>>6912Arya stepped out onto the stage and stared out at the trade conference delegates in the dining room. At the far side, the head of the table, she laid eyes on her master, Lord Kent of the Breton territory.
It was only a brief, shared gaze. To him, it was just confirmation that the show was ready to proceed. To her, it was everything. Lord Kent turned to the other servants stationed around the room, signaling with a tap of his finger. In unison, they dimmed the oil lamps to a faint orange glow, save the spotlight trained on Arya, the stage, and the gallows.
As the conversation in the room faded away, Arya stepped up to the noose and ran her fingertips across the silken ropes. For the purposes of the show, Lord Kent could have chosen any old ropes. It wasn’t as if Arya would have been alive after their use to complain. But he’d selected these for the job, just as he’d handpicked Arya to dance for the delegates.
Her heart fluttered with notions of a schoolgirlish romance. Through the loop of the noose, she looked to him once more, searching for any sort of sign. Pride? Approval? Or, perhaps… love? With as many minutes left to live as she had fingers on both hands, did Arya dare to dream that her deep, maddening love was reciprocal?
Instead, her gaze was not returned. No, she saw her lord speaking to one of the other delegates— a female delegate, no less! Of course, being the politician that he was, it was clear to Arya that their conversation was little more than polite platitudes, but it still struck a nerve with her.
‘Look at me,’ she wanted to yell. ‘Look at me, and only me.’ But she held herself back. Arya would not dream of embarrassing her beloved master during such an event. And besides, if she wanted his attention, she knew how to get it.
She would dance.
To Lord Kent, it was a show for the delegates. To show them the value— cultural and sexual, entertainment and economic— of Groustan’s traditional noose dances. Part of a larger push towards general acceptance of Groustanian norms. And to that end, Lord Kent had chosen Arya. It was partially as a reward for her loyalty, her devotion, and a secret personal desire to see her sprightly face choked lifeless and her dazzling blue eyes turned glassy. But also, on a pragmatic level, she was a beauty of foreign descent, with bountiful curves that the standard-issue maid corset struggled to contain, smooth brown skin that contrasted against the white lace of her dress, luscious, shoulder-length dark hair to frame her sharp, angular facial features. She was the perfect showcase material, that Groustanian hanging dances could be for anyone.
And to Arya, it was a show for him, and only him.
“Good evening, esteemed guests. My name is Arya Berlintz. Tonight, I will be dying for your pleasure. Please enjoy my final dance.”
She bowed deeply, before threading her head through the noose and pulling it tight. Behind her, she could hear the metallic clacking of the crank mechanism. The silken rope slowly became taut.
As the mechanical crank mechanism started behind her, Arya cued the musicians, and began her routine. The rope was not so tight that she was off the ground yet. She bit her lip, sashaying her hips, letting her maid dress flutter and flare with her motions. Arya spun around, and the edge of her dress flew up, just enough for her to catch. And then, she snapped her head to look back at the crowd, pulling up her skirt, crossing her legs for a sultry curtsy. From below, the delegates could just barely see the frilly hem of her panties. But also, a faint glint reflecting the dim light of the oil lamps, an unmistakable wetness in her pussy.
It was a bit embarrassing! Arya could feel the redness in her cheeks. An awkward, yet delighted laugh escaped her lips as she continued to shake her round ass, as she ran her hands up and down her lithe, curvaceous body, looping her finger around the bow-tie of her apron and pulling it free. The apron floated to the ground, revealing that her maid dress consisted of two pieces, a sheer, shoulderless corset that constricted her top, and the lower half, a flowing skirt.
With what little remained of the slack in the noose, she leaned forward as much as she could letting her lord peer down her corset. But just a little. Arya turned to the side, winking and sticking out her tongue as if playfully chastising the delegates for their lustful gazes. The backlight accentuated her silhouette as she rolled her spine, massaging her breasts with one hand and reaching back to pick at the binds of her corset with the other, letting them pop, one, after, another.
There. Across the room. Lord Kent had taken his eyes off that hussy of a delegate. It was just a moment, but he was looking at her!
The excitement took her breath away, metaphorically and literally. In that moment, Arya made her first misstep, forgetting to breathe in as the noose snapped taut and lifted her toes off the ground.
A part of her was panicking. The lack of air had the very real potential to cut her dance short and ruin everything for her and her master.
But she couldn’t let him down. She swore to give him everything. And right now, he wasn’t missing a second of it.
With more force than was probably necessary, she tore through the binds on the back of the corset, but cupped her hands over her tits. The corset was little more than a piece of frilly cloth now, blocking the front of her beautiful body, but that was the allure. As her body swung, as the noose rose to its full height, so too did the remains of the corset flow from side to side, just barely teasing the delegates with the promise of her sexy, soon-to-be-corpse.
The pain in her neck was starting to settle in. Even with the silken rope as gentle as it was, the force of gravity was beginning to strain her neck muscles. Along with her unexpected lack of air, Arya knew she didn’t have long.
