Oblivion

[Pia]

Oblivion. I thought it would be a nice appropriate title for this little episode. And I get to choose of course, not some amanuensis or editor. And I like oblivion. It sounds soft, swallowing. A sort of Greek ending to my little history I suppose. Like a river falling over a cliff into a bottomless chasm. Oblivion. It doesn’t end, it just becomes darker and darker.

So, our journey was coming to an end, by degrees. We did stop briefly in Hamburg. Just for a glass of beer and a curry-wurst at the station and that’s when Romy got a bit angry with me and started telling me I couldn’t and that I was being cruel to everyone and especially my mum and her of course. I didn’t really want to answer, because it’s true. I am selfish. It’s just that sometimes you have to be. I wiped the tear from her cheek and closed my hand over hers and smiled and squeezed. Sometimes that’s better than words. I’m not claiming that this is a journey determined by logic after all.

And then the bus journeys into the country and the fluttering green leaves over the gentle hills and ponds. And one village and another, all so perfectly peaceful. And then the one I knew from before and the woods and the slope to the left with the hint of a lake beyond the trees and the turn to the right and the long curving drive. The last time had been in the bleakness of winter.

He was there to meet us. He said his greetings and led us into the great house and gestured us to sit in the room with the long table and the stone fireplace and the clock that ticked. He left us alone watching the birds outside in the sunny warm afternoon, while we waited in the cool within. I could hear Romy breathing, her hand tracing a pattern on the polished wood.

We may have been there fifteen minutes; we may have been there an hour. I have no idea. The door at the other end of the room, the one with the polished brass handles, clicked open and she walked in, her heels clicking on the floor. I remembered her from before. She smiled and asked us to follow her upstairs. Our rooms were next to each others, connected by a shared doorway that led to a bathroom without a window. She pushed open the shutters and let the dappled light in. The bed was large and so perfectly white. Opposite its foot was a mirrored dressing table with a mother-of-pearl hairbrush. She told us that we should rest from our journey and that dinner would be at six-thirty. We would meet the other guests then. She said that she would return later with our dresses for the evening, but for now we should rest, then bathe, perhaps. And be ready for her an hour before the ring of dinner bell. And then she left, locking the doors behind her.

I undressed slowly, then sat on the edge of the bed. It was an old bed and my feet barely touched the floor, my toes just dusting the old parquet blocks as they swung to and fro. I listened to the birds in the sky outside. Then Romy came, wearing a light cotton gown that had she had taken from the bathroom. It hung softly over her shoulders, but open to her waist. She came to me slowly and knelt before me, parting my legs, pushing the hair from her eyes, and, with just one gaze and a touch of her fingers on my belly, lowering her face to kiss me.

She tapped at the door, then, without waiting for a reply, turned the key, coming towards me as I lay, half-sleeping. She lifted a lock of hair that had fallen over my mouth and kissed me softly on my brow, then lay down the garments she had brought for me. It was time, she indicated, to bathe and prepare. Her hand stroked me just once and then she went through the dividing room to wake Romy and to give her the dress that she would wear.

Once I had bathed in the deep old-fashioned bath she came to me again and gently wiped me dry with the soft towels that had been warming over a radiator, taking care to smooth my skin under my breasts and between my legs, but without a word. Then she beckoned me to try the clothes that she had laid out on the bed. I looked at them and in a sense I was not surprised. They were lavish, of beautiful materials, but designed to display in every way. First she helped me into a tightly-boned corset that she pulled firmly tight around my waist, allowing it to push my breasts up and tight together. She seemed satisfied with her work. Then a gown of heavy grey crepe that fastened beneath my arms and shoulders, again tied tight with laces, but leaving my breasts free, and cut in the front from the floor to my waist. She turned me towards the mirror and raised my chin until I was gazing at my own reflection. Next she opened a small box she had taken from the dressing table and with infinite care applied kohl to my eyes and paint of the deepest red to my lips. And to my nipples. And to my lips below my waist. She stood back and looked and smiled contentedly.

Romy came into my room, she led her in. She was dressed in the most beautiful silk dress, a pale green-blue, tight around her. Over it a flock of brilliantly-coloured birds flew. Her perfume was heady and her hair pushed back, just very slightly, from her ears. I had never seen her look more beautiful. We said nothing.

She came to me and asked me to hold out my wrists, which I did. She took two dark brown leather bracelets from the dressing table, although I had not noticed them before, and clicked them shut on my wrists, then fixed them together with tiny steel links, to which she attached a length of chain. I saw Romy shiver when this was done. Next she beckoned us to follow her along the corridor and down the stairs. At the foot she indicated that Romy should go to the large dining room, the door of which was open and from which the sound of conversation came. Romy looked once and me then turned and did as she was asked. She then led me, holding the length of chain, along a narrow paneled passageway and then into a small ante-room that I supposed would lead into the dining room. In it stood another girl, about the same age as myself I judged, and dressed in similar fashion, her breasts bare above her basque, her nipples painted and her hair pinned up above the nape of her neck. She asked us both to sit and then left.

I imagined the room beyond the second door. The guests in dinner suits and coutured dresses and jewels. Rich and influential and talking politics and business and the latest movies and the arts. Drinking from their champagne flutes. We sat, silent. Waiting. Eventually the other girl, she had black hair and blue eyes I recall, turned to me and told me her name was Anna. She asked me my name and I told her who I was. She had come here from Hungary she told me. She was a little frightened but the advertisement had seemed interesting. It was a way of earning a lot of money very quickly she said. She told me about her interview and what they had told her and she said she was a little frightened because it was bound to be painful, because that is what they wanted, and that they had promised that there would be good medical care and so in the end she had agreed because it would pay for her university degree and she needed the money and, partly, because she was intrigued. And the whole idea excited her a bit. And it would be over quite quickly and, she said, it was better than working in the private house that her friends spent the afternoons in.

I asked her if she had ever been whipped before and she said she had not and then I understood what the advertisement had been for, because she was to be the hors d’oeuvers, the first course. The little appetiser of an ingenue in chains before the meat dish. I smiled and told her not to worry and that she’d be fine, and that it would hurt a lot, but she might find it an interesting experience and that they would look after her and I told her that I knew them and they were honest and so she would get the money she had been promised. And she seemed happy about that. And then she asked me about myself and what I was there for. I told her and explained that they would probably want her to watch too and that she shouldn’t be too upset about it all, because I wanted this, and it was entirely my own choice.

