Suffer

By DX

Copyrighted, 12/2025.  All rights reserved

 It was stiflingly hot in the courtroom, made hotter by the flickering candles, yet I shivered as the Lord Magistrate entered the room.  I pretended not to notice press of spectators behind me, craning their necks for a good view, their sweaty, grimy faces sneering as they mimed with a tilt of the head and lolling tongues to show how I would look as the noose pulled tight.

 I tried to ignore them as I reigned in my anger at their betrayal.  As a Countess I had used my wealth and position to build an orphanage and school.  The previous year I provided bread and dried meat to help the poor through a hard winter.  I paid for new armor and weapons for the guards and ordered them to patrol the streets at night and arrest scoundrels, cut purses, and ruffians within the city walls.

 To make the people safe.

 They forgot all that when they heard my crime.

 “For the high crime of treason,”  The Lord Magistrate’s voice was heavy and clear, and echoed in the great hall.  “you have been found guilty by the law of judges,”  The audience murmured when they heard the word, guilty.  “and I now sentence you, Elsbeth, Countess of Alwar, to Suffer!”

 The word wasn’t completely unexpected, but I collapsed in dismay as the gathered spectators cheered in jubilation.  As the Lord Magistrate pounded his gavel to silence the crowd, the brutish guards reached down and roughly grabbed me by my arms and hauled me to my feet.

 In my misery, I still felt radiant.  Through my tears and reddened face my deep beauty was still evident despite the iron cage locked tightly around my head and the cruel brank pushed deep into my mouth designed to keep me from defending myself from the charges, holding my vaulted vast wit and intelligence at bay.  My wrists, delicate and adroit, were clamped in irons and held to my waist by a rusting metal belt.  

 My crime was hubris.  

 I was fortunate to be born pretty, and to a household of wealth and title, but I used those things to help the misfortunate.

 I was the shinning gem of the King’s cotillion, a lavish affair filled with the nobles of the four kingdoms.  I wasn’t there just to be pretty, although they made sure I looked perfect, but to sway and dance and flitter like a butterfly from conversation to conversation, and quietly lay the ground work for future trade agreements and allegiances, while gently casting off the many, many proposals of marriage.  

 It was on the balcony overlooking the vineyard when my crime happened.

 Prince Arron, third in line for the throne of Manlor, hinted his marriage proposal, and I, looking for a way out, called upon Lord Belrick, diplomat of Regant who had wandered out for a bit of air.  As we chatted, Belrick rather boldly declared Regant’s army was indefatigable, and I in return casually bragged about the strength of the King’s Legion.

 In the four kingdoms, few could match Belrick’s cleverness, but it was just light teasing, my army’s better than your army—how could this be anything but vaporous words?

 There, that day on the balcony, distracted with Arron fawning for me, no one gave a second thought to my boast.

 Save Belrick.

 As I spoke to the strength of the King’s Legion, little did I, or anyone know, that I exposed a weakness.  

 Except Belrick.

 Where there is strength, there must be a weakness, and Belrick saw what no one else did; the weakness in the King’s Legion.

 Belrick later sold this information to the Kingdom of Gerrald, and as Regant’s custom (because information is currency, and all debts must be paid) sent me my cut for the lucrative transaction.  When I received the small box filled with gold coins I had no idea what it was for and I thought little of it.  People where always giving me gifts to gain my attention, and I didn’t even think when I handed it off to my maid to buy medicine and blankets for the poor house.

 It was all forgotten, until the invasion.

 When the Kingdom of Gerrald attacked and crushed the King’s Legion, the sordid affair was revealed, and those gold coins from the coffers of Gerrald were damning evidence of my betrayal.

 The King needed a scape goat, and since I had refused his offer to become his third concubine, I was as good as any.

 So he put me on trial.  

 With my head locked in a cage and a brank pressing on my tongue, I could only stand mute as paid witnesses, a fabricated document, and scandalous hints of a sordid love affair were presented.

 The public ate it up.

 They demanded blood.

 I didn’t stand a chance.

 Rain fell from my sky blue eyes, but I uttered not a sound as I mustered what dignity I had left and looked up to match the hard glare of the Lord Magistrate.  

 With order in the courtroom restored, the Lord Magistrate, his face twisted as if to spit, glowered at me, then slowly, slowly looked away, unable to match my cold, steely stare.  He glanced at his secretary, hoping the man would hurry.  The Lord Magistrate watched the quill scratching furiously across the parchment to annotate the order and ready it for his wax seal.  With it done, the clerk dusted the parchment, and laid it before the Lord Magistrate.

 “Ordinarily,”  The Lord Magistrate said as he waited for the attendant to heat up the sealing wax.  “a crime of this magnitude could only be resolved by a quick visit to the headsman and his dull axe.”  A small stupid grin crawled across his face.  “But your title forbids such punishment.”  He pressed his ring into the wax.  “Although, I’m certain, before this day is out, and everyday for the rest of your pitiful life, you will beg for the feel of his steel on the back of your neck.”