Her other hand reached down to her skirt, swinging her hips around as she pushed it down her waist, revealing her thighs, lower body. As one side of the skirt fell around her knees, the other side snagged her panties, dragging them down down as well. It hadn’t been part of the plan, but it was perfectly acceptable. Arya’s wetness was revealed for the world to see, she winked at her master once more, covering her pussy and smiling giddily with a mock modesty, before giving up the pretense and sticking her hand in her folds, masturbating openly.
Arya’s mind was starting to cloud over. Her face was tinged with a deep maroon red. The edges of her vision were fading, but she kept her eyes trained on Lord Kent. She could no longer tell if he was still speaking to the delegate at his side, but she knew he was looking, a hungry stare, rapt attention.
Her fading heartbeat danced with the rest of her. She was so happy, but she knew she had to fulfill her end of the bargain. His attention was hers. Her life was his. Her life was a political game piece— all that she had left to do in this final minute was to prove with her death that she could be just a little bit more.
Her other hand fell away, letting the corset flitter to the ground. All that was left was her lingerie bra, her lace hairband, her white stockings and detached sleeves. And all but the first would remain on her corpse. They were supposed to be part of her routine, but as she felt herself dying, they’d been cut for time. Not that the guests noticed in the slightest. Even to Lord Kent, it appeared to be a skillful adaptation, a personal touch, as the sleeves and stockings cast spotlights on her jerky, dying motions.
With the last of her strength, Arya shrugged her bra straps off her shoulders, hooked the cups with her thumbs and peeled them off her chest, to the tantalizing reveal of her bountiful breasts, her aroused, adorable nipples. She tried to pinch them, she tried to squeeze her tits, but her strength was fading fast. Had her fingers not already been in her pussy, clenched tight, she could not have started masturbating now.
Her resilience was rewarded, however, when her instincts took over. Her vagina spasmed around her hand, sending electric shocks surging through her body. It was time for the true noose dance, not planned, nor timed to any sort of music (not that she was capable of perceiving it any more, anyway).
Arya’s naked body thrashed, spasmed, and struggled against the noose. Pussy juices sprayed violently from her vagina, as her final orgasms ravaged her. She came, over and over, and with each wave, she thought a little less, she felt a little less, as part after part of her brain and body shut down. Arya managed one final look at her master, before her eyes rolled back, her tongue fell out of her slack jaws, her lips still curled up in a wonderfully ecstatic smile.
And with that, the music came to a close. Her delighted, hanged corpse remained on the gallows, swaying with the force of her last climax, as her girlcum continued to seep out of her pussy, past her fingers and down into her stockings.
The room was silent. The delegation was stunned. Lord Kent and the other host representatives scanned the room, at the clear arousal from the other politicians, men and women alike.
He stood. “For those of you who wish to partake, I have prepared our country’s finest selection of snuffees for you all. You may depart to your rooms whenever you like, and will find them waiting for you there. Do not worry about finishing your meals, I will have my staff deliver them there while you enjoy.”
Those words were like a magic spell. The delegation unfroze and cleared out at once, nearly trampling over one another while rushing to their accommodations. Lord Kent sipped his wine and waited, and once he could stand up without knocking anyone over, he made his way to the platform and stepped up to Arya’s corpse, gently feeling up her side.
“Excuse me, Lord Kent?”
He looked down. It was the foreign dignitary that had been seated next to him. Lady Sarissa was a stunning beauty in her own right, with her brilliant red hair and tall, wispy build. Her gentle, motherly demeanor usually masked a fiercely pragmatic wit, but there was none of that to be found at the present moment.
“Yes, Lady Sarissa?”
Lady Sarissa looked to both sides, checking to make sure none of the other representatives remained, before she took a breath and decided to proceed.
“Forgive my impropriety… but might I join you in your bedchambers tonight?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“I must admit, your maid’s performance has opened my eyes to the possibilities of Groustanian culture. But I’d like a more personal demonstration.” She bit her lip. “I don’t mind if you show me all there is to show.”
Lord Kent sized her up, before turning back to Arya’s body, settling her into his arms in a princess carry as the mechanism lowered the noose. “I’m afraid I’ll have to decline.”
Lady Sarissa looked back at him with a deep shock, as if she’d been physically struck.
That is, unless… You don’t mind helping me reward my loyal maid tonight.” Still carrying Arya’s body in one hand, Lord Kent descended from the platform and caressed Sarissa’s neck with his fingers. “I might be willing to reward you too.”
That same girlish glee that had once been seen in Arya’s eyes was now reflected in Sarissa’s. She pressed her body against his and whispered into his ear, “I would like nothing more, my lord.”
—
Name: Cynthia
Age: 28
Traits: Confident, outgoing, knows what she wants.
Setting: World-famous movie star Cynthia Weaver has gone missing… because she’s secretly checked into the snuff resort, an exclusive, invite-only island getaway, where snuff enthusiasts of both kinds can come and enjoy. You are another attendee, and you’ve somehow managed to rizz up this world-class beauty into giving you her head as a souvenir.