Then the door opened and we were led inside. The room was lit by chandeliers and the walls glowed and the windows were great black spaces and the crowd applauded as we were brought to the head of the main table. I enjoyed the sense that every pair of eyes, male and female, were gazing at me, and at her too. At our faces and our naked breasts and our chained wrists.

He stood up and introduced us to and explained who we were and what would be happening the next day. He said that we were very special and that tomorrow’s event would be unique and that everyone at the gathering should consider themselves privileged. He stressed the rules. That there were to be no cameras or mobile phones and that everyone who attended was pledged to secrecy. He explained that in the event of rain the occasion would take place in the indoor riding school, but that the weather forecast appeared fair, with sun and a temperature in the high twenties, which was ideal and that therefore it was probable that we would be able to use the outdoors ménage as intended, which would of course be much preferable. There would, He told the assembled group, be a film made which would be available to the attendees online, for a limited period. But for the rest they would have to rely on their eyes and their memories and remember that this was a unique opportunity. He said that the bar would remain open until two, and that we would remain in the room until then also. It was quite permisable for anyone to touch us on our faces or breasts or between our legs, but not to kiss us or to ask us any questions at all. We were to remain silent throughout. Finally He told the group that breakfast would be taken late, at nine in the morning. And that they should be ready to assemble in the hallway for the short journey to the ménage at ten thirty.

I could see Romy in the crowd. She was talking to a man with blonde hair waxed back on his head and a heavy, expensive watch on his wrist. He had a girls with dark curls in one arm, his hand over her shoulder, playing with her cheek, and his other arm was soon wrapped around Romy’s waist and he pulled them to his mouth, first one and then the other, and eventually he drew them away from the front row, having grown bored with looking at us two, and took them to the bar and then through the large double doors into the hallway beyond and I supposed to his room on one of the upper floors.

When the clock struck two she came back and led us away from the prying hands. Not to my room this time, the one with the connecting door to Romy’s. Instead along the long corridor that I remembered from before, and down a stone staircase to a stone passageway off which were a number of iron-gated chambers. The other girl was taken into the first, where she was asked to undress and where she was then chained by wrists and ankles to an iron hoop in the wall, which allowed her to sit and lie down but little else. She closed the iron-barred door and led me to the next cell where in the same way I was prepared for the night. And then the door closed and the lock was turned and there was no light but the flicker of a candle that cast its shadow long the passageway.

 

[Deleted member jedakk]

I like the little details you put in this throughout: The clock that ticked, the bed that was large and perfectly white, the windows that were great black spaces, etc. I get a strong feeling of the opulence of the place, the buildup toward the events to come the next day, a bit of foreboding as the main character is left chained in a dark cell with only the flicker of a candle out in the passageway. I wonder about the girl who is new to all of this; will she be cowering and crying when her turn comes and it's over, or will she discover something about herself? Very nice writing.

 

[Barbaria1]

Oblivion. I thought it would be a nice appropriate title for this little episode. And I get to choose of course, not some amanuensis or editor. And I like oblivion. It sounds soft, swallowing. A sort of Greek ending to my little history I suppose. Like a river falling over a cliff into a bottomless chasm. Oblivion. It doesn’t end, it just becomes darker and darker.

So, our journey was coming to an end, by degrees. We did stop briefly in Hamburg. Just for a glass of beer and a curry-wurst at the station and that’s when Romy got a bit angry with me and started telling me I couldn’t and that I was being cruel to everyone and especially my mum and her of course. I didn’t really want to answer, because it’s true. I am selfish. It’s just that sometimes you have to be. I wiped the tear from her cheek and closed my hand over hers and smiled and squeezed. Sometimes that’s better than words. I’m not claiming that this is a journey determined by logic after all.

And then the bus journeys into the country and the fluttering green leaves over the gentle hills and ponds. And one village and another, all so perfectly peaceful. And then the one I knew from before and the woods and the slope to the left with the hint of a lake beyond the trees and the turn to the right and the long curving drive. The last time had been in the bleakness of winter.

He was there to meet us. He said his greetings and led us into the great house and gestured us to sit in the room with the long table and the stone fireplace and the clock that ticked. He left us alone watching the birds outside in the sunny warm afternoon, while we waited in the cool within. I could hear Romy breathing, her hand tracing a pattern on the polished wood.

We may have been there fifteen minutes; we may have been there an hour. I have no idea. The door at the other end of the room, the one with the polished brass handles, clicked open and she walked in, her heels clicking on the floor. I remembered her from before. She smiled and asked us to follow her upstairs. Our rooms were next to each others, connected by a shared doorway that led to a bathroom without a window. She pushed open the shutters and let the dappled light in. The bed was large and so perfectly white. Opposite its foot was a mirrored dressing table with a mother-of-pearl hairbrush. She told us that we should rest from our journey and that dinner would be at six-thirty. We would meet the other guests then. She said that she would return later with our dresses for the evening, but for now we should rest, then bathe, perhaps. And be ready for her an hour before the ring of dinner bell. And then she left, locking the doors behind her.

I undressed slowly, then sat on the edge of the bed. It was an old bed and my feet barely touched the floor, my toes just dusting the old parquet blocks as they swung to and fro. I listened to the birds in the sky outside. Then Romy came, wearing a light cotton gown that had she had taken from the bathroom. It hung softly over her shoulders, but open to her waist. She came to me slowly and knelt before me, parting my legs, pushing the hair from her eyes, and, with just one gaze and a touch of her fingers on my belly, lowering her face to kiss me.

She tapped at the door, then, without waiting for a reply, turned the key, coming towards me as I lay, half-sleeping. She lifted a lock of hair that had fallen over my mouth and kissed me softly on my brow, then lay down the garments she had brought for me. It was time, she indicated, to bathe and prepare. Her hand stroked me just once and then she went through the dividing room to wake Romy and to give her the dress that she would wear.

Once I had bathed in the deep old-fashioned bath she came to me again and gently wiped me dry with the soft towels that had been warming over a radiator, taking care to smooth my skin under my breasts and between my legs, but without a word. Then she beckoned me to try the clothes that she had laid out on the bed. I looked at them and in a sense I was not surprised. They were lavish, of beautiful materials, but designed to display in every way. First she helped me into a tightly-boned corset that she pulled firmly tight around my waist, allowing it to push my breasts up and tight together. She seemed satisfied with her work. Then a gown of heavy grey crepe that fastened beneath my arms and shoulders, again tied tight with laces, but leaving my breasts free, and cut in the front from the floor to my waist. She turned me towards the mirror and raised my chin until I was gazing at my own reflection. Next she opened a small box she had taken from the dressing table and with infinite care applied kohl to my eyes and paint of the deepest red to my lips. And to my nipples. And to my lips below my waist. She stood back and looked and smiled contentedly.

