EXTREME WARNING . This is intended for persons of 18 years of age or above. If you are not 18 then go away.

EXTREME WARNING . This story contains descriptions of violence, snuff, torture and sexual acts. Do not read if these subjects are likely to offend.

EXTREME WARNING . This is an erotic fantasy, not to be confused with reality.

Please do not reproduce in any form for profit without permission from author.

SNUFFING THE GIRLS

By Grim Williams

( gw@REMOVEgrimwilliams.co.uk )

It had been Tom's idea to snuff a girl.

"Why?" we'd all exclaimed. "Isn't it a bit, you know, well, permanent?"

"We could film it," Gavin had interjected, jumping up from his chair. "That way we could replay it over and over, and it wouldn't be quite like, you know, she'd gone, whoever it was."

"I could borrow my dad's video lights," Peter had added. "After all, if we're only going to do this once, we don't want to end up with one of those dark, grainy kind of movies."

There had been a pause as we'd contemplated the enormity of what we were proposing. "But where would we find anyone stupid enough to do it?" I'd asked eventually. "None of our girlfriends would volunteer for a snuffing, that's for certain."

That was the bummer. We'd taken the problem and had chewed it over with several smokes.

We were hiding at the back of Tom's workshop. It was mid morning one cold Saturday in late September. I'd been skiving. I should have been tidying my girlfriend's garden while she was out with her parents. I'd been given instructions: mow the lawn, prune the roses. The other guys had been given their jobs to do as well.

Peter drew heavily on his smoke. "Maybe we could hire a working girl."

That had Gavin spluttering in derision. "A working girl!" he mocked, going to the fridge and grabbing us each a tin of Bud. "Are you joking? Whore's don't do snuff! They wheeze and blow and charge you an arm and a leg. They don't even kiss. They're mercenaries who do as little as they can. They never give a bloke what he wants. I'm telling you, it's got to be one of the girls or nothing. It's the only way!"

He had a point. We cracked open the Buds and sipped at them, lazily reflecting on what we should do.

There was always the possibility of picking a girl off the street, sticking her in the boot of Tom's car and then driving her to the backend of nowhere, but in the end we decided that was too risky.

The thing about it was, to be honest, we didn't really want to snuff a whore or lift a girl from the street. We're not psychopaths. We're normal red blooded guys. This wasn't about killing, it was about revenge.

"What if we don't tell her?" Tom whimsied. "I mean the victim - Helen, Debbie - whoever it is. We invent some excuse about it being a surprise. No - listen - it would work! We bring the girl here on the way to a nightclub, a restaurant, somewhere nice, and then we knock her about a bit, tie her up, force her to take off her clothes, real slow, like she's a stripper dancing for her life. What do you think?"

The lower half of Peter's face dropped as he struggled to conjure with the description. "Oh my God!" he exclaimed, salivating in ecstasy. "Imagine! Being able to make a girl undress, bend over, do whatever we say. We could make her wear a collar and crawl about the floor. Imagine!"

He had one particular girl in mind of course, and everyone knew who that was. Helen. "It might not be her!" I laughed, blowing smoke and teasing him gently. "We've still to decide who it should be. It could be any of the girls, Debbie even."

He sunk back with his head to the wall, his mind locked in some erotic paradise. "God. Imagine telling her... Helen... what to do, how to pose. Making her beg!"

For the record, Helen is Tom's girl. They've been together for six months but Peter has fancied her longer, probably since they were kids in kindergarten. The interest is totally unrequited, however. Helen sees him as a geek who's still to outgrow his short trousers.

"So which girl do we snuff?" I queried, hastily moving the conversation forward before Peter's fantasies became more vocal. Tom gets upset at his wanderlusts, and I didn't want that. Not today. Not with Tom supplying the beer.

So I chattered on, dissembling as I went, carrying the banter precariously on my shoulders. "Speaking for myself," I shrugged, nonchalantly aware that I was to sprout nonsense of invaluable quality. "I wouldn't like it to be Sandra. We don't get on, but even so, she's my girl friend. If she were snuffed, it would be a bit like losing an arm or a leg."

Gavin got up listlessly and walked to the door, thinking about goodness knows what. "One of us will end up minus a girlfriend," he observed practically, opening the door and taking a leak, right over Tom's spring bulbs. "I'd feel pretty upset losing Lucy but what can you do? That's the way snuff works."

Tom sighed. "Perhaps we should make a rule that whoever supplies the girl gets first fuck of the others, you know, to make up for his sacrifice."

