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Miss Moore Goes To The Abbey, 1861...
- Thread starter thehangingtree
- Start date
I thought I lived in a blue state
Which state is the blue state Barb? I know blue and red states. But I do not know "blue state".
Madi ... it's a political term ... in the U.S., blue states tend to vote Democratic, and red states tend to vote Republican.
Ok, i know that. I thunk that as a special term. to Example "Lake State" or "Sun State".
I'm glad you said that, Tree. I thought my Mother's dire warnings were coming true, and I was going blind!
And here's our Stan to help get the thread back on track
I'm glad you said that, Tree. I thought my Mother's dire warnings were coming true, and I was going blind!
And here's our Stan to help get the thread back on track
I just love that!!! Stan is great!
Before being dressed and brought to the platform first the headsman comes to my cell. He asks if I wished to pay a ‘tribute’ for a swift execution. I tell him I have nothing to offer but he tells me I indeed do and it is up to me if I want my execution done with one stroke of the blade or a protracted and painful affair. I figure what the hell what is another fuck and lean back and spread my legs. To my shock and horror that is not what he wants!
He grabs my hair, pulls me from the bench they call my bed, and forces me to kneel in front of him while he drops his trousers. He snarls “I’m not some prison guard and I don’t fuck the holes they have already taken!”
I have seen some of the women do this to curry favors from the guards but have never performed this disgusting act! The though almost makes me wretch and I would rather go to my death without have done so until he says “My record is four strokes with the poor bitch still conscious. You can do this one blow or we can try for five!”
Reluctantly I open mouth and watch as her prepares to fill my mouth…
Oh my god he pushes into my throat…
Damn he stinks. He yells “Take it all in bitch or I’ll help you with it.”
I try but he is not even half in when I begin to gag as his member presses into my gullet.
He bellows “That ain’t good enough you Yankee cunt!”
He grabs my hair and begins fucking my mouth admonishing he better not feel my teeth. I do my best not to vomit as he pumps his load into my mouth and down my throat. I don’t really feel complimented as he pulls up his drawers saying “If that’s your first time you didn’t do too bad.”
What other indignity might these damn Brits subject me to in my rapidly shortening life? Why do I ask? Next two nattily dresses men are led into my cell. One introduces himself as a Mr. Spike ‘but I can call him Spike’ and he is a report for a publication I have never hear of called the Crux Chronicle. The man behind him is setting up a huge box camera and I am told he is a contracted photographer and his name is something ‘Rodent’. ‘Spike’ asks if I wouldn’t mind doing an interview. I’ve nothing better to do besides have my head lobed off. He asks what inspired me to become a spy. I roll my eyes and say “I am not a spy. I came here as an emissary of the US.”
“You do realize the United States Secretary of State has disavowed any knowledge of your actions. Miss Moore, that is ‘diplomat speak’ for you are indeed a spy. Did you learn to deep throat a cock in spy training or were you always a cocksucker?”
“This interview is over” I say just as Mr. Rodent’s powder flash goes off. I won’t be around to see how the picture turns out.
They shuffles out and Siss walks in with what I am to wear to the block. I am in no mood to dress up to have my head removed but Siss insists telling me “Look it is bad enough you got caught as a spy but you still are an American and you will look your best when you go out there!”
She helps dress me in a tight black corseted dress with fingerless gloves that cover my arms to my mid-biceps. She puts my hair up. I protest saying I don’t like my hair done like this but she tells me it is best to give the headsman a clean swing at my neck. I pee with the thought.
Guards walk me out of the prison and bring me through a garden where Mr. Rodent has set up his camera. He suggests my ‘before’ picture would look better than my ‘after’ picture. I pose for him exuding all the confidence and swagger that I do not feel at all…
-Miss Barbara Moore
Tree
He grabs my hair, pulls me from the bench they call my bed, and forces me to kneel in front of him while he drops his trousers. He snarls “I’m not some prison guard and I don’t fuck the holes they have already taken!”
I have seen some of the women do this to curry favors from the guards but have never performed this disgusting act! The though almost makes me wretch and I would rather go to my death without have done so until he says “My record is four strokes with the poor bitch still conscious. You can do this one blow or we can try for five!”
Reluctantly I open mouth and watch as her prepares to fill my mouth…
Oh my god he pushes into my throat…
Damn he stinks. He yells “Take it all in bitch or I’ll help you with it.”
I try but he is not even half in when I begin to gag as his member presses into my gullet.
He bellows “That ain’t good enough you Yankee cunt!”
He grabs my hair and begins fucking my mouth admonishing he better not feel my teeth. I do my best not to vomit as he pumps his load into my mouth and down my throat. I don’t really feel complimented as he pulls up his drawers saying “If that’s your first time you didn’t do too bad.”
