The Listener's Dance

by Finality

    A battered horse-drawn wagon rolls to a stop at the base of the weathered steps.  Perched back-to-back on raised seats that have ensured visibility to the joyous townsfolk during the trip, the two prisoners in the bed of the vehicle lift their eyes to mine for an instant.  From behind my coarse black mask, I watch as they shiver in unison, swallow their dread, then refocus on the pair of nooses rocking in the breeze behind me.

    I recognize the leftmost lass--Regan Addison they call her, a regular at Smiley's Tavern, which is rare for one of her stock.  Short and round, she tries to sit with dignity in her white and red dress, despite having her outstretched arms bound to a wooden beam and her bare feet spread in heavy stocks.  A lock of jaw-length brown hair clings to her right cheek, stuck there by a mixture of tears and sweat.  Her full lips settle around the thick leather strap between her teeth, and her damp chin glistens under the furious midday sun.

    Her companion I have never before seen, though the surname name is quite familiar.  The sinister Normanson's have lived in Yarholm for more than a century, having gained great influence and wealth in the wake of Elric Normanson the Third's banishing of a demonic horde, which history suggests would have destroyed the town otherwise.  After the war, Elric announced the establishment of a sacred ward designed to prevent any further attacks from beyond, but over the years the family grew secretive and, some might say, corrupt.  As a result, recent events surrounding the youngest Normanson daughter are all the more scandalous and interesting.

    Truth be known, many seem exceptionally pleased at the conviction of one normally regarded as untouchable.  Even as the young lass sits poised to swing at the end of a rope, I have no doubt that her noble father and grandfather lobby Count Dixon for a reprieve, surely invoking the name of Elric and his mysterious ancient sorcery, fear-mongering at its finest.

    Still condemned for the moment, Cara Normanson faces the rear of the cart, her arms bound to the opposite side of the same wood that braces her friend.  She wears a similar dress, dyed gray and blue, the left sleeve having collected a dusting of pollen.  Unlike Regan, Cara is thin and pale, holding her head up with what seems like great effort.  Raven-black hair tumbles to the center of her back, lustrous in stark contrast to her face, an expression so dead it's as if she has already danced for me and been loaded for transport to the cemetery.  Strangely, she does not appear to have wept during her fateful ride from the dungeon, though somehow her empty stare strikes me as even more profound.

    Two guards climb into the wagon and, after some indecision, move first to Regan.  While one holds her by the hair, the other frees her from the beam and stocks, then they work together in easing her to the edge of the bed and down to the dusty ground.  Gathering her skirt in two hands, she glances at the nooses again then takes tentative steps toward the awaiting gallows.

    Both girls being of noble birth, they are actually privileged this day to have been driven through town in nice clothes, rather than dragged naked by the ankles as is the usual fate of condemned commoners.  Nevertheless, all such paths end with a gasp, regardless of how one arrives here, so I certainly cannot fault them for their apprehension, but only for the misdeeds that led them here.

    Seeming resigned to her fate and unwilling to shame her family further with resistance, Regan climbs toward me of her own accord and pauses to look through my mask after clearing the final stair.   Short as she is, the top of her head not reaching even my shoulders, she has to lift her chin in order to meet my eyes.  She does not know me, and I cannot say for certain whether she would recognize me even without my official disguise, but her round, tear-stained face betrays more than her fear.  No, she doesn't know me, but she knows something.

    I reach down and seize the collar of her dress.  She stiffens but doesn't fight, and I tear the expensive fabric apart with one vicious motion.  Denied the use of a corset or any manner of undergarment, Regan is helpless as her large breasts swing free in the summer air.  Conscious of the view but undeterred by it, I then pull the sleeves from her thick arms and work the top of her skirt over wide hips, unveiling a recently-shaved pubic region.  She whimpers through her gag as the gathered townsfolk applaud her nakedness, but she keeps her back straight and maintains her composure even when I command her to step out of the colorful cloth now piled around her feet.