I concurred. That was a brilliant idea! I couldn't understand why I'd not thought of it first. Imagine: being able to pick from three hot chicks instead of having to wait upon one sulky old goat. Sandra may appear the business in her figure hugging denims and skimpy tops - and I have to admit, she sucks good cock - but she's a condescending old cow. And her moods come aplenty.

That reminded me: time was getting on. I should be getting back to her garden. The grass had yet to be mown and the roses to be pruned. As someone wise once said: hell hath no fury like the silky tongue of a razor shrew.

Or something like that.

Hell. There'd be cunninglus to pay if I didn't get on.

"Debbie won't go with anyone except me," Peter sighed, deliberately stubbing his smoldering weed into a passing worker ant. It shriveled into a wisp of twisted limbs. "She wouldn't even consider going with you guys, even though she's known you for years. She says she doesn't want to end up with a disease."

Gavin's face broke into a roguish grin. "Maybe it's her that ended up with the disease," he sniggered.

"A loathsome disease," Gavin concurred, zipping up his pants.

An evil grin lit Tom's face. "So let's choose Debbie," he announced with considerable relish. "Isn't that the answer? If she won't share herself about with friends let's snuff her. Everybody's happy. Problem solved!"

"Fuck!" Peter hit back, backtracking now faster than a cock in a condom. "Debbie may not be liberal with her favors, but remember last Christmas? She played the whore just like the others. The bitches worked together. So what's good for one should be good for them all."

He was right, I guess, on his second time of asking. I reflected back to that infamous Christmas ruckus. It seemed like it could have been yesterday. We'd been drunk and stoned when Helen had suggested a game. Strip bridge, she'd said. Two teams, boys against girls. To the winner, the spoils. If the boys beat the girls, then they'd be our whores for the holidays and do whatever we asked.

We hadn't believed her, of course. How could she be serious?

"Oh, I'm serious," she'd assured us, staring at me with her pucker poker face. She hadn't been wearing a bra and I remember her breasts straining against a pale green top. It was like they were on high tension springs.

I remember everything, the girls, what they were wearing. All of us can. There are moments that live with you forever and that was the best of them.

Sandra had then spoken, her voice slicing through us like cut glass. "But if we win, you must do what we say, all of you. You become our slaves, for a year and a day."

It hadn't been fair. It had been a bet too far, onerous and completely one sided. Why weren't they to be our whores for a year and a day? Why the discrepancy?

The answer was patently clear to all but the blind. They'd known we'd been drunk and ignorant to sense. They'd taken advantage. But they hadn't budged. A year and a day it must be.

Only Debbie had been less certain, I'll give her that. She hadn't been sure. She'd only ever slept with Peter, and she'd been worried the girls might lose.

But in the end, her principles had deserted her. Sandra took her to one side and in a trice, had persuaded her. How easily the lofty are vanquished! Yes, she too was in the pot, part of the prize should we win.

She'd nailed her virtue to cause of the conspirators, and by those colors she must now be judged.

Of course, the girls hadn't been as drunk as they'd made out, certainly not as drunk as we'd apparently been. They'd known we were too plastered to play cards. That, surely, was the reason Debbie had agreed to being involved. She'd seen that her chastity wasn't in jeopardy.

As a contest, it had been a rout.

I hadn't known the rules; Peter had played against his own partner. Gavin had spent most of the time in the bathroom emptying his stomach. It had been a fiasco: a joke. We'd been thrashed, in more ways than one.

I don't want to think of it, not any more. God. It's so embarrassing, too hurtful to remember.

I looked at my watch. Time to calm things down. Things to do; places to go; plans to make. I didn't want Sandra mad yet again.

Keep the pot simmering, but with the lid firmly on, that was the strategy. There were three whole months of our sentence to serve. Grass to cut... roses to prune.

We were living our lives by the girl's rules now, keeping to our side of the agreement. We'd been doing it all year and would continue to serve out our time. Oh yes, we'd pay them. We'd play by their rules. But once the debt was cancelled and we were again free men, revenge would be swift.

"Look," I said, stepping hastily between Peter and Tom. "If we're going to do this, then it's got to be fair. Everyone should have their say. So what about an election? We each get a vote. The girl with the most votes is snuffed. What do you think? That has to be the fairest way."

Peter still didn't like it and was sulking. Like the spoiled brat he was, he turned away, shuffling his shoulders and glancing hostilely at Tom.

