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The aristocratic hangman
Posted: 18-Aug-2011 - 3 comment(s) [ Comment ] - 0 trackback(s) [
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Category: Hanging fiction
The Founding of the House of Vanois

(A family history written by the first Duke of Vanois)

Purse-slitting was a fine art. You slipped up behind the man, a short,
razor sharp knife palmed in your fist. You spotted where the bag of
coins hung from his belt -- no one had thought of putting pockets in
pants yet -- and, when he was distracted, put a slice in the bottom of
the bag. Then you grabbed the coins and kept moving. If all went
smoothly, it might be hours before he realized his pouch was empty.

The girl didn't have the technique down. She waited for her victim to
cheer the King as he passed, but then she picked one with too full a
pouch, and the coins overflowed her hand. Others in the crowd grabbed
her before the last gold Louis hit the cobblestones. A couple of the
King's Archers came over to seize the prisoner.

Ordinarily, she could have looked forward to a swift and perfunctory
trial before she paid the price of theft. But she had been caught
red-handed in the presence of the King himself. A breach of the King's
peace was summarily punishable by Henri himself, and he had ordered her
to be hanged forthwith. He could not himself stay: there was a voyage to
begin. The hangman knew it must be important. Louis had often remarked
that he knew but four fine sights -- a priest at the altar, a soldier in
the field, a beautiful woman in bed, and a thief on the gallows.

The hangman moved quickly. The two archers had finished binding her
hands behind her back, and were ready to turn her over. He could see
that she was young, maybe 18, probably still in her apprenticeship as a cutpurse. Long red hair and a pretty figure were nicely set off by a
simple green dress. Her light skin was pale with shock. A few seconds
before she had been on the verge of copping a fistful of gold: now she
was gallows bait. She was still trying to babble out an explanation:
someone else had slit the purse and then was frightened away, she had
just tried to keep the man's gold from falling.

It might even have been true, he reflected, but that made no difference
in the face of a royal command. "Let me have her," the hangman told the archers. Turning to her, he said simply, "You have had your trial,
before the King himself. Let's get it over with." He slid the noose from
his belt (you kept one ready when attending the King). It was just a
slipknot in four feet of hemp, easy to carry and good enough for a
criminal. At the sight of it the girl leapt back and gasped: only the
archers holding her bound arms kept her in place.

"I pray thee ... not this," she begged.

A pretty young lass, barely beginning her life, pleading for its full
span. In the fullness of time she might become a wife and a mother, and
die decades from now in bed, surrounded by her descendants. Aye, the
hangman thought, he had ended too many of those, but it was his job.
That was not her fate: she would die today, spinning and squirming in
anguish while dangling on public display, a proof of the King's justice.

The hangman slid the noose over her head; she struggled, but the archers
held her firm. He got it in place, the knot snugged under her chin, her
hair still inside its grasp; the details could be worked out at the
gallows. "I've got her now, you can release her." The archers let go and
the hangman worked through the crowd, already thinning out as it
followed the King. He used the noose as a choke collar to pull her
behind him. The members of the crowd opened a way for him. Many looked
with pity toward his young victim, who was weeping and still trying to
persuade them of her innocence.

Three blocks to the gallows, and he had to force her most of the way.
With hands bound and the noose gripping her neck when she balked, she

had little choice, but she used what she had. The rope would tighten as
she dug in her feet, then he would hear her pleading stop as the hemp
cut off her breath, and a few seconds later the rope would go slack as
she gave up and took some more stops, panting before she tried to stop
again. The hangman kept going. There was no sense in being gentle about
it. That just prolonged their fear. It also gave them more chance to
talk, and he did not care to get friendly with someone he, in a few
minutes, would have to turn off and leave dangling and strangling.

At the sight of the gallows she let out a scream and dug her heels into
the cobblestones. The hangman just kept pulling; there was a wheezing
noise and then her voice was silenced. Still she yanked at the rope like
a fish on the line, finally falling face-down in the street. He turned
around and faced her; she began gasping as the line went slack. She lay
there, her green dress spread on the road, her head turned to the side,
gasping and gagging through the folds of her hair. It was a rather thin
dress, the hangman noted with interest. Then, grabbing her by the
shoulders, he lifted her up. He spread the hair out of her face and slid
it over her shoulders, and then pulled at the rope somewhat more gently.
"Come, lass, there is no escaping. It must be done. You only prolong
your fears and your pain by this."