    Once she has cleared the dress, I take her arm and lead her to the front of the platform, where the crowd can now get a clear view of the condemned.  Holding her in place by the hair and ensuring that she stands with her legs spread, I force her to endure the taunts and curses for several minutes, as is customary during public executions.  She sheds fresh tears but takes the torment as well as anyone.

    When content that she cannot be humiliated further within the confines of law, I march her behind the wooden stool that rests beneath the rightward noose.  While she stares through the loop, I cross her wrists behind her back and tie them firmly with thin rope.  Though she makes two tights fists when the unforgiving material bites her flesh, she accepts the bondage calmly.

    I double up a second rope and stretch it above her breasts, around her upper arms.  Between her shoulder blades, I pass the two free ends through the loop and cinch it down against her spine.  I then proceed to wrap most of the remaining length around her, three layers above her tits and three below, fastening her arms to her body.  Before finishing, I separate the ends and use them to pull the layers together near her armpits, clamping her breasts and causing them to swell, then I finally tie a square knot over the original cinch point.

    With a much shorter third rope, I connect her wrist bonds to the harness, tugging her hands up near the middle of her back.  She moans, but I am impressed with how far she is able to go, as she does not strike me as the pliable type.  When I complete the final cinch, she flexes her arms one time, works her fingers, then hangs her head in defeat.

    One hand holding her hair again, the other pinching her left nipple to ensure obedience, I urge Regan to step onto the stool in front of her.  She shakes her head, mumbles, "I'm innocent," behind her gag, then bends her right leg.  A second later she is standing about a half-meter off the ground, finally able to appraise me at eye level.

    I quickly seize the noose and slip it over her head before she can recoil.  She stands limply as I tighten the knot near her ear and then take up as much slack as possible from between her neck and the overhead crossbeam, then she spreads her chubby legs as far as she can on the narrow stool, sacrificing dignity for stability.  I pat her hairless crotch with my gloved hand, thank her for cooperating, then turn my attention back to the wagon.

    At the base of the steps, the guards are holding Cara Normanson by her arms.  I crook a finger, and they instruct her to climb.  She does so slowly, stumbling twice, but reaches the apex without collapsing or panicking.  Nearly my height, she folds her hands behind her back and watches me dully as I reach for the front of her dress.  Her eyes seem dead already.  I think she is utterly mad.

    I pull from the shoulders and tear the material down.  Like Regan, Cara wears no support, and her modest breasts tremble as I bare them before the town.  At the slender girl's waist, I pause to undo a snug sash then finish stripping her with speedy efficiency.  Her pale nude body, though thin, features lusciously-curved hips, wondrous legs and a smooth crotch shaved so recently by the prison matrons that small red marks still stand out.

    With a fistful of Cara's long black hair, I guide her to the front of the platform and let the townsfolk unleash their verbal wrath for a moment, then I pull the prisoner over to the one remaining stool.

    She does not stare at the noose as I bind her, but instead stands with her feet slightly apart and looks at the old planks underfoot.  Repeating my previous procedure, I cinch her wrists and then tie her upper arms by running rope around her body then closing down the sections until her breasts are pinched between them.  Her small nipples protrude as beads of sweat run over them.  As with her friend, I add a third rope to connect her wrists to her harness, and she proves most supple, allowing me to wrench her hands up to the middle of her back and pin them there, completely denying her all use of her arms.

    Once bound, she doesn't struggle or await guidance, but immediately places a bare foot on the stool and transports herself up to the noose.  I accommodate her eagerness and drape the loop around her slender neck.  She even tilts her head sideways to ensure I am able to tighten it properly.

    My preparations finished, the Yarholm magistrate's clerk climbs onto the platform, places himself in front of the condemned young women and motions for the gathered populace to be silent.  Per ancient law, I remove the prisoners' gags so they may give their last words, then I step aside to wait.  My only remaining tasks are to hang them and cut the corpses down afterward.

