|A Noose for the Lady|
|by Cynthia Harder|
|© Copyright 2008 - Cynthia Harder - Used by permission|
|Storycodes: M/f; bond; noose; hang; blackout; sex; cons; XX|
|A Noose for the Lady by Cynthia Harder M/f; bond; noose; hang; blackout; sex; cons; XX|
NOTE: The author wishes to point out that, while being hanged is an erotic fantasy to many, it should never, NEVER be attempted for real! The human neck is too fragile to play at death. The story is presented here as a fantasy story and in no way should the scenes contained be attempted in real life.
“You’re a crazy lady, you know that?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, suggestively. “So-- what are you going to do about it?”
“Well,” he allowed, “I guess I’m just going to have to hang you.”
“Mmmmn,” she sighed, “I guess you will.” They sat together in front of the fire, the remains of a candlelight dinner still on the table behind them. She thought he was very handsome in his western jacket, string tie and boots.
He made an ironic tilt with his head, then stood up. Extending his hand, he raised her to her feet. They kissed, and she allowed her tongue to just brush his lips. Then he stepped behind her and pulled her arms back.
“What are you doing?” she asked over her shoulder.
“Tying you up. You said ‘yes, I want to be hanged’—you don’t get to change your mind.” Taking some cord from his jacket pocket, he tied her hands behind her back.
The loss of freedom sent a thrill through her. He could now do almost anything to her now, including hanging her. As if to prove it, he reached around her body and took her breast in his hand, pinching her hardening nipple through the fabric of her frilly satin blouse. She shivered.
Taking her by the arm, he led her outside. Their boots echoed off the boards of the porch and down the steps. The frost-coated grass crunched as they crossed the yard to the old shed out back. He flipped on the lights and held the door open so that she, with her hands tied, could enter. He sat her down in an old chair that was positioned to one side, and knelt at her feet to tie her black high-heeled boots together.
“Thought you might like to watch me do the rigging,” he explained as he ran his hand over the smooth leather encasing her leg. She had wondered what form her hanging would take. Would she be dropped through a gallows trap? Fly off the back of a horse that had been smacked on its withers? Have a cart pulled from under her feet?
He looked at her, bound hand and foot, for a moment. Then he went to a rack of tackle on one side of the barn. He picked out a couple of pulleys, shook out the ropes that linked them, and hooked them to the center of the beam that crossed the room. Now she understood. She would be hoisted.
From a new-looking bag, he took a coil of thick, soft looking rope. “Is that for my noose?” she asked.
“Yup,” he agreed. “Bought it special, just for you.”
“Oh—I wish I could touch it,” she said, twisting her bound hands behind her.
“Oh you’ll feel it, all right—when it’s tight around your throat!” He held the rope out, and she bent her head to rub her cheek against the coils. It felt wonderful, soft and smooth. Then she watched as his strong, skilled hands deftly fashioned the thick rope into a hangman’s noose.
“How’s that?” he asked, holding his work in front of her.
She smiled. “Beautiful. I can’t wait to hang from it.” He stepped back to the tackle dangling from the beam, passed the bitter end of the rope through the hook at the end and made it fast. The empty noose now dangled from the hoisting tackle, waiting. The man stepped to the side, looking at her. She sat, bound, eying the noose that awaited her neck with a mixture of fear/anticipation/desire.
With a slight headshake, he knelt and untied her feet. She realized that the time had come, and stood. With his hand in the middle of her slender back, she marched up to stand beneath the tackle. The noose dangled a foot in front of her face. While she scanned the teardrop-circle of it, her lips trembling, he re-tied her ankles, leaving the rope loose enough that she could remain balanced on her high heels. Then he tied her legs around her calf-length skirt.
“Now let’s see that lovely neck of yours,” he said. He unbuttoned her blouse, one button, two buttons—then one more, letting her black bra and décolletage peek out from the top. Opening her collar, he caressed her now exposed neck. Her eyes widened as he dropped the noose over her head, and her breath caught in her chest as she felt the rope drawn snugly, softly caressing her throat. She had agreed to this back in the house, and it was too late to back out, but now she was getting scared—and aroused.
She stood, her beauty a contrast to the bare, dirty barn, nervously twisting her tied hands behind her, her long legs and booted feet lashed neatly together, the thick, white noose draped over her shoulder. She trembled slightly, her breathing coming in short gasps. Bound, noosed, she stood obediently. “You—you’ll do it slowly?” she asked.
“Yup.” He replied. He uncleated the rope, and pulled.
The block ran up the multiple bights of rope, raising the noose off her shoulder. He paused, then pulled a little more. The thick knot forced her head to the side. Her breath rasped in her chest as the noose constricted her airway.
He pulled more. She grimaced, and the chunky high heels of her fancy boots came up off the floor. She swayed, standing on tiptoe, the noose now tight around her neck.
Then he grabbed the rope with both hands and pulled quickly one last time.
Her feet came off the floor. Suddenly she was hanging, her tied-up body suspended two feet above the floor. Her eyes opened wide in surprise, and she tried to gasp, but the noose had choked off her airway. She could no longer breathe. Reflexively, her arms jerked up and twisted around her body, her long red fingernails clawing futilely at the air. She kicked her bound legs up, then stretched them down to the floor, the toes of her boots extending as she strained for support. Her head was twisted sharply to the side by the thick knot, and she could feel her face suffusing with blood. She rotated slowly at the end of the rope, the room seeming to spin around her. Every so often, he would come into her view, watching dispassionately as she danced in space, her feet flutter-kicking within the cords binding her ankles.
It seemed to last for a long time, although it was probably less than a minute. Her vision grew red and began to dim. She felt her body growing weaker, her struggles more and more feeble and spasmodic as consciousness faded. Her last thoughts were of the sensation of the noose tight around her throat, the cords binding her arms and legs, and the sensation of floating, suspended in space. Then came darkness.
Her body, dangling at the end of the rope, was still as death. Her hands twitched slightly, her legs no longer stretched down, her high-heeled boots swung above the floor, limp and still.
This was the moment he had been waiting for. He quickly released the cleated rope and lowered her to the floor. Her knees buckled, and she dropped limply. He quickly loosened the noose from around her neck, and was rewarded with a sudden, deep intake of breath. His practiced hands found pulse, respiration—and no permanent damage. Sweeping her up into his arms, he carried her still-bound body back to the house. There, he laid it gently on the loveseat where this session had started. He poured two snifters of brandy, and then uncorked the smelling salts.
“Oh,” she gasped. “Oh, my,”
He seated himself across from her. “Was it what you wanted?”
“Oh, yes. Thank you. Uh--are you going to untie me?” She shrugged with bound arms.
“Well, I’m thinkin’ on that,” he said. “With you tied up, it’s a lot harder for you to talk me into nonsense like that. It’s also a lot easier to have some fun with you.” So saying, he undid another button of her blouse and reached inside.
“Mmmmn,” she smiled. “Then maybe you should gag me.”
“Maybe,” he allowed.
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