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Crucifixion of a Weather Girl

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Assistant executioner
This is my first attempt at writing a work of fiction. It's set in an alternative England, a dystopian version of the country which has been my home for the past three years.

Part 1
It must have been the deepest night's sleep of Mercy's entire life. But now she is beginning to stir. She is groping her way towards consciousness, gradually piecing together who she is, the various parts of her jigsaw moving into place as her limbs and torso remain in a state of profound relaxation. Her curvy little body, curled up under the sheet, feels cosy and warm. Her soft, strawberry-blonde hair is fanned out over the firm white pillow.

Her dream was strange and dark. A nightmare. There was a man called Augustus Oakbeam. There was a crowd of people laughing at her. Jeering, and shouting obscenities. Spitting at her. A sadistic, flinty-faced judge in a courtroom, telling her that horrid cruel things needed to be done to her. Beastly things - because she was a wicked girl, a shameless slut, a disgrace to her country. Why? A whip and cane and nails were mentioned. Humiliation. A death sentence. He told her she would be stripped and paraded naked through the streets to her execution, carrying with her the instruments of her death. Nails and a crossbeam. But she is only 19 years old. It was a ghastly, and terrifying experience. Who is Augustus Oakbeam? It doesn’t matter now. None of it matters. It was only a dream.

Whatever her nightmare was all about, it is fast receding to the edges of her consciousness. It can't reach her now. It has no more significance than a cold wet fog nuzzling against bolted windows. She is dozing inside, in the warmth, lying with her knees up in the fetal position, wrists crossed over her perky breasts. She feels snug and secure. Slowly she is waking up under a bright light. Is it daylight? And there’s a murmur of kindly voices and laughter around her. A deliciously comforting smell of fried bacon, sausages, eggs and toast makes her feel very hungry. Someone is cooking breakfast for her. It must be her boyfriend. With eyes still closed, she reminds herself that she is Mercy Skreemings.

A ripple of pleasure passes through her as she remembers that she is the weather girl on Crucible - England's leading TV news channel. Everyone adores her. She has become a starlet at just 19 years of age. Whatever the forecast, her sunny disposition brings warmth and comfort into people's homes. At 5’2”, teetering on toothpick heels, with a bouncy, shoulder-length wedge cut, dainty little wrist movements and a lovely curvy figure, she is gorgeous. She is loved by all. She is the channel’s main attraction, even though friends and colleagues often tease her that viewers - especially horny men - pay more attention to her pretty face, lovely legs and stunning cleavage, than to the weather map behind her.

Still half asleep, she smiles to herself as she remembers that she responded to their teasing by wearing even higher heels and even shorter and tighter dresses. Her viewing figures have doubled. Paparazzi snap photos of her in her swimwear when she’s on vacation. And they crowd around her when she visits her favorite restaurants with Toby, her boyfriend, who is a successful fashion model. Feature writers and op-ed journalists muse in their columns on Mercy’s glamorous lifestyle, her innocent elegance and unthreatening sexual allure.

Mercy loves her work. She loves the tingle of arousal between her legs and in her nipples whenever she goes on camera. Secretly she enjoys the thought of all those viewers libidinously undressing her with their eyes, fantasizing and perhaps masturbating over her in the privacy of their living rooms and bedrooms. By the end of each forecast her panties feel pleasantly warm and damp and she can’t wait for Toby to give her a hard brutal fucking.

Toby is such a good lover, so muscular and well-endowed … those pecs and cheekbones … her nipples stiffen between her fingers as she remembers how good he is. She squeezes her thighs together … And when Toby takes her in the full Nelson position - her favorite - with her thighs wide open and her knees bent, calves dangling over his strong forearms, and his big hands reaching up to clasp her head and throat, his huge cock entering her from behind, pushing all the way in … and she is just a toy … a tiny squealing little fucktoy in his controlling grip ...

A clattering noise - the sound of a trolley being pushed past her bed - jars her into a more acute state of awareness and she snaps her big blue eyes wide open. She is not at home. The light is very bright, but it isn't daylight. It's a harsh neon striplight above her head. There are other beds in the room, and other women lying on them. This is a hospital ward. The curtains are closed and it's still dark outside. A clock on the wall tells her it’s 6 in the morning. Nurses are walking into the room.