    "Regan Addison, daughter of Myles the Fourth," says the clerk, "you stand guilty of communing with spirits, practicing the forbidden arts and murder.  The magistrate has declared that, on this day, you will hang by your neck until you are dead.  Do you have any last words?"

    Regan weeps and repeats, "I'm innocent," clearly and loudly this time.

    The clerk waits to see if she cares to elaborate.  When she doesn't, he looks at Cara.

    "Cara Normanson, daughter of Harold, you stand guilty of communing with spirits, practicing the forbidden arts and murder.  The magistrate has declared that, on this day, you will hang by your neck until your are dead.  Do you have any last words?"

    Cara nods.  "Yes, I do, but they are for my executioner and for him alone.  I will be grateful if he will step to me, as I am unable to approach him for reasons that should be obvious."

    The clerk frowns and glances at me.  This has never happened before.  With a shrug, I walk to the bound, naked woman and stop before her.  She looks down at me, and the blank stare she has maintained since arriving sends a shiver through my body.

    A collective grumble passes through the assembly.

    Feeling utterly exposed despite my mask, I ask, "What?"

    "My father has spent the last month appealing to an ignorant, stubborn count," she says softly.  "It has now come to this, my final plea to the man who is tasked with ending my life, in hopes that he will see reason when his lord refuses to."

    "Your time is short, prisoner.  Speak quickly."

    "Very well.  Do you know who I am?"

    "According to the death warrant, you are Cara Normanson."

    "Yes, you know my name, but do you know what that name entails?  Do you know what we have done in Yarholm for a hundred years?"

    "Amassed wealth and power on the coattails of your ancestor, like so many other nobles."

    Cara squints, the first change in her expression.  "Our ancestor, Elric, allegedly cast a ward that banished the demons threatening to lay waste to this town in an ancient war.  What few outside my family are aware of, however, is that he neither cast such a ward nor banished a single demon.  On the contrary, he struck a bargain with the demonic lords."

    "Pffft," I reply.  "Impossible.  Demons don't keep bargains, especially not for a hundred years."

    "You recount a fairy tale, not the actual way of things.  Demons are much like us, with the capacity to be rational or not, to keep their promises or not.  When something is to their benefit, they are no more likely to deceive or renege that you are, I daresay."

    "So humor me, prisoner.  What was this mythical bargain that saved Yarholm from the evil horde, even when everyone at the time believed it a ward granted to Elric from the gods and never wrote otherwise?  Tell me, please."

    "The demon lords demand a sacrifice every half-decade.  A single listener from my family is chosen by the demons every new generation, and the listener is duty-bound to perform the necessary rituals to facilitate the sacrifice.  The process culminates in the chosen being lured by those of demon blood to the ritual site, usually by seduction.  There, he or she will be transported to the demonic plane.  There is only one such listener at any given time.  Presently, I am she."

    "So you admit that you are about to hang justly.  Why are we talking?"

    "Hear me out.  I am legally entitled to speak these words."

    "Yes, go on."

    Cara shifts her bare feet on the rickety stool and wiggles against the rope squeezing her breasts.  "The sacrificed individuals are not killed.  They are taken by the demons for reproduction, as hybrid children are able to travel between the planes more easily.  These offspring are used in seducing more humans for breeding and for breeding amongst themselves.  It helps the demonic race maintain a foothold in this world.  In other words, far from creating a ward against the demons, Elric the Third facilitated a continuing demonic presence in exchange for the sparing of Yarholm.  He was not a holy man.  He didn't deal with the gods.  He dealt with the demons!"

    "Fantasy," I object.