Romy came into my room, she led her in. She was dressed in the most beautiful silk dress, a pale green-blue, tight around her. Over it a flock of brilliantly-coloured birds flew. Her perfume was heady and her hair pushed back, just very slightly, from her ears. I had never seen her look more beautiful. We said nothing.

She came to me and asked me to hold out my wrists, which I did. She took two dark brown leather bracelets from the dressing table, although I had not noticed them before, and clicked them shut on my wrists, then fixed them together with tiny steel links, to which she attached a length of chain. I saw Romy shiver when this was done. Next she beckoned us to follow her along the corridor and down the stairs. At the foot she indicated that Romy should go to the large dining room, the door of which was open and from which the sound of conversation came. Romy looked once and me then turned and did as she was asked. She then led me, holding the length of chain, along a narrow paneled passageway and then into a small ante-room that I supposed would lead into the dining room. In it stood another girl, about the same age as myself I judged, and dressed in similar fashion, her breasts bare above her basque, her nipples painted and her hair pinned up above the nape of her neck. She asked us both to sit and then left.

I imagined the room beyond the second door. The guests in dinner suits and coutured dresses and jewels. Rich and influential and talking politics and business and the latest movies and the arts. Drinking from their champagne flutes. We sat, silent. Waiting. Eventually the other girl, she had black hair and blue eyes I recall, turned to me and told me her name was Anna. She asked me my name and I told her who I was. She had come here from Hungary she told me. She was a little frightened but the advertisement had seemed interesting. It was a way of earning a lot of money very quickly she said. She told me about her interview and what they had told her and she said she was a little frightened because it was bound to be painful, because that is what they wanted, and that they had promised that there would be good medical care and so in the end she had agreed because it would pay for her university degree and she needed the money and, partly, because she was intrigued. And the whole idea excited her a bit. And it would be over quite quickly and, she said, it was better than working in the private house that her friends spent the afternoons in.

I asked her if she had ever been whipped before and she said she had not and then I understood what the advertisement had been for, because she was to be the hors d’oeuvers, the first course. The little appetiser of an ingenue in chains before the meat dish. I smiled and told her not to worry and that she’d be fine, and that it would hurt a lot, but she might find it an interesting experience and that they would look after her and I told her that I knew them and they were honest and so she would get the money she had been promised. And she seemed happy about that. And then she asked me about myself and what I was there for. I told her and explained that they would probably want her to watch too and that she shouldn’t be too upset about it all, because I wanted this, and it was entirely my own choice.

Then the door opened and we were led inside. The room was lit by chandeliers and the walls glowed and the windows were great black spaces and the crowd applauded as we were brought to the head of the main table. I enjoyed the sense that every pair of eyes, male and female, were gazing at me, and at her too. At our faces and our naked breasts and our chained wrists.

He stood up and introduced us to and explained who we were and what would be happening the next day. He said that we were very special and that tomorrow’s event would be unique and that everyone at the gathering should consider themselves privileged. He stressed the rules. That there were to be no cameras or mobile phones and that everyone who attended was pledged to secrecy. He explained that in the event of rain the occasion would take place in the indoor riding school, but that the weather forecast appeared fair, with sun and a temperature in the high twenties, which was ideal and that therefore it was probable that we would be able to use the outdoors ménage as intended, which would of course be much preferable. There would, He told the assembled group, be a film made which would be available to the attendees online, for a limited period. But for the rest they would have to rely on their eyes and their memories and remember that this was a unique opportunity. He said that the bar would remain open until two, and that we would remain in the room until then also. It was quite permisable for anyone to touch us on our faces or breasts or between our legs, but not to kiss us or to ask us any questions at all. We were to remain silent throughout. Finally He told the group that breakfast would be taken late, at nine in the morning. And that they should be ready to assemble in the hallway for the short journey to the ménage at ten thirty.

I could see Romy in the crowd. She was talking to a man with blonde hair waxed back on his head and a heavy, expensive watch on his wrist. He had a girls with dark curls in one arm, his hand over her shoulder, playing with her cheek, and his other arm was soon wrapped around Romy’s waist and he pulled them to his mouth, first one and then the other, and eventually he drew them away from the front row, having grown bored with looking at us two, and took them to the bar and then through the large double doors into the hallway beyond and I supposed to his room on one of the upper floors.

When the clock struck two she came back and led us away from the prying hands. Not to my room this time, the one with the connecting door to Romy’s. Instead along the long corridor that I remembered from before, and down a stone staircase to a stone passageway off which were a number of iron-gated chambers. The other girl was taken into the first, where she was asked to undress and where she was then chained by wrists and ankles to an iron hoop in the wall, which allowed her to sit and lie down but little else. She closed the iron-barred door and led me to the next cell where in the same way I was prepared for the night. And then the door closed and the lock was turned and there was no light but the flicker of a candle that cast its shadow long the passageway.

So well written PK....your thick description ... the details, but also the flow ... is so admirable. Such a joy to read!

 

[Celticvirgin]

Absolutely amazing PK. You have drawn me in so well. The description and atmosphere are perfect leaving me wanting more. Bravo! And welcome back. xxx

 

[Pia]

Lisa asked me to do this. She had told me about the story she had written and how I could find it on her account on the web. She knew, of course, that someone else would have to finish her story. I was quite reluctant at first, naturally, for so many reasons, but over those drinks by the canal in Berlin, which she may have told you about, I agreed.

I want you to know from the outset that I did not agree with what she was planning to do. To my mind, it is just wrong and cruel. Cruel to me and to so many others who care for her, because a lot of us do care for her, very deeply. But she had her reasons and I think she was beyond changing her mind. So I’m not going to go over all that again. I just think it is so terribly sad. But I suppose a part of me understands too. So, maybe you will not like this part of the story so much, because she’s a writer and I’m not and my job, I think, is just to describe the things that happened. I know she wanted someone to do this. I really didn’t want to watch, but she said I had to and that it would be the last and best thing I could ever do for her. So in the end I agreed. And I suppose the last time I saw her was when that man I was with, the man who put his hand around my waist, kissed me on my ear and I glanced up and saw you being led away with the other girl. Saw her I mean. Saw Lisa. Going away from the great dining hall, so calmly and so beautifully. I think she might have seen me glancing at her. But I’m not really sure. And so the last part before this is what I wrote, because she couldn’t. And the next part will be what I write too, because she cannot.