"Good morning everybody. How was your shift?" says a female voice from near the door.

"Amazingly quiet”, says another. “A proper graveyard shift. We knocked them all out. Twenty milligrams each of Oblaviam. They're only just beginning to stir. It's gonna take them a while to work out where they are … or even who they are.”


“Oblaviam?” says the first voice. “Just five milligrams of that stuff hits me like an elephant tranquilizer. And I always feel so horny when I wake up.”

“Yeah, I know. It has that effect on me too. But horny’s good for these ladies right now. I mean, it should help them with their first duties of the day. Right?”

More laughter.

Why am I here? thinks Mercy. What are they laughing about? Am I sick? She tries to bring her hand up to her head, and feels her wrist tugging against her other wrist. Handcuffs! Her hands are bound. And her feet. Manacles! She has an urge to cry out, but restrains herself. She mustn't antagonize them. The nurses. Her captors. Whoever they are. There must be a rational explanation for this.

"Wakey-wakey," says a warm cheerful voice at the foot of her bed. It belongs to a buxom, rosy-cheeked, brunette, probably in her early forties, dressed in a crisp white uniform, with her hair up in a neat bun. "Come on sleepy head. You've got a big day ahead of you, Miss Skreemings. Dr. Painjoy will be around before long, to mark you up. And we need to give you an enema and get you to x-ray before he comes. He’s doing the men’s ward at the moment."

The woman turns to address one of the other nurses. “Emma, sweetheart, These three ladies need an enema and a shower, followed by x-rays of hands and feet.”

“Certainly, Sister.”

“Am I here for an operation?” asks Mercy plaintively.

“Yes, I suppose you could call it that. A very complicated, long-drawn-out, operation”, says the buxom nurse, with a wry grin.

“But what ... Why have I got handcuffs on?”

“It’s to stop you hurting yourself, dear.”

She walks on to the next bed.

“Good morning Miss Coxwell. You look wide awake already. Did you enjoy your beauty sleep?”

The woman in the next bed is sitting up. She is pale, with black hair and a dazed expression. She looks vaguely familiar to Mercy. A TV news reporter? Yes, of course, she’s Ophelia Coxwell, one of Crucible’s political reporters. Seeing her only heightens Mercy’s disquiet.

The bed next to her is occupied by a sleeping figure, a dark-skinned woman. The nurse walks over to her, bends down and says softly: "Rise and shine, Miss Drednail. Today's the day!” And turning around to face Mercy, she says: “Dr. Painjoy says it’s going to be a perfect day for it, weatherwise. Sunny but not too hot, with some nice cooling showers in the late afternoon. But I suppose you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you, Miss Skreemings?"

She winks at Mercy, who wonders what the weather has to do with a surgical procedure.

More clattering sounds near the doorway signal the entry of a young girl with a yellow paper hat on her head, pushing a trolley laden with plates and covered metal dishes.

"Good morning Debbie", says the buxom, jovial nurse. "That smells delicious. I've only just had breakfast and I'm getting hungry all over again. Aren't I a greedy thing!" They both laugh.

"Now then, Debbie, the two ladies over there," she points towards the far corner of the ward, "are to have a full English breakfast. They're due for hanging in forty five minutes, so there’s not a minute to waste. But these three ladies here", she points towards Mercy and her two neighbors, “are nil by mouth." She lowers her voice to a conspiratorial whisper: "Crucifixion".

The word hits Mercy like an iron hammer. She breaks out in an icy sweat, gasps and tries to scream, but her vocal cords are paralysed. She wants to throw up, but her stomach refuses to respond. Memories of the past two weeks come flooding back. They overwhelm her. The courtroom. The judge. The sentence. All real! Not a dream! She is to be taken out today, stripped naked, and nailed up up on a piece of wood, so that the people of England can listen to her screams and watch her suffer a slow and agonizing death.