"I will give you anything," she replied, "anything. I will give you what
I never gave my lover. Anything, to escape dying this way." Tears ran
down her cheeks and a bit of foam escaped her mouth as she panted.

It was a tempting offer. She was young and slender, and the light dress
clung to her pale body. Still ... if anyone passed the gallows, and
noticed it was missing its rightful occupant, the hangman himself would
take their place. Louis called his hangman the "first servant of my
Throne," and expected absolute loyalty.

"Let's get it done with," he replied, and a few moments (and struggles)
later they were at the foot of the gallows. Now she fell to her knees,
sobbing. Standing over her, the hangman shifted the knot to the back of
her neck, and pulled the long red hair through it. Still keeping a grip
on the rope, he made sure that the ladder was firmly positioned. They
were ready. He stood her up and turned her around, with her back to him
and the ladder.

It seemed strange, in a way. He was accustomed to working before immense crowds, and the square was entirely empty. The only ones who knew of the execution were those near the King, and they had gone off with the royal procession. Would it be harder or easier on her, he wondered? Was it
easier to dangle without others watching your ignomy and disgrace, or
harder to die without one sympathetic face in view?

He would never find out: she would be the only one who could say, and in
a few moments her throat would be seized by the hemp, whose grip would
not release while she lived.

He lifted her to her feet and she fell back against him. Just as well,
he thought as he mounted the ladder for a few steps, keeping the rope as
taut as he could without stopping her breath. Now came the tricky part.
The first step, the point when they left the earth forever, was the
hardest to coax.

Slowly he pulled the rope tighter. Her sobbing turned to a high squeak
and then ceased. She yanked on the rope, twitching her head forward as
hard as she could. Finally she had to have air, and stepped backward
onto the first rung of the ladder. He'd done it. As the noose loosened,
she gasped in the precious air. He let her have one breath and then
pulled again. This time she could only hold out for a few seconds, and
another rung passed under her.

It took a full minute, but the hangman was now high on the ladder, his shoulders above the crossbeam; the victim's head was between his feet.
He hooked one arm over the beam to steady himself, and prepared for the
final hoist.

He spread his knees and dragged her up between them. Her feet were
between his; being shorter, her head was now just below his chin. He
could feel her soft rump pressing against his loins, her heaving chest
pressed his belly. And, he realized, he was hard as a rock. Well, he
reflected, there is nothing wrong with liking your work.

He cinched the rope around the crossbeam, so that she would die in the traditional place, about a foot of hemp between her and the wooden beam. Glancing around the empty square, he stopped to take in the unusual
sight. They were seeing the view from ten feet up. The experience was
nothing new for him, but for his victims it was a strange sight, and he
let them gaze for a few moments before beginning their last trial. He
thought that it was probably easier to die alone, at least if you had to
die this way. With a woman, the crowds could gape at her loins as her
legs kicked and flew or, worse yet, snapped up. With a man, his erecting codling might push out of its cod-pouch, leaving the ladies to giggle as
it finally sent his seed flying into the air together with his soul. And
for either, there were the stains that told of bladder and bowels
releasing in their body's last agony, the jeering crowds clapping out a
dancing tune as the victim's legs jerked. No, alone would be better,
less degrading. He would be the only witness, and he at least would not
laugh or mock, but simply do his job.

Her hands tied, her neck already linked to the gallows, her feet perched unsteadily on the ladder rung, she was perfectly helpless now, ready for
the slow dying to begin when the hangman chose. She found strange
sensations building within her. She was no longer in control, but
completely in his hands. The release from control was somehow
attractive. Deprived of all choice, her body was free to dwell upon
itself. She felt her breath coming faster and her head began to spin.

He flattened one of his legs against the ladder. One slight push and she
would be spinning and kicking in the air. In the air, yet dying from
inability to inhale one bit of it. He placed his hand on her shoulder
and prepared to give that push. His palm would be her last contact with
another person, her last contact with anything but the rope that was
killing her.

Then he noticed it. Her sobbing had changed ... now it had a pattern.
She would inhale, then stop as if holding her breath, then gasp it out
and repeat. It was strange, not at all like the usual panicked gasping.
As an experiment he tightened her grip on her shoulder, as if ready to
push her off, and her breathing became even more forceful, and each
exhalation became a faint moan. Her arms began to writhe; pressed as
they were against his manhood, he noticed he was beginning to breathe a
little more forcefully as well.