Today started out misty. The sort of mist you get towards the end of summer when the trees are just about beginning to show the colours of autumn. I opened the door to the bathroom, and then the door to her room, but she was not there. I suppose I expected that. Her bed was made and her things were gone.

Breakfast was served in the great dining room, and one by one the guests drifted in, some alone, some in pairs, and finding places at the table went to collect their cereals or plates of cheese and meat and waited for the coffee to be served by the two maids. There was a sort of expectant chatter. Some talk of the night before, of the two girls and their appearances and what the day would bring.

At some point He (she asked that I write ‘He’) entered and tapped on a glass to draw our attention. He explained how the day would unfold and the rules He wished us to abide by. Our morning would be free to relax; to walk in the grounds or to sit on the terrace for coffee and to read the newspapers. At eleven a bell would ring and we should go to dress. He asked that the men wear jackets and white shirts, and that the women should wear the colourful dresses He had asked us to bring. He suggested we should abstain from wearing underwear to facilitate the attentions of others, should they wish to make use of us during the Event. At eleven thirty precisely the transport would be ready for the short journey to the ménage that had been prepared for the Event. We should leave our luggage in the hall to enable a swift departure once the Event was complete.

I had brought the dress with fish, the one I think you have seen me wearing in the picture that Lisa shared. I showered and perfumed and brushed my hair and looked in the mirror and I felt I was ready. The group was assembled in the hall when I joined them. The men uniform in their dark blazers and jackets, their crisp white shirts open at their necks. The women a rainbow of colours and designs.

As He had promised, the journey to the ménage was short, maybe no more than five minutes along the graveled estate road. The enclosure was entirely surrounded and screened by forest. Along one side a small tribune had been erected, the rails and scaffolding wrapped in white cloth and garlanded with green. He was there to greet us as the maid ushered us to our places. The arena was empty, save for an ominous wooden frame from which hung a pair of chains.

We sat, waiting, for some little while. I found myself seated next to the man from the night before and we engaged in small talk and compliments. I recall he touched me on the knee, gently, but allowing his fingers to rise towards the hem of my dress.

At a certain point a bell rang and, from a small building to one side of the tribune that I think I had not noticed, a woman, dressed in a thin white gown held by clasps at her shoulders, and with flowers in her hair, was led, her wrists tied by rope, into the arena. I was sure that I saw the sunlight glisten off tiny tears on her face. She was the girl from the night before.

She walked willingly but with every step betraying her fear towards the wooden frame. Once there, she held out her arms, as if previously instructed, and the attendant who had held the rope released the clasps, allowing the gown to fall to her ankles and revealing her naked body. Again, as if by prior agreement, she stepped beneath the frame and raised her hands to the manacles hanging from the chains. Her breasts rose and fell quickly as she trembled and I could imagine her terror for what was to come.

At a word from the attendant she spread her legs and at each ankle another manacle was attached. She was ready now for the first part of our entertainment. I recall He made a short speech and explained what would now happen, but I cannot remember His words. I was watching her as she closed her eyes and bit on her lower lip, her fingers opening then touching her palms.

The attendant came towards the tribune and bowed, then removed his shirt revealing a muscled torso. From a box which lay on the ground, just visible to us in the chairs above, he selected - I assume he had a choice - a long, single-tailed whip. With another bow he turned and approached the girl, her nakedness now open to all our eyes on her frame. I felt the hand of my neighbour sliding over my thigh, under my dress.

The first lash seemed to miss her. At any event she made no noise. But the second landed well across her belly drawing a gasp and quickly marking her with a fine red stripe. I didn’t count the blows that he aimed between her knees and her shoulders, working up then down. I focused on her amazing beauty as her body writhed, trying hopelessly to avoid each strike of the whip. Her head falling this way and that, her blue eyes glistening with tears, her mouth opening wide as she cried aloud. I felt his fingers touching me, opening me.

At a certain point the attendant stopped and another man approached. It seemed he was a doctor of a medical attendant. He checked her with a stethoscope and listened for her pulse, then looked into her eyes with a light device, the sort that an optician might use. He withdrew and nodded, indicating that the attendant could continue.

 

[Pia]

I anticipated that the whipping would start again, but it did not. At least not immediately. The attendant removed the ankle chains and then reached up and released the manacles holding the girl’s wrists. At once she folded down onto her haunches, slowly, not collapsing as if in a faint, but curling in onto herself, hugging her arms around her bloodied torso. He gave her a moment, no more, then offered her some water from a glass, which she gratefully accepted. Next he lifted her limp body up, turning her so that now we were looking at her back, which had been barely touched by the lash, except for a few marks where the tail had wrapped around. She was soon chained once more and ready for the next stage of her torture.

I do not need to write about every single blow across the white of her shoulder-blades or the softness of her bottom, or about the howls that came as he struck upwards, between her legs. It seemed to last for a long long time, and slowly her howls diminished to groans and soft moans and eventually silence. My whole body was trembling. At once I was horrified and enraptured by my own excitement, by my growing dampness as his fingers probed deeper within me.

But then it was over. The doctor approached again as the girl was released from her bonds and applied some smelling salts to revive her, drawing once again moans from the lovely lips I had seen the night before. She was terribly marked. The attendant called for another assistant and, together, with her arms over their shoulders, they dragged her from the arena, her feet leaving long trails in the sand. I will never forget the hopeless look in her eyes as she glanced up towards us - towards me I will always believe - sitting in our comfort. I will always wonder what she would think, months from now, when the pain had subsided and the marks had almost gone. I would always wonder whether she would have thought that the price was worth the trauma, or whether, perhaps, the Event had opened a new and frightening existence for her. I knew I would never know.

There was now a break in the proceedings, before the main event. I swallowed hard, for I knew what was to come and my heart was filled with sadness. Attendants brought us drinks, white wine and trays of salmon and oysters. The silence that had been broken only by the sound of the lash was now filled with idle chatter and imaginings, rich women wondering whether they could bear the pain as the lovely dark-haired girl had, imagining themselves powerless and in the hands of a torturer. And imaginings gave to touching and kissing as the men took advantage of our aroused availability.