What other indignity might these damn Brits subject me to in my rapidly shortening life? Why do I ask? Next two nattily dresses men are led into my cell. One introduces himself as a Mr. Spike ‘but I can call him Spike’ and he is a report for a publication I have never hear of called the Crux Chronicle. The man behind him is setting up a huge box camera and I am told he is a contracted photographer and his name is something ‘Rodent’. ‘Spike’ asks if I wouldn’t mind doing an interview. I’ve nothing better to do besides have my head lobed off. He asks what inspired me to become a spy. I roll my eyes and say “I am not a spy. I came here as an emissary of the US.”
“You do realize the United States Secretary of State has disavowed any knowledge of your actions. Miss Moore, that is ‘diplomat speak’ for you are indeed a spy. Did you learn to deep throat a cock in spy training or were you always a cocksucker?”
“This interview is over” I say just as Mr. Rodent’s powder flash goes off. I won’t be around to see how the picture turns out.
They shuffles out and Siss walks in with what I am to wear to the block. I am in no mood to dress up to have my head removed but Siss insists telling me “Look it is bad enough you got caught as a spy but you still are an American and you will look your best when you go out there!”
She helps dress me in a tight black corseted dress with fingerless gloves that cover my arms to my mid-biceps. She puts my hair up. I protest saying I don’t like my hair done like this but she tells me it is best to give the headsman a clean swing at my neck. I pee with the thought.
Guards walk me out of the prison and bring me through a garden where Mr. Rodent has set up his camera. He suggests my ‘before’ picture would look better than my ‘after’ picture. I pose for him exuding all the confidence and swagger that I do not feel at all…
-Miss Barbara Moore
Tree
Another spine tingling episode! Nice period details as well with the powder flash and all. 
'Atta girl, Barb. You show 'em.
'Atta girl, Barb. You show 'em.
Well, let's see now. To begin with I would respectfully like to complain about being forced to give head. I don't like to do that, but when challenged, well ... I looked around to see if maybe Dottie was available ... she wasn't ... pity she would have done it and asked for more ... in any case, well, I am a Yankee cunt and a condemned one at that ... WTF.
Secondly, I can hardly see a thing after Mr. Rodent's powder flash went off ... so imagine my surprise to find myself in the most godawful outfit a condemned woman could ever go to her death in ... it's all BLACK ... black is for mourning, Tree, you idiot! I am still alive ... at least for now! Well, at least I can't complain about the shoes.
And finally, I never pee at the thought of something awful. I only do it involuntarily when Tree crucifies me. That ain't happening here, so I protest the insertion of that line.
OK, I am done now. In more ways than one, I fear. Any chance of a peerage?
Tree pleads ignorance (and no one argues) but is a 'peerage' a review to stall the inevitable???
You would think an execution by beheading would be a swift event but the British never seem to rush anything. As if on schedule low grey clouds blanket sun mush as they have done since I arrived on the island. The air is warm and moist, almost pregnant with rain. I look about the courtyard to see perhaps hundreds of invited guests surrounding the platform and more peering at me from every balcony. I spot Siss looking from one of the balconies accompanied by Sister Messaline. By the look of their disheveled hair and naked bodies they had a better morning than I. Siss blows a kiss to me but I am unsure if it her last of affection or a mocking gesture of goodbye.
A good damn thing I dressed up to lose my head. The first thing they do when I get to the platform is remove my gloves and unfasten the corset to the lewd catcalls of the crowd. The skirt of the dress is torn open from the hem to my navel revealing my loins used seduce the bishop. I kneel down at the block before me. The whole sterile image is purged from my mind. The block is painted with the blood of those executed before me. The air is tinged with fresh blood and defecation. I look over at the sword the headsman will decapitate me with and hear and see two flies seemingly fucking on the hilt’s guard. They are making the eggs of the larvae that will soon devour my body. I think if this is the Excalibur of the legendary King Arthur these Brits do not protect their treasures very well.
I am supposed to behave with the utmost decorum but it is to be my neck on the block. I tear the black dress with the white silk foundation open, point to my ample breasts, and taunt the headsman saying “The guards took my ass and pussy and you my mouth. Are you man enough to give me a good tit-fuck before this crowd and God herself?”
“Do not press your good fortune, Miss Moore, as it is not too late to anger me” he replies. He turns to the guards and orders my wrists bound behind my back. They do so with efficient speed and brutality as the rough cord painfully tears at the flesh of my wrists.
They bend me forward and press my neck into the roughly hewn notch in the block. I have seen and smelled the blood on the block but now it stick to my neck and bare shoulders. I look at the basket that will receive my head. The straw is as stained as the block is and reeks of vomit from one of the women that preceded me with flies darting about. The bastards couldn’t even bother to toss a layer of fresh straw over it. It take all my effort not to lets what little is in my stomach. purge.
