that leg becomes upright and taut her toes are no more than three or four inches off the ground. A pleasingly, teasingly, short distance.
She has practiced standing there with the ankle-ropes on keeping her feet about 9 inches apart, the closest the ropes permit them to be. She loves the fact that even before anything happens and those ropes lie flat on the floor, they compel her to stand with her thighs and her bumcheeks slightly parted; even if she tries to clench them the little tender slot between the cleft of her cheeks – her anus, her 'boi-pussy', the hungry little 'cunt' between her legs - is already somewhat defenceless. And of course it will be more so. Much more...
If she stands on tiptoe like that she can just reach the horizontal scaffolding pole above her head to curl her fingers round it. Using all the strength in her arms she has tried pulling herself up off the ground, and is satisfied with the way the ankle-ropes make her thighs part more widely as the ropes rise and go taut. She can push her knees together - just - but feels her fingers' grip giving way on the pole above her when she tries to.
Of course it will not be her fingers keeping her shoes off the ground when everything is ready, but something much more unyielding. If she doesn't have the freedom to close her legs then, her tight little fuck-slit - the only one she has - will be truly defenceless. She can clench her small pretty bumcheeks all she likes; they will not save her at all.
The three heavy steel scaffolding poles that formed the main arch of the gibbet were easy to place, securely set into the concrete floor of her basement. Despite the apparent softness of her appearance, her frail insubstantial limbs that suit the persona she considers the truth about herself, she is quite practical by nature. As she completes each part of her creation she feels like some Mediaeval artisan working on a cathedral. She takes a simple pleasure in the strength and quality of each stage of it, not dwelling on its final purpose.
Getting the three smaller poles - the vital 'fulcrum' of the endless pleasure to come - correctly placed behind the main arch takes many weeks of trial and error. Precisely where the stool just behind her should be placed, the height of the crossbar in relation to the main one so the rope will slide easily and smoothly, her desire that the finished piece should do its work with the minimum of 'lift' - just a few tantalising inches! - and yet still offer certainty: all that took endless adjustment. A labour of love!
At last it was right, to the tolerance she needed. When the second arch was finally secured she took a workmanlike pleasure in gazing at what she had done. The structure seemed ordinary enough at a glance, nothing more unusual than asymetric bars for gymnastics perhaps, but much stronger. And she knew its real purpose.
Many more tests lay ahead. The ankle-ropes need further adjustment so that when she stands within the main frame her tethered foot has just enough freedom of movement to kick her heel back and dislodge the stool. CLATTER! The noise as it tumbles away onto the flagstones behind the rear arch is frighteningly loud. Every time she tests it successfully with the ropes already on her ankles her heart skips a beat. It is the sound of destiny approaching.
One day she sets everything up and slips the blindfold on as well. Her hands are still free of course. When she kicks the stool away and hears that noise in the darkness her imagination runs riot. Her small skinny sissy prick goes as stiff as a board, lifting the front of her skirt. She stands there for a minute or so in the darkness of the blindfold, her breath coming in rapid pants, wondering if she will cum. But she doesn't.
More tests. Will that restricted little backward and outward arc of her high-heeled sandal still be enough with the weight of the sack now resting on the stool as well? Several times she just dislodges the stool but nothing else happens. Such failure would be unthinkable! Little adjustments of the stool's position and height must be made; she is loath to allow more play in the ankle-ropes. That would make it much easier, more certain, but then she would be able to close her legs at the start, the weight would have to rest on a taller stool to compensate and her feet would then rise higher into the air. That won't do.
Her 'engine' must do its work flawlessly every time, but teasingly as well. Smoothly, unhurriedly. She wants that floor oh-so-close below her feet – but just out of reach of her desperately straining toes. She wants to know – even if she herself will not see it with the blindfold on – that safety, rescue, escape!... are tantalisingly close, but might as well be a mile below her when everything is finally ready.