And then the bell rang again, and He clapped his hands, three times, and brought silence back to the tribune.

He said a few words, not many I recall. Reminding everyone about the Event they were about to witness. That it was unique, and that it was entirely at the free will of the participant. Reminding us of our responsibility to give our respect the girl who was about to die. Reminding us of the requirements to refrain from making pictures or videos. And then He told us we should enjoy the Event as Roman citizens might have done in the Arena. That this was, for us, an entertainment, not an execution. That we should enjoy the food and drink on offer during the Event and that we should, if we wished, make love to one another, because that was how it would have been. The death of the girl was there to entrance and excite us, and at the same time to remind us of our own mortality. In a sense, He said, it was a little morality play. We should not, He stressed, feel any sense of guilt. We were here out of our own free will, as much as she was. This was the fulfillment of her desires, we should make it the fulfillment of our own. And then He clicked his fingers, sat in his seat, and a bell was rung.

From the small building a small girl, with wavy blonde hair decked with flowers, naked to the waist, her waist tied around with a band of blossoms, her wrists tied with rope, was slowly led. It was Lisa. The Vivien-girl. The girl she had always wished to be. She looked straight ahead, somehow calm despite the evident horror of the minutes to come. As she approached the centre of the ménage she turned, the attendant releasing the rope that led her from her wrists. She raised her arms to the sky, staring directly, but unsmiling, at her audience in the tribune, then dropped her sweet head in a bow. She lowered her hands to her side and stood, waiting in the sun.
\

Moments later, from behind our seating, other attendants led in four horses, each decorated in flowers and saddled with collars and leads. They were huge, not the sort of horses that you might use for dressage or jumping, but great farm horses, with massive hoofs and strong backs. Slowly they were taken to the centre of the arena, besides Lisa, then led towards the four corners, maybe six or seven paces in each direction from where she stood.

The attendants busied about their jobs, straightening the leads while another held the bridle steady, laying the ropes in a pattern towards the Vivien-girl. One, the lead I think, came towards her and said something quietly into her ear. With no fuss, she sat down on the sand of the arena, a look of calm in her eyes, spread her legs towards the horses and balanced herself on her hands, leaning slightly backwards. I couldn’t help but look at her body, her white skin, as perfect as she had hoped it would be. Her face didn’t betray the slightest fear, despite the imminence of what she was about, willingly, to endure.

In the tribune the chatter resumed as the men continued with their work, first of all tying Lisa’s ankles tightly with the ropes, making numerous loops before terminating with a series of knots. I saw her wince, just slightly, as the ropes cut into her. I think it was at this point that she began to glance around, seeking out someone she could connect to. I sensed a barely perceptible twitch in her lips and blinking of her eyes that signaled to me that the full reality of what she had asked for and agreed to was beginning to dawn on her. She could still have pulled back, but whether it was for fear of betraying the audience around the arena, or whether it was because this really was what she wanted, or whether she was simply caught in the steady, formalistic progression of events towards the inevitable outcome, I could not say.

At length her ankles were tied, and now the men moved to her wrists, first her right and then, with care, her left. It was at this point that I recalled the picture she had shown me. The girl - Vivien-girl-self - balanced on her now-roped right hand, staring away from the man who was finishing the last knot on her tightly-wrapped left wrist. Staring quite emptily, quite consigned to the path she was on. And then it was done. She was prepared. She leaned back again, her arms behind her supporting her body as she looked straight ahead, her legs spread open. From each limb a rope leading to the ties on each of the horses; each horse steadied by one of the four attendants. The arena became silent. I felt the fingers of my neighbour relax as he became fixated on the view before him, staring at the Vivien-girl, at Lisa, and at the executioner who stood to attention beside her, waiting for his instruction.

There were no more words. Just a slight nod from His head, that prefaced a hand-signal from the executioner to his assistants, and quietly, they led their charges forward, at first simply straightening the ropes, causing Lisa to allow her arms to give way and laying her back on the sand, then raising the ropes from the ground, then pulling them taut and, slowly, raising her bodily into the air, her limbs extended in four directions.

At this point they stopped, and the executioner went to her face, cradling her head, which had fallen backwards slightly, in his hand while he seemed to speak to her. Then he stood back and nodded once more and his assistants urged the horses slowly forward, a step at a time, each step increasing the tension in the ropes and in Lisa’s limbs that now began to glisten with sweat. And all this time I heard no noise from her at all. Or if she made a noise then it was swallowed by the gasps of the audience and swamped by our own awful excitement as the real process that we had come to witness began.

The horses made another move forward, their feet slipping in the sand, and now the stretching of her body became evident, every one of her ribs becoming pronounced under her skin, the muscles of her arms and legs clearly defined. And now she did make a noise, a sudden gasp and a cry of pain as the bonds pulled more and more deeply into her flesh and the tension on her ligaments and joints began to become unbearable.

I found myself turning away, burying my face into the shoulder of the man who now pushed his fingers once again between my legs and bit gently at my ear. But I couldn’t withdraw from the unfolding horror for more than a moment. I felt horribly compelled to see the next stage of the awful process, the next steps of the horses towards the corners of the arena.

The murmuring had diminished as the audience focused on every movement that Lisa made, or tried to make. At the slight lifting of her head as she tried, somehow, to look to her hands and feet and towards the crowd. And then all at once they gasped a breath as her body made most horrible sound - a sort of screaming popping sound that combined with a terrible howl. Her head fell backwards and a stream of drool fell from her open mouth onto the sandy floor.

The doctor approached and signaled that the pulling should cease for a moment, whilst her body remained held in the air in tension. He asked that they lower her to the ground so that he could better check her condition, which he did, drawing forth screams of pain as he touched and manipulated her joints. Then he nodded and with a hand movement indicated that they could raise her again. He spoke to the executioner, a whisper. It was impossible to hear him, but soon it was evident what his instruction was. The man who was with me said quietly that they had dislocated at least two of her limbs he thought, and now they could tear her apart, or begin to. I shivered, hardly noticing as he forced himself into me from behind, the sensations of my rape swallowed by the image of my friend being destroyed, willingly, before me.