Gavin liked my idea though. His eyes sparkled with life and wonderment. "What about a campaign?" he enthused. "Just like in a real election? That would be fun. We give each of the girls a chance to defend herself, to tell us why she should or shouldn't be the one."

I nodded. I liked it. Not bad. We were actually getting somewhere here. Sandra could explain to me why she'd been such a bitch all year, why she was so determined to humiliate me at every turn. And Debbie could reveal why she'd suddenly turned into such a magnificent cock tease that night, joining herself to the iniquitous plot.

It was cool, brilliant, even. We knocked Gavin's suggestion around for several minutes before finally settling on a plan.

We were going to do it. We were committed. We were going to snuff a girl! The contracts were drawn up and the beer swigged down.

Which is how, believe it or not, we got to where we are now, with each of the girls in front of us on a wooden stool, hands behind their backs, a silk noose decorating their sexy white necks.

The date, for the record, is December 27, a date indelibly marked in the calendars of our minds. It's a red letter day, a day of joy, of release; but also of retribution.

It came as a total shock, of course, to the girls when we sprang our little surprise. They hadn't been prepared for payback, for their weak submissive worms to turn.

We'd done as Tom had suggested and had told them of a party, an all night do, at a club out of town. Could they get away, overnight... tell their parents they were staying with friends?

Debbie found that hard. We'd almost given up on her. Her parents are puritans who insist she's at home by the last stroke of midnight. It's us they distrust, of course. They'd rather she mixed with spotty faced virgins in Bible class than beer swigging louts. "Look at their clothes!" they mutter, glancing indignantly at Gavin and Lucy. "Why do the girls dress like whores and the boys like thugs?"

I bet they don't know that their own daughter came close to becoming a prize whore, that her honor was in the pot, wagered on the turn of some cards.

I bet they don't.

They moralize and pontificate, but deep down, they're no better than any of us.

Peter's tolerated because he laps up their shit. He attends their meetings and pretends to be holier than thou. But the rest of us are dog crap. What kind of hypocritical Christianity is that?

But then the brainwave. Helen thought of it, the wonderful darling. Debbie has an old grandmother who lives in an out-of-town farmhouse. The old fart has lost it, her marbles long gone. But Debbie arranged to stay there for the weekend and hey, guess what? She was able to slip out without granny being any the wiser.

So that was about wraps it. We had them. They were in our trap, caged and ready to be cooked.

That evening we smarted ourselves up, spiked our hair and bought new Nikes. The girls were led by our hints, turning up at Tom's place in skin tight tubes and scanty skirts, even Debbie.

Sandra wore stockings beneath her racy skirt. I know because she told me, describing them in great detail.

Maybe the other girls were wearing stockings too. That would be nice. We could wrap them around their necks, and show them how to properly fasten a tie knot.

Peter checked that the bonds were secure and that their nooses were tight. The ropes were tied to ceiling joists. These we'd exposed by hacking off plaster. It had made a mess of Tom's workroom - the ceiling was now in a state - but it was worth the rubble to see our girls so shocked and confused.

I'm sure I could have fucked them all straight off, no trouble, if the other guys hadn't been there.

There were our beauties, Sandra included, standing helpless on those unstable little platforms, strands of black silk decorating their long fragile necks.

Sublime!

Oh, I think I forgot to mention in the excitement. We'd decided to hang them, one of them I mean. It was erotic without being messy, swift without being instantaneous.

I yearned for it to be Sandra. I would have given my soul to see her neck gripped by the rope, eyes bulging and legs jerking, swinging about, going into spasm.

But then, on second consideration, hanging Helen would also be nice. She has these huge tits that would look fantastic shaking about at the end of a rope.

But then again – I don't know - what about Debbie? Hmmm. There's something tantalizing about a woman you know you can never have. It might be fun to teach her how to be nice to her men folk.

We were so spoilt for choice. Even Lucy has her moments. She's a screw ball, full of unpredictability and high kicks. Why not her?

I sighed a rather melancholy sigh. The problem was: they all deserved to die, all of them. They'd each been part of that ignominious Christmas conspiracy.

You see, after the game, once we'd lost, they'd made us undress. They wanted us to jerk off. They made us stand in a line, cocks in hand. They made us play with ourselves until we came.

And all the while they stood watching, ridiculing our efforts, comparing us, one against another. Sandra had the nerve to say, several weeks later, that she'd thought it was a gag and we'd like it, that she'd thought it would give us a thrill to be made to perform. They'd read about such things: men dressed as babies in diapers, standing helpless and being forced to serve strong women.