Now the tests become more real. She has spent weeks thinking about this. Handcuffs would work of course. They would do the job fine and there would be no escape. But there would be pain: the wrong kind of pain. She sees nothing odd or contradictory about her dread of that hard unyielding steel biting into her frantic wrists till they bleed. She knows that will happen with handcuffs, is bound to happen when it comes to it. She does not want blood. It isn't her wrists she wants to be feeling or thinking about in those precious moments of ecstasy. It is her entire body's helplessness. No, another way...
Her wrists must be bound tightly, but not too tightly and not with something so hard.
She has some wrist cuffs, of course: good strong well-made leather and softly padded with lambswool on the inside. She could easily close a padlock on the hardened steel D-rings attached to them once they are on her wrists behind her back. She has done it many times before, teasing herself with ways to make the key inaccessible.
But that still leaves too much play: she wants to feel her hands trapped, her arms to feel utterly useless to her. Despite her slender limbs she is surprisingly strong; perhaps in extremis her flailing might somehow save her. Unlikely, but she wants to be certain that once it begins she cannot reverse it, only someone else can – and if they choose not to, then her fate will be unavoidable. No chink of light, of hope, no secret 'backdoor' known only to herself, its architect.
Helpless.
She devises an answer and seeks out a strong leather belt with a sturdy brass buckle, long enough to go twice round her waist. It is not easy but it works. It takes several minutes of effort to achieve. Each cuff is secured on its wrist by a small brass padlock which locks the tongue of the buckle once it is done up. Only the keys can release the cuffs – and they will sit on a small table several yards from her when the time comes.
The long belt goes through the D-ring of the cuff on her right wrist. She must wriggle and manoeuvre so that the tail and buckle ends both go from that wrist across to the opposite side of her back, round her left hip to the front, across her belly and round her right hip to the left-hand cuff. The tail then goes through that D-ring and then the buckle engaged. It then makes a loop securing both wrists behind her. Far away from her neck. With a long enough belt it is not as hard as it sounds to engage the buckle; while it is loosely done up on the last hole she can almost bring both hands round in front to touch each other.
Tightening it requires much more dexterity and must be done entirely behind her back. The more she can move the buckle's tongue to engage shorter holes in the tail, the more the steadily shortening loop tightens across her nervous belly, pulling her wrists further and further past each other. She loves the sensation when it is as tight as she can manage. The Medieval scene it conjures up when her arms are thus helpless is no longer of the mason on his scaffold, chiselling away at a stone cherub high up in the fan-vaulting, but of a thronging crowd of peasants who have abandoned their fields bringing food and drink in leathern bags, to come and enjoy the thrilling spectacle of 'justice' being done...
She manages one more refinement. Her fingers tug at the broad leather and inch by inch the belt slides through the D-rings and the buckle moves round her hip and across to the front of her belly. She cannot make the belt totally tight. She knows that in conjuction with the rest of her plan her hands can no longer rescue her. She knows how many minutes it takes her to free herself from it, her fingers scrabbling to reach the buckle and then free it: far too many!
But even so it is still too loose for her preference – she wants to feel her wrists immobilised completely, feel the belt pressing tightly against her belly when they struggle vainly to free themselves. But that introduces one more essential element she has been wanting to avoid in her mind, one she knows must be built into her plan. And therefore arranged.
Someone else must be there.
In the final arrangement of her own helplessness another person needs to be there, someone who will demand that she beg him to tighten the belt completely. And it will be so easy for them: with her ankles tied she cannot move from the spot; with her forearms already crossing each other behind her back it will take little strength – and very little time – for that person to give a quick flick of the tail, a little jerk pulling it further through the buckle till the tongue slides naturally into a tighter hole, then safety tuck the dangling tail into the two loops on the broad leather belt. She knows at that moment her knees will be jelly and her nerves will make her too weak to resist.
But much more than just the 'proper' tightness and helplessness of her arms, she knows what she craves most - what makes the butterflies whirl and dance in her stomach every time she successfully tests more and more of the 'arrangement', slowly making each part of it perfect: she wants to be watched!