Angelus Mortis
Staff member
Well, at least everyone gets a good breakfast. :rolleyes::D

I love the scenario and set up. Great start. I love the surreal hospital-like scene and the sense of disorientation. The odday friendly "nurses" are a nicely sinister touch. :eek::clapping:

Piper Marie

Well, at least everyone gets a good breakfast. :rolleyes::D

I love the scenario and set up. Great start. I love the surreal hospital-like scene and the sense of disorientation. The odday friendly "nurses" are a nicely sinister touch. :eek::clapping:

Hell yeah! This has a very "twilight zone" feel to it, and I love it! like I should be hearing narraration by Rod Sterling before and afterwords.


Assistant executioner
Part 2

At last, finding her voice, Mercy begins to scream: “No! No-oh! … I want to go home! Please! Please don’t hurt me! Just let me go home! I’ll be good. I’ll be a good girl … I promise! … I’ll stay out of trouble! ... Pleeease! … Just let me go back to my apartment.”

And she breaks down and sobs convulsively: “Pleee-he-heez!”

The buxom Ward Sister struts towards her, glowers at her for an instant and then slaps her very hard on each cheek. Stunned into silence, Mercy stares at her, panting and shivering like a whipped dog. Then she starts sobbing again, tears burning her flushing cheeks.

“Emma”, says the Sister nonchalantly, “Be an angel and fetch me a ball gag.”

Emma - a pretty young African-Caribbean nurse with braided hair and mischievous eyes - goes to a cupboard and takes out a red rubber ball with black straps attached to it. She hands it to the Sister, and then takes hold of Mercy’s nose and chin, and forces her mouth open. The Sister, whose hands smell strongly of disinfectant, pushes the ball in between Mercy’s perfect white teeth, and secures the straps tightly at the back of her head.

“Thank you Emma, and could you call Psychiatrics and ask them to send over a counselor? Ask for Cassandra, if she’s free. Explain to them that one of our condemned ladies is having a bit of a wobbly.”

“No problem, Sister. Then I’ll be right back to do Miss Skreemings’ enema.”

“Excellent. You’ll feel so much better after your enema, Miss Skreemings. It’ll help you keep control of your bodily functions when you’re nailed up. And of course - as a convicted Slut - you’re going to be experiencing quite a lot of anal intercourse before you get to that point, especially during your first duty: the Gangbang Lottery. There are many, many priapic men out there who are desperately hoping you’ll be picking their numbers from the bucket. Those videos submitted at your trial - showing you indulging in triple-penetration intercourse with foreign spies and enemies of England - will no doubt have whetted their appetites.”

Mercy curls up on the bed, whimpering into the gag. Her hospital-issue pale green nightie is gaping at the neckline, allowing the Sister a clear view of her beautiful plump breasts as they quiver with each convulsive sob.

“There, there”, says the Sister, gently stroking Mercy’s hair. “You see, sweetheart, we have to be cruel to be kind. We don’t like hysterics and histrionics on the Ward. It upsets the other patients. And it doesn’t do you any good either. You need to save your energy. And you most certainly need to save your voice, for later. Once you’re out there”, she points towards the window, “you’ll be able to screech and squeal and wail to your heart’s content. It’s what the crowds will want to hear. Even now, they’re queuing up to pay good money to come and listen to you. And the TV companies will have the most sophisticated microphones in place to broadcast your screams and hysterics all over the world. Think of that! So we can’t have you losing your voice before the Crux Team gets started on you, can we?”

Mercy can feel cold saliva drooling from the corner of her gagged mouth as she looks up into the Sister’s self-satisfied, beaming face. Her own face - with the exception of the angry red finger marks on her cheeks - is as white as the pillow on which her head is resting. The Sister brushes some strands of reddish-gold hair away from her eyes.

“Goodness. You’re such a pretty little creature. A real pinup, that’s what you are. We must get the girls to help you with your makeup before we send you out. So you can look your best for the crowds and the cameras. Eh?”

She winks at Mercy and struts over to greet a middle-aged man with a clipboard, who has just entered the room accompanied by a young woman. Both are dressed in black uniforms.