The headsman hovers next to me and asks “Can you hold still or should we bind your shoulders to the block?”
“I will hold still. Just get this over with!” I whimper. He tells me to lower my head to accommodate a clean blow. Reluctantly I do until my face is inches from the foul straw and my chin is against the sticky face of the block. I hear the flies buzz away as the sword races toward the back of neck!
There is blinding pain and I feel the filthy straw against the side of my cheek. I look down and find my body missing.
-Miss Barbara Moore
Barb’s body reflexively recoils from the swords assault first kneeling upright before keeling over backwards with two guards catching it before it careens down the platform’s steps. Her heart’s last few beats spews fountains of blood from her severed arteries while a clergyman mutters some meaningless invocation.
The headsman fishes her head from the basket and to a roar of approval from the crowd mounts it on a spike while the last of her clothing is torn from her body. As they bend her torso one last stream of blood sprays from her neck.
I look about at find Siss again. Why is she applauding? I don’t feel so well… -Miss
Barbara Moore
A good damn thing I dressed up to lose my head. The first thing they do when I get to the platform is remove my gloves and unfasten the corset to the lewd catcalls of the crowd. The skirt of the dress is torn open from the hem to my navel revealing my loins used seduce the bishop. I kneel down at the block before me. The whole sterile image is purged from my mind. The block is painted with the blood of those executed before me. The air is tinged with fresh blood and defecation. I look over at the sword the headsman will decapitate me with and hear and see two flies seemingly fucking on the hilt’s guard. They are making the eggs of the larvae that will soon devour my body. I think if this is the Excalibur of the legendary King Arthur these Brits do not protect their treasures very well.
I am supposed to behave with the utmost decorum but it is to be my neck on the block. I tear the black dress with the white silk foundation open, point to my ample breasts, and taunt the headsman saying “The guards took my ass and pussy and you my mouth. Are you man enough to give me a good tit-fuck before this crowd and God herself?”
“Do not press your good fortune, Miss Moore, as it is not too late to anger me” he replies. He turns to the guards and orders my wrists bound behind my back. They do so with efficient speed and brutality as the rough cord painfully tears at the flesh of my wrists.
They bend me forward and press my neck into the roughly hewn notch in the block. I have seen and smelled the blood on the block but now it stick to my neck and bare shoulders. I look at the basket that will receive my head. The straw is as stained as the block is and reeks of vomit from one of the women that preceded me with flies darting about. The bastards couldn’t even bother to toss a layer of fresh straw over it. It take all my effort not to lets what little is in my stomach. purge.
The headsman hovers next to me and asks “Can you hold still or should we bind your shoulders to the block?”
“I will hold still. Just get this over with!” I whimper. He tells me to lower my head to accommodate a clean blow. Reluctantly I do until my face is inches from the foul straw and my chin is against the sticky face of the block. I hear the flies buzz away as the sword races toward the back of neck!
There is blinding pain and I feel the filthy straw against the side of my cheek. I look down and find my body missing.
-Miss Barbara Moore
Barb’s body reflexively recoils from the swords assault first kneeling upright before keeling over backwards with two guards catching it before it careens down the platform’s steps. Her heart’s last few beats spews fountains of blood from her severed arteries while a clergyman mutters some meaningless invocation.
The headsman fishes her head from the basket and to a roar of approval from the crowd mounts it on a spike while the last of her clothing is torn from her body. As they bend her torso one last stream of blood sprays from her neck.
I look about at find Siss again. Why is she applauding? I don’t feel so well… -Miss
Barbara Moore
hear and see two flies seemingly fucking on the hilt’s guard. They are making the eggs of the larvae that will soon devour my body.
Ewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww
The straw is as stained as the block is and reeks of vomit from one of the women that preceded me with flies darting about.
Tree delights in bringing out the foulest of detail
The headsman fishes her head from the basket and to a roar of approval from the crowd mounts it on a spike while the last of her clothing is torn from her body. As they bend her torso one last stream of blood sprays from her neck.
Oh the indignity of the whole thing ... but the crowd loved it
Some very good writing Tree .... so detailed, and realistic
Ewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww
The straw is as stained as the block is and reeks of vomit from one of the women that preceded me with flies darting about.
Tree delights in bringing out the foulest of detail
The headsman fishes her head from the basket and to a roar of approval from the crowd mounts it on a spike while the last of her clothing is torn from her body. As they bend her torso one last stream of blood sprays from her neck.
Oh the indignity of the whole thing ... but the crowd loved it
Some very good writing Tree .... so detailed, and realistic
Thank you Barb! Truly sorry about your head... All that is left is the epilog...hear and see two flies seemingly fucking on the hilt’s guard. They are making the eggs of the larvae that will soon devour my body.
Ewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww
The straw is as stained as the block is and reeks of vomit from one of the women that preceded me with flies darting about.