    "Listen!" she continues.  "If you kill me, then there will be no listener.  The demons will be cut off from their source of sacrifices, their reproductive lifeline in our world.  They will know immediately, because they are always in my head.  I hear them.  Constantly.  I am a slave.  Do you think I want this?  Do you think I do as I do because I choose to?  I welcome death, sir.  You will do me a great favor by executing me today, ending these tortuous voices that speak to me without end.  But in doing so, you will condemn Yarholm.  The demonic retaliation for my death will be swift and final--all sacrificed, everyone, rather than one every five years.  They will summon their power and materialize here--hybrids, purebreds, as many as can manage.  The gods will eventually notice and send them back, I hope, but not in time to save the city.  Only you can prevent this slaughter by seeing that I do not die in this noose.  Rescue me.  I beg you.  Not because I want to live, but because you do."

    I take a step forward and nod toward Regan, who watches with interest.

    "If your tale has the slightest truth to it," I say, "why the accomplice?"

    Cara smiles sadly.  "Lovers share their pain, and she has helped me with mine.  She had no hand in any ritual.  She couldn't.  Would you hang a man for jumping when he has no legs?  Regan cannot commune with spirits or practice the forbidden arts.  Her only crime was being with me.  Even if you execute me justly, you murder her for nothing."

    I reply, "This is a ploy, lass--an elaborate one, yes, but nonetheless a ploy.  You aren't the first person to weave a fantastic tale of innocence on these gallows.  Your last words have been squandered on nonsense."

    "Isn't my story at least plausible, worthy of consideration?  Will you condemn your friends and family for no other reason than the pleasure of watching me die?  Please...."

    "This conversation is over, milady.  If you've no more tale-telling, it is time for you to hang."

    "My death will be the death of you all!" Cara cries loudly, no longer addressing just me.  "I promise you this!  The veil between the planes will falter, and Yarholm will fall under shadow for the rest of time!"

    She stops and stares at the crowd waiting to see her die.  Their reaction consists of groans, dismissive hand waves and shaking heads, and I see the look of surrender creep into her face.  She accepts her fate now.  The silly ruse is over.

    Slipping between the two women, I take up my position behind them.  The clerk looks at me quizzically, and I nod once.

    "Let it be written that the law has been fulfilled," he announces.  "Sentence upon the guilty will now be carried out."

    I step directly to Regan Addison and place a boot against the edge of the wooden stool keeping her alive.  A small sound of primal terror escapes her lips, and her full thighs and buttocks tremble.

    "Beautiful, I love you," Cara says.  "You're all I ever wanted, and I'm sorry that my love has led you here."

    "I would have it no other way," Regan answers with a tremor.  "I cherish every moment spent with you.  I love you, darling, and I hope the gods are merciful and see fit to reunite us on the other side."

    "If there is any good left in the universe, they will.  Go bravely, lover."

    "And you, Cara."

    As the Normanson daughter closes her eyes and looks away, I tip the stool out from under her partner.  The rope is already taut, so Regan experiences only the slightest of drops.  She gags loudly for several seconds, kicking with her plump legs and struggling vainly against the restraints on her wrists and arms.  Her neck strains against the tightening noose, and her cute round face turns pink, then red.  Her tongue swells inside her mouth, and she spends the last of her air spitting and drooling before the cruel rope cuts off her windpipe completely.  As she spins and dances for the enraptured crowd, her bound breasts turn a dark shade of purple, the large nipples standing firm.

    Moving on, I place myself behind Cara and put a boot between her feet.  Her slender legs are spread for balance, giving me a fine rear view of her shaved sex.  I wonder how many times Regan's mouth has been there, how many times Cara's mouth has closed around busty Regan's erect tits.

    "The demons will feast on your heart," Cara tells me, "but only after you have watched them rape and dismember your wife.  They do not lie to me.  I'm so sorry."

    I kick the stool, and it tumbles, tumbles, tumbles off the front edge of the platform.

    Cara's knees lock when her noose closes, her legs now dangling freely, feet flexing, toes pointing down.  She shivers and rages against her bondage, a violent display for such a frail girl.  Forceful gurgles grate against the back of her throat, and she spits, slobbers and gags as her duly-earned strangulation commences.

    This is what the nobles deserve, I think, all of them.  Nothing like a naked Normanson and a naked Addison, side by side, sputtering at the ends of their ropes.