Her humiliation cannot be private! The depth of her shame and debasement need to be exposed to other eyes when it happens, her perverted craving witnessed by another – others? Filmed? No more hiding, no more concealment: she has known for several years since she first truly grasped the extent of her submissiveness, and the terrible alluring thought first popped unbidden into her head – that she is worthless. Slowly she has come to accept that she was destined by Nature to be fit for one purpose only: to serve men's most secret lusts.
She understands now that there is no part of her that remains 'pure'; she is a slave to her desire to satisfy the most perverted and vicious urges that some men require to achieve orgasm. Any man. Preferably a stranger. She does not want the men she meets to feel anything for her, only to be possessed by the growing excitement in their own cocks. Whatever serves that, she exists to be. Never is she more excited than when some man wants her to do some shocking new thing she hasn't experienced before, requires her to... compels her to.
Her rule has become simple: what they want I must want.
In the past she has sought out men she believed understood that. But merely 'understanding it' was not enough: she has no desire to be pandered to. Occasionally – rarely - she finds a man who both understands and is himself excited by precisely that about her, who sees in her slim pretty attractively-feminised body the potential to explore sweet and forbidden whims of his own. Men who recognise that her only route to sexual pleasure now is the strength and intensity of their orgasms when they have no inhibitions about revealing their true desires. She has no need of orgasms herself now. Only theirs matter.
Now she practices and perfects the final details of her device. Ankles unbound, hands freed, she tests that stool. But now with the noose in place. She reaches out for the other length of the rope, coming down behind the other cross-bar. CLATTER! The sack tumbles, pulling the rope through her sweating palms. She lets it release. A little jerk and sudden tightness at her neck – but she only rises to the balls of her feet. A little more effort and the noose is no longer taut. No good. Delicate adjustments are made to the weight of the ballast; she knows precisely how much more she is adding.
Too much!! She is instantly terrified, knowing just a few more grammes could have snapped her neck as her feet swing clear of the floor. She cannot lift the sack alone. Certainly not with one hand! Her hands leap upwards to the bar above her head; she must fight like a tigress, cling to the bar with one hand and claw at the noose - now slack but still tight round her neck – with the other to get it loose enough to scrape over her head and off. That was close, too close!
More adjustments. This is to be a show, a performance; it must not be over in an instant. The watchers must see and enjoy her predicament, her humiliation, her ever-increasing abasement and only then, finally, slowly, her total surrender to their whim. The sweet moment when they - they and she – know she is about to give them everything their sex-slave can offer. Every last drop of excitement and pleasure they can wring from her swaying exhausted body.
It must last as long as she can possibly make it last. Her terror must reach a fever-pitch, must have enough time to do so. However long that is, she knows it will seem like an eternity to her. She hugs that thought to herself. If there is a Purgatory, a Hell, perhaps she will spend Eternity living those last frantic moments. Knowing what she considers herself to be, that would be fitting – an eternity of those seconds of final submission, that exposure of the obscene perversity of her nature. It must be known, revealed to someone in this world first.
So she must get that weight just right - so that as it slides downwards the noose tightens... tightens... begins to drag her body upwards, up on tiptoe, then the ropes on her ankles lift off the floor, force her straining legs to part as she keeps rising, her toes barely touching the ground any more, and then finally her entire bodyweight in thrall to that merciless rope round her delicate neck as it slides up... up... until the bag settles gently onto the floor and her feet dangle above the cement...
Not yet! Not yet!!
Skillful at this now, she reaches past her head, grabs the rope, pulls herself to the bar and frees her aching choking neck. She lowers herself, almost falls to the floor gasping. There are still a few more trials, just a few. She knows the reality is much closer now. And once all is ready, once she has mastered all that she must, what then? How long will she be able to resist the urgent, delicious, sweet-as-a-ripe-strawberry temptation of it then? How long will she be capable of refusing it what it demands? Not long, she's certain... not long.