Glancing down her body from his vantage point, he was awestricken. Of
her head he could see only the long red tresses and her white forehead;
she was beginning to roll her head back and forth against his chest. But
below that he could see her breasts heaving with each breath, the soft,
pale flesh expanding within the green cloth. The pink of one nipple was
barely visible above the green. And both it and its sister seemed ready
to poke through the cloth. Her moaning became louder and she rolled her
head on his chest in time. In her mind she was now drifting, the
pleasure building up in waves, sweeping softly through her young body,
filling every bit of it, yet even as the pleasure grew the desire for it
grew yet more rapidly.

By now, he was so hard that he felt as if he would burst through the
dress and his own pants as well. It was strange, he thought, the
similarity of the beginning of life and of its end, of the ultimate
pleasure and the ultimate anguish. Here they were pressed in close
contact, her between his legs, the scent of her tresses in his nose, a
contact nearly as intimate as .....

Then her entire body began to writhe. Each breath now ended with a
passioned "E-e-e," each growing higher and louder, as if her body was
straining to contain an explosion. Her shoulders moved back with each
gasp, and he could see her belly heaving. Inside her loins she felt a
warm glow, rising into fire, and she felt a strange warm moistness in
her innermost feminity, a moistness that flowed downward, covering her
soft lips as if preparing to welcome entry into the center of herself.
She could not explain why she was crying out, and could have cared less.

"E-e-e... ungh, uh. E-e-e ... ung, uh." He slid down just a little, and
found his membrem virile caught between her buttocks, swept back and
forth as her hips moved. "E-e-e, UNGH, uh" Her body was now acting on
its own. Her hips lifted upward as if called to the heavens, as if some
force of spasmodic pleasure was trying to fly free. Almost without his
consent his own hips began to move. As her shoulders pressed
rhythmically into his chest he felt that rising sensation in his male
glands which told him that his own moment was quickly approaching.
"EEEE, UNGH, UH!" He took his hands from her shoulders and slid them
around her, carefully stroking each breast. There was no one to see and
he could not have cared less if the entire town were there. His stroking
grew carried away and her dress slipped from her shoulders. Her pale
breasts were now bare, but neither person noticed or cared.

She sucked in a lungful of air, held it for a long second. He felt her shoulders drive backward into him, her body arch forward on the ladder,
and she let out one last "EEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! Her hips thrust outward and
her loins locked tight as the fiery pleasure exploded in her belly and
spread outward in powerful surges through her stiffened body, heating it
until it seemed as if her very bones would melt. He clutched her breasts
firmly as at the same instant his own pleasure peaked, the muscles and
glands in his loins seizing tightly in pleasure, changing to pulsing as
his sensations, bursting outward with his seed, contained by his
clothing rather than by her warm moistness. For an instant they were
together on the gallows, two bodies pressed upward, both bodies seizing
hard, pulsing together. Her last cry of pleasure changed to a long moan
that surged louder and softer as her body jerked with the cycles of its
joy and release.

Then it happened. In her ecstasy, her feet slipped from the rung and
went through the ladder. Still contained by his legs, she slid straight downward on his body, dropping a few inches. Her moan gave way to a high-pitched wheeze and then was choked into silence. Her body still
shivered as the last waves of pleasure ranged up and down. His body
relaxed, spent, the pressure and shivering of her soft form adding to
the completeness of his release.

Her ecstasy ended, and suddenly she awakened to the pain of the noose.
Her feet jerked as he tried to pull them through the ladder and find
footing again. The hangman awakened, too, and moved by reflex born of
long practice. His hand left her breast, found her shoulder, and rolled
her off the ladder.

It didn't quite work. One of her feet hooked the side of the ladder and
she struggled to keep its grip and to pull the other foot back on.
Unbalanced as she was, and hands bound behind her back, she had no
chance, but with her need for air mounting toward pain she struggled for anything. The hangman bent down, pulled her foot free, and let it go.
Now she was suspended by nothing but her neck. She swung away but on the
return swing her feet again tried to grip the ladder. Her toes snagged
it but then pulled free. By now the pleasure was fading, replaced by
panic. The noose bit into her neck, squeezing it tighter than she could
ever have imagined, driving her tongue upward into her mouth, sealing
off the air. She awakened to the realization that she could not breathe,
that she had already taken the last breath she would ever take, that she
was helplessly danging between heaven and earth, unable to touch
anything that would save her ... except perhaps the ladder.

The hangman descended a few rungs and grabbed her by the back and
stomach, holding her free of the ladder. She could feel her feet
swishing through the empty air, her lungs craving for a breath. He could
feel her belly muscles tighten and heave, this time not in pleasure, but
in an attempt to pull air past the noose's vicious squeeze. Her legs
snapped up to her chest, enfolding his hand against her belly as he held
her in the air.