Now the assistants urged on the horses, not leading them slowly as before, but slapping their flanks so they rose up and pulled hard against their bonds, suddenly moving not one pace but two, three; suddenly putting immense strain on the dislocated arm and leg, which now almost visibly stretched away from the Vivien-girl’s body, beginning to rip Lisa apart. I cannot recall how long it took as I watched first her leg then the opposing arm twist and begin to part. The flesh became briefly extended, then ripped. First at her hip, where the tear opened and blood squirted out in pulses over the sandy arena, then at her arm, at the point where the arm attaches beneath the shoulder, where the breast springs from the chest. And then an explosion of blood from her waist as the left leg was torn free, clinging briefly by a cord of muscle and ligament then with a crack parting. The horse, its burden suddenly relieved, cantered a few paces away from the now-twisted body, her leg, or what remained of it, trailing out a bloody line on the floor.

I can’t recall whether we gasped or held our breath, I can’t recall what noises she made. Then the arm, the right arm, was similarly detached. So cold a word for so terrible an action. And now she - or the thing that she had been - was suspended between just two of the horses which were whipped on strongly. It was moments only I think, and then her right leg was torn free and the remains of her torso and her lovely head and her left arm were flung by the force to the ground, pumping blood into the already scarlet sand. I hoped that she was already gone, already free of the agony. The doctor advanced quickly, checking with his stethoscope. He signaled she was still alive, but that this could be for moments only. It lasted two minutes. I counted the seconds. Her eyes in the head he cradled, in her beautiful face, remained open. Her mouth, her lovely soft mouth, moved. And then she was still.

And so in the silence of a summer day it was all over and she was dead, and dead as she wished. I knew I would never know if it really had been what she wanted or whether, in the last agonies and tortures of her end she felt regret.

Quickly the assistants released the ropes from the horses and led them away, then returned, collecting the severed limbs and placing them back with her lifeless torso, which was soon hidden behind a black screen, the sort you see in hospitals or at a road-traffic accident.

The man with me had taken himself from me and kissed me harshly on the lips before moving away, the audience in the tribune shuffled as if to go, just like a crowd at a movie. And then He stood up, clapping his hands to be heard. He said that we had all been present and a moving and unique event that we would always remember. That we should always recall, He said, the beauty and bravery of the girl who had willingly given herself to her torture. He reminded everyone that they were bound to keep silence about the event they had witnessed and that, should they wish, a full recording would be available to them within the next twenty four hours. It could be downloaded using the internet address they had provided and using the three security keys that were required. After a thirty minute window the site would be closed and would be unobtainable. What anyone did with the recording would be their choice, but there would be no possible traceability to the host. Luncheon, He said, was available for those who wished it at the house. For those who wished to leave immediately by train, a transit would be ready in fifteen minutes to Hamburg.

I left. I took the transit and boarded the train from Hamburg to Amsterdam, and then onwards to The Hague, where I disembarked at Laan van Nieuwe Oost-Indie. I wanted to go somewhere to forget and I’d heard about a place near the station where I would be welcome. I rang on the door and climbed the steep staircase and told them I had an appointment with Jaydee and I paid for a special room where we could share a bath together before I spent ninety minutes on her bed, just holding and cuddling and touching her blonde hair and kissing her soft breasts.

Then I went to a little place by the beach where I’d booked a room for the night, and wandered along the sea-shore where all the little bars are and I sat at one where the music was good and drank and cool beer and ordered some Thai-style seafood and watched the waves.

I suppose that they disposed of the Vivien-girl quietly. In a black bag in the back of a car driving East to some place where, for a few Euros, someone would burn the remains and load the ashes into another bag once they’d cooled and drive them further East into Poland or somewhere to scatter them, some in one stand of birch trees, some into another, along a rutted dirt track near a dilapidated pig farm perhaps. Somewhere lost and beyond being traced. Somewhere she would never exist and would never be found.

The next day I woke early and took the train into Rotterdam, and then the connection to Hoek van Holland, where I paid cash for my ticket on the ferry to Harwich. Before I boarded I took the supermarket bag into which I had stuffed the short blue dress with the fishes and shoved it into a waste bin by the railway station.

I stood on the open deck as we sailed out beyond the breakwaters of the Maas and into the North Sea. I stood by the rail as Europe faded away and somewhere, somewhere in the middle of the mass of swirling dark waters, beyond sight of land, I took the mobile phone from my pocket, the one that we had shared our messages on. I stroked it and kissed it once then, in a shimmering arc, flung it far out into the waves.

 

[thehangingtree]

Crap... PKin... Uncomfortably great write!!!!

 

[Top-Cat]

Oblivion. I thought it would be a nice appropriate title for this little episode. And I get to choose of course, not some amanuensis or editor. And I like oblivion. It sounds soft, swallowing. A sort of Greek ending to my little history I suppose. Like a river falling over a cliff into a bottomless chasm. Oblivion. It doesn’t end, it just becomes darker and darker.

So, our journey was coming to an end, by degrees. We did stop briefly in Hamburg. Just for a glass of beer and a curry-wurst at the station and that’s when Romy got a bit angry with me and started telling me I couldn’t and that I was being cruel to everyone and especially my mum and her of course. I didn’t really want to answer, because it’s true. I am selfish. It’s just that sometimes you have to be. I wiped the tear from her cheek and closed my hand over hers and smiled and squeezed. Sometimes that’s better than words. I’m not claiming that this is a journey determined by logic after all.

And then the bus journeys into the country and the fluttering green leaves over the gentle hills and ponds. And one village and another, all so perfectly peaceful. And then the one I knew from before and the woods and the slope to the left with the hint of a lake beyond the trees and the turn to the right and the long curving drive. The last time had been in the bleakness of winter.

He was there to meet us. He said his greetings and led us into the great house and gestured us to sit in the room with the long table and the stone fireplace and the clock that ticked. He left us alone watching the birds outside in the sunny warm afternoon, while we waited in the cool within. I could hear Romy breathing, her hand tracing a pattern on the polished wood.

We may have been there fifteen minutes; we may have been there an hour. I have no idea. The door at the other end of the room, the one with the polished brass handles, clicked open and she walked in, her heels clicking on the floor. I remembered her from before. She smiled and asked us to follow her upstairs. Our rooms were next to each others, connected by a shared doorway that led to a bathroom without a window. She pushed open the shutters and let the dappled light in. The bed was large and so perfectly white. Opposite its foot was a mirrored dressing table with a mother-of-pearl hairbrush. She told us that we should rest from our journey and that dinner would be at six-thirty. We would meet the other guests then. She said that she would return later with our dresses for the evening, but for now we should rest, then bathe, perhaps. And be ready for her an hour before the ring of dinner bell. And then she left, locking the doors behind her.

