CondemnedKat
Magistrate
The following is a true story that happened to me around twenty years ago. I’ve told some people on this forum about this incident and been encouraged to write an account of it for others to read.
I was living away from my family home, recently qualified in my profession. I was in my early twenties and just to paint a picture I have blonde hair, blue eyes, I’m 5’4 tall and back then I had an incredible gym body. I was fit and agile and carried no excess weight, a good bit different to the chunky middle-aged mum I’ve become.
One afternoon I was flicking through a friend’s glossy magazine when I started reading an article about professional dominatrixes. The article was humorously written, a tongue and cheek look at what, usually men, would pay women to do to them.
Two words on the article caught my eye though. On a list of all the different things that a dominatrix would provide the words “Mock Execution” appeared. I read those words several times, my eye kept returning to them and often afterwards my mind would go back to them.
You see, I’ve always had this morbid fascination with execution. From when I was a young girl and I’d hear in the news or on tv shows about the death penalty or in history class about beheadings and the like, I’d always think about them.
My little brain was filled with horror. What went through the condemned’s mind during sentencing and in the days and hours before that horrible event took place. It terrified me. I used to fantasise that I was the condemned, I’d think about how I felt during all the processes leading towards my own demise.
Into my later teens I found this fascination turned to a morbid sexual fantasy. I realised I was getting aroused and would sometimes masturbate thinking about being on the gallows or being strapped to the instrument of my death.
Weeks and months passed but those words, “Mock Execution”, still turned around in my head. One night I decided to look the terms up on search engines and to my surprise I found a number of pro-Dommes would engaged in the practice. It was often something away down the list of “services” but some of them appeared to concentrate on it.
I found one Woman, let’s call her Mistress X, she had a small section on her website explaining how she had a setup that simulated hanging safely using a special harness. That night I closed my laptop, tried to forget what I’d read, but it always came back to me. This woman would help me explore my fantasy.
Finally I plucked up the courage to email her.
I told Mistress X a brief summary of my history, of how it was cathartic for me to let these fantasies play out in my head. I asked would she consider a role-play where I was to be sentenced, processed and executed.
I get the feeling I wasn’t believed as the small response I got from her said, “If you want to talk about this please phone me.”
Would I do it, would I phone her? This was a daft idea, of course I’d never go through with it, of course I was wasting everyone’s time here but after a couple of days I decided to pick up the phone.
We talked briefly; I think she mainly wanted to ensure I wasn’t some guy getting his kicks from sending silly emails. Mistress X sounded polite, friendly, professional, and actually quite gentle. She put me at ease but said she’d never come across a female who shared my kink before. She asked me to send a longer email detailing the kind of scenario I considered carrying out.
E-mails flew between the pair of us for a few days, perhaps a couple of weeks. She wanted to know about my emotions, how I’d act, how I’d feel.
We set an appointment, discussed payment and I made travel plans. Of course, I wasn’t going to go through with it, of course not.
I kept telling myself that as I sat on the train on the hot summers’ day, I was dressed like any young woman enjoying the heat, short skirt, and a nice top with a pair of sandals on my size five feet. I clutched my overnight bad, aware of the envelope bulging with fresh bank notes ready to pay my tormentor.
The journey went without a hitch, and I ended up having time to throw my overnight bag into the hotel I’d booked for that night. I remember looking at myself in the lobby toilet mirror, looking deep into my own eyes, “What the hell are you doing you crazy little cow?”, I asked myself in the deserted bathroom.
Next thing I knew I found myself knocking on the front door of an elegant townhouse, the taxi journey to the address passing in a blur. Of course, I told myself, there was no way I’d be going through with this.
TBC...
I was living away from my family home, recently qualified in my profession. I was in my early twenties and just to paint a picture I have blonde hair, blue eyes, I’m 5’4 tall and back then I had an incredible gym body. I was fit and agile and carried no excess weight, a good bit different to the chunky middle-aged mum I’ve become.
One afternoon I was flicking through a friend’s glossy magazine when I started reading an article about professional dominatrixes. The article was humorously written, a tongue and cheek look at what, usually men, would pay women to do to them.
Two words on the article caught my eye though. On a list of all the different things that a dominatrix would provide the words “Mock Execution” appeared. I read those words several times, my eye kept returning to them and often afterwards my mind would go back to them.
You see, I’ve always had this morbid fascination with execution. From when I was a young girl and I’d hear in the news or on tv shows about the death penalty or in history class about beheadings and the like, I’d always think about them.
My little brain was filled with horror. What went through the condemned’s mind during sentencing and in the days and hours before that horrible event took place. It terrified me. I used to fantasise that I was the condemned, I’d think about how I felt during all the processes leading towards my own demise.
Into my later teens I found this fascination turned to a morbid sexual fantasy. I realised I was getting aroused and would sometimes masturbate thinking about being on the gallows or being strapped to the instrument of my death.
Weeks and months passed but those words, “Mock Execution”, still turned around in my head. One night I decided to look the terms up on search engines and to my surprise I found a number of pro-Dommes would engaged in the practice. It was often something away down the list of “services” but some of them appeared to concentrate on it.
I found one Woman, let’s call her Mistress X, she had a small section on her website explaining how she had a setup that simulated hanging safely using a special harness. That night I closed my laptop, tried to forget what I’d read, but it always came back to me. This woman would help me explore my fantasy.
Finally I plucked up the courage to email her.
I told Mistress X a brief summary of my history, of how it was cathartic for me to let these fantasies play out in my head. I asked would she consider a role-play where I was to be sentenced, processed and executed.
I get the feeling I wasn’t believed as the small response I got from her said, “If you want to talk about this please phone me.”
Would I do it, would I phone her? This was a daft idea, of course I’d never go through with it, of course I was wasting everyone’s time here but after a couple of days I decided to pick up the phone.
We talked briefly; I think she mainly wanted to ensure I wasn’t some guy getting his kicks from sending silly emails. Mistress X sounded polite, friendly, professional, and actually quite gentle. She put me at ease but said she’d never come across a female who shared my kink before. She asked me to send a longer email detailing the kind of scenario I considered carrying out.
E-mails flew between the pair of us for a few days, perhaps a couple of weeks. She wanted to know about my emotions, how I’d act, how I’d feel.
We set an appointment, discussed payment and I made travel plans. Of course, I wasn’t going to go through with it, of course not.
I kept telling myself that as I sat on the train on the hot summers’ day, I was dressed like any young woman enjoying the heat, short skirt, and a nice top with a pair of sandals on my size five feet. I clutched my overnight bad, aware of the envelope bulging with fresh bank notes ready to pay my tormentor.
The journey went without a hitch, and I ended up having time to throw my overnight bag into the hotel I’d booked for that night. I remember looking at myself in the lobby toilet mirror, looking deep into my own eyes, “What the hell are you doing you crazy little cow?”, I asked myself in the deserted bathroom.
Next thing I knew I found myself knocking on the front door of an elegant townhouse, the taxi journey to the address passing in a blur. Of course, I told myself, there was no way I’d be going through with this.
TBC...