It wasn't true. She was a liar. It was just an excuse to cover what they'd done. Why should we enjoy being humiliated? It was so obvious we wouldn't like it.

The cunts! They deserved their comeuppance. They'd get it too. I'd been fantasizing about how to do it for months. I could hear them, each of them, sniveling and begging for their lives. There they would be, naked and humiliated, with the rope around their necks and expecting to die.

I knew already how I'd handle them, how I would make them plead and beg. They'd be our slaves not just for a year and a day, but for all eternity. I'd send them to hell, first class and with all expenses paid.

But first, before I dispatched them, I'd hook out my cock and show them its hardness. I'd wander along their little line, touching it, caressing it. Then I'd jerk myself to the most almighty geyser, showering them all over with my thick milky juice.

Then I'd snuff them, one of them, the one we'd all chosen. Only then would I do it.

I'd make the bitches ask me to do it, each of them in turn.

That would be magic.

Pure magic.

Seeing them standing on their little stools, pleading with us for the right to die, panicking maybe, horror and denial written on their cum drenched faces.

It was such a shame we'd agreed to only hang one.

Peter signaled that he'd finished taking his pictures, so I began my practiced spiel, explaining to them what the night was about. Another game: just as one sided as the one they'd proposed to us the previous year. We weren't going clubbing, but it was to be a special evening. There was to be fun and entertainment, and they were to be it. They were going to be nice to us, and then one of them would die.

They didn't believe me of course. Why should they? They thought I was teasing. Lucy imagined it was a school boy's prank and that afterwards we would be taking them out.

Helen thought I was just plain barmy.

"This isn't a joke," I stated.

"No, of course not," came Sandra's acerbic reply. "You're going to hang us! Of course you are! The problem is: you don't have the balls!"

As I saw it, it was them that hadn't the balls. "One of you will die."

"Yes, of course. One of us will die."

I sighed. This wasn't how I'd imagined it would be, but what did I care? They'd realize soon enough the seriousness of our intentions.

"We're going to ask a few questions," I continued, desperate to get things started. After a year of misery and depression, I felt bold. I was free. Sandra was bound and could no longer harm me. She was helpless, and listening to me.

I lifted Lucy's skirt and peered into the shadows, up between her legs.

"That's saucy," I said, staring at her sexy pink thong. She'd dressed to go partying and so she was all tarted up. "You're an attractive girl, Lucy. I like them."

Gavin flushed at this and so did Sandra. Neither seemed sure how to interpret this attention I was paying Gavin's girl.

Suddenly everybody seemed to be listening to me, to what I had to say. I was important, somebody, so much more than the lowly slave Sandra had made me. I deliberately continued touching Lucy's calf, caressing it, sensing how keenly I was being watched. Lucy's legs were bare, cold: no hose, no stockings, just these dainty red sandals with pointy two-inch heels.

Finally Sandra spoke. She was annoyed. I could see it in her face. "What kind of questions? You said you wanted to ask questions..."

She was irritable. I could tell. She still hadn't cottoned on the trouble she was in. All she could think about was her own loss of face, that I was ignoring her for Lucy.

I could hear the strain in her voice, like a cat wailing at night. She'd become so accustomed to being boss that this was coming hard. Well, tough. Sandra was my prisoner now.

I allowed my hand to wander up Lucy's leg, across her thigh to the soft fabric of her thong. I puffed out my chest, enjoying myself. This was magic. I'd show the fucking bitches.

I wanted to torture them, but more than that, to humiliate them. I wanted to do to Sandra the things she'd so often done to me.

My fingers rested on Lucy's cool cotton, feeling the sweet contours of her mound. She could be mine. I could have her in bed. I could make her pay for the things she did to me that night. I could make her crawl. I could make her beg. I could stretch her pussy with a burning candle...

I had only to persuade the guys to make it Sandra... Then the three remaining girls would be mine, one of them each night, to use and to hurt and to wreak further revenge.

"None of you bitches have to answer our questions," I continued, addressing them as one now. "But if you don't, that will be taken into account and the consequences could be dire."

I would have to move on soon. Gavin was becoming irked by my romancing of Lucy. He didn't like it. I could sense it. He was on edge, jealous. His expression reminded me of a little boy who's had his ball stolen by the school bully: such bitter pathos, such sweet tragedy. What bothered him, I think, was that Lucy was obviously excited.

