|The End of Cynthia Harder|
|by Cynthia Trusscot, nee Harder|
|© Copyright 2011 - Cynthia Trusscot - Used by permission|
|Storycodes: MF+/f; dungeon; bond; lingerie; sword; coffin; buried; cons; X||
|The End of Cynthia Harder Cynthia Trusscot, nee Harder MF+/f; dungeon; bond; lingerie; sword; coffin; buried; cons; X|
The half-naked woman sat on the iron cot, giving no indication that she knew he was standing on the other side of the barred door. She wore only a black lace plunge bra, opera hose and satin panties. Her elbows, in the long black kidskin gloves, were crossed casually on her stockinged knee. Her feet, in shiny black pumps with six inch heels, were spread lackadaisically on the straw-covered stone floor. Her blonde hair swung down over her heavily made-up face.
Finally, she sat up and looked at him. “Is it time?”
“Yes. Please come to the door.” Gracefully she stood, and sauntered to the bars. He unlocked the cell, and she stepped out. He came behind her, pulled her arms back, and efficiently tied her wrists together.
“What is it to be?” she asked.
“You’ll find out.” There didn’t appear to be anything more to say. They walked down the corridor, the clicking of the woman’s high heels echoing in counterpoint to his heavy boots. They mounted the stairs, her mostly-exposed ass swinging under her bound hands.
Down another short corridor was a wooden door. It opened as she approached. Beyond it was daylight.
There was a small group in the courtyard. There were businesswomen in skirted power suits, secretaries, a couple of call girls and streetwalkers, and some in costumes from other eras. A couple of the women had their hands tied behind their backs, and gags through their pretty mouths. The group partially encircled a wooden block raised on a platform. The block was painted red.
The woman marched forthrightly up to the platform and dropped to her knees before the block. An androgynous person in a half-mask of black leather, open vest, leather pants and high heels knelt and tied her ankles together. Then s/he picked up a heavy, gleaming sword. The lingerie-clad woman lowered her eyes, and then placed her neck on the block.
“Cynthia Harder, this is your last moment!” the leather clad executioner intoned. S/he raised the sword high over the other’s body, paused, then brought the gleaming blade down onto her exposed neck….
There was a meaty thud. The woman’s bound legs kicked up, then subsided. Red liquid flowed down the block.
The executioner put down the sword, cut the victims hands and feet free, then lifted and dropped the body into a coffin that sat in a trench a couple of feet deep. Glancing down for a moment, s/he closed the lid. The spectators then took turns dropping handfuls of earth onto the wooden lid of the coffin. They stood around the grave of Cynthia Harder, adventuress, and author.
“NOW!” The coffin top was quickly removed, spilling dirt onto the woman inside. She quickly sat up; head still attached, and clambered out of her coffin.
“Now rise, Ms. Cynthia Trusscot!” The group (except for the ones tied and gagged) applauded and cheered.
“Thank you! What a wonderful way to re-name myself!” she said as she dusted the soil off her body.
“This is Gromet’s place—we have to be a bit over the top,” said the executioner-person. “Uh, ‘Trusscot’ – as in ‘Tied to A Bed?”
“Indeed. A better name than ‘Harder’, I thought.
“Well, don’t change it, at least not for awhile.”
S/he smiled under her mask. “You want to know?”
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