“Good morning Albert, and Helen. Are you doing the hangings this morning? You’ll be wanting these two ladies here. All present and correct. These are their weights.” She hands him a piece of paper. “And their STD tests are all negative.”

“Good, good”, says the man, scribbling on his clipboard. “In that case, the punters can go bareback.”

Mercy can see that the two condemned women in the far corner of the ward are wearing nothing but lingerie: stockings, garters, lacy panties, garter belts and bras. And they are busy endeavoring - with their elbows tied together behind their backs, just above their bottoms - to slip into pointy stiletto pumps.

“If you could just sign here, Sister.” He hands her the clipboard and a pen. “Up you get ladies. Now then, before we go, do any of you need to visit the restroom?”

Both women look up and nod earnestly. “Yes please”, they say, rather timidly.

“Of course you do”, says the Sister. “We don’t want any accidents, do we? We don’t want to embarrass ourselves in front of the onlookers. But don’t be too long. Mustn’t keep the hangman waiting.”

“Helen, would you mind escorting them?” says the man.

His colleague, a fit-looking brunette in a smart black mini skirt and black tights, steps forward with an engaging smile and leads the two women towards the ladies’ room.

“Busy morning, Albert?” says the Sister.

“Yeah”, says the man. “We’ve finished the gentlemen, all twelve of them. We did ‘em in batches of four. And we’re just getting started on the ladies.”

“How many ladies are there?”

“Fifteen altogether, spread out over the wards. It’s a lot of work, collecting ‘em all. I don’t mind doing the actual ‘angings, but it’s the paperwork that gets me … It’s so boring, and there’s no end to it.”

“Tell me all about it!”, says the Sister, with a twinkle in her eye. “Health and safety regulations, political correctness, gender equality, human rights legislation, audits which account for every penny. I know all about it Albert …” They both laugh. “I heard you were working with wires now, instead of ropes.”

“That’s right. The onlookers like it better that way. ‘Cos they feel like their getting their money’s worth. You know, they ... like, jerk and kick for a good time longer. And with a zero drop obviously. Just those little three-legged stools to stand on. Otherwise we’d be slicing ‘eads off!”

“Yes”, says the Sister, pulling a face, “I wouldn’t fancy the paperwork on that! But the wires sound very exciting. If I wasn’t on duty I’d come and watch.”

“Yeah, it’s been quite a good show so far. And we’ve raised about twelve thousand pounds for the ‘ospital, when you include all the bets. You know, like, which ones are gonna last longest, and all that.”

“Jolly good! We might get a pay rise after all! D’you know, I rather fancy a flutter on one of those ladies over there,” she points towards Mercy and her two fellow-condemned. “They’re being nailed up around lunchtime. I shall have to ask Dr. Painjoy for a tip. It’s so hard to predict with females, which ones will hold out longest. Quite often they surprise you, and even outlive the males.”

“Yeah, well I wouldn’t know too much about crucifixions. But that Dr. Painjoy’s a right proper joker. Came over to our ‘angings first thing ‘e did, and played some cheeky tricks. Like, ‘e gave all the gentleman a shot in the butt of that new drug. Erexecute? And when they stepped up onto their stools they all ‘ad, like, massive … you know ... boners.” He blushes slightly. “If you’ll pardon my language, Sister ...”

The Sister gives a hearty laugh. “This is the Lady’s Ward, Albert, we are perfectly at ease here talking about men's genitalia. Isn’t that so, ladies?” She casts a mischievous glance at Mercy and her two neighbors, all of whom are listening intently to the conversation.

Mercy, gives a yelp into her gag, as she feels a tube being inserted into her anus.

“Just giving you an enema”, says Emma. “Is that alright, Miss Skreemings? Just a bit of warm water and soap going up your bum. It might sting a bit at first. But most people find it quite pleasurable.”

And it does feel very pleasant. Mercy begins to feel a wave of dark sexual yearning moving through her belly.