I rubbed her crotch a little faster. "Is that nice?" I pressed, generously allowing the nub of my digit to expend her passion. She sank weakly onto my finger, sucking in her breath.

"Yes," she sighed, blushing furiously, hating herself for what I was making her do. She was a right nympho, no question. Totally uninhibited. I imagined her in bed, and all that energy directed at my cock.

God. And she could be mine.

I turned towards Gavin and forced myself to smile. It was time to make peace with the bastard. "Sandra has stockings under that skirt," I said. "Feel free. We're all friends here. Why don't you take a peek and check her out?"

I had to laugh the way Sandra glowered at me then. She was murderous. I could see her fighting against the ropes. I was getting to her. I could feel her anger. She was a big cat trapped within her cage and emasculated by its constraints. She was raging against her captors. How dare I share her with my friend! I still don't think she believed we were going to kill her, but maybe she was starting to worry what else we might do.

Well, plenty of time for all that. I was going to tame the bitch, conquer her. That was the way to revenge. I would strip her of every modicum of dignity and self-control. I would see her naked. That would be the beginning. Then I would get under her skin, little by little. Once she was humiliated and broken, then the other guys would do the rest. They'd tear her to bits.

I already had Gavin interested. Stockings? He perked up, eagerly unfastening the waistband on Sandra's skirt and letting down the zip. Sandra howled in dismay but there was nothing she could do to stop him. Gavin was undressing her and she knew it. Her skirt floated down her legs and came to rest on her stool.

"Shit!" Gavin gawked, confronted suddenly by bright red panties, frilly garters and sheer black stockings.

Peter swooped in, pushing in front of him. Peter was in charge of the camera and had been panning from girl to girl, zooming in every now and again to get a big close up of Helen's big bosom. But now I had him interested in Sandra.

The dogs were out. Sandra was the fox. They'd found the scent. Soon they'd be tearing her to bits.

But I had to keep things moving.

Gavin nudged back in front of Peter. They were fighting over her my girl, to get closest, touching Sandra's stockings, rolling them down her thighs, stroking the rear of her calves.

"Who do you think should hang?" I asked magnanimously, sliding my finger into the narrow gusset of Lucy's thong.

Sandra glowered at me. She felt humiliated and awkward. Gavin was undressing her, pulling at her clothes, tugging at her garters, lifting her skirt, unbuttoning it, touching her in places she obviously found disconcerting.

She squirmed, tightening the rope around her beautiful neck. Her legs were bare now. Peter had pulled her stockings from her feet, those first, then her garters, finally her shirt.

She was some sight! The top half of her was still quite proper, the bottom half totally indecent. The little vixen showing us her drawers.

"Come on, Sandra. Speak up. Who do you think we should hang?"

She didn't want to answer: of course not. There was danger in opinion and she didn't want to make any enemies. Not only that, but Gavin was after her panties, exposing her twat. It's quite womanly, big fat lips covered in hair.

I wouldn't let her off the hook.

I abandoned Lucy to fetch a bottle of Absinthe from Tom's tool cupboard: that's where he hides it. It's real strong stuff that burns on the way down. It puts fire in your belly and air in your head. I twisted the cap and tossed it complacently into the bin.

It was its potential effect on Sandra's knees that interested me. She watched closely as I took a quick swig. I had her worried. I don't think she's ever been drunk in her life, not enough to lose control. "This was banned for many years in France," I said, climbing ponderously onto her chair. As I've told you, she was dressed down to the waist, naked below. "One hundred and fifty per cent proof. Just like petrol. Do you think I can get sufficient down you to make you pass out?"

Our bodies were touching, hers against mine, and she hated it. It was an intimacy too far. But there was nowhere she could go except over the edge. I pulled back her hair, pivoting up her head and opening her mouth.

She knew what I wanted. I was after a name. I was after betrayal. "Who do you think we should hang?" I asked her again, slowly tipping the bottle. Some of the sticky liquid gurgled into her open mouth; some of it missed and trickled down her chin. She swallowed once, then twice. Her eyes opened wide as the fire hit the spot. "Lucy," she spluttered, eyes writhing, gasping in horror, coughing and breathless. "Please. Enough! Lucy should hang."

I let go of her hair, instead reaching down and caressing her hairy pussy. All the guys were watching and sniggering, pointing up the way Sandra's lips were gaping open. "Oh. Why?"

She still didn't think we were going to do it. She imagined we were going to rough her up a bit, frighten her, take a few liberties. Same with the others: they had no idea how bitter we were. To them this was a juvenile stunt, no more.