She sets up her tablet on the table and films her final checks. Tying her ankles. Fastening that belt on her cuffs – that's hard, but she's getting better, slicker at it, quicker. Trying it again, this time with the blindfold on. Much harder at first, but then she realises the hard part all happens behind her back anyway; with or without the blindfold she must do it by feel. With her feet slightly parted and held by those ropes the trick is not to lose her balance as she wrestles with the belt. All the time the bag sits on the stool – but the noose dangles emptily beside her head.
She trembles in the dark, feels her limbs' helplessness – and her rising excitement – literally rising! She is picturing it in her mind. The noose's rough fibres caress her cheek making her shiver.
Kick! Clatter! THUMP! Unweighted by anything, the bag drops with a thud to the floor. There is no jerk round her neck, no tightness, yet that 'thud' makes her heart stop; her thighs and calves tauten instantly; her stomach is a knot of fear and excitement. Even without the sensation of the rope round her neck she almost wets herself when she relaxes!
One final test awaits. When she has regained her composure she sets about it. First she must wriggle the belt buckle round behind herself to free it. She sets up the stool again, lugs and puffs to get the weight perfectly balanced on it. No mistakes! This time she has set up another smaller stool just beside her feet. She sits on the floor and does the familiar knots on the ropes at her ankles, enjoying how well she has got the length of them 'just so'; their length never varies now by more than a few milimetres. The knots are tight but won't cut off the circulation until... until that won't matter any more.
Next the belt is loosely buckled round her waist so it is to hand when she's ready, the blindfold also tucked into it. She steps on the smaller stool. Now she has enough height. Gingerly, carefully, she slides the noose over her head. Just enough slack to do so. Did she get the length right? She must have by now, surely? She steps carefully off the stool, gently tightening the noose with her hands as her high-heeled sandals settle onto the floor. Yes, just right: the noose touches her throat all the way round, the hangman's knot going upwards behind her head (not to one side: she is to be strangled by it, not 'hanged'). The hessian rope is slightly taut, secure on her neck but not enough to constrict her breath.
Very carefully but firmly she kicks the smaller stool away from her feet. It skitters a couple of yards across the cement. That potential comforter has gone. Now the blindfold goes on. Already she feels her pulse begin to quicken and race. With the small stool out of reach, her ankles firmly trapped and with feet apart, the bag poised on the stool behind her, the disorientating darkness... she begins to feel giddy. No! She must stay calm: the hardest bit comes next and she must have steady hands and a steady body.
A single careless jerk now and... even though her wrists are not yet secured her ankles are. But then that may save her if the worst happens. She'll get the leverage from her secured feet to grab the rope and pull that weight back upwards. If she can hold it long enough to free the noose. But only for a few minutes more, while her hands are still free.
She does what she has to. Working at the belt. All the time she is thinking: 'Why am I doing this? Why!?... Because I must. I cannot stop myself. So many times I have thought of it, each time more strongly, experimented and taken risks with it, inventing and refining the means in my imagination. Each time seeing myself, seeing what others will see when it finally happens. That's all I have to do right now: just imagine that some man might get pleasure from seeing me like this, (belt looped on right cuff) and that's enough to make me crave with every part of myself to be the sex-doll he can watch doing it.
A little cross-dressed feminised slut so empty-headed that the hot buzzy thrill her skinny pricklet is getting right now is strong enough to block out everything else but the overwhelming desire to go to any length to please him. Dying to please him... Showing him how urgent that perverse dirty depraved thrill inside her is. Letting him see a little tart – nothing more than that – just a provocative half-naked sissy tart teasing him with the prospect of it. Through coquettish half-closed eyes, daring him to do it - to make her do it – till he can no longer stand it (tail slid through left cuff D-ring)...'
Her knees are quaking now. Keep still, bitch!!! (Fingers fiddle with the buckle and the tail) Keep still!