    To the right, Regan's half-minute fight has left her weak and disoriented.  Her wild legs now hang mostly straight, bending slightly ever few beats, sluggishly seeking the safety of the floor planks that lay just out of reach.  Her head is tilted far to the right, and her mouth is shut tightly as the noose digs beneath her jaw.  Splotches of blood have appeared on her face, and a small amount has trickled from her nose.  Though still open, her eyes seem dull and unfocused.

    While Cara battles fiercely, I place my hands on the fading Regan's wide hips and turn her toward the audience.  I hold her spasm-wracked body for them, and the people cheer.  When her bladder releases, splattering the stained wood under the noose where many have met such an end, the cheers only intensify.

    Knowing the girl has all but expired, I spin her suspended body around, displaying my handiwork for the onlookers.  I spread her buttocks with my hands and shake the plump flesh vigorously.  Everyone laughs, and I smile.  I love this part of my job.

    To the left, Cara pisses herself also, streaming fluid down the insides of her legs even as she continues stretching for a reprieve.  Behind her back, she twists her wrists violently.  Blood coats her hands and forearms.  Her eyes are narrow, neither fully closed nor fully open.  Her darkened aspect, tilted toward the sky, seems mildly engorged.

    I release Regan and take Cara by the waist, forcing her to look at the townsfolk one last time.  She fights me, still conscious enough to understand what I am doing, but she drifts away as the crowd roars approvingly at her nude dance.  Her legs relax, and she stops pulling against her bonds.  Crushed in the noose, her trim neck seems to have stretched a bit, but the tension now eases from the beleaguered muscles.

    Angered by her final remark to me, I locate a spare length of rope and use it as a whip, flogging Cara's bottom, cunt and breasts as she dies.  Red welts appear on her creamy flesh, but she rotates in lazy silence, no longer able to care.  When my arm aches from the effort, I tie the rope just above her hips and pull the free end through her bald crotch, splitting her sex.  Then I run the strand up between her buttocks and knot it tightly against her lower back.

    Taking hold of the section dividing her ass, I draw her limp body toward me then throw her forward.  She swings high, then low, back and forth, spinning quickly with the makeshift flogger now cutting into her worthless cunt.  And it is worthless, not just because she is dead, but because she was fucking another woman.  A woman!  An affront to nature if ever there was one.  She deserves this fate for that alone, in spite of her other heinous crimes.  What decent man has been deprived of proper relations and a family because this spirit-communing harlot gave her cunt to another lass?

    I hate her.  Her comment about my wife pushed me over some mental edge, and now I want nothing more than to abuse Cara's naked body.  It's a shame she is already gone, as I wish she could have felt the sting of being whipped while struggling to breathe, to know exactly what was happening as I roped up her cunt and made her a plaything for the town's amusement.

    I'm of half a mind to free my cock and give both Cara and Regan a taste of a man as they journey to the afterlife.  Gods know I'm hard enough to fuck them both, even if they're dead.  But my wife is likely somewhere in the massive crowd.  She understands that entertaining the assembly is part of the job, but that tolerance is unlikely to extend to me having sexual relations in public with women I have just executed.  As such, my bulging manhood will have to wait for my lovely Yvette.  She's in for some punishment when I get home, and I expect she will enjoy every minute of it.

    Suddenly, my audience loses interest.  First the rear ranks of the crowd look away, then the others follow.  I am distracted, and Cara's corpse swings back and collides with me.  I seize her crotch harness to steady her.  The congregation falls silent, and I step up between the dead women to listen also.

    Far in the distance, rising as little more than a tinny ping relative to a stirring wind, the great alarm bell atop the western gate sounds.

    Though I cannot know what is true firsthand, Yarholm's historical records claim that the great bell has been silent for over one hundred years, having last tolled during the demonic war ended by Elric Normanson the Third.  Today it rings once again, and I stand numbly beside the hanged corpse of his progeny.