"Helen's too pretty," she coughed between breaths, sucking in air, trying to ignore my finger planted between her legs. But that was difficult since it was moving. In, out. In, out. "You'll want to fuck her, not waste her. D-Debbie's too cute, too nice to snuff. That only leaves Lucy."

In, out. I saw my chance, squeezing her clit. "What about you?"

She gasped, shutting her eyes. In, out. "Me?"

"Yes. What if we snuff you?"

She couldn't keep still because not only was I doing her pussy, but with the other hand I was touching her nipples through her blouse, searching for the little blighters and pinching hard. That, I knew would discompose her. She never lets me touch her breasts even during sex. It makes her lose control and she can't stand that.

She shook from side to side, desperately trying to get away. "God. Stop it! Fuck this! You've gone far enough! Stop this madness before you hurt someone!"

Gavin was now joining the party. He'd seen what I was doing and he too wanted to play. He took his place at Lucy's side and tore wildly at her boob tube. Her breasts sprang free at once, bare and exposed. Although they're not as big as either Helen's or Sandra's, they're big enough to make an erection. They certainly made mine.

It was the first time I'd seen them, you see.

Next he grabbed Lucy's thong and tugged it off, tearing the straps. She squealed, panting like a bitch in heat. Suddenly naked, her trimmed slit on show.

She'd never known Gavin like this: brutish, violent and forceful. He thrust two fingers inside her, sliding them up to the second knuckle, waiting for her reaction.

"Gavin!"

She seemed shocked, confused. She was tugging at the ropes cinching her arms. "Yes, I think you should hang Lucy," Sandra repeated nervously, unwilling to look at her so-called friend, or indeed at any of us. She was beginning to finally realize, I think, what danger they were in.

Was she perspiring? Was she frightened? Was she beginning to worry? I wasn't sure, but I hoped so. I hoped I had her dizzy and scared, imagining the rope constricting around her neck, her legs kicking playfully, involuntarily, with nothing beneath them. I hoped she was seeing me, in front of her, cock in hand, jerking off, enjoying her terror.

I pressed home my advantage, slapping her hard around the face. I could see the pink outline staining her cheek. "Lucy has her whole life ahead of her, bitch, yet you suggest we hang her. What kind of treachery is that?"

I wanted to hit her again, just for the sheer pleasure of it, but I hesitated, distracted. Out of the corner of my eye I caught Tom talking to Debbie.

"If I agreed not to vote for you," he was suggesting. "Would you... would you be willing to sleep with me?"

He'd just removed Helen's blouse and bra. I hadn't seen him do that but I quite approved of the results. She's quite a sight!

Debbie shook her head, somewhat overawed by the mayhem around her and yet majestically calm. "I'm sorry, Tom. You're very sweet, but you know how I feel. I couldn't."

The strange thing was: she was standing right next to Helen. Now Helen could be a centerfold. Her boobs are magnificent. Those marvels of nature defy gravity. They're monsters, clinging to nothing, hanging in mid air. Here Helen was, on display. Terrifyingly beautiful. Even her nipples are like crafted porcelain, and yet, with the possible exception of Peter we were all more interested in the fully clothed woman at her side.

Strange, eh? There was almost an aura around Debbie, somehow protecting her. We wanted her naked but we hadn't the courage to do it. She was fully dressed, her clothes intact, a plucky spectator of the other women's misery.

Maybe we were waiting for Peter to start the job and he was too busy playing with his camera.

Or maybe we were subconsciously rather frightened of her. It was like she were our mother. Or our God.

"We could make you," Gavin observed, glancing up fitfully from Lucy's bare slit.

Debbie didn't deny it. She was like Joan of Arc standing at the stake, so strong and yet so vulnerable. "Yes, you could."

"We'd enjoy that."

"Yes, you probably would."

"You don't care?"

"Of course I care!" She was indignant. How could we suggest otherwise? "But what do you want me to say? Do you want me to tell you that I'll scream? Of course I will. Do you want me to tell you that I'll come looking for revenge? Certainly. I'll come looking for you wherever you hide, however long it takes me. And then, I'll cut off your balls and stick your willies in the food blender. You louts don't frighten me! If you touch where you shouldn't, I'll do it. I swear."

We all paused, taken aback. She was in such total earnest. We could so easily break her body, yet how did we fracture her mind?

Tom coughed self-consciously, covering the awkwardly silence. "Not if you were dead, you wouldn't, my love. If we hang you and you're dead, it would be us putting you in the blender, not the other way round."