 The clerk held up the document, and although no one could actually read it from that distance, they cheered, and then cheered again as I tripped over my leg chains as the guards led me to the dungeons to begin my life sentence of suffering.

 The cold, damp air weighed on me as we descended down the poorly masoned steps into the depths.  Torchlights blazed and cast torrid, dancing shadows along the rough cut stone walls.  As my steaming breath curled about me, I struggled not to cry in her utter misery as they brought me to the chair.

 It sat like a dark throne in the center of a kingdom of torture.  It was made of stout, oaken timbers blackened and stained with dried blood, and had heavy iron brackets mounted to insure its strength.

 It was a thing of terror.

 The blacksmith’s thick fingers buckled my wrists, then forearms to the solid arms of the chair, then ran a strap across my chest, and another across my waist.  As he worked, his apprentice locked my ankles in stocks, then with a cheeky grin, reached up under my billowing skirt and locked stocks around my calves.

 Everything was heavy, everything was solid.  Even the strongest man would not avail against the chair; what chance did I have?

 None.  While even the thought of resisting was gone, I struggled non-the-less.

 Because I knew fear.

 Trembling, trying to be brave, I watched the royal surgeon approach, then watched as he laid out his sinister and macabre tools on the bench beside me.

 The Blacksmith removed the cage from my head, but before I could react and beg for some small mercy, the apprentice lashed a thick leather strap around my forehead to press me back into the grip of the hard head rest to keep me still.  As I gasped from the suddenness, the surgeon thrust a tool into my jaws and with a turn of a screw, forced my mouth as wide open as it could go, then a little more.

 And a little more.

 Gagging from the intrusion, I could only watch as the surgeon leaned over me with a long, thin, silvery tool in his hand.  As he slipped the tool down my throat, I could see his face, and thought the man was bored.

 The apprentice brought the oil lamp closer, and all three men peered down the dark hole of my throat.

 I gurgled as the tool slashed with a casual flick, and filled my throat with razors.

 My scream from the wicked pain was torrid and guttural, and I drove my fingers into the unyielding arms of the chair.  Instinctively I fought and thrashed, but could barely struggle against the immovable restraints.

 As my vision blurred with tears, I heard the apprentice comment, “So dems the vocal cords, yah?”

 Fire erupted within my throat as the surgeon slashed again.

 My scream was little more than a strangled hiss.

 Blinking fat rolls of tears from my eyes, I watched the surgeon’s assistant hand the surgeon another long, thin tool.  This one had been sitting in the burning brazer until it was an angry red.

 When it touched inside my throat, I thought it had plunged straight through my neck, and I could taste the burning flesh as the surgeon cauterized what was left of my poor vocal cords.

 Although I tried to be strong, I begged for the headsman’s dull axe.

 With smoke rising from my mouth, the bored and disinterested surgeon took up a pair of grips and quickly seized my squirming tongue, sending shock waves of pain through me.  He held out his other hand expectantly, but his assistant was busy sliding a blade across a wet stone.  The surgeon clicked his fingers impatiently, and the assistant took a half second to wipe the grime from the scalpel before handing it over.

 The surgeon tugged hard at my tongue and stretched it as far as it could go, then carved into the roots of the fleshy muscle with indifference with the half sharp knife, as if he was simply carving meat for his dinner.

 I choked and gurgled on my own pooling blood as the surgeon cut the last stringy bits to sever my tongue from my mouth.  As I began to drown in blood, the assistant handed the surgeon the glowing iron brand fresh from the fire.

 The stink of my boiling blood and burning flesh was thick and foul.

 I fell into darkness until waking vapor pulled me back with its icy perfume.  Blinking to consciousness, I looked around confusedly.  The surgeon and his assistant were gone, the Blacksmith’s assistant was giving a curious sniff to the vial of waking vapor before reeling back from his vicious scent, and the blacksmith was laying out an assorted array of pliers, each one more terrifying than the last.

 He selected the last one.

Teaser:  For the whole almost 10k word story, plus many more tales of erotic horror, consider subscribing to:
https://subscribestar.adult/posts/2169577

Copyrighted, 12/2025, all rights reserved
[email protected]

Death Is No Laughing Matter

By DX

Copyrighted, 9/2025 all rights reserved.

 “Wakey, wakey, Super Secret Agent.”  Her voice curled around his ear like a python as her breath tickled him.  “Time to die.”

 Super Secret Tim Deth struggled awake.  Using his trained super secret skills, he pushed back the curtain of unconsciousness, and peered blearily around.  Grey cave walls, in a combination of rough rock and poured cement, surrounded him.  Lighter patches indicated equipment had been recently removed—hoses had been uncoupled, conduit clumsily torn away exposing shining copper wire.  Old rusting steel lampshades, once new during the war, dangled like old fruit above him.

 For someone, it was moving day.

 He could smell dampness, taste dust, and hear the incessant dripping of water, and his super secret agent trained instincts told him he was in an old abandoned underground bunker.

 He tried to rouse, but could feel hard clamps on his limbs.