He glanced upward. Her head was twisted to the side, her face half
covered by her tresses. He could hear some gurgling which told him it
was too far forward. She could feel some tiny movement of air in her
chest ... perhaps just a little more, just one breath. Her eyes, clamped
shut in suffering, opened a bit and looked at him as she grimaced. As
her blue eyes met his, she seemed to be begging him to stop holding her
away from the ladder, let her stand free again, let her inhale one more
sweet breath of air. He shook his head no. "The best I can give you now
is a quick death," he whispered sadly, then looked away. Her eyes closed
again and her body began to shake in the beginning of her death agonies.
The spasms became more and more violent. Her bare breasts quivered as
her body shook and her chest heaved, striving to draw in a bit of air to
allay the body's horrendous pain and desperation.

By now her lungs were burning, her chest jerking as she fought
desperately for life. Her arms and legs ached as the muscles longed for
oxygen. The pain was excruciating. Her legs jerked down, feet fully
extending to the ground, and held there. Then they snapped up again and,
after a few seconds, back down. Each move made her body pitch back and
forth, but he steadied her. Her desperation, the mounting agony
overwhelmed her mind and she began to lose control. She felt her legs
beginning to jerk, without coordination, but with increasing speed and violence. A long dark spot on the front of her dress showed that in her distress her bladder had released. She could feel the release and the
liquid spewing down, but in her agony no longer cared. He knew that she
was now so far lost in suffering that he had nothing to worry about, and
he let her go.

Now he could concern himself with easing her passing. As he climbed the
ladder again he passed her body. She was now jeeking and vibrating
violently, every muscle quivering as her legs spasmed and her chest
heaved in futility. The dress had slid down a bit and one nipple, no
longer erect, was fully visible. As she slowly spun he saw the noose
biting the side of her neck, elongating it in a way it was never meant
to stretch, the stretching tendons popping out of the skin, the veins
pulsing as they tried to pump her blood past the merciless hempen grip.
Tiny bubbles of foam slipped from her pink lips as bits of air, all too
little to save her, slipped back and forth in her throat, and he heard a
faint squeaking.

Above her, the hangman braced his arms on the beam and put one foot on
her shoulder. It was just enough to steady her while he swung the other
foot on her body. Then he released his full weight. The squeaking noise
became a clicking ond and then stopped; her throat was sealed.

The last sight her eyes took in was the courtyard slowly rotating as she
turned about, her green dress jerking as her body fought. Her hands
twisted in their bonds, but could not pull free. Hands tied, neck
squeezed, feet squirming in the air, she was completely helpless to
influence her fate. Her anguish mounted and peaked: her last sensations
were that of air swishing past her feet, of her neck twisting between
his ankles. Then darkness ended her distress.

It did not end her body's struggles. The hangman could feel her body's
fight through his feet. Her shoulders shook and heaved as her she fought
in desperation, but with her throat tightly gripped, and his weight on
her shoulders, her lungs were helpless. Beneath him he saw her red hair
flying about as she thrashed, her pale breasts quivering with each
powerful, desperate heave of her chest, a flurry of green as her legs
flew about within her dress. For several minutes the hopeless struggle continued, as the noose remorselessly did its work. The hangman kept his station, like a spider perched above a fly.

Finally, her body stiffened. Now her legs and chest were simply
vibrating; her muscles were starved of any air that would have given
them more power. In a few moments, the hangman knew, she would be
quivering in the last convulsive agonies of her death. He stepped back
onto the ladder.

A group of townsmen passed by. From a distance, in the dim twilight, it
looked as if she had already paid her price, and they shouted jests to
the hangman about their having missed all the spectacle.

The hangman started: they had been just what he needed. Grabbing the
rope just above her pale neck he swung her body onto the ladder. Her
body quivered helplessly against his as he slashed the rope. One arm
below her buttocks, another around her chest, and they slid down the
ladder to the ground. She was warm in his arms, fully pressed against
him, her head rolling back, wet gasping sounds in her open mouth, her
pale breasts heaving beneath the green fabric, her whole body quivering
and jerking against his.

The hangman got her body into his cart and snapped the reins. With the
horse at a trot on cobblestones, the racket hid the sound of her
gasping. More townsmen were visible, and they called jests as well; he
took care to steer at a distance from them. He had what he wanted. A
gallows with a fresh, severed, rope. People who, if anyone asked, had
seen her lifeless body dangling as he prepared to take it down, and more
who had seen her green dress as he drove her body to the paupers' mass
grave outside the town. Yes, there were a dozen or more witnesses to the
fact that the girl's young life had met its close on the rope.

