There's nothing inherently tedious about working for the state. I, for one, love it. I've been in this line of work for at least a decade, and it never, ever seemed dull or ordinary. Then again, that might just indicate that I was born to be an executioner.

Today's batch is huddled together in the waiting area, hands and feet shackled, full of anticipation. Two adulterous women scheduled for hanging - their nakedness indicates the nature of the crime and the blue color-coded wristband the manner of death; and a man that could be a deserter of some sort, because his build and resolute demeanor suggests military training, and his color is green - scheduled for shooting. Under that calm and collected facade of his, I can smell fear, and I can't help but smile. I decide that he'll watch the women in their death throes: even if it arouses him, it will also be an image of his own end, exacerbating his anxiety.

The women are cowering openly, clinging to each other. One is a delicate, but not underfed brunette, with well-cared-for nails and big, cute doe eyes. Beneath the round breasts, each a good handful, her chest is rising and falling in an almost exaggerated way, gasping for breath before she can't draw air any longer. She's in her twenties, if that. No wonder her case got reported; the newly married are less prone to tolerance towards infidelity. Her companion seems more mature, but still not a wilted flower; a short-haired blonde, deliciously plump, with curves that remind one of the shape of an acoustic guitar. She has soft boobs and hard hands, blade-thin lips and square jaws, reminiscent of the Aryan peasant women of old, doing the hard work to feed the rest of the world. Tears of shame trickle down from her steel-grey eyes as she tries to cover herself in an almost endearing, belated attempt at modesty.

Without a word, I grab the blonde by the arm. The touch reminds her where she is, and she looks at me with a begging expression - one that I've seen many times before. I lead her to the stand; she's not resisting, she knows it's no use. She trembles a little as she steps up on the slightly raised square of granite under the gallows. I put the noose over her head, adjusting it behind her left ear, stroking her muscular neck. The old cord is slick from the friction it has gone through in previous use, it will tighten very quickly. I remove the shackles from her hands and feet and step back to admire the view. She gives me a frantic look, wanting to have the ordeal behind her. I push the green button in the side of the gallows for elevation, and the rope slides back into the slot, dragging her upward. She tries to stand on tiptoes, but is soon lifted from the stand, dancing on air. Gurgling sounds emerge from her compressed throat, and her face slowly turns purplish red. Her buttocks quiver as she kicks about, her hands try in vain to grasp something. Then her struggle is disorganized into a convulsion, as the oxygen-deprived brain starts failing to function. The fear in her eyes gives way to the vacant stare of the dying and the dead; her tongue hangs out, bluish and swelling. Her body is jerking uncontrollably...then gradually slows down. Only irregular, weak wriggles remain, and then even those cease, and she gently sways, relaxed, motionless. She wets herself, the tiny golden river trickling down on her legs, dripping from her feet. I wait for any last, feeble kicks, but see none. She's completely limp, her neck stretched out beautifully by the cord, her toes pointing straight down. I take a step towards her, picking up the auscultation device from a nearby table. I catch the last, irregular beats of her heart, then the silence of death. I'm aroused, but still have work to do, so I control myself as I lower her down with the other button to almost a kneel, preparing to take the noose off. A sly little fumbling with the heavy-set body allows for a good tactile assessment of her perfect proportions. I set the corpse on the tray behind the gallows, and turn back to attend the next client.

The brunette is in a panic; seeing the other woman die was too much for her. She tries to bolt, but trips and starts to fall because of her feet are tied. I catch her and hold her firmly, dragging her towards the stand with little difficulty. This is also a familiar reaction, especially in the young ones. She fights, but to no avail. I don't remove the shackles this time, to avoid complications. She tries to reach up and take the noose off as I position it behind her ear. It's amusing, really, to see reason run screaming and the animal's instinct take over. She screams as my hand reaches for the button...and her wailing is cut off by the cord tightening around her neck. She struggles against her bonds, strains with every little drop of strength left in her, but the exertion only quickens the process. Despite her lower weight, she fades into unconscious convulsions sooner, and they slacken slightly faster as well. Soon, she is straightened out, her face frozen into the familiar expression of death, her fists clenched forever. By the time I check her heart, it's completely still. Cold sweat forms a film on her pale, spotless skin, nipples still erect from the excitement. I take her down and lay her next to the blonde.

Now, finally, the man. As I suspected, he is shaken by what he's just seen, torn between arousal and dread, tense and on the verge of mental overload. Before he could distance himself from the reality of what is coming, I shake him and tell him it's time. He gathers his last reserves of self-control, and stands up. I tell him to kneel down on the square red plastic floor cover in the corner. He follows my orders; regardless, I leave the handcuffs on, because with these guys you never know. I reach to my waist and take my trusted old Colt 1911 out of its holster. I grab it with both hands, pointing it right between his baby blues. He stares at me like a frightened child, all layers of control and training dissolving into nothing. My finger rests on the trigger. For a very long moment, I just savor the feeling of power, almost as arousing as the sight of the two women writhing and dying. Then with a calculated pull, I send the .45 round through his skull. His brain is splattered all over the plastic covering on the floor and the wall before he could even hear the thunder or feel the impact. His blood is sprayed all over my hands. I take his clothes off and set his remains on the tray, registering the slight angel lust with a smile. I will hose down the corner and the stand later, that's none of my concern right now. As for the moment, I have three bodies to play with, and my own is bursting with lust...