She has been listening to the Sister’s conversation with the hangman with horror and loathing, but also wondering whether she herself might perhaps have been laughing with them, and expressing similar sentiments, had she not been caught on the wrong side of the new government’s agenda. Is this what most people are like under the skin? she thinks. Indifferent to suffering so long as they themselves, and their loved ones, are okay? No doubt, many people - perhaps most - harbor phantasies of revenge, torture, rape and murder, which once given the go-ahead by the powers that be, can be acted out with a clear conscience. Why should it surprise her?

“Anyway, as I was saying”, says Albert, “the men, they looked so embarrassed, you know, just standing there on their stools with their, like … penises, standing to attention like flagpoles. But the ladies in the audience, they all go, like, totally wild and … you know, all excited and that. Taking their knickers off and throwing them at ‘em. Three of ‘em picked out men that were standing in the queue, took ‘em to the rape tables, and rode ‘em like donkeys.”

“Heavens above!” says the Sister, cupping her hand over her mouth, eyes wide with glee. “That must have been quite a sight!”

“It was, I tell you. And then Dr. Painjoy asks four of the condemned ladies to come up, and … like, fellate the men on the stools … sucking them off and that … while they’re standing there with the nooses around their necks. And just as soon as each one, you know … blows his load, so to speak, Helen pulls their stools away, and there they are, kicking away at the air and, squirting their … thick white spunk all over the place …. bucket loads of the stuff. The Doctor gets the condemned ladies to clean it up afterwards, of course.”

“Goodness me! Dr. Painjoy is such a prankster!”

“Yeah, ‘e’s always got some trick up his sleeve. Brings a bit of light relief; that’s what I say. And there’s no ‘arm in that, I s’ppose.”

“None at all. Our hospital executions would be rather grim affairs without an injection of Dr. Painjoy’s boyish humor … Ah, here come the ladies … All set to go? Cheer up! At least you’re not being crucified. It’ll be all over in no time at all. No whips, no canes. Just some fun and games - that’s all - before they get you up on the stools.”

One of the condemned women has a pair of very voluptuous breasts, supported by a capacious and expensive-looking, dark red, designer bra. Mercy notices the Sister eying it up.

“That’s a lovely brassiere”, she says, “what size are you, darling?”

“Thirty four E”, says the woman, guardedly.

“Oooh, I thought so! My size exactly.”

“Would you like to ‘ave it, Sister?” says Albert. “Might as well take it now. She’ll ‘ave to take it off before she goes up on the stool. The onlookers will insist. And I’m pretty sure they’ll be wanting to - you know - ‘ave a good grope while she’s standing in the queue. Maybe a little bit more than a grope, if they’re willing to pay.”

“Well, in that case”, says the Sister, licking her lips. “I think I’ll treat myself. I'll take it, Albert. Provided it doesn't mean any extra paperwork for you.”

“None at all, Sister. Perks of the job. Helen, would you mind taking off the lady’s bra for the Sister? And mum's the word.”

“My husband will be so thrilled,” says the Sister, as she watches Helen unhook the bra and let it slide over the woman’s huge natural breasts. “Thank you, Albert. Thank you, Helen.”

“Our pleasure. Maybe we’ll catch you later on, at the crucifixions”, says Albert.

“Yes indeed, I shall be on the Crux Team, assisting Dr. Painjoy. Goodbye Helen. Goodbye Albert. And goodbye ladies. Goodbye, sweet ladies.”

Mercy watches them escort the two women out the door. The women walk rather shakily on their high heels, as they find their balance with their elbows bound tightly together, their shoulders pulled back, and their gently swaying breasts pushed forward.

“Well, that’s done then”, says the Sister, raising her new bra to her nostrils. She gives it a sniff, and a smile spreads over her face.

“And that’s Miss Skreemings’ enema all done too”, says Emma.

“Excellent work, Emma. Everything's on schedule so far. Now she needs to go over to x-ray. Wrists and ankles for the Doctor.”

They both turn to look at the door as a deep rumbling noise signals the entrance of a heavy trolley, pushed by a young man in a brown overall. The trolley is laden with a stack of rough-looking timber.

“Ah, here come the cross beams”, says the Sister. “No peace for the wicked, Emma!”
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