Debbie's gaze didn't drop for an instant. She withstood his calm self confidence without flinching. "It wouldn't stop me," she declared frigidly. "I'm not scared, not of any of you. Hang me. If that's what you're determined, then I dare you to do it. You'll never be free of me. I'll come for you from the other side, from beyond the grave if need be. I'll get my revenge."

She had guts. I'll give her that, plenty of bravado. She was bluffing of course. It was obvious. But even so, it was a good shout. Even in the face of being snuffed she wasn't willing to sacrifice her principles, whatever they were.

That certainly kept her from my vote, and maybe the others felt the same. Though I have to admit, now that it's all over, she frightened me a little.

Maybe that was Debbie's genius, her way of playing the game. I don't know - but whatever it was, it worked. When it came to the vote and we tallied our choices, we found that Debbie finished with no votes against her name, the same as Lucy. It was Helen and Sandra who'd caught our attention, attracting two votes each. Tom and I had voted for Sandra, the others for Helen.

Only I had voted for my own girl: strange that.

"What now?" Peter asked.

"A recount!" That was from Gavin.

Tom shook his head. "Are you joking? When there are only four votes? There may be some bushes on show, and the prospect of gore. But this isn't Florida!"

I sighed. "We need a decision. One of us has to change his mind!"

"God. You'd think we could manage a simple vote! This is madness!"

We took time out. Gavin went for a leek. Tom opened a beer. I'm not sure where Tom went.

I used the opportunity to have a sly word with Sandra. She was rubbing her hands behind her back. They were sweaty and shaking. She was beginning to believe, I think. The psychological pressure of the rope was building around her neck. She could feel it and it was hurting.

Our mind games were working.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked uneasily, trying to relieve the pressure on her throat.

"Why do you think, my dear," I asked, feeling up her thighs. My finger wandered across her spread lips to her ass. I squeezed each of the cheeks in turn and then found the crack, exploring along it. She wheezed, arching her back to escape me.

"Remember last year," I said. "The bet, the way you continually humiliated us."

My finger came to rest on her little hole and I saw the dark pain on her face. "Tonight the tables are turned. I'm going to humiliate you."

I pushed my finger into her hole, forcing it deeper. She gasped, shutting her eyes: "Please don't do this!"

"No? Why not?"

My finger dug deeper and I moved it around. "You're going to die, Sandra."

She meowed softly. Her face was reddening. "Why do you think we did what we did?" she gasped, her hips beginning to sway to escape my invading digit.

"I have no idea. Why don't you tell me? I'm sure it's worth hearing."

"To make you guys grow up!" she wailed, lifting herself onto her toes to relieve the awful pressure building in her ass.

"You expect me to believe that?"

It's... the truth. Ask the others."

With my other hand I grabbed her cunt lips, pulling firmly on the hair. Pretty soon there were tears pricking her eyes.

She wobbled at that, almost teetering off her little stool. I saw her panic, the awareness of danger.

"God, we did it because we cared! I care. What have I done that's so awful? Stopped you smoking? Moderated your drinking? Made you do the odd job now and again instead of lounging in front of a TV set? Some would see what I did as a favor."

"Aren't you going to beg me to change my vote?" I asked darkly, two fingers entering her pussy, searching for her clit. The finger on the other hand was still deep in her back passage, probing her, keeping her firmly on tiptoe.

"Maybe you should apologize for being such a prize cunt. How about it? If you offer to be my slave, the way I've had to be yours, maybe I'll change my vote. What do you think? Then you'd be safe. Helen would dangle."

She glared at me despairingly but refused to respond. Maybe she knew she was onto a hiding to nothing. So I took my hand from her cunt and started work on the buttons of her blouse, unfastening from the bottom and making my way up. I did them one at a time, my other hand kept deliberately inside her ass.

She moaned in anguish, hurting all over, the pain now especially intense within the balls of her feet.

"How about we let the guys see a little more of you?" I teased, opening up the front of her blouse. "Show them more flesh. I bet if we're nice and present you well, I bet we can get you that extra vote."

There was just a lace bra inside, covering her cute, curvy tits. It was red, to match her discarded panties. I caressed it, then from there down across the flat of her stomach.

"Your looks won't help you now, my dear," I said. "Once the guys see you like this, so beautiful and entrancing, one of them is sure to give you his vote."

Sandra moaned, not answering. She glanced nervously at the other guys who were all now looking at her. Tom was having a smoke. Gavin had opened a bud. Peter was still filming. But they were all looking at her.