 He couldn’t move.

 “Ahhhh, the sleeper awakes.”  Her voice purred.  “Now would be a good time to try and escape your death trap.”

 His eyes flashed in mild panic as the too perfect face of Evil Doctor Syn filled his vision as she leaned over him.  She had laser sharp brows, sinisterly arched like a growl over her cutting eurasian eyes.  Her lethally keen cheek bones flowed smoothly to her soft, full lips, locked in a perpetual, petulant smirk.

 “Come now,”  She cooed.  “you call that a struggle?”

 He pulled sharply on his limbs but found them utterly pinned.  He tried to retrieve his super secret lock-pick from the hidden space of his sleeve, but to his horror, he couldn’t move his fingers.  He tried to activate the super secret blade in his shoe, but his toes were completely restrained.  He tried to look around but he could not move his head.  “Agh hah hwo!”  He tried to curse, but his mouth had been jacked wide open, and his tongue was pressed down to the floor of his mouth.

 Evil Doctor Syn leaned back on a main frame console, and pretended to do her nails with his super secret lock-pick.  “Ohhh,”  She pouted with her succulent, kissable lips.  “Did someone loose something?”  She set the tool on the dais, and walked slowly around the room.  She moved easily on her black patent leather en-pointe shoes that rose to her mid-thigh.  Arterial blood red latex gripped her callipygous form, interrupted by a black leather corset and utility belt clasped at her waist.  Her latex clad marvelous zeppelin breasts swayed casually as she walked.  Her latex surrounded her head, leaving only her face, her too perfect beautiful face, and her tar black ponytail exposed.

 Her eyes smiled hungrily.  “I see you’re back to full consciousness, so I’ll let you know what is going on.”  Her teeth flashed as she exposed her fangs.  “Welcome to your Death Trap!”  She giggled.  “This is where you will die.”  

 Super Secret Agent Tim Deth pulled on his restraints again.  Nothing gave, nothing moved.  He could feel binders on his fingers and toes, his arms and legs, neck and head.  He was pinned fast.

 Evil Doctor Syn stepped closer.  “Our little, Super Secret Agent/Evil Super Villain game was fun, but your, ‘kill the hostage first’ attitude was getting… well, rather messy.  For goodness sake, you blew up an entire shopping mall to try to get one guy!  And you didn’t even catch him!  He escaped disguised as a firefighter, by the way.”  She said dismissively.  “Walked right passed you.  So anyway, the Cabal of Roguery said you had to go, so here you are.”  She pressed her finger tips together as she smiled.  “I’ve decided your death will be… dramatic pause… a laughing matter!”  

 She brushed her rubber clad finger across his ribs and he quickly tensed.  Her eyes flashed.  “Oooo, look at that.”  She whispered, a little impressed.  “See, when my lackey, dressed as a firefighter, brushed past you, as I saw your reaction on my super villain snoop camera, I learned something rather odd: you are ticklish.”  She snorked a laugh.  “How random is that?”  Her eyes softened as she regarded him.  “It’s probably your super secret reflexes making you overly sensitive.  So, that is how you will die.  Tickled to death.”

Teaser: for the whole 3k word story, plus access to many more tales of erotic horror and extreme kink, consider supporting us at:
https://subscribestar.adult/posts/2074434


Copyrighted, 9/2025 all rights reserved.

Dr Guillotine

Part 2

By DX

Copyright Dec 1999, 12/2025, all rights reserved

“Thou Shalt Not Kill.” 

 There's a reason for that.

 I felt empowered, enlivened, a walking feel good movie, rewarded for my years of being the world's doormat. I saw everything through new eyes. Every neck I envisioned clamped tight in my guillotine's yoke, from the holier than thou computer repair minion to the aristocratic sneer of the lady at the college loan office. Watching their faces of fear and helplessness as I stood above them, throwing the switch. The whistling snap, the searing cut, the rolling head in the basket played in my mind as I rode the bus each day as I stared at the zombie faces of my fellow passengers, looking for signs of life. 

 I would provide a service to humanity, and scrape the layer of pond scum from the surface of the earth!

 I am not, was not, will not be a serial killer.  Serial killers had a ‘cooldown’ period.  For me, there was no cool down period, but an inflammation. There was no guilt but an euphoric cleansing. My only restraint was fear of capture.

 I disassembled the machine, piece by regrettable piece. I had come too close to getting caught and I had no intention of going to jail. I agonized every waking hour to develop a foolproof plan, but fools are so ingenious. 

 The perfect plan eluded me.

 I had gotten lucky the first time.  I would not try my luck again.

 It seemed that my guillotine would never again see action and that thrilling, intoxicating drug of power would be lost to me forever.  I would return to the dark endless mine, digging deeper into the jet of oblivion.

 Until my uncle died.

Teaser:  To see the whole 3k word story and get access to many more stories of wild fetish and erotic horror, consider supporting us at:
https://subscribestar.adult/posts/1912218

Copyright Dec 1999, 12/2025, all rights reserved
[email protected]