Tree delights in bringing out the foulest of detail
The headsman fishes her head from the basket and to a roar of approval from the crowd mounts it on a spike while the last of her clothing is torn from her body. As they bend her torso one last stream of blood sprays from her neck.
Oh the indignity of the whole thing ... but the crowd loved it
Some very good writing Tree .... so detailed, and realistic
no doubt...
Epilog
That night Miss Barbara Moore’s head and body were tossed into an ox drawn cart with the other eleven women executed that day and taken from the courtyard. They were going to dump her in a mass grave when a strangely dressed American wearing a straw cowboy hat and reeking of whisky confronted them. He said “I paid good money for Premium French Casket Wood and bought paid for ship’s passage to take Miss Moore’s sorry tight little back to the United States.”
One of the groundskeepers said “No skin of my arse, mate. Pick which one you want.”
The head was easy and the body wasn’t much harder to find as Barbara was the only one beheaded with a sword. The heavy sharp axe made neater work of the other eleven necks.
So the guy known only as ‘Tree’ took Miss Moore’s body back to the states where he found the clouds of war foretelling of the pending civil war between the North and the South had already begun to rain. He needed to get back to his estate near Pacific, Missouri as quickly as possible and paid Robert and Mary Anna Lee the princely sum of $100 in silver coin to bury Miss Moore’s remains on their property. Mary Anne Lee was the great granddaughter of George Washington and Robert E. Lee would become the supreme commander of the Confederate States of America’s military during the Civil War. After the war the estate where she was buried would become Arlington National Cemetery and though history portended to have no record of such, Miss Moore was the first body interned there other than the family grave plot.
Tree would get back to Missouri and as he expected found horse thieves had been raiding his poorly attended to ranch. When he arrived he found a gang of thieves in the process of rounding up several dozen of his horses. He killed about half in raging gunfight and most of the rest fled leaving behind some English trollop named Dorothy Brown who had the misfortune of hooking up with the bandits. He knew she was no more a horse thief than Barbara Moore had been a spy but examples have to be made and after giving Miss Brown a proper shagging he hanged her from an old oak tree near the gate where his property abuts up to (appropriately) Lynch Road.
She hadn’t stopped kicking when he mounted the horse and hanged her from and rode over to The Great Pacific Coffee Company Shop and Saloon knowing he’d have no further trouble with rustlers. At the coffee shop he had usual drinks and found a copy of the Crux Chronicle. On the front page was a picture of Miss Moore’s head on the spike. The headline says she declared she regretted she had but one head to give for her country.
‘Fucking tabloids embellish anything’ Tree thinks…
The End…
That night Miss Barbara Moore’s head and body were tossed into an ox drawn cart with the other eleven women executed that day and taken from the courtyard. They were going to dump her in a mass grave when a strangely dressed American wearing a straw cowboy hat and reeking of whisky confronted them. He said “I paid good money for Premium French Casket Wood and bought paid for ship’s passage to take Miss Moore’s sorry tight little back to the United States.”
One of the groundskeepers said “No skin of my arse, mate. Pick which one you want.”
The head was easy and the body wasn’t much harder to find as Barbara was the only one beheaded with a sword. The heavy sharp axe made neater work of the other eleven necks.
So the guy known only as ‘Tree’ took Miss Moore’s body back to the states where he found the clouds of war foretelling of the pending civil war between the North and the South had already begun to rain. He needed to get back to his estate near Pacific, Missouri as quickly as possible and paid Robert and Mary Anna Lee the princely sum of $100 in silver coin to bury Miss Moore’s remains on their property. Mary Anne Lee was the great granddaughter of George Washington and Robert E. Lee would become the supreme commander of the Confederate States of America’s military during the Civil War. After the war the estate where she was buried would become Arlington National Cemetery and though history portended to have no record of such, Miss Moore was the first body interned there other than the family grave plot.
Tree would get back to Missouri and as he expected found horse thieves had been raiding his poorly attended to ranch. When he arrived he found a gang of thieves in the process of rounding up several dozen of his horses. He killed about half in raging gunfight and most of the rest fled leaving behind some English trollop named Dorothy Brown who had the misfortune of hooking up with the bandits. He knew she was no more a horse thief than Barbara Moore had been a spy but examples have to be made and after giving Miss Brown a proper shagging he hanged her from an old oak tree near the gate where his property abuts up to (appropriately) Lynch Road.
She hadn’t stopped kicking when he mounted the horse and hanged her from and rode over to The Great Pacific Coffee Company Shop and Saloon knowing he’d have no further trouble with rustlers. At the coffee shop he had usual drinks and found a copy of the Crux Chronicle. On the front page was a picture of Miss Moore’s head on the spike. The headline says she declared she regretted she had but one head to give for her country.
‘Fucking tabloids embellish anything’ Tree thinks…
The End…