What was in her mind? She must be thinking pretty seriously now about that drop by now. After all, she wasn't daft.

She was beautifully disheveled, everything in disarray.

"Tom's not going to change his mind," I whispered, taking my finger from her ass and plunged it straight into her cunt. She gasped. Her face was well flushed, her pupils nicely dilated. Slowly and deliberately, the folds of her flower closed over my invading finger.

"Tom won't vote for Helen," I said. "And I won't budge from you. That leaves Peter and Gavin. Might they be waverers? What do you think? If I get one of them to change his vote then the stalemate is broken. Will I do it? What do you reckon, Sandra? Do you think I can manage it?"

I pulled her blouse from her shoulders, as far down her arms as it would go.

There was a gurgle at the back of her throat.

It was totally inaudible.

I paused, looking at her. Her pelvis had begun to rotate. She was pressing herself against me. What had she said?

"Please," she repeated, sliding up and down on my finger, not wanting to bt unable to stop herself. "I'm begging. You said I should beg. Now I'm begging. I don't want to die."

I knew how hard this was for her to say. There was pain in her eyes, agony even. I felt such wonderful power.

"Please, sir," I corrected.

She said it all again, her hips moving faster now. "Please, sir. You said I should beg. I don't want to die. Sir."

"Kiss me," I ordered, unfastening the clip of her bra. My fingers were unsteady, moving awkwardly as I pulled the cups from her breasts.

I could hear her racing heart, feel her fear, see her puffy nips. There were tears staining her face, falling from dull panic-stricken eyes. I'd got her! I had! She was losing it, that all pervasive self-possession.

All the time her pussy was tight on my hand, moving up and down. "Please, sir!"

What ecstasy! "I'm sorry," I sighed. We were both standing on her stool, her on tiptoe, me with my heels off the edge. Her nipples were pressed flat against my chest, her boobs squishing about as she swayed. It was a jam, no question. I sank into the misery of her eyes, drowning in their gloom. "Be strong," I said. "Be brave. There's no going back now."

I kissed her, pushing my tongue deep into her mouth, smelling her perfume, tasting her soul. She was so small, so vulnerable, so afraid. I'd never known her like that: helpless and weak. She was going to die. She knew it now. I wrapped my arms about her, pulling her body into my own until they both melded and meshed.

"Fuck me!" she begged hoarsely, gasping with emotion. "If you're going to kill me, fuck me first. Kiss me. Make me cum. Then do it."

There was urgency about the way she spoke, a humility I'd never seen. This was new. The guys were somewhere behind me, looking on, watching, finishing their smokes.

For the first time in months, standing there, seeing her hunger, her need, drowning with her in despair, I wanted to do it. For the first time in ages I wanted to fuck her. I wanted to do the bitch, to make her cum. I was so fantastically hard, aching to do it.

She was going to die.

I'd won.

I wanted to fuck her, but I couldn't. It was more than the bitch deserved.

I stepped off the stool, holding Sandra, pulling her with me. There was a cry of outrage from behind me, from the guys. They were angry. Nothing had been agreed...

We fell four or five inches, both of us, Sandra and I. I saw the surprise on her face, the shock. It turned abruptly to disappointment and then lingered towards acceptance: finally pain.

She was going to die.

The rope tightened, digging into Sandra's fragile neck. It was crushing ligaments and denying her breath.

Her whole body spasmed, jerking about in my arms.

I could hear the joists creaking as they strained to take our weight. I could feel the urgency of Sandra's hopeless struggle. She bit my lip and we kissed. I tasted her blood. Her breasts were mashing my chest. There was such insanity in her kicks.

Plaster was falling around me like confetti. A piece hit me on the forehead, bouncing to the floor with a crash.

From where was I bleeding? I couldn't tell. She was dying. Sandra was dying. Her eyes were wild. She was white and unseeing. "Please," she croaked. "Do it. Fuck me. Make me cum one last beautiful time."

Her face was purple now. She was weak, so hopeful, so sad. Finally she knew that I was the boss, that I had control and could deny her the one thing she most wanted.

I held her tight, protecting her, reassuring her. She was out of air, out of time.

"Hey guys!" I said, laughing manically, afraid of my own power. I was God, with the power of life and death in my arms. Sandra was choking, gasping. I could kill her simply by doing nothing. I had the power.

It was then, at that moment, with my finger still deep inside her, that I dreamed up the most marvelous idea.

END OF STORY ONE