He might be the King's first servant, but the hangman was still a bit of
an outcast; his own home was outside the town ... on the way to the
graveyard. This time he could stop short. It was hard getting her out of
the cart. As the lifegiving air flooded back into her body, she was
wracked with the same convulsions that the rope had wrenched from her.
Finally he got her struggling body atop his shoulder and carried her
inside. He put her down and, holding her on her side, cut the ropes that
bound her hands. In his bed she continued the fight, legs kicking, arms
clamped to her heaving chest, moaning as the air made its way back into
her muscles. At length she lay still, breathing and moaning, still
unconscious.

As he tidied her up -- no sense her awakening in clothing splattered
with her urine -- the hangman made his plans. The King was always
looking for servants in the smaller towns, where executioners' perks --
tips from a condemned looking for a quicker death, the victim's clothes,
rings, and pocket money -- were smaller. Yes, a semi-retirement to a
smaller town. A town where a certain red-haired lass would have no
chance of being recognized again.

It was midnight before she awakened, and found herself in a warm bed
instead of spinning above the pavement, warm compresses around her neck
in place of a crushing ring of hemp.

Despite the pain in her throat, she could speak a few words.

"I had ... no idea ... it was like ... that."

"The pain?" he asked.

"And ... the pleasure."

The hangman smiled.

He was still smiling when the King's Archers crashed through the door,
swords in hand.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I, the Royal Clerk Flaminbeau, do certify that the above is an authentic transcript of the account of the Royal Hangman and that, in accord with
His Majesty's command, eight copies of this account were bound in red
leather, one for His Majesty's bedchamber, one for that of Her Majesty
the Queen, and six for the Royal mistresses.

The proceedings whereby the hangman was knighted as the Chevalier
d'Vanois, and the cutpurse as Lady d'Vanois, upon the condition of their transmitting annually a written account of their deeds for the
edification of His Majesty, is reflected in a separate roll.




Two thieves on the ladder
Posted: 18-Aug-2011 - 3 comment(s) [ Comment ] - 0 trackback(s) [
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Category: Hanging fiction
Your Majesty:

With this missive I report of another performance of our duties by
myself and the Lady Vanois. I add in preface that we continue in the
deepest gratitude to Your Majesty for having raised us to this station.
Only last month I entertained a Swiss member of our calling, and he was
deeply moved by the affection and favor shown us by Your Great Self.
Indeed, he explained that in his nation the hangman, or should I say
henker, is subject to all manner of oppression for doing his duty. Far
from being appreciated, he is required to live outside the city walls,
to sit in the last pew at church, and to avoid so much as brushing
against the good citizens. I suggested that he relocate here, where our Gracious King considers those of our trade (dare I say art?) the First
Servants of the Crown. But let me return to my tale.

The objects of our attention this day were a man and woman of their late
20s, both condemned as thieves. The magistrate privately suggested to me
that the people of the town had a particular dislike for criminals of
that type, and that I should make their deaths as humiliating as
possible. I assured him that my lady and I could be depended upon.

In the morning, the prisoners were released to us. I bound the woman and
my lady bound the man. We placed them in the cart, to be hauled away as
if they were no more than refuse. They sat upon a plank thrust through
the sides of the cart, and we tied them to it to ensure against flight.

As we approached the gallows, the crowd indeed reviled our victims. We
could hear cries of "the noose in this world, hell in the next," "have a
long dance, thieves," "stretch their necks, hangman," and the like. Our
victims looked up at the gallows beam, about fifteen feet above the
ground, and at the ladder resting on it, which they would shortly climb.
The woman gasped, "it is so high!" She knew she would hang with her feet
well above the crowd's heads, so that they would be looking up her dress
as she spun and kicked. I replied "it's so you will have a better view!"
The crowd within hearing laughed and cheered me.

We unlashed them from the plank and walked them to be base of the
ladder. The woman's walk was shaky, and my lady had to steady her.

I turned the man so his back was to the ladder, and noosed him. With the
rope firmly in hand I climbed the ladder, forcing him to follow me. When
his head was close to the beam, I knotted the rope to it.

The man asked "let me finish my prayer," and the crowd began jeering
that it was late to be getting religion. I loudly replied, "you can do
that later," and shoved his shoulder, spinning him off the ladder. The
crowd roared with appreciative laughter.

