Three Prisoners – Damien Ark

I do this because I enjoy it. It gets me off. I spend my days staring into the prison cells that you reside in, sharpening my axe, coiling yards of rope, staring into each of you, counting the days until the warden gives me the nod to take your life.
You’re beautiful. Tragic. So young. Why did you kill all those people, again? It feels pretty good to kill someone, doesn’t it? You must feel pretty tough. I’ll remind you of what it’s like to feel weak and powerless. Before the hours of your last day, I’ll have you worship me. A pretty boy like you doesn’t deserve to have his face concealed from his victim’s family. I want them to see you kneeling, hands gripping tightly on the sides of the block, your eyes peering into a fruit basket, right before I bring my axe down and remove your head. Will your face still look that gorgeous when it’s severed from the rest of your body? I’ll let you see, too, before you lose consciousness. Your face is the kind that looks its best seconds before the blade comes down on it, when your heavenly gaze has come to accept your fate and punishment, and then that same look with your head on a stick as it slowly begins to rot away. Who will eat more from it, the ravens and vultures, or my lustful hunger for having you inside of me?
Do you have any preferences? I’d rarely ask anyone, but you deserve this. After all, you were framed, right? You didn’t do anything wrong. Not that it matters to me, innocent or guilty, I’m still going to kill you. Do you see the gallows from outside of your gated window? Go ahead. Stand on the tip of your toes and on top of your bed. You see it now, don’t you? I built that with my own hands. I molded the four-foot-tall block that you see, the chambers, trapdoors, and even the guillotine. So that’s what you want, isn’t it? Take off your fucking clothes. Fold them. Stand against the wall so I can measure you. Still, stay still. I carve and cut each bascule to fit the prisoner’s height, and I do the same with the lunette so that it fits tight and snug when it cups your fragile neck. All of this for them, all of this for you. Give me your blood, your death, your final orgasm, and I’ll honor you in the only way that I know how to. Turn around. Taste this. Bubbles forming between your busted lips. Milky, drooly, ejaculate, your lips to mine, but it’s not a kiss. Now don’t forget it. You might not ever feel something like that inside of you ever again, at least while you’re alive. Because I’m beginning to love you, you know more than ever why I have to do this to you.
There’s a level of theatrical drama that goes into all of this. Your performance. The crowd that gazes at you, eager, curious, enraged, full of hatred. I’ll be with you the whole way, guiding you through each ritual. You’ll take one shot of whiskey and share a cigarette with me. Then I bind and tighten the straps across your legs, waist, and shoulder, before lowering you down to face the inviting hole in front of you. I’ll push you forward, bring the lunette down, and lock it into place before pulling the board back as much as I can to straighten your body out. That’s it. Perfection. This device was made for you. If only you could see what you look like strapped to this guillotine right now. Close your eyes. Not that it makes it any easier, but we can pretend. Gaze into the blissful void of submission, knowing that you’re nothing now. But in a hundred years, you’ll be crowned a martyr. They’ll paint pictures of you and build a monument in your name. In killing, I’ve immortalized you into something more. They will gaze at the charcoal drawings of your face and think of the wasted youth, your beauty, and your severed head. My name will be forgotten. Perhaps they’ll pity me, too. I know I do. If I could, I’d pull out my fucking cock, thrust it into your little mouth, and then release the trigger. Instead, I’ll torture my own erection by attempting to pretend that it’s not there, and then the hundred-and-seventy-five-pound blade will slice through your neck and bone and cartilage just like warm butter, hot blood spraying over its scintillating beauty, hot blood trickling down into a bucket beneath your twitching body.
Yes, even the casket you’ll rest eternally within, is also a work made by yours truly. As soon as I’ve cleaned up this mess, I’ll be in it with you, temporarily, pumping in and out of those creamy white cheeks, just before your cavity closes up, and then I’ll know it’s time for your casket to be nailed shut. I dig your grave. I fill it. I shape the tombstone, left unnamed, but know by my designs, that’s you underneath that mound of dirt and worms. It hurts, knowing that I can’t see you anymore. That you’re skeletal now. My seed, preserved somewhere in there, the only thing to make me feel like I’m still a part of you. I want to be killed right now and rot through this earth and reach into you and consume it all. You, this prison we live in, the world, I’ll eat it all. Did you ever imagine that your innocence and death would make me feel this way?
And then a fucking cunt like you. The kind that rapes and doesn’t even remember the faces of his victims, and yet your victims will never forget yours, so twisted, so ugly, the way you look disgusts me. How many children, how many boys and girls? You enjoyed to penetrate them? You deserve the rope. The noose was designed for you. Tight, constricting, a hugging fuck you to send you to a mass grave. Should it be a short, standard, or long drop? Short drop. No shit. Make it just as long and painful as the rapes that you committed. A face like that. It should be covered with a hood. Nobody needs to see that when you’re hanging. I know you’ll be hard too. Who is sicker in this case? Me or you? I always wonder, when I pull the lever on people like you. No matter the person or the crime, I’m always fixated on the eroticism of death. Could you suffer and beg more? Kick. Dance. Show me that it hurts. Just that would be enough to make me feel better. Show me that I don’t deserve the rope, the block, the blade, just as much as you do.