I undressed slowly, then sat on the edge of the bed. It was an old bed and my feet barely touched the floor, my toes just dusting the old parquet blocks as they swung to and fro. I listened to the birds in the sky outside. Then Romy came, wearing a light cotton gown that had she had taken from the bathroom. It hung softly over her shoulders, but open to her waist. She came to me slowly and knelt before me, parting my legs, pushing the hair from her eyes, and, with just one gaze and a touch of her fingers on my belly, lowering her face to kiss me.

She tapped at the door, then, without waiting for a reply, turned the key, coming towards me as I lay, half-sleeping. She lifted a lock of hair that had fallen over my mouth and kissed me softly on my brow, then lay down the garments she had brought for me. It was time, she indicated, to bathe and prepare. Her hand stroked me just once and then she went through the dividing room to wake Romy and to give her the dress that she would wear.

Once I had bathed in the deep old-fashioned bath she came to me again and gently wiped me dry with the soft towels that had been warming over a radiator, taking care to smooth my skin under my breasts and between my legs, but without a word. Then she beckoned me to try the clothes that she had laid out on the bed. I looked at them and in a sense I was not surprised. They were lavish, of beautiful materials, but designed to display in every way. First she helped me into a tightly-boned corset that she pulled firmly tight around my waist, allowing it to push my breasts up and tight together. She seemed satisfied with her work. Then a gown of heavy grey crepe that fastened beneath my arms and shoulders, again tied tight with laces, but leaving my breasts free, and cut in the front from the floor to my waist. She turned me towards the mirror and raised my chin until I was gazing at my own reflection. Next she opened a small box she had taken from the dressing table and with infinite care applied kohl to my eyes and paint of the deepest red to my lips. And to my nipples. And to my lips below my waist. She stood back and looked and smiled contentedly.

Romy came into my room, she led her in. She was dressed in the most beautiful silk dress, a pale green-blue, tight around her. Over it a flock of brilliantly-coloured birds flew. Her perfume was heady and her hair pushed back, just very slightly, from her ears. I had never seen her look more beautiful. We said nothing.

She came to me and asked me to hold out my wrists, which I did. She took two dark brown leather bracelets from the dressing table, although I had not noticed them before, and clicked them shut on my wrists, then fixed them together with tiny steel links, to which she attached a length of chain. I saw Romy shiver when this was done. Next she beckoned us to follow her along the corridor and down the stairs. At the foot she indicated that Romy should go to the large dining room, the door of which was open and from which the sound of conversation came. Romy looked once and me then turned and did as she was asked. She then led me, holding the length of chain, along a narrow paneled passageway and then into a small ante-room that I supposed would lead into the dining room. In it stood another girl, about the same age as myself I judged, and dressed in similar fashion, her breasts bare above her basque, her nipples painted and her hair pinned up above the nape of her neck. She asked us both to sit and then left.

I imagined the room beyond the second door. The guests in dinner suits and coutured dresses and jewels. Rich and influential and talking politics and business and the latest movies and the arts. Drinking from their champagne flutes. We sat, silent. Waiting. Eventually the other girl, she had black hair and blue eyes I recall, turned to me and told me her name was Anna. She asked me my name and I told her who I was. She had come here from Hungary she told me. She was a little frightened but the advertisement had seemed interesting. It was a way of earning a lot of money very quickly she said. She told me about her interview and what they had told her and she said she was a little frightened because it was bound to be painful, because that is what they wanted, and that they had promised that there would be good medical care and so in the end she had agreed because it would pay for her university degree and she needed the money and, partly, because she was intrigued. And the whole idea excited her a bit. And it would be over quite quickly and, she said, it was better than working in the private house that her friends spent the afternoons in.

I asked her if she had ever been whipped before and she said she had not and then I understood what the advertisement had been for, because she was to be the hors d’oeuvers, the first course. The little appetiser of an ingenue in chains before the meat dish. I smiled and told her not to worry and that she’d be fine, and that it would hurt a lot, but she might find it an interesting experience and that they would look after her and I told her that I knew them and they were honest and so she would get the money she had been promised. And she seemed happy about that. And then she asked me about myself and what I was there for. I told her and explained that they would probably want her to watch too and that she shouldn’t be too upset about it all, because I wanted this, and it was entirely my own choice.

Then the door opened and we were led inside. The room was lit by chandeliers and the walls glowed and the windows were great black spaces and the crowd applauded as we were brought to the head of the main table. I enjoyed the sense that every pair of eyes, male and female, were gazing at me, and at her too. At our faces and our naked breasts and our chained wrists.

He stood up and introduced us to and explained who we were and what would be happening the next day. He said that we were very special and that tomorrow’s event would be unique and that everyone at the gathering should consider themselves privileged. He stressed the rules. That there were to be no cameras or mobile phones and that everyone who attended was pledged to secrecy. He explained that in the event of rain the occasion would take place in the indoor riding school, but that the weather forecast appeared fair, with sun and a temperature in the high twenties, which was ideal and that therefore it was probable that we would be able to use the outdoors ménage as intended, which would of course be much preferable. There would, He told the assembled group, be a film made which would be available to the attendees online, for a limited period. But for the rest they would have to rely on their eyes and their memories and remember that this was a unique opportunity. He said that the bar would remain open until two, and that we would remain in the room until then also. It was quite permisable for anyone to touch us on our faces or breasts or between our legs, but not to kiss us or to ask us any questions at all. We were to remain silent throughout. Finally He told the group that breakfast would be taken late, at nine in the morning. And that they should be ready to assemble in the hallway for the short journey to the ménage at ten thirty.

I could see Romy in the crowd. She was talking to a man with blonde hair waxed back on his head and a heavy, expensive watch on his wrist. He had a girls with dark curls in one arm, his hand over her shoulder, playing with her cheek, and his other arm was soon wrapped around Romy’s waist and he pulled them to his mouth, first one and then the other, and eventually he drew them away from the front row, having grown bored with looking at us two, and took them to the bar and then through the large double doors into the hallway beyond and I supposed to his room on one of the upper floors.

When the clock struck two she came back and led us away from the prying hands. Not to my room this time, the one with the connecting door to Romy’s. Instead along the long corridor that I remembered from before, and down a stone staircase to a stone passageway off which were a number of iron-gated chambers. The other girl was taken into the first, where she was asked to undress and where she was then chained by wrists and ankles to an iron hoop in the wall, which allowed her to sit and lie down but little else. She closed the iron-barred door and led me to the next cell where in the same way I was prepared for the night. And then the door closed and the lock was turned and there was no light but the flicker of a candle that cast its shadow long the passageway.