He spun around wildly at the end of his rope. His hands twisted as the
rope strangled him. His legs flew in every direction as his body fought
the agony of suffocation. The crowd laughed and began clapping in time
with his kicking.

At length his body's swaying was reduced -- on this short a rope, it
passes quickly -- and it moved only in response to his kicking. He tried
to arch his back, his feet swinging backward, as he fought to suck air
in. Then the kicking ended, he stomped downward, and his body became as straight and stiff as a board, all the muscles extending, his hands
thrust straight out in front. I put a foot on his shoulder and gave him
a slight push so that he rotated slowly.

As Your Majesty is aware, the peasant men cover their legs in tights,
one for each leg, tied with strings at the waist. They cover their
remaining nudity with a triangular breech clout of sorts, also tied at
the waist. As he strangled, the bulge in his clout showed that his
manhood was in its last erection. The women in the crowd laughed and
jested. "He is well hung indeed!" "What's he going to do with it now?"

At that moment the clout, loosened by his kicking, fell free, and his
hardened manhood stood in the open. The ladies grew silent, knowing what
came next. And it did. As his stiffened body began its last shivering,
he explosively spewed out his seed, spraying it with spurts in a circle.
As is usual with a hanging, the last release of seed was almost
superhuman, as if the body sought to resist death with its power of
life. A woman shouted, "it's a bumper crop of mandrake this year, girls!"

Caught up with the spirit, I chanted to them

A man may cum when he cannot whistle
And shoot a load from his quivering pizzle

The crowd roared. I looked down at the female thief, so far beneath us.
Her terrified gaze was fixed on her dying partner, and she looked as if
she wondered whether I give her a similar shame.

The male thief's body stopped quivering then, and his hands came down
from his chest. He was finished.

I returned to the ground, moved the ladder a few feet. My lady had
already noosed the girl. "Your turn," I said, and put her back to the
ladder. She dropped to her knees and threw up in terror.

We got her up again and I began to climb the ladder, towing her after
me. It took time, since she resisted. I'd mount a stair, then haul on
the rope. She'd feel her breath cut off, hold as long as she could, and
then move her buttocks up one step to relieve the pressure on her neck.
She was being hanged one step at a time, as foreplay to the final deed.

Finally I got her to the beam, and drew her up between my legs. As I
tied the rope off her terrified shivering gave me the most delightful sensations. This time I did not spin her off at once. The crowd would
get to watch her terrors for a time -- and I would get to feel her
quivering. I could see over her shoulder as her breasts heaved with
every breath, wondering if it would be her last. It was all in my hands,
and she did not know the moment.

When she felt my hand on her shoulder she began to squeal, and the crowd
hooted at her terror. Then I pushed and she was in the air.

She spun wildly. The noose had caught up beside her ear, terribly
distorting and stretching her throat. Her hands clutched at the noose,
leaving bloody tracks on her throat as she tried to get fingers under
the tightening rope. He feet kicked in every direction, trying to find
support, although her heels were eight or nine feet off the ground. She
hooked one foot onto the ladder; I stepped down and pushed it off. then
held her at a distance, waiting for the convulsions to begin.

They did. First her legs lifted up a bit and held there. Then they
spread wide. Then they began scissoring at incredible speed. Her chest
heaved, making her breasts bounce, but it could only make her wheeze a
bit. Now the men of the crowd were appreciating the view as her skirt
flipped about and her feet danced uncontrollably over their heads. Their
eyes glittered at the sight.

The wheezing came faster as her convulsions became more violent. Her
pelvis rocked forward and back as she kicked. I could see her face
becoming a deeper blue as her agonies continued.

At last her legs rose up until the knees rested on her chest. The men
were now treated to a sight of her full nudity as she quivered and
swayed back and forth, saliva and foam flowing from the corner of her
mouth. The men were transfixed, for she was a comely woman.

Again inspired, I called out

A lass may dance when she cannot sigh
And give us all a look at pussy and thigh

"Why, it's blue, too!" a man shouted, and the crowd laughed.

Now her legs went down and she moved in the opposite direction, arching
her body backward with her heels rising up to her buttocks. The crowd
had yet another view of her dying nakedness, and was appreciative.

I gave the crowd yet another thrill, calling out, "I forgot. The hangman
has a right to a last kiss of forgiveness!" I chose to kiss her breasts,
just as her chest heaved, which drew more laughter. The crowd was

[continued in next message]

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