'I want him to see every wanton secret, see me expose what a stupid sex-mad sissy bimbo I am, with nothing held back. I want him to see in my face that he need feel no shame, not the smallest scruple of conscience about his secret desire, such a taboo desire... this doll-faced whore before him is egging him on. "Look!" she's saying "See what I am! See what I am! We have no secrets. I'm here for you to play with... and there are no limits on our games... are there?" (the tongue slides through a hole in the tail and clinks softly against the buckle. The noose, and the feeling in her tummy become the centre of her being).
It will be worth it to her, she thinks. (Her body sways as she attempts to find a tighter hole. The terror in her chest leaps up as the rope snatches a little at the soft white skin of her neck) Will it??? She knows that however long it may seem to last for her, for the men it will just be a few minutes' thrill. A good one, she hopes, a fabulous one but still... just a few minutes, and then they'll go back to their daily lives. She will not.
In her own mind now that is right, correct, 'fitting'. That is how little she is worth; her life, her hopes, her possible futures all shredded to nothing – to serve their orgasms. It is a fair price, to fulfill what she sees as her function and her destiny. She deserves no more. Brief though it may be, their pleasure and excitement settles the bill. In full.
She has only one hope she cannot be assured of: that they will remember it, the pretty little jerking, dancing 'rope-slut' they used – and used up. Drinking in her mounting ecstasy of terror as the noose slowly strangles her. If after a little while they cannot even recall her face, at least they should remember her writhing body and the intensity of their own orgasms as their seed goes leaping over her skirt, her stocking-clad legs, her sandals... and drips off her in the silence that follows, slowly forming a pool of it on the floor beneath her.
She knows the day is coming. That ever-more-desperate urge to reveal to the world what she truly is, how much she craves utter submission to her fate, the depth of what she sees as her own depravity and perversion, how total her humiliation will be in her final moments (slowly she works the belt buckle round to the front of her belly, far away from her fingers), knowing how her body will be found and everything that will say about her... all the things she never dared say to anyone before.
If only there were a man there to watch her... One? Ten!! To hear them calling out 'Kick the stool, girl! Go on, kick it!' If only they were there, she would show them that she would serve anyone. Anyone. She stands there for a while, heart pounding, thinking only of the sack, of eyes gazing greedily at her. For twenty minutes she stands motionless, her breath shallow and quick, scared in the darkness, her prick as stiff as a board.
Then she begins to work the belt buckle gently back round. It takes a long time.
Her work on the device is done now. All tests complete. She can think of no reasons why it will not do what she has designed it to do. Sometimes she comes downstairs, sits at the table and and just gazes at it. She leaves it alone though. She must at all costs fight off the urge to play with it just for the thrill of the danger she is in. It is not a toy! It is not a game. It has one purpose – and that purpose is not her private pleasure.
Over the next few days she edits what she has filmed. Then she goes to a website. A password. Another site within the first. Another password. Another even deeper and more obscure within that. She has had to teach herself all this, how to find what she needs. Who she needs...
She stares at her own page for an hour, thinking and thinking. She isn't dressed properly. She sits down again half an hour later, smooths her tricel skirt over her stocking-tops. Still her finger hesitates.
'UPLOAD'
She knows she will probably hear from the first one tonight. Maybe more than one. This kind of news travels fast in the subterranean tunnels of this murky underworld. Down here people have acute hearing. They will slink from crypts and sepulchres, sidle up alongside her in the darkness.
'Nice vid! Just a game, baby-slut? Or... more....?'
The contraption waits. Now it is done it has become like a feral animal, hunting her down through her sleeping and waking dreams. Pursuing her. When she stares at it she feels guilty – guilty! She hears it growling:
'I am ready. Ready to be used. But like you, I too am useless, worthless – just junk, sand, wood, hessian, steel - unless I am being used. Like you, that is what I exist for... I am here to be used on you. Now you must arrange for others we can be used by. I am waiting...'
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