Pkindenhaag

Finally a new story yours.

Their stories are doing lacking here in CF.

Top Cat

 

[Pia]

Epilogue​

There is an alternative ending to this story. As Lisa lay there on the ground, the doctor checked her body and found that a leg and one arm were dislocated. Lisa screamed out as he touched her and he bent close over her face. He told her what had happened and what would happen next and that from now there would be no possibility of return. He asked her if this was what she really wanted, or if she had experienced enough, come close enough to death. He told her that there would be no shame in stopping now and that the audience in the tribune would still leave satisfied from the morning’s entertainment.


Lisa was quiet for a few moments and then indicated that she had suffered enough and that she had achieved the near-death she had cherished. She had become the Vivien-girl and she had seen herself, seen her own body, stretched and torn, just as she had wished. He asked her if she was sure and, in great pain, she nodded a confirmation. The doctor went towards the tribune and whispered his message to Him and He shook his hand, then turned to the audience and announced that the entertainment was over. The girl, he said, had suffered terribly for her desires and for them and now had chosen life over death and this was a matter for celebration.


The assistants helped the doctor to place her onto a stretcher and she was taken away from the arena. I freed myself from the man who had been with me during the event and pushed my way through the crowd to where she was, her wrists and ankles still tightly bound by the ropes and oozing blood where they had cut into her flesh. She gasped for breath and her eyes rolled in pain, but she was alive. The doctor had put a catheter into her arm and was administering pain-relief and a drug to suppress the terrible inflammation around her joints. He placed a face-mask over her mouth and gave her oxygen. Soon she was asleep and free of the agony she had endured. He nodded to me in recognition and mouthed that she would be alright and that I should not worry.


I saw her next in a private hospital room in Hamburg. She was wired up and attached to drips and her wounds were dressed. She smiled wanly to me. It was so wonderful to see her again. It’s impossible to say how wonderful it was. I hated myself for writing the story she wanted. I never wanted to. I hated myself totally because I love her and I always will and I couldn’t believe she would leave me like that.


Hamburg wasn’t really on my plan but it was nice. I made contact with the guy she’d worked with, the guy who knew Him, and he was pretty helpful. I liked him. He handled all the hospital costs and He had transferred a lot of money for Lisa too. But I didn’t want to see Him or speak to Him ever again. Still, the guy in Hamburg was nice and, well, I like some of that stuff of course and I spent one night with him while Lisa was recovering. And a day. I enjoyed it. We set our limits and I got some money out of it too. But I’m not crazy like Lisa. It was sort of fun for me. I’m a bit sore and cut up but it wasn’t like it was for her.


The doctor told me she should stay in the hospital a week, and then she’d be pretty much fine. A bit sore and marked but essentially no long-lasting damage.


I phoned her mum and told a pack of lies about meeting up with her and having a great time and trying out some climbing on an artificial wall and that she’d slipped and was a bit injured but would be ok and that I’d be staying with her til she was really ok.


And then we were both together again. And we sat by the Alstersee and drank coffee and rested our heads against each other’s. And I told her never to be stupid again and that I wanted her and loved her and she should never ever put herself into a place like the one she’d been. And I showed her what I had written and asked her which version she preferred.


And she looked at the first and then at the second. She didn’t answer me.


Then she told me that when she’d been lowered to the ground, after they had dislocated her joints, she lifted her head, just slightly. She told me that the pain had been awful, worse than she could have imagined, but that she looked down over her racked body, slick with sweat, and at her feet and the ropes that tied them and that, in the distance across the arena, she thought she saw someone. Another girl in agony, another girl about to die. She said that her breasts were covered in blood and that as she rose and fell and twisted she could see that her back had been lashed too. And her wrists and feet were bloody and broken and she hung there, nailed to a wooden cross, her hair falling over her face.


And then she looked again and the girl was gone. And in this moment, she said, she understood that she was not the Vivien-girl and that she wanted something else, something more; that it wouldn’t be enough for the horses to pull and tear her apart and her light to dim so suddenly. And she told me that when she squeezed her eyes tight shut, she could see not just one girl hanging there, but two. And one of those girls was Romy. And in that moment she decided to live. Because, she said, her journey was not over.


She picked up the little candle on the table and held it over my arm and let the hot wax fall onto me

And I touched the underside of her ear with my finger and let my finger run along her face to the edge of her mouth and I let my lips close onto hers and I kissed her. And I kissed her again.

 

[Celticvirgin]

Just amazing PK. Incredible writing and imagination from you. I am breathless. Tash xxx

 

[old slave]

There is an alternative ending to this story.

An awesome story, and I prefer the alternative ending, Lisa (and Romy?) can have so many more erotic adventures, since her imagination knows no bounds. (And give us the chance to let Lisa teach us even more about Europen geography).

 

[Primus pilus]

There is an alternative ending to this story. As Lisa lay there on the ground, the doctor checked her body and found that a leg and one arm were dislocated. Lisa screamed out as he touched her and he bent close over her face. He told her what had happened and what would happen next and that from now there would be no possibility of return. He asked her if this was what she really wanted, or if she had experienced enough, come close enough to death. He told her that there would be no shame in stopping now and that the audience in the tribune would still leave satisfied from the morning’s entertainment.

Incredible writing Pkin but the alternative is the ending that Pp would much prefer.

 

[sebastian]

How exciting it was to follow Lisa's journey to become the Vivien Girl. Two very viable endings with the alternative offering yet more exquisite episodes. Thanks PK, keep it going.

 

[Jollyrei]

So very sensuous and intense, Pk. Touching, sad, and beautiful. The touch of finishing the story through Romy's eyes was excellent. I hope you got what you were wanting when you wrote it. As a reader, I could not have hoped for more.

 

[Thessela]

"and in that moment she decided to live"

To step back from the edge, renewed, revitalised, excited by new posibilities.
Why die, when there is always another adventure around the corner?

 

[Madiosi]

The next for the E-Book Libary

 

[thehangingtree]

The next for the E-Book Libary
View attachment 295845

Madiosi, step back, or that suit will cost a fortune to clean!!!

Tree

 

[Madiosi]

Madiosi, step back, or that suit will cost a fortune to clean!!!

Tree

It's working clothes for modern executioner.